It was late afternoon when George eventually drove his Land Rover back into the garage and parked it there. He drew down the door and locked it. He knew intuitively that he wouldn’t need to leave it open for his greyhound alter ego to enter. He had a feeling that his canine transformation episodes were over. His life had unalterably changed; there was no need for his body to do so.
George was a new man. He stepped with springs in his heels into the back garden and there, to his delight, was Mr Tibbs waiting to welcome him – an auspicious sign if ever there was one.
“Hello, Tibbs, you old scoundrel. What are you doing here?” George was hoping it meant what he thought it meant. He let himself in by the back door and looked around. The place was empty. No Annabel.
“Come in and have a look round, Tibbs,” he called out. “You’re very welcome!”
George’s furry friend and accomplice took no second bidding. In he strolled as if he owned the place and proceeded to inspect the various rooms. George did the same – checking what had been taken and what was left behind. As it turned out, Annabel had taken most of her own belongings and a fair amount of movables from the kitchen and bathroom but nothing much else. Their joint possessions – all the heavy stuff – would have to be divided up later, George understood, but he wasn’t much bothered with that. So long as his wife had gone. He went into the study, took out his whisky flask and then repaired to the lounge where he spread himself out in the armchair and took stock of all that had happened.
He was so relaxed now he was almost comatose. The men from the estate agents would come on Monday morning and put a ‘For Sale’ notice up in front. George would have to see Annabel (groan!) to sort out what she wanted and what he could take. Maybe he would rent somewhere to live for the time being? Maybe he could put stuff from the house in storage and leave it empty as soon as possible to show to prospective buyers? All sorts of decisions would have to be taken soon but for the moment he could just lie here with a stupid grin on his face. This evening he had asked Carol to come out with him – an earlier promise that now took on an entirely different meaning. They’d maybe go to a pub or restaurant so that they could talk and decide what to do. In his case he knew exactly what he wanted – to move in with her straight away – but he’d have to wait and see what her plans were first.
George tipped up the flask and sampled just the slightest sip of 10-year-old Ardbeg. No need to slosh it back; he just wanted a taste, the merest tiny reprise of all the adventures he had been through in the last month or so. How things change. He could not stop smirking at life’s vicissitudes and where it had left him. He was dog-tired, of course. Well, man-tired. He had slept in a garage, badly and not for very long last night. He had indulged in an extremely exhausting but unbelievably sexually satisfying afternoon. And now he was in an empty house, with a neighbour’s cat and his brain was full of images of a beautiful young woman that he had recently left behind and who would be waiting for him in a couple of hours’ time. Could life get any better? He fell asleep with the savour of single malt whisky in his mouth.
It was eight o’clock in the evening when George next came round. The first thing he did was look down and check himself. Thank goodness! He didn’t think that Carol would be too pleased if he turned up as a black greyhound again, no matter how elegant and well-turned-out an animal he could be in his alternate lifestyle. There was a moment’s regret. He had really enjoyed the liberation that his canine other self had given him. No more charging around and playing the anarchic influence on any number of unsuspecting folk; no more crazy runs through dining halls, roads, fields and wherever his fancy took him. He had to return to being the respectable, middle-aged pillar of society that he had spent a lifetime creating. Shame! George supposed he could afford a minute or two’s commiseration over the loss of rejuvenation that he had enjoyed. Well, no need to linger over it. That short-lived period of transformation had achieved what was necessary. His mid-life crisis was over. The next phase in his life was about to begin…and there was to be no more doggification.
George drove Carol up to Palace Green and parked right in front of Durham Cathedral. The summer sun was low but it was still bright, throwing long shadows across the green. This was a magical place, a romantic place, no matter it was at the heart of the University of Durham where various colleges and the sense of academe stretched all around you. George had sampled a fair slice of that society recently and was no longer in awe of it. He also had a very special member of the university staff at his elbow and if she was the representative of the finer side of that institution, he couldn’t get enough of it. His intimate knowledge of a certain other female employee of the university had, up until now, always made him want to run as far as possible in the other direction.
There was a noise that interrupted George’s meditation that came to him from the grounds of the cathedral, from behind the low wall that contained a number of old tombstones. It was the sound of dogs running around and barking.
George grimaced at Carol. “I can’t help it,” he said. “I’ve just got to go see what all the bother is about. They might be friends of mine!”
Carol looked heavenwards. “Good grief! Is that what living with you is going to be like now? Investigating every pooch that crosses your path?”
George didn’t answer. He was already on his way. He called out and almost immediately four dogs veered in his direction. He recognised them! It was Rufus, Mucker and a couple of heavy-jowled friends he’d not seen before. It was the Durham Pack of strays, wastrels and reprobates. George was delighted.
Carol stood back a little to watch the little gathering. There was no way she wanted all sorts of stray dogs jumping up and drooling all over her. There was no such reserve displayed by her partner however, who it must be said, did not suffer any such antics either. His doggy friends were suitably reverential. George was clearly the leader of the pack and although they all obviously enjoyed each other’s company there was no indiscipline about their communal behaviour.
Carol gave it a minute or two, then commented drily, “Is this your idea of taking a girl out for the evening? Going to the dogs? C’mon, George, I didn’t get all dressed up this evening to watch you run about with a pack of hounds!”
George got the message. “Sorry, beautiful, but I only paused to say hello. To see if they recognised me. It was Rufus and Mucker with some mates of theirs. You remember them? They took part in the dog display that upended your geophysics friend a week back.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re all delighted to see each other again. Is that how it’s going to be every time we go out, George? Or worse, are you going to have them all come and visit us at home?”
George stopped, put his arm around Carol’s waist and drew her to him. “Are we going to make home together then?” he asked pointedly.
“Only if we have one dog with us. Rosie. I don’t want half the dogs in Durham wandering in and out.”
George gave her a kiss. “Done. Where are we going to live?”
“I don’t want to get into that here. Where are you taking me? Let’s go in somewhere and talk about this over a drink or something.”
George led the way down from Palace Green past the market place towards the River Wear. Saturday night in Durham city centre was crowded but George had booked a table at a riverside Italian restaurant where there was less of a crowd and they had time to stretch out, talk and investigate each other’s ideas of what future lay in front of them. It was a brilliant evening, with much laughter and teasing, one of the other. There was one worrying issue, however, that eventually raised its head and that Carol was anxious to dispel.
“George, I’m not going to wake up beside you one night and find a dog next to me, am I? I mean, I love you in all your idiosyncratic ways…but much as I love greyhounds, I don’t want to snuggle up with one.”
“No love. I think my dog days are over. If you marry me now I don’t think I’ll ever metamorphose again.”
“I
s that a marriage proposal, or blackmail?”
George leant across the spaghetti and kissed her. “It’s a marriage proposal. When I’m able to, will you have me?”
Carol looked him up and down. She grinned. She paused for dramatic effect. “Dunno!”
“Bitch!”
Carol leapt across and threw her arms about him, laughing crazily. People on the surrounding tables stopped eating. “I was hoping I could join you one day like that! You a dog and me a bitch. Whaddya say? Shall we try? It would be absolutely beastly!”
George struggled to free himself and nodded to the other tables around in apology. “My niece,” he explained. “Do excuse her. A very emotional character!”
Carol was by now standing over him. She raised her voice: “Liar! George – don’t you dare try that ever again!” She looked around at the other tables and nodded in apology. “I’m his, um, escort. He’s my client. He pays very well…”
George started fizzing. He was red in the face and his temperature had soared but there was no canine transformation that was going to get him out of this.
“I’ve told you. No more greyhounds. Not me, nor you, so please sit down and stop making a scene. And marry me!”
Carol was still laughing. “I will, George. I will. As soon as possible. OK? Now come home with me and take me to bed again.”
The waiter was summoned, the bill paid and the two of them gathered their bits together and made to leave. Carol was hanging on to George’s arm as they ventured outside. It was dark now as they crossed the river on their way towards Palace Green and the waiting Land Rover.
It was not quite pub turning-out time yet but still there were numbers of people moving up and down the lane leading from the market place. George and Carol stood aside by the bridge for a moment to avoid the crush.
Suddenly, a big man appeared. He pushed George violently against the stone wall behind and ripped Carol’s handbag out of her grasp. He then turned to run down the towpath beside the river, giving George a kick as he stepped over him.
“Out of the way, you bastard, or I’ll break your leg. Leave the lady’s things to me.”
Carol screamed but the man was gone, vanishing at top speed into the darkness where no lights shone beyond the bridge.
George rolled over. He felt a jolt of electricity surging through his veins. Without thinking, he was up and running, accelerating at a furious pace giving full vent to his feelings. He was sure that half of Durham could hear him barking and snarling like he had never done before. He was furious and he flew. Soft earth from the towpath cascaded up behind him as his feet pounded along ever faster. The stretch of river here was dark but dead straight and there was no contest in the race. The thug could not have got more than twenty yards when, despite a delayed start, a large black greyhound came out of nowhere to sink his teeth into his forearm and drag him down.
“Aarg! Get the fuck off me, you fiend!” He was a big brute of a man, down on one knee with his lower arm being wrenched and torn by the greyhound, but the dog was not heavy enough to immobilise the thief. He struck out with his other hand to try and dislodge George.
Then four other dogs came baying at full pelt down the towpath: the Durham Pack of strays, wastrels and reprobates. They piled straight into the big man with no delay, who buckled and tipped over. George found himself on top of the man staring straight into his eyes.
Greyhounds have vicious-looking teeth, equipped to slash and tear their quarry. George drew his lips back and let the man have full view of his double set of weaponry whilst his friends took hold of his arms and legs. He told his captive that his thieving behaviour was not appreciated. Not appreciated at all, did he understand? In fact if he was ever to show his face again on Durham riverside he might not have a face left next time. Was he in any doubt about what he was being told? George moved with inches of the man’s throat just as so as to make things crystal clear. He told him: Now do run along, old scout; leave ladies’ handbags alone, and don’t come back, OK?
Once the man had got the message, George climbed off him. His four friends relented also. They watched the one-time thug stagger away, now scratched, bleeding and with at least one arm mangled and looking like a reject from a butcher’s shop.
George was quite eloquent in his thanks of his four friends. They on their part were only too pleased to help with an honoured member of the Durham Pack who Rufus and Mucker had spoken most admiringly of in the past. George touched noses with all and said he must be going now – it wasn’t right to keep a lady waiting. His buddies all understood. They said cheerio and hoped that they could all meet up another time. Wasn’t this fun, after all? With that they trotted off away up the towpath.
Carol was left stranded on the bridge, gasping at what had just happened. And here came George, grinning ruefully out of the darkness and holding up her handbag that had just been stolen from her grasp.
“George…” She was flabbergasted. She didn’t know what to say and could only burst into tears. George took hold of her.
“I know. Frightening. A terrible shock. He was brute of a man.”
“But, George, I looked round and you…you were a greyhound!”
“Yes. I know. Don’t ask how – it just happened. And just as well it did.”
“But…but you said your dog days are over.”
“I thought they were. Come on, let’s go home.”
Later that night, warm and wrapped around one another in bed, exhausted again after another hour or so of lovemaking, Carol nuzzled George’s ear.
“George…” she whispered.
“Mmm?”
“You’re not going to doggify in the night are you?”
“Nope.”
Carol raised herself on one elbow and peered intently at him.
“How do you know? Just tell me that, will you! You said it wasn’t going to happen ever again.”
“I know.”
George looked down at her. This time the glorious golden globes were pressed warm and tender up against his chest and he was the happiest man in the universe and had absolutely no desire whatever to metamorphose into any other creature.
“With you, gorgeous, I’ll never run away from your embraces again. I’ll never again have to tear my eyes away from you; to resort to dogginess. I can relax and get control of my life at last. But…it turns out…”
“What?”
“It turns out, I think, that if necessary…if absolutely necessary…if my decrepit old frame isn’t up to defending you like I should…well then, I can become Greyhound George again. It seems…after all this…that I can switch it on and off!”
“Why, you old dog!”
“Yes. Life from now on is certainly going to be interesting…”
At Roundfire we publish great stories. We lean towards the spiritual and thought-provoking. But whether it’s literary or popular, a gentle tale or a pulsating thriller, the connecting theme in all Roundfire fiction titles is that once you pick them up you won’t want to put them down.
Greyhound George Page 20