They clambered backwards, to safety, as the tunnel collapsed in on itself.
Spider looked at Tom, and Tom looked at Spider.
They were covered in filth. They could hardly breathe, and their bodies were torn and bleeding. They were alive, though, and when Tom fell to the ground it was not through exhaustion or weakness—it was to embrace a true friend and hold him close.
“You’re a good dog,” whispered Tom through his tears. “You’re the best, Spider. The best in the whole, wide world.”
There were just three beds in the boys’ ward. Marcus had the first, and Rob had the third. Tom lay between them.
They had been kept in overnight for tests, for they all had mild concussion and they’d inhaled lungfuls of dust. There seemed no end to their cuts and bruises, but amazingly, no bones were broken. They couldn’t really understand why they had to stay in bed at all.
Tom’s father arrived, and was ominously quiet.
When Phil joined him, nobody could speak. They sat together on Tom’s bed, and the silence seemed unbreakable.
“I had to find him,” said the boy, at last.
“I know,” said Phil.
“I didn’t know what else to do. Your bike…”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Why doesn’t it?” said Tom. “You should be angry with me. You should be battering me. I’m so sorry.”
Phil shook his head and extended his hand. Tom’s was bandaged, and he tried not to wince as Phil squeezed it firmly.
“It just doesn’t matter,” Phil said.
“But I said such horrible things.”
“Don’t we all?”
“You don’t. I didn’t mean them, Phil. You’re like a brother, and… I’m sorry. And I’ll pay—”
“Listen,” said his father. “Listen to me for a minute, please.”
The man was struggling to find the words he wanted. He looked at his son and tried again.
“I’ve been a fool,” he said, at last. “There are things I should have said, a long time ago. There are things I shouldn’t have said—and things I shouldn’t have done. Things that I’m ashamed of, Tom, because I’ve been so… frozen up. Do you follow me?”
“Not really, Dad.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
They looked at each other.
“Am I in big trouble?” asked the boy.
“Of course you’re not. Not with me, not with Phil. We’ll talk to the police later, but… We’re going to make things so much better. They’ve been bad, and we’re going to put them right. This is going to help us.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But it will.”
There was a silence again.
“Excuse me, Mr Lipman,” said Rob. He’d heard the conversation, naturally, and he spoke quietly.
“What?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was the one who picked on Tom. I was… evil to him.”
“We both were,” said Marcus.
“I was the worst, and I don’t know why,” said Rob.
He was close to tears.
“Listen, please,” he said. “I… I don’t want to be that person any more, because I think you have the bravest son in the country—if not the world. He saved my life, and he saved Marcus, too. It’s true, Mr Lipman. We’re not lying.”
“I know,” said Tom’s father.
He was pinching his nose, but if he thought Tom hadn’t seen his tears, he was mistaken: one had plopped right on to the bed sheet.
“I’m truly sorry, Tom,” said Rob, at last.
“I am too,” said Marcus. “And we’ll make it up to you.”
“It’s fine,” said Tom.
“How can it be fine?” Rob asked.
“It is. Everyone’s sorry, and that means… That means it’s over.”
“I’ll tell you who’s really brave,” Marcus said. “Your dog, Lipman. Tom, I mean.”
The three boys nodded.
“Not as brave as the bulldog, though,” said Rob. “And the cat! Are they all yours? I didn’t know you had three pets—I thought you only had one. You’re so lucky—I’ve got a sleepy gerbil, and that’s all I’m allowed. Three proper pets, and they all look after you—and each other! How amazing is that?”
Tom looked at his dad.
“Three pets,” he said. “Yes, it’s nice to have three.”
Mr Lipman nodded. “Three’s a good number, for a family.”
“It always was,” said Tom. “It was the best.”
“I suppose the pets—they, er… keep each other company?”
“They do, Dad. Nobody gets lonely.”
“And they get on?”
“Totally.”
“Then we can’t separate them, can we? There’s been too much separation.”
Tom’s dad wiped his eyes and closed them. He swallowed, and Tom realized his father was nervous.
“What?” asked Tom. “What’s the matter?”
“I need to tell you something,” said his dad. “Your mum’s outside. She sat with you all night, while you were sleeping, and she’s been here all morning. We both have. She’s just too scared to come in.”
“Too scared?” said Tom.
“She’s terrified, love. Will you speak to her?”
Tom lay back, and, for the first time in a long time, he smiled. Then, suddenly, he started to laugh. It hurt his chest and it hurt his throat, but he wasn’t going to stop. He grabbed the sheet and pulled it over his head, closing his eyes as he did so. He couldn’t quite face the moment, so he lay there in the darkness, waiting.
A door opened, and still he waited. At last, a pair of arms embraced him tenderly, and he let himself be held. They lifted him up and he was dragged into a hug so tight he was hurting again. It was a pain he welcomed, and he put his arms round his mother and hugged back harder still, until his laughter turned to sobs. She really had come back. She was there beside him, and she held him so tight he could feel her heartbeat.
Spider was unaware of these developments. He was in Tom’s room, sprawled on the bed he loved. Buster was sitting on the carpet, Moonlight was on the desk, and all three were looking up at the skylight. A small spider was working its way carefully down to the floor, holding a little white package. The flea sat waiting.
Thread deposited it gently, and Spider jumped down to get a closer look.
“Stay back,” cried the spider. “Mind those paws.”
“Is he still alive?” Spider asked.
“Of course he is.”
“Will he fly again?” asked Buster. “How long has he been up there?”
“A while, but he’s doing OK. I need to tell you something, though: this is totally against my nature, and I’m still not sure about it.”
“Come on,” said the flea. “We’ve talked it through.”
Thread snorted. “You did the talking,” it said.
“And you agreed!”
“Under pressure. This is out of my larder, guys. This is a very big sacrifice.”
“Do it,” said the flea. “Be strong, and show mercy.”
Thread snorted again. “You can’t live on mercy, brother.”
The spider pulled at the silk and started to cut. The flea hopped back to Spider’s ear, and everyone watched in fascination, for it was such delicate work. A minute passed, and the straitjacket was open: a thin moth worked his way out and rolled on to his back. He managed a weak smile of relief.
“Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”
He stretched his wings carefully and twitched them.
“Don’t try to fly just yet,” said Spider. He held out a paw. “I’ll take you back to your shed. Someone’s waiting for you.”
“Who?”
“Your partner. He’s been missing you.”
The moth went slowly pink and squirmed on to his front.
“You know about us?” he asked. “How?”
“Oh, we bumped into each other,” said Spider. “It
was some time ago, but I visited your home.”
“Good lord.”
“He told me all about you. He just wants you back.”
The moth nodded. “I don’t know what to say. It’s what kept me going, up there—thinking of him. We have short lives, obviously—but we had such plans.”
He climbed slowly on to Spider’s paw and settled. He flexed his shoulder muscles, and waited as the warmth returned.
“So,” said Buster, at last. “What about us?”
She looked at Spider and raised an eyebrow.
“We’re on your territory now… Are you comfortable with that? Because it won’t be for long.”
“It can be for as long as you like,” said Spider.
“That’s kind, but I don’t want to intrude. Not on a tight family set-up. I mean, I like Tom, and I like his dad. I appreciate the hospitality, too, but I’ve got people of my own, and they’re going to be mad as hell—old Spike must be going crazy. I’ve never been lost before, buddy—I told you that.”
“You did.”
“I’ve got to get home, and I’ve got to get fit.”
“But I want you to stay,” said Spider.
“For a few days, then,” said Buster. “And thank you.”
They looked at the cat.
“You too, Moonlight,” said Spider. “Stay here, please. This is your home now, if you won’t feel too ‘owned’.”
Moonlight looked away. She went to speak, but for some reason she couldn’t think of anything to say, so she simply nodded and lay down.
Spider whined happily.
“Look, friends,” he said. “I like sitting here, chatting away, but I ought to get moving. Tom’s out of hospital today, and he’ll be home soon. I want to be ready, so I’ll just pop down to the shed with the moth—”
“Oh, Spider,” said the flea.
“What?”
The cat blinked. “Look behind you, darling.”
“Why?”
“Do what she says,” said Buster. “But go slow—that moth’s on your nose now.”
Spider turned, and at first he couldn’t believe it. He’d been so intent on his companions that he hadn’t heard or smelt a thing, and his beloved master had tricked him. Tom had entered the house in silence, and he’d tiptoed up the stairs. He was with both his parents, and they’d all come quietly along the landing and pushed open the door without a squeak. Now they stood there, on the threshold: the boy at the front, with his mother just behind. She rested her hands gently on his shoulders, while Mr Lipman stood next to her. They had been there for a while, just gazing at the animals in pride, joy and wonder.
Spider felt something moving fast and hard. He stood up, and realized it was his tail. It lifted him, and for a moment he was twisting and turning so violently he fell over. His paws got tangled, and the moth launched himself into the air.
All the dog could do was yelp, and then he found he was in Tom’s arms again. The boy had caught him as he jumped, and for a moment they were locked together in the centre of the room, their noses touching.
We’re together, thought Spider. We’re home. I’ll protect this family for ever—all of you. Just don’t let me go.
Acknowledgements
Dog emerged after a more sombre novel had withered and died. It was the antidote, and three friends got behind it at once, offering ideas and encouragement. They were Rachel Nicholson, Jane Fisher and my trusted agent, Jane Turnbull.
The notion of a pet with an identity crisis came from a little boy attending a talk I was giving in a primary school.
Tired of the story I was telling, he put up his hand and said, “I’ve got a dog.”
“That must be nice,” I replied.
“It’s not,” said the boy. “He wants to be a cat.”
Everyone laughed, and on the train that evening I invented Spider.
The red and black school, by the way, is Portsmouth Grammar School—but it would never tolerate the kind of bullying Tom experiences, or employ anyone as foul as his history teacher. I hope no offence will be taken.
I would like to thank Sarah Odedina, of course, who has steered the book into port. My copy-editor, Madeleine Stevens, made countless suggestions, too, which proved invaluable. Mike Smith helped with detail at the proofreading stage.
Some books put up a fight, and some books go off the boil. It was a pleasure playing with Dog, and I hope you enjoy his company as much as I did.
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Copyright
Pushkin Press
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Copyright © 2017 Andy Mulligan
First published by Pushkin Press in 2017
ISBN 978 1 782691 72 3
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Andy Mulligan, Dog
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