That’s when it happened.
Down the corridor, there was the distinct sound of doors slamming open, the squeak of boots on tiled floor. Noah glanced up and Ace’s ears twitched.
“There it is! That’s the one!”
Instantly, Ace shrunk back, sliding behind Noah’s legs, his tail tucked beneath him. The body language wasn’t difficult to understand. Something was wrong, very wrong. More wrong than swallowed USB sticks and arrogant vets.
Ahead, two enormous men thundered into view, so bulked up with muscle they nearly filled the corridor when stood side by side. Other people and their animals recoiled – cats screeched in alarm, dogs claws skittered against tiling, voices called to one another in shock and confusion. For a moment, Noah felt as though it was only him and the two invading thugs, with him standing in between them and Ace.
“Get it!”
There was no doubt they were talking about Ace, and there was no doubt that Ace knew why. Spinning on his heel, Noah went to gather up his dog – all four long blundering limbs and shaggy tail – but there was a sharp tug on his hood, sending him careering back before he had a chance.
“Out of the way,” a voice snarled down his ear; before Noah could question it, a sharp blow took him out from behind and pain exploded in the back of his head. At a gangly six foot, Noah didn’t deal with physical confrontation well, and so he dropped, dazed.
He was aware of the men stepping over him, he was aware of the loud, desperate shriek of Ace as he was scooped up into unkind arms, and it was then that he tried to stand, wobbling legs threatening to give out as he used the wall for support. Down the corridor, the men retreated, hardly giving Noah a second thought, which was perhaps their first mistake.
Shaking away the blurring in the corners of his vision and the dull throb in his head, Noah took off after Ace’s captors, wading his way through the chaos of an upended veterinary surgery and out into the car park, where a cliché van waited.
In the heat of the moment, Noah scarcely thought about what was happening, why the men wanted Ace. He only knew that he had to get him back. The morning sunshine was a welcome slap in the face and Noah’s balance returned, his vision clearing. It would certainly make driving easier.
Staggering to the car, keys in hand, Noah unlocked it and leapt in. The engine roared to life, just as the reflected van slid by in the rear view mirror. The car reversed, Noah slammed it in gear, and then he was off, rocketing to the most bizarre rescue.
He drove, keeping up with the van ahead, hardly caring that the men would know they were being followed, and by the gawky twenty-something they had punched, too. Noah tried to rearrange his thoughts into something that made sense. Had this been some kind of raid for suitable dogs to sell on? Noah knew that dogs were often stolen, but he wondered why his red setter with the questionable pedigree would be so appealing.
It should have struck him then: Ace had recently disappeared and he had swallowed something unusual, but that thought didn’t come to Noah as he drove, despite his thinking that he had a solid handle on the motives of his dog’s kidnappers. All he could think about was what if he lost them? What if he never saw Ace again? There would be no more companionable meals together, no more walks in rain or sun, no more slobbering wake up calls, no more wet kisses, no more wet dog. At this thought, Noah’s foot absently pressed down harder on the accelerator, to a point where he was rather obviously bumper to bumper with the van in front.
Noah obviously still wasn’t a threat. The van accelerated with an enormous growl, and took off down the quiet road. Noah tried to follow, but there was more than a slight difference between a beaten up Ford and a hulking great Volkswagen with an engine probably bigger than Noah himself. He realised, with a sinking feeling, that he’d never catch up.
He drummed his fingers on the wheel, tapping out a frustrated rhythm as he thought. Stout houses shot by, trees lining their fronts like guards, and Noah thought, and he thought… He walked Ace along these streets every day - fond memories, precious time together.
His eyes flickered back to the distant van. They wouldn’t be from this quiet suburb, they’d be making their way back to the main road, out of the minute town and back into the city. Noah knew this place better than them, better than anyone.
Surrounding them was the Dickens estate – roads quaintly named after characters – and Noah flashed back to midnight walks or morning strolls with Ace, enjoying one another’s company as they made their way down Micawber Road, or Copperfield, Curzon, Pickwick… It was a tiny, literary maze, and if Noah took the right turns he’d beat Ace’s captors to the main road, no problem.
In that second of realisation, Noah jerked the wheel and the Ford took a sharp turn left, and into the jungle.
A right on Micawber, another hard right down Tapley, swinging left up Marley, down Copperfield and…
Noah brought the Ford out onto Dickens Lane and, behind him, the van slammed on its brakes, horn blaring in warning. Noah stared in his rear view mirror, chest heaving, adrenaline pumping. He could see the figure of one of the men in the front seat, hunched forward, eyes narrowed. Idly, Noah flicked the locks on his car door.
There was silence; a painful waiting silence that expected something to happen.
No car doors flew open, no booted feet came stomping towards Noah. Instead, the engine flared once more, and the van roared forward, circling the muddy little Ford and taking off down the road. Immediately, Noah put his foot down, and the chase began again, this time evenly as the two cars hit traffic.
Noah had never been so pleased to see morning rush hour traffic in his life. If the van was stationary, this would be his only chance to do anything, and so Noah veered off, bumping up onto the pavement where he killed the engine. He took the crook lock from beneath the passenger seat and weighed it in his hands. It’d do for a weapon, not that Noah was sure he’d have the confidence to wield it. He just knew he’d die trying to save Ace, no matter what reason it was that he was stolen, and Noah clung to this thought as he ran into the road, took hold of the back doors of the van and wrenched them open.
A copper head looked up from the confines of a dog crate and a familiar flame-licked tail began to wag. Ace would always be pleased to see Noah, regardless of the situation, which at that moment happened to be a dark van interior, not much different to the insides of a tuna tin, with the largest, potentially most terrifying man Noah had ever come across, guarding him.
“Leave well enough alone, mate,” the thug warned, in a voice edged with threat. He rose from his seat, approaching with meaty, clenched fists. “It’s just a dog.”
“Ace is not just a dog,” Noah corrected, and he bravely hitched himself up onto the back of the van, one trembling hand gripping the open door, the other, rather ridiculously, brandishing the crook lock.
As if on cue, the van set off, the suddenness sending Noah stumbling forward, weapon skidding across the floor of the van and colliding with Ace’s cage with a clang that whirred in his ears. He tried to right himself, but the van sped up, despite the open back doors, and Noah found he could hardly stand, let alone keep his balance.
“Give him back to me,” he warned, trying to arrange himself against the back wall so that he at least looked somewhat threatening. The doors flapped open and closed, cold morning wind rushed inside the confines of the van and blew Noah’s hair around his face in whips of orange. The bottleneck of rush hour traffic dispersed as they moved onto a quieter, more suburban street, leaving Noah struggling to remain upright as they picked up speed.
“It’s not the dog we want, it’s what it’s swallowed!” Came the reply, and Noah blinked as the penny dropped.
Ace had vanished, had obviously come across some sort of meeting… Their walk earlier in the week had been on one of the hottest days of the year, could Ace have invaded some form of illegitimate picnic, gobbled up several sandwiches and a fallen USB drive on the way? He didn’t want to think about how the men were planning o
n retrieving the drive itself, nor what was on it exactly, he just knew now that the stakes were doubled… and already they had been high.
In the distance Noah could hear – with relief - the whine of police sirens and he figured it made sense, considering how they were driving, and just how despicably dangerous it all was.
The van was careering down a road with speed bumps now, each one it hit sending violent hiccups through the entire vehicle: if Noah had struggled with his balance before, now it was just impossible. His main plan was to not fall out of the back doors and into the road, and from what he could gather, the thug he shared the tin box with had the same idea. Ace, meanwhile, was whipping his head back and forth, his gaze mainly resting on Noah in concern, as his clawed feet gained as much purchase on the floor of the crate as possible.
How did he plan on dealing with this when the van eventually came to a stop? He was outnumbered, Ace was locked away and god knows where the crook lock had gone now.
The sirens had become louder, so close they may well have been on top of the van itself, and Noah glanced back to see, with a heart that sung, that the police were tailing them closely. Up front, one of thugs swore, and took a sharp turn, swerving abruptly down the next street – only to hit an oncoming car, front bumper to headlight.
Noah was certain he’d suffer from car sickness forever after that, as the van swung around, spinning and screeching, out of control, until a lamppost stood in its path and stopped it dead with a deafening crunch: a giant fist taking out a metal monster. Noah was flung against the wall of the van, the air sucked out of him by powerful hands, and he sank to the floor, crumpled and winded.
The sirens had stopped, but through his closed eyes, Noah could feel and see the pulse of electric blue as the lights blared with brightness. One part of Noah’s brain insisted that it needed a moment, and his body agreed, but another part of him - louder, more passionate - screamed ‘Ace’ again and again, and the strength came to him, and Noah began to stand, dragging himself up by the steel bars of the crate that held his best friend. There was no sound from him, no tell-tale groan or thump of tail, and Noah fought back the rise of panic as he tried to gather his bearings.
His vision cleared and Noah’s brain began to catch up, reminding him that this was the second time he had taken an injury to the head, and it most certainly wasn’t happy about it. Noah ignored that for the moment – ignored everything, even the call of the officers, and the murmured demand for backup.
When he finally focused, Ace’s form came into view: those copper licks of fur, wet mushroom nose and eyes that showed far more emotion than they were given credit for. More importantly, those eyes were open, and the tail was slowly building up a wag. In a second, Noah had unlatched the door to the cage and Ace bounded out, unharmed, having been protected by the bars. He wriggled into Noah’s arms like sausage meat forcing itself into a skin, soft grunts and whines escaping his throat as he welcomed his best friend and rescuer.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” was all Noah could manage, his fingers delving into shaggy hair, tugging on ridiculous ears, while his nose met with a desperately licking tongue. They knew one another inside out, Ace and Noah, and together they told one another how pleased they were to be reunited, and just how terrible those questionable moments had been.
*
With alibis like the veterinary surgery – including the unlikely hero in the form of very-serious-vet – Noah and Ace were cleared quickly of any charges, but were directed to appear in court as witnesses. Or at least Noah was.
The USB drive turned up just over a week later, which was an unpleasant experience for both dog and owner and something Noah wished they hadn’t made a point of on the cover of the daily rag newspaper. They had inevitably covered the story of the naughty dog and his hero owner, helping to catch two criminals known for working extensively in the black market.
Noah was given orders by the police to take the memory stick to headquarters as soon as it made an appearance - but, Noah argued with himself, they didn’t have to know that he had looked at it beforehand… Did they? These were the thoughts that flicked through his mind as he sat on the sagging sofa, in his usual position, Ace leaning on him, the two even more inseparable since the incident.
“Right then, Ace, just one look, and then its marinated chicken for the two of us, yeah?”
Ace gave a familiar groan of approval, and Noah shoved the drive into the USB slot. There was a beat, the computer whirred, and then the file opened up in the form of a white square with one tiny yellow file to show for it.
Noah scratched between Ace’s ears distractedly and took a deep breath, before giving the file a double click. What was the worst that could happen? Secret government files would bounce across his screen, giving Noah information he barely understood? Schematics for military aircrafts? Proof that aliens existed, and the Roswell incident had indeed been a cover up?
It was very exciting, yes; potentially more exciting than Ace and Noah’s latest adventure. As long as he didn’t copy the files, nobody needed to know and, Noah justified, who in their right mind wouldn’t investigate a much sought after USB treasure trove?
There was nothing wrong with a little curiosity.
Self-Portrait ,in Charcoal and Tears
Darling Ella,
Lying beside me now, your tiny face is screwed up in the concentration of sleep. I draw you every day. But art can’t express the memories I suddenly need to relive, or bring back the woman – closer than my own lost mother – who changed my life and helped found the moments that led me to you.
Neither can it show you the precious things that she taught me; things that must, one day, be shared with you.
So, for now, I’ll write them here – so that when that day comes, she will touch your life as she did mine.
*
Her name was Rosalynn Carter and the first time I met her, I was barely seventeen. I had reached that point in growing up where every focus is suddenly turned to what will come next and how you will walk successfully down life’s glittering paths of opportunity.
For me, art was my only talent; I had always had a sharp, keen sense of the ephemeral, a knack for capturing a fleeting expression or a stolen second... Only, after I impetuously cast all other professions aside, my gift suddenly began to fail me.
And so my art teacher recommended I visit Rosalynn.
She had been a portrait artist in the ‘50s, with famous exhibits that people flocked to see. But then unappreciative ‘modern art’ sprung up, photography outdid portraiture – and Rosalynn Carter’s star dimmed, flickered hazily for a moment, and then went out.
Only history reincarnated her; flying back through the years to reignite her once-renowned name to the new buds crowding the garden of artistry. The past sucked Ros up and deposited her in the here and now, ensconced within the house of her youth: a huge, towering manor, red-bricked and old-fashioned, with brightly sugared plates of glass bordering the windows and wooden framework everywhere.
I would have been daunted if I knew how my life was about to change, but I didn’t really know what that feeling was back then. I had been on my own so much that I simply lived inside my head – always thoughtlessly pressing forward...
*
‘So you’re the new hopeful.’ It wasn’t a question; issued at the first opening of that great oak door, Rosalynn stood straight-backed and steely-eyed. Grey hair straggled around canvas skin of fading papyrus – a face creased at the edges, staining coffee-cream. She stepped back, allowing me entry like it was a privilege. ‘Well, come in. Let’s see what you can do.’
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t taken aback. Within minutes, an easel was facing me, a whole array of brushes, paints and pencils at my disposal. The sitting room was all chintz and chiffon. With a flourish, her every movement precise, Rosalynn set a mirror before me.
My portfolio leant, discarded and forgotten, against the front door.
‘Draw.’
With that command, Ros seated herself in a chair a little way from me and waited, dark eyes sharp as a hawk’s. I cleared my throat uncertainly. Rosalynn sighed.
‘How can I assess your potential if I don’t see you draw?’
‘I – I brought some of my work with me –’
She waved my protests aside with a snort.
‘I need to see how your art comes. That’s where talent lies. Now: draw.’
‘Myself?’
‘Who else?’ She frowned.
‘But –’
‘How can you draw others, capture their very heart in their eyes, their face, if you cannot even set your own soul free across the page?’
Somewhat thrown, I hesitantly surveyed my pale, wide-eyed features in the mirror. I looked the picture of blankness, framed by straw-coloured curls. A plain angel. My reflection preened vainly, the person I suddenly wished I was.
With a surge of discontent, I selected a pencil.
*
An hour later, I smudged a last wave into a strand of hair and sat back. The entire, silent time, I had been fully conscious of Ros’ eyes upon me, shrewdly attentive, as though mentally painting her own portrait of my character.
I reached for my sketch, but she was already behind me, looming crow-like over my shoulder. I froze, waiting, as her gaze roamed over my work, expert and critical. Then, just as abruptly, she stepped back.
‘It’s a start. Come back next week. We’ll see if we can’t progress you further than simply drawing the technical points of what’s in front of you.’
My heart plummeted. I ran a glance over my portrait. It was good – better than I had recently been capable of at any rate. Was I really so bad, in her professional opinion?
Something in my expression must have caught Ros’ eye, for she sighed wearily, mouth crinkling with disparagement.