Читать книгу Monty and Me - Louisa Bennet - Страница 10

I look out of the window at the full moon. It reminds me of a triple cream brie I stole one Christmas from Paddy’s nibbles platter. Betty and I sit close together on the kitchen floor, bathed in the milky moonlight.

‘Go on,’ she says. ‘You can do it.’

I have relived the attack on my master many times in my head, always wondering the same thing. Could I have saved him? But I haven’t told anybody about what happened. I lick my nose, psyching myself up. My heart races. I swallow hard and begin my tale.

‘I knew there was something wrong, even before I saw the man.

Perhaps it was the way the car crawled down our single-track lane, like that creepy cat two doors down who stalks birds. I heard the tyres crunch on the gravel and thought it odd, since our elderly neighbour, Mr Grace, never has evening visitors, and we weren’t expecting any. I should have paid more attention, but I didn’t because I was up to my chest in cool river water, facing upstream, searching for fish. Once I’m fishing, I’m focused.

Paddy was sitting in the back garden working on his laptop as usual, sipping his after-dinner wine, the clink of the glass on the table top a familiar sound. Our home was a semi-detached, red-brick cottage, with low ceilings and narrow leadlight windows at the end of a cul-de-sac. The house was small – a two up, two down – but the garden was canine-heaven: quarter of an acre of lush green lawn, loads of flowerbeds to dig up, trees that dropped a plentiful supply of sticks to chew, and, best of all, on the other side of an easily jumpable gate, was the river.

So there I was enjoying the currents tickling my belly when I spotted a cracker of a fish no more than a few inches from my right paw. Just in time I remembered not to wag my tail. I’ve learned the hard way that the ripples frighten fish away. I opened my jaw, ready to pounce, grizzly-bear-style. Then I heard our front doorbell ring. Paddy didn’t, but my hearing is much better than his. I should have gone to investigate then, but the fish was tantalisingly close.’

I drop my head, ears flattened.

Betty interjects. ‘You weren’t to know Paddy was in danger. Stop blaming yourself.’

I shake my head and whimper. I should have known. It was my job to protect him. I swallow and press on with my tale.

‘I pounced, head into the water, mouth clamped down on what I hoped was a fish. But the slippery sucker zipped off and all I was left with was a mouthful of leaf litter and a nose full of water. When I’d stopped sneezing, I glanced up the garden path. I saw a man I didn’t recognise walking down the side passage. His face was covered with some kind of dark sock with holes in it for his eyes and mouth. Paddy stood abruptly, knocking his chair backwards. I was too far away to smell his fear but I knew instantly he was in danger.

“What do you want?” Paddy said, his voice shaky.

The man said nothing but raised a single gloved finger to his lips. He was telling Paddy to be quiet, in the same way Paddy used to tell me to be quiet when I got carried away barking at squirrels.

I scrambled as fast as I could for the bank, but the water clung to me like porridge and I slipped on a stone. I got up, raced through the open gate and up the path. I detected the sour smell of Paddy’s terror. I heard his heart beating too fast.

I bark. “Run,” I told him, “Run”

But he didn’t run. Perhaps because he was an old man: in dog years he was eight, in big’uns years, fifty-six. Or perhaps because he was paralysed with fear. I’ll never know. I accelerated, my teeth bared, eyes locked onto the intruder, tail rigid and pointed at the sky. My growl was deep and rumbling.

The intruder saw me and his body tensed. Yet he didn’t flee. I was not a surprise. Through the slit in his head-sock I saw him slowly lick his lips as if he wanted to eat me. For a split second I was confused about why he didn’t seem afraid, but I kept coming. The man had a knife in his hand. He stepped forward and plunged the blade into my master’s body. I roared in anger. As I leapt over plant pots to reach him, I inhaled his scent: the acrid tang of funny cigarettes, damp walls, some kind of stinky food not even I would want to eat, and a disease. One I have never smelled before. It reminded me of an insect, but I couldn’t place which one.

Paddy opened and closed his mouth in shock. The attacker pulled out the blade. My dear master clutched his wound and fell to his knees.

“No!” I bellowed, as I jumped at the masked man.

He turned and swept his arm across my body. The blade sliced into my chest, slashing through skin and muscle. I yelped at the searing pain, but the force of my leap drove me forward and I crashed into him, knocking him onto his back. I rolled away as quickly as I could, afraid he would strike again. He missed by inches, and when the knife hit the ground I hurled myself at him. I bit deep into the arm holding the weapon and shook it with all my strength, tearing his flesh. It was his turn to yelp now. His flimsy jacket was no protection at all. I drew upon all my fury to dig my teeth deeper and deeper. The attacker dropped his knife, but then he kicked me so hard in the stomach, I had to let go. I managed to tear away part of his sleeve. I collapsed on my side, desperately trying to catch a breath. The left side of my face was sticky with blood oozing from my chest wound.

The man cradled his mauled lower arm. I noticed part of a tattoo. He spun around, searching for his knife. I was lying on it. I stayed still. He glanced at Professor Salt, who lay motionless, eyes wide open, as if the setting sun was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. But I knew my dear master saw nothing. Those kind brown eyes were blind and cold, like marbles. The killer knew it too. Every time I breathed, it was as if I was being kicked again, but I managed to lift my head and snarl. I knew it was a weak snarl, but he didn’t. He backed away, grabbed Paddy’s laptop from the garden table, took his wine glass and entered the house. For the first time I noticed he was wearing a backpack. He slammed the back door shut, in case I followed. But I wasn’t leaving my master.

I heard the killer move through the house to the study – I knew exactly which creaky floorboard he stepped on – and the rasp of desk drawers yanked open, then dull thuds. He was throwing something heavy in his bag. Then paper files slid against the fabric too. He moved to the sitting room, drawers thrown on the floor. Then the clank of metal.

I crawled over to Paddy and licked his face. Perhaps he was alive after all? I so wanted to be wrong. I did it again and again and his head jerked with each increasingly desperate lick. But his eyes didn’t flicker.

I whimpered, “Wake up! Please wake up!”

I placed my snout above his mouth and sniffed for breath, hoping to feel the slightest waft of air. Nothing. I howled, my nose pointing to the darkening sky. I howled in pain and grief, as we have done for centuries. I howled because I can’t weep like big’uns. I howled because I love my master more than anything.

I stopped when I heard the front door open and shut and the man’s feet crunched on the gravel drive. A car door opened. But not quietly. It was metal screeching on metal. I smelt diesel as he drove away, and heard a tink, tink, tink of something rattling.

I grew weaker and dizzier as the pool of blood from my wound grew. But I would not leave Paddy. He was my world and someone had taken him from me. I howled again, but my head felt so very heavy. I rested it on Paddy’s chest, his white shirt drenched in blood where the blade had pierced his no longer beating heart. I vowed to myself that if I was to live I would never rest until I found the man who took him from me.’