Dog Page 12

  “Warburton, and he’s useless.”

  “You’ve spoken to him?”

  “No.”

  “Then listen to me, Tom. If you’re being bullied, you need to speak to him. You don’t have to put up with it.”

  Tom snorted.

  Phil stared into his eyes, until the boy looked away. He pulled his blazer on and walked to the front door, pausing at the mirror. The bruising had faded to a sick-looking yellow, and most people had stopped commenting on it. Robert Tayler always grinned triumphantly, but it hadn’t been hard to keep out of his way—most of the time.

  All Tom wanted was his dog. He could endure any amount of loneliness and misery at school if there was still a chance of finding Spider. Spider was out there, somewhere, waiting for him—and Tom would find him.

  He sat at the front of the classroom, trying to concentrate.

  It was the last lesson before break. This one was PSHE, and they were discussing the importance of relationships. The whole class was restless, for the worksheet seemed particularly patronizing.

  The first question was: What makes a good friend? There was a smiley face on the left, and a sad face on the right.

  Tom gritted his teeth, and started to sketch Spider in the margin.

  “Hey, Lipman,” said the boy next to him.

  It was a whisper, for they were supposed to be working in contemplative silence. He drew the ears and muzzle, and started on the neck.

  His neighbour hissed again, and nudged him.

  “Lipman! You’re wanted.”

  Tom looked round, and there was his enemy. Robert Tayler gave Tom a bright, friendly wave, and held up a note.

  The teacher didn’t notice because she was drawing a huge pie chart on the whiteboard, with her back to the class. The word loyal stood out in blue.

  Rob saw his opportunity, and skimmed the paper forward. It landed on the floor, but a nearby girl picked it up and sneaked it on to Tom’s desk.

  Tom unfolded it.

  That dog you lost, the note said. It’s black and white, isn’t it?

  He turned around again and nodded. Then he mouthed the word “Why?”

  Rob started writing again.

  The next note said, I think I saw him this morning.

  Tom felt his heartbeat change. His hands immediately became clammy, but he tried to stay calm.

  He wrote WHERE? Then he scribbled the obvious, urgent question: Are you sure it was Spider?

  The note went back to Rob, and the teacher just missed it. She had the board pen in her hand and was scanning the class.

  “What else do we want our friends to be?” she asked.

  “Truthful,” said someone.

  “Sexy,” said someone else.

  “No, let’s keep it serious,” said the teacher. “Let’s be sensible, shall we? What else? What makes a really good friend?”

  “They have to be trustworthy,” said a girl.

  “Oh, definitely. Tom, what are you thinking?”

  “He wouldn’t know, miss,” said someone.

  The back row sniggered, and the teacher ignored it. She looked at Tom, remembering that his name had been flagged up by email that very morning. He was someone to watch and support, so she smiled at him encouragingly, and asked, “What’s the most important thing for you, Tom, when it comes to friendship?”

  “I don’t care, miss.”

  There was more laughter, and the teacher held up her hand.

  “I’m sure you do,” she said. “What a thing to say, Tom. Tell us what you’re really thinking.”

  Tom sighed, wishing he hadn’t spoken, and wondering how he could get out of the spotlight. The teacher looked genuinely interested, so he decided to say what he felt.

  “Look,” he said. “If you make a real friend, I think you should hang on to them, the same as… the same as the people in your family. You shouldn’t ever let them go, because…”

  “Because what?”

  “Once they’re gone, they’re gone. If they betray you, or treat you badly: that’s it. It’s over.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “What, no forgiveness? Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

  “It’s common sense,” said Tom. “Maybe some people like being hurt, but I can do without it. I think…”

  “What? Quiet, please—let’s hear what Tom thinks. This is interesting.”

  “You’re better off on your own, in the end.”

  “Well!” said the teacher. “That’s a thoughtful, honest answer. But what does Tom really mean by being ‘better off on your own’? Let’s get into our groups, and feed back in five.”

  There was an instant stir of activity.

  Group work meant relative freedom: you could turn round in your seat and have a nice conversation, so as the teacher went back to the board the noise level rose dramatically.

  Tom was looking for Rob again, and saw that he had his head down and was scribbling hard.

  He glanced up at Tom, and smiled. He put his pen down, then, and folded the paper. It was easy to lob it forward, and Tom opened it with trembling hands.

  Sorry, old buddy, said the note. It was Spider, and he’s roadkill. We passed him in the bus: black and white dog, flat as a pancake. Try not to cry, black-eyes.

  Tom read the words carefully, twice, and found that he was standing up. The paper was in his hand, and he was on his feet, reading it for the third time. Either the class had gone quiet, or he’d gone deaf.

  Robert Tayler was looking straight at him.

  “Don’t blame me,” Rob said. “I thought you should know the truth.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked the teacher.

  “He’s had a shock, miss,” said someone.

  “He needs his mum.”

  “He’s wet himself.”

  “Hush,” said the teacher. “Sit down, please, Tom. Let’s try to stay focused on what you said. ‘Being alone’ is quite an emotive phrase.”

  Tom was struggling to breathe. He was hot, and his feet felt too heavy to move. He took a pace forward and steadied himself against a table. Then he was at the door, and the handle felt cold in his hand. He heard his name being repeated, but he kept walking. All he could think about was the horror of what Rob had just told him. The teacher was calling loudly, but there was no point turning round or going back: he wouldn’t be able to speak.

  He staggered out into the corridor and went quickly past the science labs. There was a boys’ toilet, and he stepped into it. A mirror showed him the same face as usual, but that was impossible because his insides were melting, and everything had changed. Did he want to sit down? No. Did he want to wash, or run cold water over his head? No, because there was no point doing anything ever again.

  The note was there in his hand, and the words were big and clear. He turned the page over, and there were more on the back: Dead dog, they said, and there was a picture of a truck going over a mangled animal. Its mouth was turned down to look sad, and the artist had even planted it in a lake of crimson blood.

  Tom could not cry.

  There were no tears available, because the heat inside him had burnt them away. He would never cry again, for he was hollow. Spider was on the roadside, dead, and it was just as he had feared. You saw it all the time: dogs raced across the road, and were hammered flat on the tarmac. The wheels turned them to furry mats, and he’d sometimes wondered what happened to the bodies—if they got scraped up by the people whose job it was to clean the roads, or if other animals dragged them off for food. A sob rose from deep inside, but he swallowed it and left the toilets.

  He chose a different corridor, and a teacher he didn’t know glanced at him and stopped.

  “Excuse me, young man,” he said. “Where should you be?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “What?”

  “Nowhere, sir. Anywhere.”

  “Who’s your tutor? What do you mean?”

  Tom ignored him and set off again.

  “Hey!
” said the teacher. “Stop a moment, please. Why aren’t you in class? Where are you going?”

  Tom couldn’t speak any more, so he didn’t try. He kept moving, for he had no voice, and no interest in anyone’s questions. He was aware of the teacher hurrying after him, but there was nothing the man could do. Tom could walk for ever, out of the building and out of the school. He could keep going for however long it took, until he got to some part of the country where there were high cliffs, and then he could step off the edge of the highest, straight into the abyss.

  He found himself at the library and went inside. The teacher was still behind him, but he moved on past the displays, for he knew where he was going now. He went to the office, at the back, because that was where Mrs Mourna worked. He opened the door, hoping she’d be there, but knowing in his heart that she wouldn’t be. He knew now that people disappeared when you needed them most: her chair was bound to be empty.

  In fact, she was sitting at her desk.

  “Tom,” she said quietly.

  The other teacher stayed back.

  Mrs Mourna was wrapping a book in clear plastic. Her face changed, and she rose to her feet at once. He became aware only of the silence in the room.

  “What’s the matter, love?”

  His eyes were wet. He was crying after all, and he could feel his face imploding as he made noises he had never made before. He held up the note, but Mrs Mourna didn’t read it. She simply put her arms around him, and Tom clutched her as the tears gave way to deep, shuddering sobs. Reality crashed down harder than ever, for it had dawned on him that Spider really wasn’t coming home. That meant home was emptier than ever—as empty as his heart, which had been emptied by forces he didn’t understand but could still feel, draining his blood and leaving him weak. His mother had left his father, which meant she’d left him. Spider had left, too, and now he was dead.

  He’d reached the end, and it was the end of the end of everything.

  Spider had come to a road sign.

  The dog gazed up at it, and felt the tickling in his ear that was now so familiar. The flea drank, and there was a tiny sigh, followed by the soft belch. It crawled on to an eyebrow.

  “Recognize anything?” it said.

  The sign showed a fat roundabout, with roads leading off in five different directions. There were five words floating round them, and Spider waited as his companion spelt out the letters.

  “Do you recognize anything?” asked the flea.

  “No,” said the dog, at last. “I’ve never heard those words before. Never.”

  “One of them has to be your town. The question is: which one and which road?”

  “Why do they all look the same?” cried Spider. “How do people know where they’re going?”

  “Maybe they don’t.”

  “Let’s follow the busiest and just hope it’s the right one. Are you comfortable up there?”

  “I’m fine, Spider. Your fur’s got a real silky softness to it.”

  “As soft as Jesse’s?”

  “Oh, softer.”

  “She was a special fox, wasn’t she?”

  “One of the best.”

  Spider nodded sadly.

  They stood in silence for a moment, then the dog took a deep breath and set off, following the grass verge to a sturdy crash barrier. Slipping under it, the two friends kept close to the kerb and, within a few hundred metres, found themselves at an even busier junction. A great concrete bridge flew high above their heads, carrying vehicles in a roaring stream. Spider trotted on, his eyes smarting from the overpowering fumes. He threaded his way cautiously, for there was no pavement. On and on he went, and the road took them through a vast jumble of car parks and sheds.

  “Civilization,” said the flea. “I say keep going.”

  Spider nodded. “It’s a big place,” he said. “It could be my town, but I don’t see a school. I don’t recognize anything yet.”

  “Well, we’re only at the edge.”

  They trotted on, and the going got a little easier. There was a muddy track which was much softer than the unforgiving tarmac, and before long they spotted houses.

  “Where is everybody?” said Spider. “Why aren’t there any people?”

  “They’re at work, I imagine.”

  “There was a big park with gates. If we found that, I’d know exactly where I was.”

  “Let’s aim for those trees, then. Go left.”

  Spider turned down a side street, but the trees turned out to be a small cluster in somebody’s garden. A car rolled by, but after that it was ominously quiet. The two friends pressed on in silence, down a hill lined with lamp posts, and this took them to a row of shops. When they came to a crossroads, Spider felt a very soft pinch.

  “Stop,” said the flea.

  “Why?”

  “We could be in luck. Look up—look at the sign.”

  Spider raised his eyes and saw a flat, metal triangle. It had been bolted to a pole, and it had a bright red border. Within the border were the shapes of two children, painted in solid black. They were running somewhere, holding hands, so the flea spelt out the word beneath their feet.

  “School,” it said. “It’s got the right colours, too.”

  “Maybe every school is red and black,” said Spider. “For all I know, every boy in the world wears the same uniform.”

  “I don’t think so,” said the flea. “I was in a school briefly—on the back of a hedgehog. He’d been taken inside for some project, and the kids I saw were wearing blue. I think we’re close.”

  Spider trotted on, and within five minutes they both heard the unmistakable sound of laughter. Spider started to run—he couldn’t help himself—and the noise got louder. He turned into a wide driveway, and suddenly they were beside a long set of railings. A hundred children were swirling over the grass, squealing with excitement. They were chasing balls, cheering wildly. The joy was infectious, and Spider found he was barking, but the hope faded in an instant, for he could see at once that the colours were wrong. There were greens and whites, and various greys. Red and black were conspicuously absent, and it was also obvious that the boys were much younger than Tom. Some of them had seen him and were coming over, but Spider hadn’t the heart to make contact, and slipped quickly out of sight. A track took him on to a patch of wasteland, and he sat down, wincing at the pain in his pads.

  “Don’t despair,” said the flea quietly. “This is when we have to be strong.”

  “I think we’ve come the wrong way.”

  “You don’t know that, Spider.”

  “I feel it.”

  “I say keep going. These might still be the outskirts of the town. Is Tom’s school very big?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “If it is, it might be right in the centre. Like the duck pond was in the middle of that village.”

  “Which way is the centre?”

  “That’s what we have to find out. And look, Spider! Off to the right there’s a railway line, on the other side of the fence.”

  “So what?”

  “So that’s good news. A railway line means trains, which is what Jesse remembered. She talked about seeing uniforms where the railway lines ended. Let’s just follow the tracks—it can’t be much further.”

  They soon found a gate they could squeeze under, and Spider clambered down through more scrub to the rails. He stepped wearily on to the sleepers and forced himself onwards, following their graceful curve. Before long, there were walls on either side, and then the lines were multiplying. They passed more sheds and workshops, and a train came by. It was easy to avoid, and when another one approached in the opposite direction they got the distinct impression that they were getting to the very heart of the town. A third followed, clattering past at speed and blasting its horn.

  “Hey,” cried the flea. “Look! You can see where they’re going. I think we’ve made it, Spider. This is exactly what Jesse described.”

  “I can see a church tower,” said t
he dog.

  “Is that good?”

  “I recognize it. It’s the same one, I’m sure! I saw it from the roof. Moonlight showed it to me.”

  “What were you doing on a roof?”

  “I don’t know, but it was the roof of my house—I climbed up and saw that church. This must be the place, flea! There are people, too! Look at them.”

  “But is this a school?”

  “I think it must be. Look out for red and black uniforms.”

  Spider trotted on, the pain in his paws forgotten. He came to a long concrete platform, and he padded up the ramp. A train had just pulled in, and its doors hissed open. Suddenly, the platform was a heaving mass of bodies, and the dog pushed in among them, hunting for anyone in the right clothes. He skipped between people, desperate to find Tom or the boy he’d seen boarding the bus. Everyone seemed so much older, though, and he yelped in frustration. An elderly woman struggled past with a trolley, helped by a man, and Spider stopped dead.

  “What?” said the flea.

  Both figures were wearing black trousers and white shirts. The trousers had a narrow red stripe.

  “No blazer,” said Spider. “No lion. But… it’s red and black.”

  “They’re not children,” said the flea. “Does that matter?”

  “I don’t know, but this isn’t what I was expecting. Something’s wrong.”

  Spider noticed then that the woman was staring back at him, and she didn’t look friendly. For the first time it occurred to him that he might be mistaken for a stray: he had no collar, after all. He backed away, but as he did so he noticed a doorway, out of which two young men emerged, wearing dark jackets. Spider ran to them, barking with excitement. They turned on him angrily, and one of them cursed. Spider dodged quickly to the side, but he came almost at once to a set of barriers which blocked his way. People were pushing through, and there was a clicking and clunking as they presented tickets. The barriers were guarded by figures in the exactly the same clothes, and that was when Spider realized Jesse’s mistake. She had seen the red and black of the station staff, and assumed it had something to do with Tom’s school.

  “Oh, no,” he said softly. “She misunderstood.”