Alex, the Dog and the Unopenable Door

by Ross Montgomery

  Alex sighed.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘There’s no way across. My dad told me all about it. He went the whole way around it looking for a bridge, or a walkway, but there was nothing.’

  The dog ignored him and kept scampering on along the bank, sniffing the ground intently. Alex turned back and stared across the water.

  ‘And when he got back to where he’d started,’ he continued, ‘he saw that his airpipe had caught on something out there. Something way out in the middle of the sea.’

  Alex’s eyes fixed on the dot, barely visible on the horizon.

  ‘It had wrapped around it,’ he said quietly. ‘Whatever it was. And so he tied himself to the airpipe, and pulled himself back over the water towards it, him and his main dog. Until they finally reached it.’

  Alex paused.

  ‘Whatever it was,’ he said. ‘He never told me.’

  Alex looked down at the water’s edge, at the line where the desert became the sea. He stood at the exact point where his father’s stories about the Forbidden Land had ended. He had no idea what lay the other side of the water. He had no idea how to get there. And yet somewhere over there now, somehow, his father was waiting.

  The dog barked. Alex looked up.

  ‘What?’ he snapped.

  The dog had come to a stop at the bank not far away and was staring at him expectantly again. Alex shuddered, barely able to hide his irritation.

  ‘I just told you,’ he said. ‘There’s no way of getting over! My dad had an airpipe. We don’t. We don’t even have a rope –’

  Alex stopped himself. He looked at the dog in front of him. It was sitting next to a large dead branch which stuck out of the ground beside him. It had been taken from the forest, carried across the desert and jammed into the bank with some force. Tied around it was a piece of rope, old and weathered, that dipped down into the water.

  Alex looked at it, and back at the dog, and back at the rope. He slowly walked over and pulled it up. The rope heaved out the water ahead of him, dripping, thick with slime. Alex followed it with his eyes. It ran across the water, straight out towards the centre, and then came back again. It had caught on something out there.

  ‘Dad?’ said Alex quietly.

  He lowered the rope back into the water, and stared across the waves.

  ‘He’s over there now,’ he said. ‘And he can’t be that far ahead – not if he had to walk all the way around the ocean first.’

  Alex looked down at the dog. It was back on its paws, eagerly facing the water. Alex gave the rope an experimental tug. It was slack in his hand. He shook his head.

  ‘But we can’t risk it,’ he muttered. ‘We need to make sure that the rope is safe before we do anything stupid like …’

  Alex was cut off by a great splash. He looked down. The dog had flung itself into the water and immediately sunk from view. Alex leaped forward.

  ‘Don’t!’ he cried, stopping at the bank. ‘You’ll …’

  The dog suddenly appeared some distance off, paddling furiously. The current had dragged him out in a matter of seconds.

  ‘Are you mad?!’ Alex cried. ‘Come back! Hey!’

  The dog ignored him and kept paddling furiously. It was disappearing among the heaving roll of the current, almost lost from view. The dogs along the bank barked and whined, but none of them were able to take another step forward to follow it.

  ‘Wait …’ Alex cried feebly.

  It was no use. The dog was gone. Alex stood, panting, looking at the dot on the horizon. Then he looked down again at the furious water before him.

  ‘Oh crikey,’ he mumbled.

  Before he could change his mind he grabbed at the slimy rope, swallowed hard and threw himself into the water.

  The second he hit it he was dragged sideways, the rope snapping tight in his hands. Alex surfaced and gasped for breath. The water was ice cold, shooting up his spine like electric shocks. He glanced around desperately. The dog was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Wait for me!’ Alex yelled. ‘Wait!’

  The branch in the bank suddenly gave way and fell into the water behind him. In seconds Alex found himself floundering in the roar of the current, the rope now slack and still clutched in his desperate hands, kicking and gasping for breath. The speed of the water was unbelievable.

  ‘Wait!’ Alex cried.

  Alex sank back under, the sound of the water pounding in his ears as he kicked his legs feebly against the surging current. The endless barking of the dogs faded into its muffled roar. He heaved himself back to the surface, taking last desperate gasps of air, until everything went dark, and all he could see was the water.

  ‘And that,’ said his father, ‘is how Malex M. Mennings left behind his dogs and crossed the ocean.’

  Alex’s father got to his feet, slowly, shakily. He had become even older since Alex had last seen him. His hair was completely grey. The Order had decided that he was now so sick, so old and frail, that he was no longer a threat to the safety of the Cusp. They had finally allowed him to come home. When he appeared at the front door again that evening, his legs stiff and pained, it was as if he had been away for forty years instead of four. He looked down at Alex lying in bed.

  ‘You’ve been very quiet tonight, Alex,’ said his father.

  They stayed in silence for a moment.

  ‘Well, you’re nine years old now, l suppose,’ he said, and stood up. ‘Maybe you’re too old for stories …’

  ‘Some boys at school told me about the Expedition,’ said Alex suddenly. ‘About what happened.’

  Alex’s father was silent for another moment.

  ‘I see,’ he said sadly.

  He walked around the room. The walls were covered in pictures of dogs. Alex had come home one day to find his mum standing in his bedroom, just looking at them. Alex had thought she was going to cry but she didn’t. That night she made the biggest dinner Alex had ever eaten in his life.

  ‘Perhaps, Alex,’ said his father slowly, ‘I’ll tell you everything that happened myself one day. Everything. So you don’t have to hear from …’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more of your stories,’ said Alex.

  He had raised his voice. They both fell silent, not wanting to wake Alex’s mother. She had gone up to bed the moment his father had come back, and had not come down. Alex sat up and stared at the man across the room.

  ‘You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?’ he hissed. ‘You’re going to do it and you can’t even lie to me.’

  His eyes were beginning to fill with tears. Alex willed them away, not wanting to cry in front of him. They were both silent for a moment. Alex’s father sat back down on the bed and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. The skin was already beginning to shrivel like that of a man twice his age. Everything seemed to be moving faster now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said his father.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ said Alex.

  Alex’s father said nothing.

  ‘Why?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Was it the centre?’ asked Alex. ‘What you found there?’

  His father smiled.

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘It was something else. Something I had to go back for.’

  Alex’s father looked around the room, to the pictures that lined the walls.

  ‘Something you lost,’ said Alex.

  Alex’s father nodded sadly. ‘Something very important to me. I didn’t even realise what it was or what it meant until I didn’t have it any more. Does that make sense, Alex?’

  Alex nodded. He didn’t want his father to know that he didn’t understand.

  ‘But I’m not going to try any more,’ he said. ‘I’m going to stay here, with you and your mother. You don’t have to go to boarding school any more.’

  ‘You promise,’ said Alex.

  ‘I promise,’ said Alex’s father. ‘And I’m not going to tell you the stories any more either.’

  He kissed Alex’s forehead a
nd stood back up.

  ‘Good night, Alex.’

  He made his way out of the bedroom. Alex lay awake listening to his father’s slow and pained footsteps down the corridor, past the bedroom door where Alex’s mother was sleeping alone, down the steps and across the kitchen, to the utility room at the back where the washing machine was kept, and where the old wicker basket filled with blankets lay. This was where Alex’s father now slept.

  He stayed at the house for two more days, pacing the garden and digging holes, before he ran away again.

  The distant roar of the water closed in on him once more. The darkness faded.

  Alex opened his eyes. The brightness of the day almost made him sick, and he shut them again, groaning. A cold wind caught his soaking jumper. His arms were dead weights.

  Something was dragging him across the rocks.

  Alex raised his head and opened his eyes again. The dog with the black patch had him by the collar and was heaving him inch by inch over the seaweed and stones beneath him.

  ‘[…]!’ said Alex. His mouth was swollen and useless. No words formed.

  The dog let go and gave Alex a quick lick on the face before bounding away. Alex lay still for a moment more, his stomach churning. He had swallowed a lot of water. When the desire to vomit had passed, he slowly heaved himself up on his elbows and opened his eyes again.

  He was on an island of black rock. That much he could tell. Everything else was hidden by thin grey smoke that hung in the air on every side, shielding the rest of the island from view. The distant barking of the thousands of dogs could just be made out over the lapping of the waves. Alex squinted his eyes to the distance. Through the smoke, he could just make out an enormous black shape that lined the horizon.

  Alex gasped. ‘The cen––’

  He stopped. There was something else on the island.

  There, a stone’s throw ahead of him, was a small wooden hut. The door was open, and a thin stream of smoke was rising from the chimney.

  Someone was inside.

  Alex leaped to his feet and immediately fell over again. His legs felt like they belonged to somebody else several miles away. Gritting his teeth, he threw himself forwards and stumbled across the slimy rocks to the door of the hut. Without pausing for breath he ran inside.

  ‘Dad! …’ he cried.

  He stopped. The hut was empty. A fresh bunch of driftwood was kindling in the fireplace. On the floor in front of it lay a dog basket, piled high with ragged blankets and strewn with moth-eaten dog toys. The rest of the hut was empty, except for a tiny table and chairs made from pieces of scrap wood. The table was only big enough for a small child. Alex swayed unsteadily on his feet.

  ‘… Dad?’ he whispered.

  ‘Mine, actually,’ said a voice behind him.

  Alex whipped round. The dog with the black patch was standing in the doorway. It had several pieces of driftwood strapped to its back in what looked suspiciously like a handmade sling. The dog shifted uncomfortably on its paws.

  ‘Er,’ said the dog awkwardly, ‘you are in my way.’

  Alex stepped wordlessly aside. The dog scampered past him and started chucking the wood piece by piece into the fire with its mouth.

  ‘We leave in twenty minutes,’ it said, ‘so get some rest while you can. You must dry yourself, too, it will be very cold out there. Oh, and let’s have some tea! Tea?’

  Alex didn’t reply. Slowly, he slumped onto the table beside him. Although he couldn’t be a hundred per cent certain of anything any more he was fairly sure that, outside of his dreams, he had never heard a dog speak before. He was pretty convinced that he had never met one with a slight French accent either. He was also, he realised, more hungry than he’d ever been in his entire life.

  ‘Tea?’ the dog repeated.

  Alex fainted.

  ‘I will take that as a yes,’ said the dog.

  Part Four

  The Centre

  21

  The boy stood at the boundary, gazing out across the grassland that rolled in great billowing sheets onwards to the horizon. He stood as close as one could to the Forbidden Land without touching it, the ends of his recently acquired trainers skirting the great curve where the concrete ended. He was unafraid. The others behind him didn’t dare to step so close. But then, thought the boy, that was probably why he was Grand High Chieftain Wizard and they weren’t.

  ‘Laurence!’ one of them suddenly cried. ‘There! To the left!’

  Grand High Chieftain Wizard Laurence Davy glanced over. Sure enough, another figure was emerging from the grassland in the distance, running full pelt back to the Cusp.

  He turned round, facing the crowds of expectant children behind him. The Wolf-Tiger Fighter Jet Squadron had grown significantly in numbers since they had captured the town several days ago, and new recruits were turning up every day. The base was still in the process of being transformed into the centrepoint of their New Age revolution, and it was already looking brilliant. All the warehouses had massive swear words spraypainted on them. Dozens of boys were busy Sellotaping fireworks to the riot vans. Laurence pointed to a pair of lookouts stationed on top of a nearby barracks, their costumes decorated with cardboard and warpaint and leaves.

  ‘What can you see?’ he called. ‘Is it the Dog Walker?’

  They hurriedly looked down the telescopes in front of them.

  ‘No, Your Wizardliness,’ one of them cried. ‘It’s a man. It’s an extremely hairy old man.’ He paused and looked through the telescope again. ‘Or maybe it’s just another old guy in wolf furs.’

  Laurence Davy sighed, barely able to hide his disappointment. Another member of the Order. They were all useless to him. All he needed was Alex. He turned back round. Beside him stood a line of boys, each holding a large mattress.

  ‘Ready, men?’

  ‘Yes, Your Wizardliness!’ they chanted.

  Laurence Davy nodded. ‘Commence the pummelling.’

  The second the man stepped over the boundary the Wolf-Tiger Fighter Jet Squadron leaped into action, walloping him repeatedly with their mattresses until he finally collapsed onto the concrete. A single wallop with a sturdy mattress, they had discovered, was sufficient to break the spell of the Forbidden Land and stop people from running home.

  Laurence waved them away half-heartedly and knelt over the man on the concrete. He had the same glazed look of exhaustion and horror that marked all the people who had arrived back from the Forbidden Land over the last few days. He was gasping for breath, his arms and legs still twitching from days of running. The surface of his face was dry and caked with sand.

  ‘Name?’ said Laurence Davy.

  ‘Wh … what?’ said the man, his chest heaving.

  ‘Your name,’ Laurence repeated. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Oh,’ said the man. ‘Er … Reginald.’

  ‘Have you come from the zeppelin, Reginald?’ said Laurence. ‘Were you a member of the Order?’

  Reginald nodded wordlessly, gasping for breath on the floor. Laurence leaned down to his face.

  ‘Did you see him, Reginald?’ said Laurence quietly.

  The man’s eyes flickered, confused. ‘See who?’

  The Grand High Chieftain Wizard gazed into his eyes.

  ‘The boy,’ he said, his face set. ‘Alex Jennings. The Dog Walker. Did you see him?’

  ‘The boy?’ Reginald gasped. He thought about it and shook his head. ‘N-no. None of us did. He was too far ahead.’

  Laurence Davy sighed with frustration and then stood up.

  ‘He’s no use to us,’ he barked to his men, giving a wave behind him as he marched back to his position on the boundary. ‘Tie him up with the others.’

  A pack of boys immediately ran over to Reginald and started dragging him across the runway. Reginald groaned with confusion.

  ‘Wait – what?’ he cried. ‘Where are you taking me? What’s the meaning of this? What on earth are you boys doing here …?!’

  Grand
High Chieftain Wizard Laurence Davy watched as the man was taken to the line of stakes set up along the curve of the boundary and tied up. He was now just another of the scores of prisoners captured since the Wolf-Tiger Fighter Jet Squadron had claimed the town. Laurence sighed. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do with them yet. They were just another step on the road towards the New Age. A time when children would rule the world, and do away with the wickedness of their elders, and the streets would overflow with super-cool skateparks and massive ramps.

  He turned back to the grassland. For now, the prisoners didn’t matter. For now all he needed was Alex Jennings. The boy with the power to walk over the Forbidden Land. He gazed out once more across the boundary and sighed.

  ‘Where are you, Dog Walker?’

  22

  The first thing Alex realised was that he had suddenly become very cold and very wet.

  I must still be in the ocean, he thought. Maybe I never got to the island after all. Maybe I’m drowning and my life is flashing before my eyes.

  Then Alex realised that the surface against his face felt very much like wood, in particular the wood of a table that had been badly carved by a dog.

  He sat bolt upright, gasping for breath. The dog stood on the table in front of him, next to an empty bucket of seawater.

  ‘Are you OK?’ said the dog.

  Alex nodded, dripping water.

  ‘Good,’ said the dog. ‘Because we leave in ten minutes.’

  The dog jumped off the table and scampered towards the fireplace. Alex looked groggily around him. The tabletop in front was laid with a set of neatly arranged dog bowls. A battered iron pan now sat on the glowing embers of the fire, bubbling loudly. Alex’s stomach moaned with hunger.

  ‘I have made food,’ said the dog, carefully stirring the pot. ‘For your strength. It’s not an easy walk to the centre, you know.’

  Alex steadied himself on the table. ‘The wha––?’ he slurred.