Doofus, Dog of Doom

  Chapter Eight

  Nan was fine. At least, that was what Mum and Dad told her when they came back home.

  Holly looked at their faces and didn’t believe them. If Nan was fine, why had they left her behind in hospital?

  “She’s more comfortable there,” said Mum, trying to be cheerful. “She’ll be home soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Well, eventually,” said Mum. “It all depends on what the doctors think.”

  Dad slumped in a chair, looking tired. His face seemed to have grown extra lines, as if Lily had been drawing on him with a pencil.

  Neither of them noticed that Doofus was missing, so Holly did not bother mentioning how Doofus had leapt over the gate and run off and how Clive, after shouting at her that she wasn’t fit to keep a dog, had jumped on his rattly old bike, pedalled off after Doofus and had not yet returned.

  Holly went up to her bedroom to lie on her bed and wish for Pancake. Pancake had been named for her ears, which were brown and floppy like pancakes. She hadn’t liked having her ears played with, but had loved having her tummy tickled; and had never tired of playing Grab the Tablecloth, until Mum had to resort to place-mats.

  Pancake had never tired of being hugged and talked to either. She had licked and listened enthusiastically even when she was old and deaf. Like Nan, she had always been there.

  Until she had been replaced by a strange, solemn black dog with inky eyes and no bark. A dog that wouldn’t stop growing, that lay down in doorways, that was like an ominous storm-cloud roaming through the house; a dog that listened to unheard sounds – a dog that howled.

  Holly got off her bed and leaned out of her bedroom window. She could see neither Doofus nor Clive. Next door, Lily was tugging at a pair of her mum’s tights on the washing line. They stretched to twice their length before twanging off. Lily stuffed them in her bucket.

  Clive’s mum came out, shrieked, and carted Lily in. Holly did not much like Clive’s mum. She did not make life particularly easy for Clive; yet he just got on with it regardless.

  Holly admired that in Clive. When she let herself think about it properly, she knew it wasn’t really Clive she was upset with. She was really upset with Pancake, for dying; and with Doofus, for being a strange unnerving dog instead of a busy, brown, familiar one; and with Nan, for being ill.

  But there was no point in being upset with any of them. It didn’t help. They didn’t even know, or notice.

  Clive knew, and noticed. It wasn’t fair to take it out on Clive.

  Holly crept downstairs past her family. Dad was cooking; Mum was on the phone, looking worried. Matt had come in, trailing bits of muddy football kit, and was slouched in front of the computer.

  Plucking an empty jam-jar from the recycling box, Holly went outside and began to pick up plant pots to find the woodlice damply clustered underneath. She scooped up a dozen of the biggest and best, and put them in the jam-jar. Then she sat by the road to wait for Clive.

  It was a long wait. In the middle of it Mum made her go inside and eat chicken curry. But at last Clive came cycling slowly down the road towards her, pulling Doofus on a length of string.

  “I found you some woodlice for your armadilladarium,” said Holly.

  Clive slid off his bike and glanced at the jar, unimpressed. “I found you Doofus,” he said, untying the string. Doofus did not try to nuzzle against Holly. She did not try to stroke him.

  Clive’s mum came bursting out and began to scold Clive for disappearing when he was meant to be keeping an eye on Lily. She said Lily had ruined the washing and could have drowned in her bucket.

  Clive thought about this. “Not unless she stood on her head in it.”

  His mum’s voice raised by several pitches as she berated him for wasting his time chasing after ruddy animals instead of watching his sister. Only she didn’t say ruddy, she used a different word that made Holly try to pretend she wasn’t listening.

  At last Clive’s mum went back in. Clive was looking red and explosive like an over-blown balloon.

  “Sorry,” said Holly. “I saw Lily with the washing, but it was too late to stop her.”

  Clive let out a long, resigned breath. “Never mind,” he said, deflating. “Mum’s right, anyway. I’d rather chase ruddy animals, or the other sort.”

  “Where did you find Doofus?”

  “Up on top of the moor, on the little bridge.”

  “Barges Bridge,” said Holly. “You went all the way up there?”

  “That’s right. He didn’t want to leave. I had to persuade him down to Ailsa’s and then she lent me the string. She says you’ve got to keep him at home. Don’t let him run loose.”

  Doofus was sniffing at the jar of woodlice. He threw up his head and gave one of his moaning sighs, like the ghost of a howl.

  Quickly, Holly inspected the jar. The biggest woodlouse was lying on its back with its legs in the air.

  “He’s done it again! He’s killed it!”

  Clive peered at the jar. “It’s a woodlouse,” he said with patient exasperation. “It has a lifespan of about two and a half minutes. How did you pick it up?”

  “Carefully.”

  He snorted. “I bet. You mangle it and then you blame it on Doofus!”

  Holly caught him by the arm. “Clive. This is serious. You’ve got to come and look at this website that Matt found.”

  “If it’s quick,” he said. “I’m hungry. How’s your Nan?”

  “Everybody says Don’t Worry,” said Holly grimly.

  He nodded understandingly. “How old is she?”

  “Eighty-four. And don’t say anything about natural life-spans.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” said Clive, as they arrived at the computer.

  “We need that,” said Holly.

  “Hang on,” muttered Matt, busy at the keyboard. “I’ve just got to make another six arrows and then I can swap them for a gold bar.”

  “And you think I’m a dork,” said Clive.

  “Everybody plays this,” said Matt.

  “It’s escapism,” said Clive. “You play it because you can’t face real life.”

  “Matt,” intervened Holly swiftly, “please can you find that black dog site for us again?”

  “No,” said Matt. Clive sighed.

  “I take it back,” he said. “It’s a wonderful and fascinating game.”

  “That’s better,” said Matt. He minimised the game and hunted through recent websites.

  “This one,” he said. “Shucks, Padfoots and Moddy Dhoos.”

  Clive read it carefully, his lips moving. Reading was not Clive’s strongest point. “But these are just fairy tales!”

  “That’s what I thought at first,” said Holly. “But they’re actually legends. That means they might have once been true.”

  Matt twisted round to stare at her incredulously. “You believe this? I only looked it up for a joke! Clive’s right. It’s not real.”

  “It is,” said Holly stubbornly. “Doofus is a Black Dog, and whenever he howls, something dies.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “It’s not rubbish! First it was the stick insects. Then there was the poodle at the puppy party, and the goldfish, and Renaldo, and the crow, and Jasper Turnpike’s lamb – I’m telling you, every time he howls, something ends up dead!”

  “You’re exaggerating,” said Matt. “That’s only about six things. He howls loads more than that. He used to, anyway. He’s gone a bit quiet lately.”

  “I’m telling you,” said Holly fiercely. “The other dead things were just worms and mice and animals that we don’t know about. But I bet you they’re dead too, if we could only find them!”

  Matt shook his head. “No, no! Wait. You said the poodle got run over by a motorbike. So Doofus didn’t kill it.”

  “He caused it!” Holly cried. “He made it run outside just as the motorbike went past!”

  “Maybe he sensed something,” said Clive. “Let me go and get my woodlice.??
? He hurried out, returning a moment later with the jar.

  “Okay,” he said. “This is an experiment. Make Doofus howl.”

  They all looked at Doofus, who was sitting by the fire and scratching his ear.

  “I’ll have a go,” said Holly. She did not want to hear Doofus howl; but on the other hand, she did want to be proved right.

  So she poked Doofus in the ribs, pulled his tail and ears, called him a naughty dog, and in desperation, howled herself as an example. Throughout this, Doofus gazed at her with sad surprise and made no sound at all.

  “Now let me try something.” Clive tipped a woodlouse out of the jar onto the desk, where he squashed it with the mouse mat.

  “Oi!” said Matt, but the others were looking at Doofus, who stretched his neck and gave out, not a full-blown howl, but one of his pale, whispery sort.

  “That’s a howl,” said Holly.

  “That’s a yawn,” said Matt. “And that’s a mess.” He scraped woodlouse off the desk.

  “Wait a minute,” said Clive. “You stay here and observe.” He took his jar out into the hall where they couldn’t see him.

  Seconds later, Doofus quietly howled twice more in quick succession. Clive reappeared in triumph and showed them two squashed woodlice.

  “You’re a murderer,” said Holly.

  “Yes! That’s the whole point!” Clive’s eyes were alight. “I killed them. Doofus didn’t. But he howled at exactly the moment when they died. I’m prepared to admit there’s a link.”

  “You’re daft, the pair of you,” said Matt. “Doofus is just a dog. Dogs howl.”

  “He’s not just a dog,” protested Holly. “Look at him! Look how fast he’s growing! And look at the way he lies down in doorways all the time. That website said that Black Dogs guard gates and boundaries and bridges.”

  “Like Barges Bridge,” said Clive.

  Holly drew her breath in swiftly with a gasp. “Where’s that website?” She scrutinised the screen. “I need to check something. Guytrash, Shriker, Bargest... What if Barges Bridge is really Bargest Bridge?”

  “You’re bonkers,” said Matt. “Anyway, a black dog’s only called a Bargest in Yorkshire.”

  “Yorkshire’s not that far away,” Clive pointed out.

  “Matt? Can you pass me the phone? There’s something I need to know,” said Holly. She was frantically typing on the computer again; but this time she was looking for a different website – that of the dogs’ home.

  She found the phone number on the screen and rang it.

  “Hallo? Hallo, we got a black puppy from you a few months ago. The mixed-breed one that never barked, he only howled. Yes, that’s the one. No, he’s fine. But please could you tell me where he was found? I know it was up on Whitten Moor, but where exactly?”

  Holly bit her lip while the girl checked at the other end. “Oh. I see. Thank you.” She closed the call and stared at Doofus.

  “Well?” said Clive.

  “That proves it. He’s a Bargest,” she said. “He was found sitting in the middle of Barges Bridge around New Year.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” objected Matt. “It just explains why he likes Barges Bridge. He’s looking for his owners, the ones who dumped him there. He was probably an unwanted Christmas present.”

  “Jarvis Turnpike said he shot a big black dog round there at Christmas,” Holly said.

  “I expect that was his mother,” said Matt.

  “People wouldn’t dump a mother and a puppy!” she protested.

  “Why not? Life is tough. You’ll learn that, little sister.”

  She glared at him. But Clive said,

  “It doesn’t matter. We can’t prove how Doofus got there. But we can test what he is. It seems that he does know when animals are dying. I’m thinking some sort of electromagnetic force.”

  “What?” demanded Holly. “He’s not a magnet. He’s a harbinger of doom!”

  “But what sort of doom?” said Clive. “That is the question. Little howls for little dooms, like woodlouse dooms. Big howls for big dooms, like... like...”

  He gazed at Doofus. So did Holly. Doofus hadn’t howled properly for a while now.

  So what would happen when he did? A trickle of fear, like a melting icicle, found its cold way down her spine.