Читать книгу Monty and Me: A heart-warmingly wagtastic novel! - Louisa Bennet - Страница 16

It’s five in the morning and it’s dark. I have no idea why big’uns say it’s raining cats and dogs, but it’s pouring down on this particular dog as I squeeze through the garden hedge and follow a bedraggled Betty hopping along the railway track.

‘Keep away from that. It’s the live rail,’ she says.

It doesn’t look remotely alive to me, but I do as she says. Every now and again I look back, worried that the big screeching monster I heard last night will attack from behind. We pass an owl sheltering in a hollow tree, its yellow eyes piercing the blackness. It’s reciting Shakespeare. Owls often do this to confuse their prey. And let’s face it, Hamlet would confuse anybody. There you are going about your business and you look up wondering who’s wittering on about death and dreaming, and then, Bam! You’re skewered by a hooked beak in the back.

‘One may smile and smile and be a te-wit,’ the owl hoots.

‘Does he mean us?’ Betty asks.

‘I hope not,’ I say, starting to doubt our plan.

We reach Milford station, which is little more than two raised platforms, one on either side of the tracks, and a footbridge over the line. The ticket office is closed. I hunker down on sodden shingle, while Betty scampers up the platform ramp.

‘All clear,’ she whispers. ‘We’ll hide in here till the train comes.’

I follow her into a tangled mess of brambles laden with decaying blackberries and wait for the five-thirty train.

‘Breakfast,’ she says, and nibbles a berry. She stands beneath a wide leaf and uses it as an umbrella. ‘So, tell me, how did you save Dante’s life, then?’

I blink away a raindrop. ‘It was nothing. Hardly worth telling.’

I sniff a blackberry and try one. Not bad. A bit furry.

‘Oh go on. Tell me. We’ve got nothing else to do till the train comes.’

‘All right then. Dante found a silver necklace at the side of the road. The main road into Geldeford. He was so busy trying to peck open the locket he didn’t see a petrol tanker bearing down on him. He was going to get squashed. I was walking with Paddy at the time and I managed to grab Dante by the neck and pull him out of harm’s way. He thought I was going to kill him so he kicked up a terrible fuss and tried to poke my eyes out. When the tanker hurtled past and nearly clipped the both of us he realised I’d saved his life.’

Betty stares at me with her piercing ball-bearing eyes. ‘But why? Why risk your life for a magpie? Especially a miserable git like Dante.’

‘I don’t know. I like to help, I guess. That’s why I wanted to be a guide dog.’

‘Still don’t get it.’

Betty eats in silence. Despite the pat pat of rain on leaves and the ting of water hitting guttering, I hear the train approach before it comes into view. As it lumbers into the station, the platform lights illuminate its bright colours – yellow, red (or it could be green as I get these two muddled up), white and blue. It doesn’t seem fearsome at all, more like a colossal, brightly coloured centipede with gigantic eyes. Apart from the driver I only see one person in a carriage. Two men clutching hard hats run onto the platform just in time and board the front carriage. When the doors start to beep, Betty shoves me and we bolt into the last carriage.

I sniff the stale air. The floor’s been mopped in dirty water – I detect a faint hint of cleaning fluid. Perhaps a thimbleful. Still smells of old coffee, stale chips, greasy hair and crumpled newspapers. I don’t hear any coat rustling or throat clearing or human breathing. We are alone, for now anyway. I give myself an almighty shake, which starts from the very tip of my nose, then sets my jowls flapping, ears bouncing, migrates down my spine in a cork-screw fashion, before becoming a bottom wiggle and capping the whole performance off with a tail wave. Ever watched a slow-motion dog shake? Worth it, I promise you. Anyway, water, loose fur and slobber sprays outwards in all directions, blanketing the floor, nearby windows, seats and Betty. Boy, does that feel good!

She stands there glaring at me, a double-drowned rat. ‘Thanks a bunch!’ Betty does her own little shake and her fur fluffs back out.

‘What now?’ I ask.

‘When we get to Greyfield Common, we run out the door and head for the tunnel.’

‘Tunnel?’

‘Yeah, under the road. Until then, we lie down between these seats and hope no big’uns see us.’

I follow her.

‘Dante won’t let us down, will he?’ Betty asks.

I want to do another shake – one is never enough – and my ears tickle. Must have water in them. I waggle my head instead, so as not to soak Betty again.

‘He’ll be there.’

‘So what I don’t get is how come you and Dante are friends when he’s such a patronising git and you’re such a nice dog?’

I spot a cold chip, missed by the cleaners, under a seat. I extend my long tongue and snap it up. A bit soggy, but nice all the same.

‘Some months after the locket incident, Dante set up a nest in Paddy’s garden. At first he ignored me, so I left him to it. He was like all magpies: stand-offish. Then one day I found him in the garden shed using a stolen laptop. A shiny, silvery one, of course. He needed the power point, you see. When he realised I could read a bit, he warmed to me and showed me how to use the laptop. Even helped me set up on Twitter. He was my first follower. I felt a bit sorry for him, to be honest. He only has six Twitter followers, well, seven, counting me.’

‘I’m surprised he’s got any at all.’

‘I don’t think he has any real friends. And he doesn’t realise it’s his own fault. I think he’s quite lonely.’

‘Serves him bleeding well right. He needs to learn some manners.’

The brakes screech and we stop at Geldeford station. My home is nearby! My old home anyway. I stand up, unable to fight the urge to leave the train and run to Paddy’s place.

‘What’re you doing?’ squeals Betty. ‘Hide!’

I lie down just in time. A woman gets into our carriage. Fortunately, she sits at the other end and doesn’t notice us, despite the puddle at the door and the paw prints. We are silent for the rest of the journey. At Greyfield Common we jump out, startling the woman, and run for the tunnel. Hidden in the darkness, we wait for the train to leave the station. We hear the flap of wings and Dante lands beside us.

‘Listen up!’ says the magpie, yelling like a drill sergeant. ‘These are your directions to the Truscott Estate. Follow the tunnel this-a-way.’ He points his beak into the blackness. ‘When you come out, you’ll see steep grassy verges either side of the line. One side has beech trees. Climb that slope. You’ll cross a road and then follow the riverbank path. But you’ll need to take the pavement for the last half a mile. It’s lined with houses so you’ll just have to take your chances. Follow me.’

‘Yes, sir!’ says Betty and salutes him.

He ignores the sarcasm and flies off.

‘Best get going,’ I say to Betty, ‘and best you get up on my back. I know you’re fast but you won’t be able to keep up once I get into a run.’

She clambers up my back leg and along my spine, until she sits behind my collar and hangs onto it like a little jockey. I set off at a jog and then, once I’m following the river, I run. It’s still bucketing and I have to blink away the rain as I peer up at my guide in the sky. We reach the final leg of our journey. I’m soaked. So is Betty. We sneak past front gardens and garages. If Dante sees a big’un coming, he squawks a warning and we hide until he gives us the all clear.

‘What a racket!’ Betty complains as we near the council estate. ‘If I ever meet the bloke who invented that wretched Twitter, I’m going to bite him.’

There’s a myth about the dawn chorus which I’d like to clear up. Big’uns assume the bird population is welcoming the new day in song, and that’s certainly how it all began. These days, it’s more raucous because they’ve discovered Twitter and they can’t tweet without tweeting – out loud. Every message has to be accompanied by bird song.

Big’uns don’t feel the need to sing when they tweet and I don’t need to bark, so why do birds have to make such a commotion? I just don’t get it.

We peer through the heavy rain at the Truscott Estate, which is a blur of street lighting and grey walls. Built on what used to be common land – a green open space everyone enjoyed – it now consists of four housing blocks in a row, fronted by garages, street parking and rubbish. Discarded appliances rust in the rain. Wrecked sofas, torn mattresses, broken glass and beer cans litter the pavement. Some cars have their wheels missing. Stairwells lead up to open walkways that connect each flat. Light grey breeze blocks, charcoal grey asphalt, blue grey gravel, silver-grey weathered timber fencing, gunmetal grey street railings. The whole estate seems to drip a dismal grey. It’s as if the architect was asked to design the most depressing housing possible, in keeping with the area’s name – Greyfield Common. The only hint of colour is from the angry graffiti and a child’s merry-go-round, once painted red, now faded to rust. Somebody has spray-painted ‘Release The Wolves’ along the length of a concrete walkway. I sniff the air but can’t detect any. Just a dog or two.

Dante lands next to me.

‘Which block?’ I ask him.

‘Block D, over there,’ he nods, ‘Number 251. I’ll meet you on level two, by the steps.’ He flies off.

A few people, heads down, sheltering under umbrellas, race to their cars or duck through covered walkways. We make it to level two unseen, but just as we turn the corner a big man in a blue overall, who smells of car grease and toast, almost collides with us. Betty scarpers.

‘What the …!’ The man tries to get round me. ‘Get outa here, you filthy stray!’

He attempts to kick me and I race back down the steps with him hot on my heels. I skid through a puddle and fall onto my side. I get up quickly and hide behind some industrial rubbish bins. The man squints in my direction, cursing and walks off. I wait a bit and then run back up two levels.

‘What happened to the warning?’ I ask Dante, panting. ‘And where’s Betty?’

‘Here!’ she says, appearing from a dark corner. ‘Jeez, you’re almost black. What happened?’

I realise that I’m covered in dirt from the puddle. The estate’s greyness is rubbing off on me.

Dante is defensive. ‘I can’t watch you all the time. I’m not God!’

Then I see he’s clasping a shiny beer bottle top in one claw.

‘Got distracted, did you?’ I tease.

He ignores my comment and nods to his right. ‘Four doors down. Larry’s in there. I’ve just seen him at his kitchen window making a cup of tea. So, what’s your plan?’

Good question. In my enthusiasm to find Larry Nice, I haven’t thought about how I’m going to get close enough to smell him.

Betty and I creep down the puddle-riddled walkway and stop outside number 251. The door is shut and looks as if it’s been kicked in at some point: the bottom panels have been replaced and the wood around the lock is splintered.

‘Betty, you stay out of sight,’ I say. ‘Dante, use your beak to knock on the door. When you hear him coming, fly away.’

Betty conceals herself behind a drainpipe. Dante stands on the doormat and taps three times, but nobody comes. I hear the radio inside his flat. The weather forecast man is predicting showers. I could have told him that!

‘Louder. Give it a good whack.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ he protests, but he bangs harder and keeps going.

I hear footsteps, Dante flies off, and the grimy lace curtains are pulled back a fraction. Larry’s face appears at the kitchen window. He looks at where an average height big’un might stand if he were outside the door, and as a result he doesn’t see us.

‘Bloody kids!’ I hear him say.

He disappears from view and Dante returns.

‘Knock again,’ I say.

‘My beak’s getting sore,’ Dante complains, but follows my instructions.

I hear Larry, his voice angry. ‘Right, you little bastards, I’m going to give you a bloody good hiding.’

The door opens wide and a skinny man, with a face like a whippet and legs like a chicken, stands there in his burgundy nylon dressing-gown. Larry Nice has been smoking weed and is enveloped by an acrid fug. Initially, that’s all I can smell. It’s overpowering. I remember Paddy’s killer smelt of it too, so I stand my ground, bedraggled, a filthy grey, on his soggy doormat.

Larry gawps at me. ‘What the f—’

I jump up, pressing my nose against his skin, but he thinks I am about to bite and he squeals. I knock chicken-whippet man flat on his back. He lies winded on a carpet that stinks of beer, then struggles to push me off him. His slippery dressing-gown is short sleeved and in the struggle my claws scratch his arm, but he has no bite mark. He smells of cheap aftershave and pubs, Rich Tea biscuits and polystyrene. But not that weird, stinky food stench, and not the disease that reminds me of an insect, which I still can’t place. As I charge out of the door and down the steps, I know for certain that Larry Nice did not kill my master.