Читать книгу Born to Run - Michael Morpurgo, Michael Morpurgo - Страница 5

Part of Patrick’s walk to school, to St Thomas’ Junior School on Porthcressa Road was along the canal, past the brown sauce factory which somehow smelled both sweet and sour at the same time. That walk along the canal where the barges chugged by, where the ducks dipped and drank, was the only part of going to school that Patrick looked forward to at all. There was so much he was dreading. He sat there on his bed and thought about the school day ahead of him, wishing he didn’t have to live through it. The radio was burbling downstairs as it always was, and his dad had burnt the toast, again.

Patrick thought of Mr Butterworth, his teacher and football coach, whose literacy homework – that stupid story about someone you meet standing in a shopping queue – he still hadn’t finished, and who this time was bound to make him stay in after lunch and finish it. That meant that the head teacher, Mrs Brightwell, would probably find him there, and so he’d be in double trouble. She was always on at Patrick about being untidy or running in the corridors, or daydreaming or using what she called ‘lazy words’, such as ‘cool’ or ‘wicked’, or worst of all, ‘whatever’.

If she ever heard anyone saying ‘whatever’ she’d practically explode, especially if you shrugged your shoulders at the same time. The trouble was that just at the moment and for no good reason, ‘whatever’ happened to be Patrick’s favourite word. He knew it irritated his mum and dad as well, knew how much Mrs Brightwell hated it, but the word would just pop out as if it had a mind of its own, and with it came a shrug. There was nothing he could do to stop himself, and of course all too often Mrs Brightwell would be right there, and she’d blow up. After it was over, everyone would turn round and laugh at him. That was what Patrick dreaded most about school, being laughed at.

He dreaded Jimmy Rington too, Jimbo to his friends, and Patrick wasn’t one of them, not since the day before when he’d let in that goal, the goal that had lost the cup final against Burbage School. It hadn’t been Patrick’s fault, not entirely. It was the kestrel’s fault as well. The thing was, he’d been watching for the kestrel on and off for days. The bird was roosting high up on the chimney of the brown sauce factory. Patrick loved to see him come swooping down and hover there over the long grass at the edge of the playing field. Patrick could have watched him all day and every day. Once he’d caught sight of the kestrel he couldn’t take his eyes off him. It wasn’t his fault that he came gliding over the football pitch at just the same moment the Burbage centre forward let fly with a speculative long range shot that Patrick should easily have saved.

There was all the sudden shouting, as the ball rocketed past him into the net, and he was left diving after it despairingly, ending up flat on his face in the mud. When he looked up, there were Jimmy Rington and the others running towards him, yelling and screaming: “Loser! Loser!” Mr Butterworth said it wasn’t the end of the world, but to Patrick it certainly felt like it. So Patrick had a lot of worrying to do that morning.

He was late down to breakfast as a result. He barely had time to feed Swimsy, his goldfish, and shovel down his Cocopops, before his mum was kissing him goodbye on top of his head as she passed by behind him, talking as she went, not to him at all, but to Patrick’s dad, about not forgetting to get the car serviced. Then she was out of the door and gone. Minutes later Patrick was being hustled into the car, and his dad was telling him to be careful crossing the road by the school, to wait until the lollipop man said he could cross – this was what he said every morning.

Patrick was dropped off by the bridge as usual, and found himself alone at last and walking along the canal. Suddenly it didn’t matter any more about Jimmy Rington or the goal he’d let in, or saying ‘whatever’ or Mrs Brightwell’s volcanic temper tantrums. He breathed in the sweet and sour smell of the brown sauce factory. It was strange, he loved the smell, but hated the taste of the actual sauce. Shading his eyes against the sun, he looked up at the chimney to see if his kestrel was there. He wasn’t, but Patrick didn’t mind, because there were some ducks cruising past him, and another nearby with his bottom in the air, and that always made him smile. A moorhen scurried across the towpath in front of him and disappeared into the long grass.

He hitched up his school bag and felt suddenly all bright and breezy, until he saw the swan some distance ahead of him, standing there on the towpath, looking at him, waiting for him. That worried him, because Patrick knew this swan, knew him all too well. They had met once before. It looked like the same one who had blocked his path on the way to school only a couple of weeks ago. He’d come running at Patrick wings outstretched, neck lowered to attack and hissing like a hundred snakes. Patrick had had to run into the undergrowth to escape him and had fallen into a patch of nettles. So Patrick did not like this swan, not one bit. Yet somehow he was going to have to get past him – it was the only way to get to school, and he had to get to school. The question was how to do it.

Patrick stood there eyeing the swan, just hoping that sooner rather than later the swan would decide it was time to go back into the water. But the swan stayed steadfastly where he was, glaring darkly at him, his great black feet planted firmly on the towpath. He was showing no signs of moving anywhere.

Patrick was still wondering what to do, when out of the corner of his eye he saw something floating out in the middle of the canal. It was bright green and looked plastic – a sack of some kind. He probably wouldn’t have paid it any more attention – a sack’s not that interesting, after all – if he hadn’t heard the squeaking. It sounded as if it was coming from the sack itself, and that didn’t make sense.

Patrick thought at first it might have been the piping of ducklings or moorhen chicks – he’d heard them often enough on the canal. But then he remembered that there weren’t any chicks around, not any more, because it was autumn. The whole place was carpeted with yellow leaves, gold leaves, red leaves. They were all around his feet. Spring and summer were over. No, it really had to be the sack itself that was squeaking.

It was still early in the morning and Patrick’s brain must have been working very slowly, because several moments passed before he realised that there was something alive inside the sack, and even then it wasn’t only the squeaking that convinced him. The sack, he noticed, wasn’t just drifting gently along like everything else, the leaves, the sticks, all the other flotsam in the canal. It was turning of its own accord, as if it was being propelled from the inside. There was definitely something inside it, and whatever it was seemed to be struggling against the side of the plastic sack, kicking at it, trying to escape from it and squeaking and squealing in terror. He had no idea what it might be, only that it was alive and in danger of drowning. The canal wasn’t that wide. It was dirty but it wasn’t wide. He could do it.

Patrick didn’t think about it any more. He shrugged off his school bag and leaped into the canal. He knew he was a good enough swimmer, so he wasn’t worried about drowning, only about getting cold and wet. He didn’t want the canal water in his mouth either, so he kept it tight shut. Just a few quick strokes out into the canal and he’d grabbed the sack, turned, and was swimming back again. Suddenly the bank seemed a long way away, but he got there.

Climbing out was the most difficult part because his clothes were heavy and clinging, and the sack was slippery in his hands, difficult to hold on to. He felt suddenly very weak, felt the cold of the water chilling him to the bone. But with one huge effort he heaved himself up, enough to hook one leg up, on to the bank, and then he was out. Standing there, dripping from everywhere, he untied the sack and opened it. There were five puppies inside, leggy, gangly looking creatures, skeletal almost, all of them trembling with cold and crawling over one another, squirming to get out, mouths open and squeaking frantically. They were like no puppies Patrick had ever seen before.

He had two choices, and he knew neither of them were any good. He could go home at once and leave the puppies in his bedroom – he had a key, he could easily let himself into the flat. There’d be no one home, but at least they’d be warm there. This way he could change his wet clothes too. He could feed them when he got back after school. The trouble was that it would take for ever to get there and back, and by the time he got to school he’d be so late that Mrs Brightwell would probably have one of her eruptions and he’d be in detention for a week, and she’d be bound to send him home with another cross letter for his mum and dad.

She certainly wouldn’t believe his excuse: “Please Mrs Brightwell, sorry I’m late, but I had to jump into the canal on the way to school to rescue some puppies.” If he didn’t have the puppies with him, and he’d already changed into dry clothes, she’d be bound to think he was making the whole thing up. She hated excuses anyway, especially incredible ones. She’d go ballistic.

Or he could go straight to school all wet and smelly from the canal, only a little bit late and carrying the puppies with him. At least she’d have to believe his story then, wouldn’t she? But then he thought of what Jimmy Rington would say when he walked into school all dripping and sodden, how everyone would laugh at him. They’d never let him forget it, that was for sure. And then there was that swan he had to get by, still there blocking his path, still glaring at him.

In the end it was Mr Boots, the lollipop man, who made up Patrick’s mind for him. Patrick was standing there, numb with cold, still wondering what he should do, when he saw Mr Boots come hurrying along the towpath, lollipop stick in his hand, his white coat flying. Patrick had never much liked Mr Boots. He wasn’t called “Bossy Boots” for nothing. He was a bit full of himself, a bit puffed up and pompous. And there was something about him Patrick had never quite trusted. He was a bit of a phoney, Patrick thought. But all the same he was glad to see him now.

Mr Boots arrived breathless. For a while he could only speak in gasps. “You jumped in!” he spluttered. “Whatever d’you want to go and do that for?”

By way of an answer Patrick showed him what he had in his sack. Mr Boots bent over to look. Then he was spluttering again. “Blow me down! Puppies, greyhound puppies they are. Little beauties!” He looked up at Patrick. “You could have drowned yourself, doing that. Look at you, you’re soaked to the skin. You’ll catch your death standing here. Best get you into school and fast. I’m telling you, when Mrs Brightwell hears about this… You come along with me. Here, you can take my lollipop stick if you like, and I’ll carry your school bag and the puppies.”

As the two of them hurried along the towpath a barge came chuntering past. “Been in for a bit of a dip, have you, son?” laughed the man at the wheel. But Patrick paid him no attention – he had his eye on that swan. He felt a little more confident though, because he had the lollipop stick to wave now. As it turned out he didn’t need it. The swan moved aside as they came hurrying towards him and swam out into the canal, riding the wake of the barge. Then they were up the steps from the towpath and across the road into the school playground.

Patrick knew he was already late the moment he walked through the door. There was no one about. They’d all be in assembly by now. He’d be in really big trouble. He felt like running off home there and then. But he couldn’t, because Mr Boots had him firmly by the hand and was walking him down the corridor towards the hall. He could hear Mrs Brightwell’s voice now. She was making one of her important announcements, and by the sound of her she was in full flow and already cross about something. Not a good moment to interrupt her, Patrick thought. Mr Boots stopped at the door to straighten his tie and smooth down his hair – he didn’t have much of it, but what he had he liked to keep immaculate. Then, clearing his throat, he threw open the double doors, and in they went.

Everyone turned and gawped. Up on the platform Mrs Brightwell stopped in mid-sentence. A deep hush fell around them as they walked the entire length of the hall up towards Mrs Brightwell. Every step Patrick took seemed to squelch louder than the one before, and all the way the puppies in the sack were squealing and squeaking.

Mrs Brightwell did not look at all pleased. “Mr Boots,” she said, “what is this? Why is Patrick standing there dripping all over my assembly hall? What on earth has happened?”

“Actually, it’s a bit of a long story, Mrs Brightwell.” Mr Boots sounded typically self-important. “You had to see it to believe it. There I am, just minding my own business on the crossing outside the school, when I hear this splash. So I look over the bridge, and what do I see? Only young Patrick here in the canal swimming like a fish. Well of course I think he’s fallen in, and he’s drowning. So I start running, don’t I? I mean I’ve got to save him, haven’t I? But then I see he’s not drowning at all. He’s got hold of this sack and he’s swimming like billy-o for the bank. And I’m thinking to myself: You’re off your tiny rocker, my son, taking a dip in that filthy old canal just to fetch out a dirty old plastic sack. Luckily for young Patrick here I was on hand to help him out, cos he wouldn’t have made it on his own, that’s for sure.”

You fibber! Patrick thought. You great big fibber! But he didn’t say anything.

Mr Boots hadn’t finished yet. He was enjoying his moment in the limelight. “So Patrick’s standing there now on the bank, all shivering and shaking, and that’s when I have a little look inside the sack, don’t I? And what do I find? It’s full of puppies, that’s what, five of the little beggars, and if I’m not mistaken, which I’m not, they’re greyhounds, about seven weeks old by the look of them. We’ve got brindles in there, blacks and a fawn one too. I go down the greyhound track from time to time, so I know my greyhounds. I’m what you might call a greyhound connoisseur. They’re lovely pups too, fine dogs. And young Patrick here jumped in the canal and saved them. I saw him with my own eyes. He’s a bleeding hero, if you ask me – ‘scuse my French, Mrs Brightwell – but that’s what he is, a bleeding hero.”

Patrick had never heard such a depth of silence as he heard in that hall when Bossy Boots had finished. Then one of the puppies squeaked, and suddenly they were all at it, a whole chorus of squealing, yelping puppies. “Aaah, sweet,” said someone. Someone else started giggling, and soon there was laughter and clapping too, rippling round the hall. Within moments the assembly hall was loud with cheering and whooping – one or two were yelping like puppies. Patrick stood there soaking in the applause and feeling about ten foot tall. Even Mrs Brightwell was clapping now. Patrick saw there were tears in her eyes as she beamed at him. That was the first time, Patrick thought, that she’d ever beamed at him. He’d never seen her cry before either; he didn’t know she could. Suddenly he found himself really quite liking her, and that hadn’t happened before either.

As the applause died away at last, Mrs Brightwell came down off the platform, and peered into the sack. “One. Two. Three. Four, five, and they’re all alive because of you, Patrick. What you did was very special. You risked your life to save them. I think that’s about as special as it gets.” She looked into the sack again, shaking her head sadly now. “Beautiful creatures. Beautiful, but unwanted it seems. So sad, and so wicked too.”

Her voice was trembling with anger as she spoke to the whole school. “It’s difficult to believe, children. I won’t hide from you what must have happened. Someone tried to get rid of these puppies, tried to drown them in the canal. And if Patrick here hadn’t jumped in and…” For a moment she could hardly speak. “And we mustn’t ever let the wicked people have their way, must we Patrick? That’s why we must report this at once to the Police.”

She had her hand on Patrick’s shoulder now. Although he was still all aglow inside, he must have been shivering, because Mrs Brightwell suddenly noticed it. “Goodness gracious,” she said. “We’re standing here nattering away, and this poor boy is half frozen to death. We’ll have three loud cheers for Patrick, children, and then we’ll get him into a hot shower and warm him up. He’ll be needing some dry clothes too – we’ve got plenty in the lost property cupboard. Three cheers then for Patrick and his puppies! Hip, hip!”

Patrick walked out of the assembly hall that morning on Cloud 9, the three cheers and one for luck ringing in his ears. But the best moment of all was when he caught Jimmy Rington’s eye. He was looking somewhere between gutted and gobsmacked, which made Patrick feel he was up there and floating on Cloud 109.

Everything was a bit of blur after that. Patrick had the longest, hottest shower of his life in the teachers’ bathroom. He shivered all the cold out of him, and washed away the slime and stench of the canal. They found some clean, dry clothes, along with a school sweatshirt that was far too big for him, and a pair of trainers that were too small for him. Mr Butterworth found a cardboard box and a blanket for the puppies, and set it down by the radiator in Mrs Brightwell’s room, which was where Patrick spent the next hour or so, kneeling by the box, playing with them, watching them bask in their newfound warmth. He loved them licking his fingers and chewing on them. They had sharp little teeth, but Patrick didn’t mind.

There was one that Patrick loved at once more than the others, the fawn one. To Patrick he wasn’t fawn at all. He was golden, and his eyes were hazel brown and shining. But it wasn’t what he looked like that mattered most to Patrick. He loved him because every time he put his hand into the box, the fawn puppy was right there looking up at him, almost talking to him with his eyes. Patrick understood at once that this was the one who needed him most. So he talked to him, told him where he lived, about his mum and dad, about Swimsy, about how he’d always wanted a dog of his own, and now that he’d found one he was going to take him home, and they’d go up on the park where he could run as far as he wanted to, for as long as he wanted to, that he’d look after him for ever and ever. And Patrick knew the puppy was listening to every word, believing and trusting everything he said. That was when Patrick picked him up for the first time and took him on to his lap.

Patrick promised him then and there that he’d never ever let any harm come to him again, that he was his friend for life, his best mate for ever. He gave him a name too. He thought and he thought, but he just couldn’t come up with a name that seemed to suit him – Lucky, Jack, Bob, Rex, Henry, nothing worked – which was why, in the end, he didn’t give him a proper name at all. Instead he called him the only name that kept coming into his head, again and again, Best Mate. Best Mate seemed pleased enough with it, and Patrick was sure the puppy was already beginning to recognise his name every time he repeated it. And the more he said it, the more Patrick knew this was just the right name for him, that it suited him perfectly, because this dog was his dog, his best friend, nobody else’s.

Patrick didn’t know it, because no one had told him, but they’d phoned his dad at work. In fact, as it turned out, they’d called a whole lot of people. His dad and the police, the school nurse and a reporter from a local newspaper arrived all together. Everyone said how wonderful he’d been, which Patrick liked a lot, and everyone wanted to ask him questions, which he liked less. The policewoman was full of questions: about where exactly he’d jumped in, whether he’d seen the person who’d thrown the sack into the canal, or noticed anyone running away. The school nurse felt his head and took his pulse, and asked him whether he’d swallowed any canal water. She kept on asking him how he was feeling. Lots of them asked how he was feeling. So he told them. He said he felt fine, but that he wanted to keep Best Mate and take him home after school, that he knew he didn’t have room at home for all five. The others could go to the rescue centre, couldn’t they? He only wanted one, he was happy with one, just so long as it was Best Mate.

Then his mum came running in all of a fluster. They’d called her at work too. So by now there was quite a gathering in Mrs Brightwell’s office, and Bossy Boots was telling anyone who would listen about what had happened, about how lucky it was for Patrick that he’d been there to help him out of the canal. Patrick thought of telling everyone that actually he’d helped himself out of the canal, but he couldn’t be bothered – it just didn’t seem that important to him. All that really mattered now was taking Best Mate home with him and looking after him. His mum kept hugging and kissing him. Patrick wasn’t so keen on that, not with everyone else there. So in the end he turned and walked away. He was tired of all the talk, all the chatter going on around him. He wanted to be alone with Best Mate.

But they wouldn’t leave him alone. Within a couple of minutes he found there was someone else crouching down beside him. He had on a blue uniform and a peaked cap. He explained he was from the RSPCA. He spoke with a very soft understanding voice, the kind people use when they know you’re not going to like what they’re about to say – a bad news voice. He had come to take the puppies away, he told Patrick, and look after them for him. “We’ll find good homes for them all, Patrick. OK?” he said.

“I’ve got a good home,” Patrick replied. “So I can keep one of them, can’t I?” He looked up at his dad, “We can, can’t we, Dad?” But his dad wasn’t saying yes and he wasn’t saying no. He was looking down at the floor and saying nothing. His mum was biting her lip. She wouldn’t look at him either. That was the moment Patrick realised for the first time that they might not let him take Best Mate home with him.

His dad was crouching down beside him now, his arm around him. “Patrick,” he said, “we’ve talked about this before, about having a dog, haven’t we? Remember what we said? We can’t keep a dog in the flat. Mum’s out at work most of the day. You know she is, and so am I. It wouldn’t be fair on him. That’s why we got Swimsy instead, remember? You did such a brave and good thing, Patrick. Mum and me, we’re so proud of you. But keeping one of these pups just isn’t on. You know that. He needs space to play, room to run in.”

“We’ve got the park, Dad,” Patrick pleaded, his eyes filling with tears now. “Please, Dad. Please.” He knew it was hopeless, but he still wouldn’t give up.

In the end it was Mrs Brightwell who persuaded him, and that was only because he couldn’t argue with her. No one argued with Mrs Brightwell. “Tell me something, Patrick,” she said, and she was talking to him very gently, very quietly, not in her usual voice at all. “You didn’t save those puppies just so you could have one, did you?”

“No,” he replied.

“No, of course you didn’t,” she went on. “You’re not like that. You saved them because they were crying out for help. You gave them their lives back, and that was a truly wonderful thing to do. But now you have to let them go. They’ll be well looked after, I promise you.”

Patrick ran out then, unable to stop himself sobbing. He went to the toilet, where he always went when he needed to cry in private. When he got back, the box and the puppies had gone, and so had the man in the peaked cap from the RSPCA.

Mrs Brightwell told Patrick he could have the rest of the day off school, so that was something. His mum and dad took him home in the car. No one spoke a word all the way. He tried to hate them, but he couldn’t. He didn’t feel angry, he didn’t even feel sad. It was as if all his feelings had drained out of him. He didn’t cry again. He lay there all day long on his bed, face to the wall. He didn’t eat because he wasn’t hungry. His mum came in and tried to cheer him up. “One day,” she told him, “one day, we’ll live in a house with a proper garden. Then we can have a dog. Promise.”

“But it won’t be Best Mate, will it?” he said.

A little later his dad came in and sat on his bed. He tried something different. “After what you did,” he said, “I reckon you deserve a proper treat. We’ll go to the football tomorrow. Local Derby. We’ll have a pizza first, margherita, your favourite. What d’you say?”

Patrick said nothing. “A good night’s sleep is what you need,” his dad went on. “You’ll feel a lot better tomorrow. Promise.” Everyone, Patrick thought, was doing an awful lot of promising, and that was always a bad sign.

From up in his room Patrick heard them all evening whispering urgently in the kitchen below – it was loud enough for him to hear almost every word they said. His mum was going on about how she wished they didn’t have to live in a flat. “Never mind a dog,” she was saying, “Patrick needs a place where he can play out. All kids do. We’ve been cooped up in this flat all his life.”

“It’s a nice flat,” said his dad. “I like it here.”

“Oh, well then, that’s fine, I suppose. Let’s stay here for ever, shall we?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, you know I didn’t.”

It wasn’t a proper row, not even a heated argument. There were no raised voices, but they talked of nothing else all evening.

In the end Patrick bored of it, and anyway he was tired. He kept closing his eyes, and whenever he did he found himself living the day through again, the best of it and the worst of it. It was so easy to let his mind roam, simply to drift away of its own accord. He liked where it was taking him. He could see Best Mate, now a fully grown greyhound, streaking across the park, and he could see himself haring after him, then both of them lying there in the grass, the sun blazing down, with Best Mate stretched out beside him, his paw on his arm and gazing lovingly at him out of his wide brown eyes. Patrick fell asleep dreaming of that moment, of Best Mate looking up at him, and even when he woke up he found himself dreaming exactly the same thing. And that was strange, Patrick thought, very strange indeed.

Best Mate was still lying there beside him, only somehow he looked much smaller than he had before, and they weren’t outside in the park in the sunshine, and his nose was cold and wet. Patrick knew that because Best Mate was suddenly snuffling at Patrick’s ear, licking it, then crawling on top of him and licking his nose as well. That was when he first dared to hope that this was all just too life-like to be a dream, that it might be real, really real. He looked up. His mum and dad were standing there grinning down at him like a couple of cats that had got the cream. The radio was on down in the kitchen, the kettle was whistling and the toast was burning. He was awake. This was happening! It was a true and actual happening!

“Mum rang up the rescue centre last night,” his dad was telling him, “and I went and fetched him home first thing this morning. Are you happy now?”

“Happy,” said Patrick.

“A lot, or a little?” his dad asked.

“A lot,” Patrick said.

“And by the way, Patrick,” his mum was saying as they went to the door, “your dad and me, we’ve been talking. We thought having a dog might make us get on and really do it.”

“Do what?”

“Get a proper house with a little bit of a garden. We should have done it a long time ago.”

And that was when the giggling started, partly because Best Mate was sitting down on Patrick’s chest now, snuffling in his ear, but mostly because he had never been so happy in all his life.

That same morning – it was a Saturday – they went out and bought a basket for Best Mate, a basket big enough for him to grow into, a bright red lead, a dog bowl and some dog food, and a little collar too with a brass disc hanging from it, engraved with his name and their phone number, just in case Best Mate ever got himself lost. In the afternoon they all walked up the hill through the iron gate and into the park, with Best Mate all tippy-toed and pulling on his lead. Once by the bench at the top of the hill Patrick and Best Mate ran off on their own, down to the pond where they scared the ducks silly, and then back up through the trees to the bench where his mum and dad were waiting. It was better than footie, bike riding, skate-boarding, kite-flying, better than all of them put together. And afterwards they lay down on the crisp autumn leaves exhausted, and Best Mate gazed up into Patrick’s eyes just as he had in the dream, so that Patrick had to squeeze his eyes tight shut and then open them again just to be quite sure that the whole day had really happened.

Best Mate grew up fast, no longer a cute and clumsy puppy, but a creature of astonishing beauty and grace and power, known and loved all over the park. Within the year they had found the small house they were looking for, with a walled garden at the back. It was nearer the park, but a little further away from school. That didn’t matter. Patrick’s dad dropped him off at the canal bridge as he always had done, and he’d walk along the tow-path past the sweet and sour smelling brown sauce factory and up the tow-path steps to the road, where Bossy Boots would be waiting with his lollipop stick.

Ever since Mr Boots had told his fib about helping him out of the canal that day, Patrick had always done his best to avoid him. But he had to cross the road every day, and when he did Mr Boots was always waiting, ready with some feeble joke or other about what had happened. “No dogs in the canal today, Patrick?” or “No early morning swim. Patrick?” And every time he’d laugh like a drain as he ushered him across the road.

In school they still talked about “The Great Puppy Rescue”. They’d all written stories about it and painted pictures too. These were still up on the wall in the front hall with all the sports cups and the school photographs, along with a cutting from the front page of the local newspaper, laminated and in big print so that everyone could easily read it. “Patrick’s Puppy Plunge” was the banner headline, and above it there was a photo of Patrick with Best Mate in his arms, with Mr Boots and Mrs Brightwell on either side of him, and a dozen other children around them, all grinning into the camera – except for Jimmy Rington, who wasn’t exactly glowering, but wasn’t smiling much either.

So the hero-glow hung around Patrick all that year, which of course he quite liked. No one called him “loser” any more. No one laughed at him any more. So sometimes he even looked forward to school these days. The little greyhound had changed his whole life around, at school and at home. Best Mate was always there with his mum to meet him when he came out of school every afternoon. So everyone got to cuddle and pet him. Maybe this was why the legend of The Great Puppy Rescue was not forgotten – after all Best Mate was there to remind them of it every day. All the teachers seemed to love him too. Mrs Brightwell in particular made a great fuss of him and Patrick loved that – it made him feel very special.

What he didn’t like so much was that Bossy Boots was now making out that he’d jumped into the canal himself to help rescue Best Mate. Worse still he was always trying to persuade Patrick’s mum to race him, that he was too good a greyhound to be kept at home just as a pet. He told everyone that Best Mate had champion written all over him. This of course only added to the sparkle of the legend, and it was a legend that was changing. The star of the legend had been Patrick at first, but it was Best Mate who was the star now. Patrick didn’t mind this in the least. On the contrary, as far as he was concerned Best Mate had always been the star. Every time Patrick came out of the school gates and saw him waiting there for him he felt so proud.

Stories went around the school – spread mostly by Mr Boots – of how Best Mate had been seen running up on the park at full stretch, how no one had ever seen a dog run that fast. Everyone knew that Patrick and Best Mate had become completely inseparable, how Patrick never needed to put him on a lead any more, nor muzzle him; how he’d walk close beside Patrick down the street, his cheek touching Patrick’s leg. As faithful and fond as a guide dog, Best Mate was instantly protective, and even fearsome if he ever felt that anyone, dog or human, might be a threat to Patrick. The gentle eyes would flash, the hackles go up along his neck and back, and every muscle in his body would be suddenly tense and taut, ready to spring. But it took only a word or a glance from Patrick to calm him down at once. They spent so much time together that each seemed to understand the other instinctively by now, so much so that up in the park it was hardly ever necessary for Patrick to whistle for Best Mate, or call him back. He just came of his own accord.

At home and at school everyone could see how happy Patrick had become since the day of The Great Puppy Rescue. “Less anxious, less isolated, more outgoing, more confident,” Mrs Brightwell had written in her school report. And it was true. Patrick laughed more these days, joined in more. Every story he wrote in his literacy class somehow managed to involve a dog, usually a greyhound. But Mr Butterworth didn’t mind. Patrick was writing pages and pages these days, instead of just a scrappy paragraph or two. In most of the pictures he painted, you could find a greyhound somewhere. And his bedroom wall was covered with pictures and photographs of Best Mate.

Patrick spent every hour of his spare time and all his pocket money on him. He’d bring home chews or biscuits for him, whenever he went to the shops. He polished his name disc so that it gleamed, groomed him every evening, and even cleaned his teeth for him sometimes, so his breath wouldn’t smell. He’d make sure his food was just how Best Mate wanted it, but he would never stay to watch him eat it, because he knew Best Mate liked to do this in private. So he’d give him a pat and leave him to it. No one minded at all that Patrick had become one-track minded, because he was so obviously happy.

Settled now in the new house, Best Mate had long since outgrown his basket – they had completely miscalculated how big and tall he was going to grow. But they didn’t need to get another one, because he now occupied the sofa. A “giraffe-dog” Patrick’s dad called him. His mum didn’t mind too much because he was a clean-living dog. He left no hairs behind him, and brought very little dirt in from the garden or back from the park. He did bury his bones sometimes under the cushions on the sofa, but Patrick usually found those and got rid of them before his mum discovered them.

Best Mate would lie there quite happily on the sofa for most of the day waiting to fetch Patrick home from school, longing for his daily run in the park. They’d walk together up to their favourite bench, right at the top of the park. From there Patrick could watch Best Mate run, whichever way he went. Once into his stride this “giraffe-dog” would be transformed into a “cheetah-dog,” and people would simply stand and stare as he streaked away into the distance. From time to time other dogs would try to chase him, try to keep up, but none of them had the speed nor the stamina to stay with him for long. He could outrun and outsmart all of them. He could jink like a gazelle, bound like a springbok. And Patrick was always waiting for him by the bench when he came back.

Every time Patrick watched him run he could feel his whole body warming to the roots of his hair with the sheer thrill of it. And whenever Best Mate came haring back to him over the park, Patrick was filled with a surge of such pride and joy that he felt like whooping with exultation, which he very often did. Best Mate would stand at his side then resting for a while, leaning into him, his nose searching out Patrick’s hand for comfort and reassurance. But sooner or later he’d see a terrier scampering past, or a crow landing nearby, or a squirrel’s tail twitching in the grass, and he’d be off like a rocket again. Patrick knew it was the chase he loved best, but just the chase. He never used his great teeth for killing. They were for smiling with only, but the crows and the squirrels didn’t know that.

More than once Mr Boots came up to the park to watch Best Mate go through his paces. He’d take photographs of him too, and Patrick didn’t like that. He thought Bossy Boots should ask him first, but he never did. Some of Patrick’s friends from school would be up there too sometimes, playing football, Jimmy Rington as well. But whenever Best Mate got into his stride, they’d very soon stop playing and just stand there and stare. Like Patrick, they would all be holding their breath in awe as Best Mate fairly flew over the ground. It was powerful, it was beautiful, it was wonderful.

But the day it happened – Best Mate must have been about eighteen months old by now – the two of them were almost alone together in the park. That was because it was later than usual, almost evening by the time they got there. Patrick’s mum had made him stay in to finish his homework first. So Patrick wasn’t in a very good mood and grumbled about it to Best Mate all the way up the hill to the park. He cheered up though when he saw the swallows were back and skimming over the grass. He loved to watch them, and he knew Best Mate loved to chase them. So it was strange when, instead of taking off after them, Best Mate stayed by his side, looking up at him and licking his lips nervously.

“Off you go, boy,” Patrick said. “What’s the matter with you? Go on! Go, go, go!”

But Best Mate didn’t move. There was a low growl in the back of his throat, which was very unlike him. His ears were laid back on his head, and his whole body was trembling.

“It’s all right,” Patrick told him, stroking his neck to calm him. “It’s just a little darker than usual, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. Lots of smells to chase. Off you go.” He bent down and kissed him on top of his head. “You’ll be fine, promise. Go on! Go, go, go!”

Best Mate looked to him once more for reassurance. At that moment a swallow swooped down over their heads, and skimmed away over the grass – it was as if he was teasing Best Mate, taunting him. Best Mate didn’t hesitate. He was gone, gathering speed with every bounding stride, his neck straining, following the swallow’s every twist and turn. “You’re so beautiful,” Patrick breathed. Then he shouted it out so that the entire world could hear. “You’re beautiful! Beautiful!” He watched Best Mate racing away down the hill and then disappearing into the trees. It was the way he often went, his favourite run. He’d circle the lake at the bottom, scatter the ducks, scare the geese, and come running back through the trees, pounding up the hill towards Patrick. A few minutes later, Best Mate still hadn’t come back. That was a little unusual, but Patrick wasn’t worried. Best Mate might have got himself a bit lost in the gathering gloom, he thought. So he whistled for him, and called him. But he didn’t come and didn’t come, and now Patrick knew something had to be wrong. All his worst fears jostled in his head. Best Mate was wandering lost through the streets. He’d been run over, stolen, drowned, savaged by another dog, poisoned. However loud Patrick called and whistled no dog came running up the hill towards him through the dusk. He could hear no answering bark, only the distant roar of the traffic.

So Patrick ran down the dark hill, following where Best Mate might have gone, through the trees, around the pond and back up the hill towards the bench, stopping every now and again to call for him and listen and look. He couldn’t whistle any more by now because he was crying too much. He saw no one in the park, no dogs, only shadowy ducks and geese cruising out on the dark water of the pond.

Patrick realised then that he needed help. He ran all the way home. His mum and dad came at once. The three of them searched the park with torches all night long, called and called until they knew it was pointless to go on any longer. It was dawn by the time they got home, all of them hoping against hope that Best Mate had found his own way back. He hadn’t. Patrick sat at the bottom of the stairs with his head in his hands, while his dad phoned the Police. They took a description of Best Mate and said they would do their best to keep an eye out for him. They’d call back if they found him. No call came.

A further search of the park by daylight only made things worse for Patrick. Everyone else’s dog was up there bounding around, scampering through the grass, fetching sticks and balls and frisbees. Patrick told everyone, asked everyone. No one had seen Best Mate. It was as if he had simply vanished off the face of the earth.

Muzzled and caged in the back of a van, I had long hours to think about everything that had happened to me that evening on the park, about how stupid and gullible I had been to allow myself to get caught. And then there were more long, dark hours to remember how happy my life had been before I was so suddenly snatched away from everyone and everything I loved. The memories of it all kept repeating themselves in my head like a recurring nightmare I longed to wake from, but could not. I was trapped inside this nightmare, and could see no possible way of ever escaping from it.

In the van there was pitch black all around me. I had no idea whether it was night or day, no idea where I was being taken, only that I was a prisoner, that with every hour that passed I was being driven further and further away from home and from Patrick. I had tried yelping and barking, tried scratching at the door. Now I lay there curled up in my misery, exhausted and dejected, the van shaking and rattling around me. I closed my eyes and tried to think myself home, to blot out the terror I was living through, tried to make myself believe that I was back on the sofa at home with Patrick, that none of this had happened. But that was when the nightmare would begin, and I would have to live through everything that had happened all over again.

Patrick had finished his homework. He came over to the sofa and stroked me just where I liked it best, under my chest, which for some reason made one of my back legs kick out involuntarily. Patrick giggled. I think he loved doing it as much as I loved him doing it. Then he was putting my coat on me, and we were out of the warmth of the house and into the street, trotting together up the hill and through the gate to the park. This was the moment I longed for every day, to be out there with Patrick. Soon I’d be in the park and running, running, running, but I’d never set off till he gave me the word.

Patrick always had to speak the words first. “Off you go, boy,” he’d whisper. “Go on! Go, go, go!” I didn’t really need telling. I was just waiting for him to say it. When I ran, I ran for the sheer pleasure of the chase, to feel the spring in my legs and the power surging through me, to feel the wind, to scatter the crows, to leave all the other dogs far behind me. But I ran for Patrick too, because I knew he was there watching me, and that the faster I ran the more he’d be loving it, and the more he loved it, the more I did too. Coming out of the trees and back up the hill towards him I’d put on my best show, lengthening with every stride, because I could feel his pride in my running, and his love for me as I came up to him, as he smoothed my neck. That was the best moment of all, when both of us were jubilant together, exultant together.