Chapter Six
“That is just the most ridiculous thing I ever heard,” said Clive indignantly, striding down the path towards the car park. “Things die all the time. Like I told you, that’s just nature. And Doofus howls a lot because that’s his nature. That’s all there is to it.”
“Then why does Doofus keep howling at exactly the same time as things keep dying? It’s been happening ever since your stick insects keeled off their twigs that first day he came home.”
“You’ve never heard of coincidence? Dogs howl; things die. The one doesn’t cause the other.” He marched swiftly across the car park as if he was trying to get away from her, and didn’t say another word until they were back on the road.
Then he burst out, “Doofus only howled today because he met some other dogs. Anyway, they were howling too.”
“That’s another thing! Whose were those dogs? Where did they come from? He shouldn’t be running round with a pack of strays!”
“He came back,” said Clive. “Which is more than you deserve.” Then he stopped, tight-lipped, because Ailsa was riding down the road towards them on her quad bike, pulling a trailer load of straw. On seeing them, she halted and switched off the engine.
“Hallo, Ailsa,” said Holly flatly.
“Long faces, hen?”
“We’ve just taken Doofus for a walk and he ran away.”
“Good thing you got him back,” said Ailsa severely. “I wanted to talk to you about him. I’ve seen him, you know, up on the moor.”
“You’ve seen Doofus? When?” Holly stared at Doofus. How could he get all the way up there without her knowing? “Are you sure it was him?”
Ailsa sucked her cheeks in. “It was him all right. I’d know him anywhere, even without that red collar. I’ve seen him twice in the last week – while you’ve been at school, I daresay. I think you need to keep him safe at home, hen.”
“I thought he was safe at home.”
“You don’t want him straying, now, and upsetting the farmers.”
“We saw some stray dogs today, in the forest back there,” said Holly.
“Did you?” said Ailsa sharply. “How many?”
“I don’t know. At least three. We didn’t get a proper look at them, but we heard them howling.”
“Holly has this theory,” began Clive, until Holly kicked his ankle.
“What theory?” asked Ailsa.
“A man in the car park said that Doofus is a shuck,” said Holly. “Have you heard of a shuck?”
“I’ve not.” Ailsa’s weather-beaten face was serious as she gazed at Doofus, standing patiently by the trailer with no sign of his former excitement. “I found him lying on Barges Bridge both times,” she said. “I had to push him hard to get him off, didn’t I, lad?”
Doofus responded with the merest flick of his tail.
“Barges Bridge? Was he lying down in the middle of it?”
“Aye. Could have got run over, or worse,” said Ailsa. “Not a good place for him to hang around, so close to Turnpike’s farm. He’s lucky Jarvis Turnpike didn’t spot him. You keep him safe at home. Tell your Mam I’ll drop off her eggs tomorrow.” She started up her engine, making further conversation impossible.
Once she had gone, Holly said, bemused, “I didn’t know Doofus was going out during the day. Mum shuts him in the back garden when she goes to work and just leaves the porch open so he can shelter if it rains.”
“He comes through the gap in the fence,” said Clive, a touch guiltily. “My mum told me. If Doofus gets into our garden, she opens the back gate and lets him out.”
“Lets him out? Why?”
“She doesn’t like dogs.”
Holly exploded. “But she’s letting him loose in the street! He could get knocked over or anything! You heard Ailsa. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now,” said Clive. “Anyway, I thought you didn’t care about Doofus. If you won’t take him for walks, he has to take himself, doesn’t he?”
“You–” Holly snapped her mouth closed. She didn’t speak to Clive for the rest of the walk home, but marched a stiff and reproachful two metres ahead of him, while Doofus ran back and forth between them like a saw, cutting them apart. It didn’t help that Clive was partly right. It just made her feel worse.
Doofus needs more exercise, she thought dismally. He’s too big. Too strong: and he’s going to get bigger, and stronger. He’s the wrong dog. She watched him lollop up the garden path and lie down with a panting sigh of relief across the back door threshold.
Matt was in the garden mowing the lawn. “You look happy,” he said. “Not.”
Clive said, “Holly thinks Doofus can make animals die by howling at them.”
Matt rolled his eyes, raised his head and opened his mouth. Before he could start howling, Holly yelled, “No, I do not!”
“Yes, you do. Don’t deny it,” said Clive fiercely. “Animals die all the time, and it’s not fair to blame it on Doofus, just because you don’t want to look after him. It’s not Doofus’s fault. He’s just a dog. It’s not his fault that Pancake died either. Or do you want to blame him for that?” Clive stalked down to the gap in the fence with a haughtiness that was slightly spoilt when he caught his trousers on the wire.
“Doofus is not just any old dog!” Holly shouted after him. “He’s a shuck!”
“He’s a what?” demanded Matt.
“A shuck is just a black dog,” Clive’s voice yelled back over the fence. “That’s what the man said. That’s all it means!” A moment later he added, anguished, “And Stupid hasn’t eaten any of Renaldo.”
His face reappeared pinkly. “If Stupid dies, I suppose you’ll blame Doofus for that too. But it won’t be his fault, it’ll be Stupid’s and his stupid mother’s!” He disappeared and they heard the shed door bang.
“Dork,” shouted Holly, though not very loudly.
“Whoa there!” Matt exclaimed. “Take it easy. What’s going on? Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No,” said Holly.
The shed door opened. Clive’s voice shouted, “You think I’m weird? Well, just listen to yourself!” The door banged shut again.
Holly stepped over Doofus and stamped into the house. Nan was in the living room watching TV; she did not go to her day centre at the weekends.
“Nan,” said Holly. She knelt beside her chair and took Nan’s cool, thin hand, the skin as fine as tissue paper. For a moment she wished she was still small enough to climb into Nan’s lap; but of course she couldn’t do that any more, and certainly not since Nan had had the stroke. A stroke sounded so gentle, like a tender pat from God’s hand: a caress that had removed Nan’s speech and ability to walk.
“It’s not fair, Nan,” she whispered.
“Do doo,” said Nan, looking past her for Doofus. Holly placed Nan’s hand on her arm, and Nan stroked it, a little jerkily.
“Dood?” said Nan.
Doofus strolled in, walked over to Nan and sniffed her fingers, allowed her a quick pat, and then lay down in the living-room doorway. Holly wondered again why he liked Nan better than her.
Matt came in, climbing over Doofus, and switched on the computer in the corner.
“Nan’s watching telly,” Holly said reprovingly.
“It’s all right. I’m not playing games, I’m just googling,” answered Matt. Holly turned to watch the television with Nan. It was a soap opera; people were arguing, Holly couldn’t tell what about and didn’t care.
She had never argued with Clive before. Clive never got angry. He was always hopeful and cheerful, ready to share his ideas with her.
Well, all she’d done was to try and share an idea with him. There was no need for him to get so snotty. It was all Doofus’s fault.
“Gotcha!” exclaimed Matt from the computer. “Come and see this, Hol!”
Holly stayed where she was. “See what?” she asked grumpily.
“I’ve found Shuck on the internet. Otherwise known as
Old Shuck, a large black dog in Norfolk legend.”
“Well, I knew that.”
“Wait for the rest! Black dog legends appear throughout the British Isles,” recited Matt. “In Lancashire the black dog is called the Guytrash or Shriker. In Yorkshire it’s known as the Bargest. Apparently the Bargest of Troller’s Gill was a great black dog with long hair and huge fiery eyes like saucers, that dragged a clanking chain behind it.”
“Sounds like a fairy tale,” muttered Holly.
“Elsewhere it’s called the Padfoot or Gurt Dog, and on the Isle of Man there was a phantom dog called the Moddy Dhoo. Great name, that.”
“We’re not on the Isle of Man,” said Holly. “And Doofus doesn’t have eyes like saucers or a clanking chain.”
“If he had a chain, it’d be bound to clank,” said Matt. “Hang on, I’m looking up Derbyshire. Here we are. Hey, there’s a mermaid pool on Kinder Scout!”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“And Hob Hurst is a giant who comes out at night to milk the cows.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And a phantom hunt was seen on Eyam Moor in 1931. That’s not far away. It’s a good website, this.”
“It’s a load of rubbish,” said Holly. “So what does this black dog do, anyway? This shuck thing. Apart from clanking chains.”
“Hey, I’m doing this for you!” protested Matt. “I thought you’d be interested!”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Please yourself.” Matt got up and went into the kitchen in a huff. Nan’s bewildered eyes followed him.
“Neck a fen,” she said plaintively.
“Don’t worry, Nan,” Holly told her. “He’s just being Matt.” She went to log off the computer.
But first she paused, pulled by the text on the screen, to read. A sentence flared out at her.
A large, black, demon dog, or hellhound, is one of the most pervasive and blood-chilling apparitions in British folklore… most often seen on roads, bridges, gateways and graveyards, they seem to be linked to thresholds and boundaries, especially where these are formed by water…
The words were like a siren going off in her head.
Although such dogs can have a protective role, they are generally a harbinger of death.
Holly didn’t know what a harbinger was, but she thought that she could guess.
She stared at Doofus filling the doorway, his head on his paws, his eyes wide open and gazing at nothing.
“Here, Doofus,” she said. He didn’t look up.
“Old Shuck.” She glanced back at the screen. “Padfoot. Here, Guytrash.”
An ear twitched, and relaxed again.
“Gurt Dog. Bargest. Moddy Dhoo.”
Doofus yawned.
“Shriker,” she whispered. “Hellhound.”
He turned his head to gaze at her with those fathomless dark eyes. His tail thumped, once, hard against the floor.