Lady

  And we talked about Dad. The thing is, although Julie thinks Mum’s a bit of a dodo, she feels sorry for her because she thinks she has a hard life. She and Mum get on quite well together but she gets all sniffy about Dad. Me, I think he’s all right. He comes over once or twice a year with Eleanor, who he lives with, and we get on really well. We’re more alike, but Julie takes after Mum. She says things like, Well, if he’s so great and he loves us so much, what did he go away and leave us for? – which makes me furious. He was leaving Mum, not us.

  ‘Then how come he’s not here?’ Julie always says, which isn’t fair; but it’s true in a way as well, even though I don’t know what else he could have done.

  That’s the way our conversations about Dad usually go, but this time she told me this thing which just amazed me. It wasn’t amazing in itself. What was amazing was that I’d forgotten all about it. Apparently, see, Dad came in to talk to us the day before he went away, to tell us how much he loved us. I couldn’t believe my ears.

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ I said. All I could remember were the arguments and the shouting and not knowing what was going on.

  ‘You must do,’ she said. ‘He came in and sat on the bed and woke you up.’ I was furious with Julie for not telling me before, but she thought I knew. She thought that all the time I was saying those things about how Dad wasn’t leaving us but just Mum, and how he loved us and would really, really love it if we could come and live with him if only it was possible and all that – she thought that all the time I was just repeating what he’d said that night. Because that’s exactly what he said – all those things.

  ‘I thought you knew,’ she said. ‘Whenever we talk about it you repeat what he said almost word for word.’

  Word for word! Isn’t that amazing? Word for word. So I must remember everything he said and yet I can’t remember anything at all about the visit. I tried and tried and racked my brains, but there was just this empty space with nothing in it. Isn’t that the strangest thing? Julie said I was sitting on the bed like a little ghost, I was so pale. And then I went to sleep straight away afterwards, while she lay awake for hours.

  I think the world is full of wonderful things, mysterious things that no one can ever understand. It was eight years ago, I was nine years old when my Dad left, and that night must be burned into my memory because I repeat what he said almost word for word but I don’t remember a thing about it. Isn’t it funny how a stupid thing like your period can open up a whole world like that? After that, me and Julie were good friends. We found out how much we have in common, I suppose. Both of us had our dad go away when we didn’t want him to.

  I woke up whining in the middle of the night thinking about these things. I was sobbing, but the really terrible thing was – and it made me shake and tremble to realise it – that I didn’t have any tears to shed any more. I used to have so much when I was a girl – my friends, my family, my home, even school which I’d hated, really. Now I was a dog and I had nothing, not even tears. I only had myself – my four feet, my mouth and my nose.

  I pushed my nose back under my tail but sleep wouldn’t come. I was wide awake with misery. I stood up and sniffed about and – Oh, that shed was so full! Full of damp cotton and wet wood, cold earth and mould. Outside in the night things were really brewing. Mouse, rat, rabbit, cat – the wind was travelling across the earth bearing so many different people and places to me. The dug earth, the vegetables and other plants pulling goodness out of the ground, the daffodils and the buds, the birds sleeping in the trees, the slugs and snails, the filthy road beyond the fence, the dew on the ground – the night itself had its own scent. I thought to myself, Maybe being a dog isn’t so bad. But even the thought that I could enjoy being a dog made me miserable. There was a fox somewhere and I tried a bark, but my heart wasn’t in it. My voice echoed off the wooden walls of the old shed and only made me feel how abandoned and lost I truly was.

  I lay down again. Memories tumbled around me.

  Sometime later I heard someone – something – approaching my shed. A dog – no, dogs! Two of them, stinking of dog pee and the night air, with a fresh kill on their breath. Out hunting for rabbits or rats or some little bitch, but they’d found me instead.

  I backed into a corner. I had a human desire to hide but I knew you can’t hide from a dog, the slightest atom of you in the air leads him to you. A second later I could hear a breath at the door and smell teeth and spit and stinking meat. I growled, but there was just a sniffing in reply. Were they friendly? What did I care even if they were? It was dogs, wasn’t it, and that’s something I’d never, never be!

  A muzzle showed at the door and one of them came inside. A pair of cold grey eyes looked at me, the eyes of an animal.

  ‘So you’re the new bitch,’ said the dog, and I broke into a fit of barking.

  ‘We knew he’d done it again,’ said another voice from outside the door. ‘He stank of guilt. We’ve been tracking you. Look! You’re not alone.’

  I could barely make out a word of this, I was barking so frantically. Talking dogs! That was horrible! Dogs that could think – ugh! It made me feel sick. They scared me so badly I actually peed a few drops. I crouched down in shame and rage and terror, my teeth bared, my lips drawn right back over my gums.

  ‘Back off! Back off! Back off!’ I barked. But the dog in the doorway just stood watching me. I stopped barking and crouched as low as I could, growling a warning deep in my throat.

  ‘Barktown, California, in the US of A!’ sang the dog. He rolled his eyes, lolled his tongue out and wagged his head about so that his tongue thrashed from side to side. Just for a second I thought he was mad – but then I realised; he had a sense of humour. The dog was trying to be funny. But do you think that made me like him any better? No way! Dogs with a sense of humour? Yuk! I began barking at him louder than ever.

  Keeping his eye on me the grey dog eased his way backwards out of the door. ‘We’ll be back,’ he growled. There was the sound of feet in the grass and their scent sank. I dashed after them, just as far as the door, still barking madly, and sniffed the ground where he had stood. Hmm – hot treacle, piss, warm grease, burnt cabbage and perfume. How can I describe it? Not bad. Then I stuck my nose outside to get a taste of the other one. He was tawny – burnt porridge, mud and new clothes. I remember thinking, Yes, even colours have a smell. Then I felt sick and had to go and lie down on my donkey jacket.

  In the quiet, on my own, I remembered what they’d said: ‘You are not alone.’ What did that mean? Did dogs have a language all the time and I’d never known? I began to regret seeing them off so fast. I needed company. Maybe they could tell me something about what was happening to me.

  I didn’t have to wait long to see them again. They were back within ten minutes. I jerked to my feet, but I managed not to shout at them this time. There was another scent with them. It was something nice – something warm and sweet and hot and delicious. I was confused at first. It smelled so good – I thought it might be a spicy chocolate cake getting cooked in the oven, but I knew it couldn’t be that. Then the mad dog’s head appeared round the door with something grey in his mouth. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. He came a little further until he was half in, half out. The other dog stuck its head in the door behind him. He was smaller than the first one, one of those grubby terrier types with springy little legs and greasy fur.

  The big dog dropped the rabbit on the floor. ‘Peace offering,’ he said. I looked down at the thing – a just-dead rabbit – then back to him. ‘Hungry, eh?’ he said.

  I was – and the rest. I’d had nothing all day apart from a bowl of cereal when I got up and a packet of crisps. That rabbit – I’d never smelled anything so delicious. It had stopped smelling like cake and started smelling like a plate of chips with salt and vinegar on. My senses still hadn’t settled down yet.

  ‘Come and get it, baby!’ said the dog in a stupid voice. I didn’t want to go near him, but the rabbit was irresistible. I e
ased forward, snatched it in my jaws and sprang away to the furthest part of the shed, where I sank to my belly and began to lick and gnaw at it until the juice ran. I never let my eyes leave those dogs, though. I kept my body raised on my legs, ready to spring up if I had to, and I kept up a low growl in my throat to warn them to keep back.

  The smaller dog started sniffing away in the corners and along the walls, exploring the place, but the other dog stood still and watched me. He was one ugly-looking mutt. He was covered with a grimy stubble of grey hair, caked with muck and dirt on his underside, with black eyebrows sticking out of his head like a pair of beetles. His ears started off sticking up, but then bent over and hung down half way up. He had long lean legs and a long lean body, and a muzzle like a rat’s with his eyes sticking out too far like round pebbles out of his face. He had a long pink tongue that was hanging out of his mouth, and he stood there with his nostrils flared sucking my scent in and staring at me.

  ‘My rabbit,’ I growled.

  ‘Your rabbit,’ he agreed. He backed off into a corner and sat down on an old grow-bag with his legs spread and his front half up in the air so he looked like an old man sitting there. Then he lifted one paw to his muzzle and pretended to take a draw on a ciggy.

  ‘Oh, baby, you and me, hmm? We was made to be together, baby, wuz’n we? Cheese an’ pigs, baby, parrots and pork, ham an’ grass, baby, that’s you an’ me. Bacon and babies, baby, that’s us. What is it, baby, doncha love me any more, baby? Don’t you love me? You’re not gonna leave me are you, Susanna? NOOOOO!’ He put his paws over his head and howled at the roof.

  ‘Shut up, you freak,’ I told him, but it was pretty funny actually – that weird-looking dog sitting there like a man talking gibberish and howling at the ceiling.

  ‘Oh, Christ, Fella,’ groaned the sandy dog, but he was laughing at the same time.

  The bigger dog sat back up, crossed his legs like a man and twisted his dog lips into a horrible parody of a human grin, which made me growl louder than ever.

  ‘Hey, watch me, I’m a Disney dog!’ he said, and he jumped up to his feet and started bouncing round the shed on four legs like Tigger in Winnie-the-Pooh.

  ‘The wonderful thing about Fella,

  My face is a wonderful farce,

  My life is made out of paper,

  My tail is attached to my arse,’ he yodelled, and I couldn’t help it any more, I just cracked up.

  ‘You’re mad,’ I told him, and straight away he started rushing around the shed spitting and howling,

  ‘Mad dog! Mad dog! I’ll bite yer, I’ll bite yer! Ooooo, ma rabies is reeeel baaaad today, baby! Arg!’ And he fell over sideways and lay on the floor frothing at the mouth. ‘TB. Leprosy. The common cold. Everyone has their own poison.’

  He was really off his head. He was lying on the ground going, ‘Ih, ih, ih, ih,’ like he was a machine or something. The other dog was killing himself laughing, and kept glancing at me to see how I liked it. I rolled my eyes and crunched the rabbit’s skull between my teeth.

  ‘Just sit still, will you?’ I asked him. ‘For God’s sake.’

  The dog got off the floor and walked over to me. He sniffed at my head.

  ‘Thanks for the chips,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, the rabbit.’

  ‘No prob. I was gonna make a soufflé, sweetheart – candles, the fur arranged tastefully in little balls on the side of the plates, you and me …’

  ‘Shut up, please shut up.’

  ‘Right.’ The dog sighed, and lay down next to me. After a minute or two the other dog came and lay on the other side of me. I raised my fur and growled slightly.

  ‘OK, OK,’ said the smaller one, but didn’t move. I didn’t say any more. It was kind of nice having warm creatures on either side of me, but I was a bit worried about my rabbit, so I got up and went to lie down in a corner to finish it off. The smaller sandy dog sat up to watch me eat. ‘So – what’s it like being a dog?’

  ‘You should know.’

  ‘But what’s it like for you, baby?’ said Fella.

  I started to wonder if I should tell them that I was really a person, when I remembered what they’d said earlier about me being the new bitch, and someone feeling guilty. I looked across at them.

  ‘You … what was that you were saying earlier?’ I asked, although I knew the answer already. No dog ever came on like that. ‘You’re not dogs, either, are you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m a dog, love, I’m a dog all right,’ said Fella. ‘Y’know, I just can’t help it.’

  ‘You’re like me!’

  ‘We’ve all been turned. That’s why we came,’ said the smaller one.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Your scent. We found your trail by the Mersey at Northenden. We ran back and found Terry. We’ve been tracking you all night.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you’re one sweet-smellin’ little bitch,’ said Fella.

  ‘Who’s Terry?’ I asked.

  ‘Terry – the drunk.’

  ‘The drunk? That old alchie? He did this to you, too?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You’re not the first, and you won’t be last, either.’

  ‘You wanna know the story?’ said Fella. ‘Oh, there’s a whole history. Me and Mitch here, we got the whole thing worked out. There’s dogs and bitches running around that ain’t what they seem. Maybe it ain’t just dogs. Maybe the Buddhists are right – maybe you’ve just eaten your own grandmother.’ He nodded at the remains of the rabbit between my paws and made me gulp at the thought. ‘Maybe,’ he went on, rolling on to his back and flipping his paws in the air, ‘maybe there’s human beings wandering around that ain’t what they seem. Well, all you need to know is this: you are one lucky, lucky bitch. You have had the great good fortune to be turned into a dog. Baby! Your life has just begun.’ He let his head loll backwards so he was looking at me upside down, and wriggled closer to me. I growled and pulled my rabbit away.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I growled.

  ‘Mitch, tell her about it. But first, introductions – oh, yeah, this is the best bit,’ barked Fella. He and Mitch jumped to their feet, ran round behind me and stuck their noses under my tail, and without even thinking I got up too, and the three of us walked round and round each other, sniffing away at those … special places. It was intoxicating. It wasn’t until afterwards that I thought, What’s this, I hardly even know these guys and there I was rubbing my nose around their private parts.

  ‘Woof! Better than shaking hands, you bet!’ said Fella at last. He flopped down in a heap. Mitch plunked his bum down next to him and had a good old scratch. Outside, there was a noise – a barking, squealing sort of noise, and the ears and eyes of both dogs turned to the door.

  ‘Don’t go. Tell me about Terry,’ I begged.

  Fella rolled on to his back. ‘Tell me a story, Mummy. Tuck me up. I wanna glass of water. Blow me a kiss, mwa, mwa, mwa. OK. Mitch. Begin. Our creator.’

  Mitch dropped down on to the floor with a crash, laid his chin on Fella’s chest and sighed deeply.

  ‘It started when he was about six or seven as far as we can make out,’ he began.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ I interrupted.

  ‘He talks. Me and Fella have both hung around with him for a while. You may have seen us.’

  So that was it – I knew I’d seen one of them, if not both of them before. Terry had been on Copson Street for years, and there was often some poor old mutt tied to his wrist by a piece of string. If only I’d known – those dogs were human beings all the time!

  Mitch went on with his story. ‘The first person he turned was his own mother. She took some toy or other from him and he threw a tantrum. Next thing is, his mother’s a dog.’

  Fella chuckled to himself. ‘Imagine,’ he said. ‘Poor kid!’

  Mitch rolled his eyes. It was obvious it wasn’t Terry who got his sympathy. He went on with the tale. ‘Of course she completely panicked and the tragic
thing is, she ran out into the road right under the wheels of a car.’

  ‘Right before his eyes,’ said Fella. ‘Great start to life. You turn your mother into a dog and she gets killed – bang!’

  ‘Just like that,’ I said.

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘What happened next?’ I begged.

  ‘So of course little Terry goes screeching round to a neighbour and explains what’s happened.’

  ‘“I turned my mummy into a bitch!”’ mimicked Fella.

  ‘The neighbour tries to calm the child down,’ went on Mitch. ‘She goes round to the house but there’s no one there. The child is having hysterics, she can’t do anything with him. His father gets a call at work – he was a warehouse manager – and gets told that his wife has gone missing and his son has gone mad.

  ‘And on it goes. The little boy tried to explain what had happened, but what chance did he stand? Who was going to believe him? Obviously something terrible had happened, and the adults came to the conclusion that the trauma was so bad, Terry blamed himself and invented this ridiculous story to explain it away.’

  Fella sat up and shook his head. ‘Of course, nine times out of ten, they’d be right. People are always doing that sort of thing. Guilt is second nature to a human child. And the grown-ups are even worse. They think they’re responsible for everything, even when it’s nothing to do with them – even when it’s not even any of their business. They can’t help it. They’re lost without it. Did you know that once a person has children they can never sleep peacefully at night again for the fear of something happening to their brats?’