by James Bowen
‘What are you going to do about it now, tough guy?’ he was probably saying.
As I hit the main road back towards our block of flats, I looked round to see our nemesis receding into the distance where he had been joined by his owner, a big, burly guy in a black jacket and jeans. He was struggling to get the dog back on its lead, but that was his problem, not mine.
‘That was a close one, Bob,’ I said. ‘Thank goodness for the Bobmobile.’
Chapter 4
The Odd Couple
It was rare I got visitors at the flat. I didn’t have many friends locally and kept to myself within the building. I would pass the time of day with neighbours but I could count the number of times any of them had popped round for a chat on the fingers of one hand. So I was always wary whenever someone knocked on the door or pressed the building’s intercom at the entrance downstairs. I automatically assumed the worst, expecting to find myself confronted by a bailiff or a debt collector chasing me for money that I didn’t have.
That was my immediate reaction when the intercom buzzer went just after 9am one weekday morning as Bob and I got ready for work.
‘Who the heck is that?’ I said, instinctively twitching at the curtains even though I had no view of the entrance from up on the fifth floor.
‘James, it’s Titch. Can I come up with Princess?’ a familiar voice said over the speaker.
‘Ah. Titch. Sure, head on up, I’ll put the kettle on,’ I said, breathing a sigh of relief.
Titch was, as his name suggested, a tiny little bloke. He was wiry and had short, thinning hair. Like me, he was a recovering addict who had started selling The Big Issue. He had been having a hard time and had crashed out at my place a couple of times in recent months. He’d got into trouble with work after becoming a co-ordinator in Islington. He had been ‘de-badged’ and given a six month suspension. He was still waiting for his ban to be lifted and had been really struggling to make ends meet.
I felt like I’d been given a second chance in life since I’d met Bob so had given Titch another opportunity as well. I also quite liked him. Deep down, I knew, he had a good heart.
Another reason that Titch and I got on was that we both worked on the street with our pet as our companion. In Titch’s case it was his faithful black Labrador-Staffordshire Bull Terrier-cross, Princess. She was a lovely, sweet-natured dog. When he’d stayed with me previously, he’d left Princess somewhere else. He knew that I had Bob and that having a dog in the house might cause problems for me. But, for some reason, that wasn’t the case today. I braced myself for what might happen when the pair of them arrived at the front door.
Bob’s ears pricked up at the sound of knocking. When he saw Titch and Princess walking in, his first reaction was to arch his back and hiss. Cats arch their backs to make themselves look bigger in a fight, apparently. This is why they also get their hair to stand on end. In this particular case, however, Bob needn’t have bothered. Princess was a really easy-going and affectionate dog. She could also be a little nervous. So the moment she saw Bob in full, confrontational mode she just froze to the spot. It was a complete reversal of the normal roles, where the physically bigger dog intimidates the smaller cat.
‘It’s all right, Princess,’ I said. ‘He won’t hurt you.’
I then led her into my bedroom and shut the door so that she felt safe.
‘James, mate. Is there any way you can look after Princess for the day?’ Titch said, cutting straight to the chase when I handed him a mug of tea. ‘I’ve got to go and sort out my social security situation.’
‘Sure,’ I said, knowing how long those sorts of things could take. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Should it Bob?’
He gave me an enigmatic look.
‘We are working at Angel today. She’ll be all right with us there won’t she?’ I said.
‘Yeah, no problem,’ Titch said. ‘So how about if I pick her up there this evening at about 6pm?’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘Right, better dash. Got to be in the front of the queue if I want to be seen this side of Christmas,’ Titch said, popping his head into my bedroom.
‘Be a good girl, Princess,’ he said, before heading off.
As he’d demonstrated again already this morning, Bob didn’t have a major problem with dogs unless they were aggressive towards him. Even then, he could handle himself pretty well and had seen off a few scary looking mongrels with a growl and a loud hiss. Back during our early days busking around Covent Garden, I’d even seen him give one over-aggressive dog a bop on the nose with his paw.
Bob wasn’t just territorial with dogs. He wasn’t a huge fan of other cats, either. There were times when I wondered whether he didn’t actually know he was a cat. He seemed to look at them as if they were inferior beings, unfit to breathe the same air as him. Our route to and from work had become more complicated in recent months thanks to the cancellation of a bus service that used to take us straight from Tottenham High Road to Angel. So we’d started taking different buses, one of which required us to change in Newington Green, a mile or so from Angel. When money was tight, we’d walk to Angel. As we did so, Bob would sniff and stare whenever we went past what was clearly a cat house.
If he ever saw another cat out and about he would let them know in no uncertain terms that this was his turf.
Once when he saw a tabby cat, skulking around on Islington Green Bob had been transformed. He had been straining so hard to get at this upstart invading his territory, it had been as if I’d had a particularly aggressive dog on the end of the lead. He’d had to stamp his authority on the situation. Obviously, he’d already felt the need to do the same with Princess.
If I had any reservations, they were that Princess might be a bit of an inconvenience. Dogs were so much more hard work than cats. For a start, you couldn’t put them on your shoulders as you walked down the street, a design flaw that, I soon discovered, slowed you down considerably.
Walking to the bus stop Princess was a right royal pain. She pulled on the lead, stopped to sniff random patches of grass and veered off to squat down and go to the toilet no less than three times in the space of a couple of hundred yards.
‘Come on Princess, or we’ll never get there,’ I said, already regretting my decision. Suddenly I remembered why I had never wanted to adopt a dog as a pet.
If I was struggling to establish some kind of control over her, however, Bob had no such trouble. On the bus, he took up his normal position on the seat next to the window, from where he kept a watchful eye on Princess, who was tucked under my feet. Bob’s face had always been expressive. The looks he gave Princess whenever she encroached on his territory during the journey were hilarious. The area under the seat wasn’t exactly spacious and Princess would occasionally wiggle to improve her position. Each time she did so Bob would give her a look that simply said: ‘why don’t you sit still you stupid dog?’.
Outside the weather was atrocious, with rain hammering down. Arriving in Islington, I took Bob to the little park at Islington Green to quickly do his business and decided to let Princess do the same. Big mistake. She took forever to find a suitable spot. I then realised I’d forgotten to bring any plastic bags with me so had to fish around in a rubbish bin to find something with which to scoop up her droppings. I really wasn’t enjoying my day as a dogsitter, I decided.
With the rain getting heavier by the minute, I took shelter under the canopy of a café. When a waitress appeared I decided I might as well ask her for a cup of tea, a saucer of milk for Bob and some water for Princess. I then popped inside to use the toilet, leaving my two companions tied to the table with their leads.
I only left them for a couple of minutes, but when I got back it was clear that some kind of jostling for position had been going on. I’d left them with Bob sitting on a chair and Princess standing under the table. But when I came back Bob was sitting on the table, lapping at a saucer of milk, while Princess was sitting under the table looking far from happy wit
h her bowl of water. I had no idea what had gone on, but Bob had clearly established himself as the senior partner once again.
As always, Bob was also attracting attention from passers-by. Despite the weather, a couple of ladies stopped to stroke him and say hello. But poor Princess was hardly even acknowledged. It was as if she wasn’t even there. In a funny way, I knew how she felt. I live in Bob’s shadow sometimes.
The rain eventually eased off and we headed towards Angel and our pitch. While Bob and I took up our usual positions, Princess lay down a few feet away with her head deliberately placed so that she could take in most of the scene around us. Part of me had thought she’d be a burden but it turned out to be quite the opposite: she proved to be rather a useful asset.
As I paced around trying to persuade passers-by to fork out a couple of quid for a magazine, Princess sat there attentively, her head on the pavement and her eyes swivelling around like surveillance cameras, carefully weighing up everyone who approached us. If they got her seal of approval, she remained rooted to the spot, but if she had any suspicions she would suddenly sit upright ready to intervene. If she didn’t like the cut of someone’s jib she would let out a little growl or even a bark. It was usually enough to get the message across.
An hour or so after we’d settled down, a drunk carrying a can of extra strength lager came weaving his way towards us. They could be the bane of my existence at Angel. Almost every day I’d be asked for a quid for a beer by someone off his face on Special Brew. Princess spotted him, stood up and barked a quick warning as if to say ‘steer clear’. She wasn’t the world’s biggest dog, but she looked intimidating enough. She was more Staffie than Lab in that respect. He had soon veered off on another course, heading off to bother someone other poor soul instead.
Princess was at her most alert whenever anyone knelt down to stroke and say hello to Bob. She would take a step towards them, jutting her head forward so that she could make sure that they were treating the smallest member of our trio with the proper respect. Again, if she disapproved of anyone she made her feelings clear and they would stand back.
She actually made my job a little easier. It could often be a challenge to keep an eye on Bob while trying to sell the magazine at the same time, especially when the street was busy. The incident with the lady in the tweed suit had made me especially wary.
‘Thank you, Princess,’ I began saying on a regular basis, handing her a little treat from my rucksack.
Even Bob shot her a couple of approving looks. Somewhere, deep inside his feline mind I felt sure he was revising his opinion of our unexpected new recruit. ‘Maybe she’s not so bad after all,’ he may have been thinking.
The weather remained miserable all afternoon, so when the clock started edging towards six, I started looking out for Titch. I’d done pretty well selling magazines and wanted to start heading homewards. It was no night to be out late. But there was no sign of him. Six pm came and went and still there was nothing. I saw one of the The Big Issue co-ordinators heading home from work. Everyone knew Titch, so I asked if she’d seen him.
‘No, haven’t seen him for weeks actually,’ she said. ‘Not since all that trouble, you know?’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
By 6.30pm I’d become thoroughly disillusioned. I knew street people weren’t the world’s greatest timekeepers, but this was getting ridiculous.
‘Come on you two, let’s head for home. He can come and collect you there, Princess,’ I said, gathering all my stuff together. I was cheesed off with Titch, but I was also a little worried. Bob had tolerated Princess being in the flat for a few minutes earlier but having her for a ‘sleepover’ was another matter altogether. I could foresee lots of barking from Princess, complaints from the neighbours and a sleepless night for me.
I stopped at the convenience store to grab some food for Princess. I had no idea what she liked to eat, so gambled on a tin of standard fare dog food and some doggie biscuits.
Back in the kitchen as we all settled down to dinner, Bob once more ensured that the pecking order was clear. When Princess made a move towards the bowl of water I’d laid out for her, Bob hissed and snarled loudly, forcing the interloper to back off. He had to lap up his own bowl of milk first.
It didn’t take them long to reach an accommodation though. In fact, Bob was so content with his new companion that he allowed her to clear out the remains of his dinner bowl.
I’ve seen it all now, I thought to myself. Actually, I hadn’t.
I was shattered by 10pm and fell asleep in front of the television. When I woke up I saw something that made me wish I owned a video camera. I would have made a small fortune on those television shows that feature cute animal clips.
Bob and Princess were both splayed out on the carpet, snoozing quietly. When I’d left them they were at opposite ends of the room, with Bob near his favourite spot by the radiator and Princess near the door. While I’d been sleeping, Princess had clearly sought out the warmth of the radiator and slid alongside Bob. Her head was now barely a foot from Bob’s nose. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have guessed that they were lifelong pals. I locked the front door, switched off the lights and headed off to bed leaving them there. I didn’t hear a peep from either of them until the following morning when I was woken up by the sound of barking.
It took me a moment to remember that I had a dog in the house.
‘What’s wrong, Princess?’ I said, still half asleep.
They say that some animals can sense their owners are nearby. My best friend Belle sometimes stayed at the flat with us and she had told me that Bob often sensed when I was coming home. Several times he had jumped up on the window sill in the kitchen looking anxiously down to the street below minutes before I arrived at the front door. Princess clearly had the same gift because a couple of moments later I heard the buzzer. It was Titch.
From the look of his unshaven and rather bleary face, he had slept rough, which, knowing Titch, was quite possible.
‘Really sorry to leave you in the lurch last night but something came up,’ he said, apologetically. I didn’t bother asking what it was. I’d had nights like that myself, far too many of them.
I made another cup of tea and stuck some bread in the toaster. He looked like he could do with something warm inside him.
Bob was lying next to the radiator, with Princess curled up a couple of feet away, his eyes once more fixed on his new friend. The expression on Titch’s face was priceless. He was dumbstruck.
‘Look at those two, they get on like a house on fire now,’ I smiled.
‘I can see it, but I can’t quite believe it,’ he said, grinning widely.
Titch wasn’t a man to miss an opportunity.
‘So would you mind looking after her again if I’m in the lurch?’ he asked, munching on his toast.
‘Why not?’ I said.
Chapter 5
The Ghost on the Stairs
The rain had been relentless for days, transforming the streets of London into miniature paddling pools. Bob and I were regularly returning home soaked to the skin, so today I’d given up and headed home early.
I arrived back at the flats around mid-afternoon desperate to get out of my wet clothes and let Bob warm himself by the radiator.
The lift in my building was erratic at the best of times. After a few minutes repeatedly pressing the button for it to come down from the fifth floor, I realised it was out of order once more.
‘Brilliant,’ I muttered to myself. ‘It’s the long walk up again I’m afraid Bob.’
He looked at me forlornly.
‘Come on then,’ I said, dipping my shoulder down so that he could climb on board.
We were just beginning the final couple of flights of stairs, from the fourth to the fifth floor, when I noticed a figure in the shadows on the landing above us.
‘Hold on here for a second, Bob,’ I said, placing him down on the steps and heading up on my own.
Moving in closer I coul
d see that it was a man and he was leaning against the wall. He was hunched over with his trousers partially dropped down and there was something metallic in his hand. I knew instantly what he was doing.
In the past, the flats had been notorious as a haunt for drug users and dealers. Addicts would find their way in and use the staircase and hallways to smoke crack and marijuana or inject themselves with heroin like this guy was doing. In the years since I’d moved in, the police had improved the situation dramatically, but we’d still occasionally see young kids dealing in the stairwell on the ground floor. It was nowhere near as bad as a previous sheltered housing project I’d lived in, over in Dalston, which was over-run with crack addicts. But it was still distressing, especially for the families who lived in the flats. No one wants their children arriving home from school to find a junkie shooting up on the staircase outside their home.
For me, of course, it was a reminder of the past I was desperate to put behind me. I continued to struggle with my addiction; I always would. That, unfortunately, was the nature of the beast. But, since teaming up with Bob, I’d made the breakthrough and was on the way to complete recovery. After weaning myself off heroin and then methadone, I’d been prescribed a drug called subutex, a milder medication that was slowly but surely reducing my drug dependency. The counsellor at my drug dependency unit had likened this final part of my recovery to landing an aeroplane: I would slowly drop back down to earth. I’d been on subutex for several months now. The landing gear was down and I could see the lights of the runway in front of me. The descent was going according to plan, I was almost back on solid ground.
I could do without seeing this, I said to myself.
I saw that the guy was in his mid-forties with a short, crew-cut hairstyle. He was wearing a black coat, t-shirt and jeans and a pair of scruffy trainers. Fortunately he wasn’t aggressive. In fact he was quite the opposite. He was really apologetic, which was pretty unusual. Selflessness isn’t really a strong suit in heroin addicts.