All through the scare about mad-cow disease, Clive ate British beef. ‘Well I would, wouldn’t I?’ he said. He even had some small pieces on a plate on his counter. Periodically he would dip into it and chew away at a lump of roast beef.
‘Come on you lot. Safe as houses,’ he would say.
‘My house was demolished,’ I said. ‘Turned into a car park.’
He kept threatening to leave. ‘There’s life in the old dog yet,’ he would say, grinning at the old women in the queue. Then he was gone. The shop unit was up for sale and within a week he had transferred his business to an older shop in a block of terraces across town. Victoria Street; near the motorway link road. He left his fat friend chained to the drainpipe. Within a day it had been smashed open and had been filled up with litter. A hairdresser moved into the unit and it is now called ‘Sizzers ’n’ Combs’. He said, ‘Victoria Street has lost more character than this new development will ever have.’
Sue, me and the children arrive at the sports centre on the bus. The children rush off to get changed. As they bob up and down in the false waves, I stand on the balcony in the main hall watching Sue work out in the step aerobics class. The women all stare ahead to the large mirror on the wall and eventually back to themselves in its reflection. The woman at the front of the class has a microphone on a head-set and a small radio transmitter attached to the back of her lycra shorts. Seeing her reminds me how unfit I have become. After we have finished at the centre and on our way back to the bus station, I buy a pair of cheap running shoes; I need to do something. At home I put on the shoes and squeeze into an old tracksuit of Sue’s. And I run.
Sometimes I walk but mostly I run. I run down our street. Past the row of shops, past posters for the Hoppings Fair, past advertisements for cheap flights to Barcelona, Dublin, and London. Then I run to the car park and run around my old house. Past the television into the kitchen and into the back yard. Back inside the house again and up the stairs. Into the bedroom where Sue and I made love illegally and then, according to Cooky, legally. Then into the bathroom where we had stared into the pregnancy testing kit that was showing positive. ‘That’s our baby,’ I had said and Sue had cried.
And then I run out of the house and off towards the motorway. For a while, I run with one foot on the road and one on the kerb. Then I run along the pavement, over the low bridge by the canal passed where Dave Briggs used to live. And then on, in search of Victoria Street, Fat Bastard Clive and much more besides.
Why I have to wear a pair of Wranglers
James Walker
A battered Mini plods down our street doing around 25mph. The speed is dictated more by the inadequacy of its engine than conformity to speed limits. A dog runs out under the car; straight into the side of the wheel. You can hear the thump as it clogs up the air like a painful gulp. Some kids stop playing football and I can hear them shout, ‘the fucking dog’s been hit.’ They stare ahead, too far away for altruism to grab at their conscience, and continue to play football. I hear one say that it’s not his dog; another declares his mum won’t let him have one. Soon both are laughing giving the impression that this is a natural occurrence on our street.
The Mini pauses momentarily then proceeds on its journey. The gears grind, symbolising the driver’s unease. I stop and stare at the dog as it’s only a few yards away and then stare at the car driving off into the distance; its smoke polluting the air, indicating either a rusting exhaust or perhaps an oil change is required. It is irrelevant; such duties will only be performed on MOT day when legally required. For now the car performs its perfunctory obligation in getting the driver back home.
My first thought is do I leave the dog as the Mini has? My second is I wish I was playing football with the kids. My third is I wish I wasn’t a vegetarian because now I feel morally implicated. I don’t even like animals, I just don’t eat them. Why I should feel guilty about eating something I care nothing for I will never know, but this is neither here nor there as I am here and the dog is laying there. There is nobody around I can turn to for advice and so I light up a cigarette and watch the smoke drift up towards the sky. As usual I am caught in a situation which never popped up on the syllabus at school.
As I extinguish my cigarette I hope the dog is not stuck to the floor. I don’t want to have to peel it off the road and listen to that Velcro noise it will make. I feel a little bad that this is my initial reaction, which in comparison with the dog’s life, or lack of it, is hardly a concern. Then I imagine how I would have reacted if it had been a child. I imagine I would have continued smoking and the Mini would have driven off a little faster, and the kids may have used the body as a goalpost. The last thing in the world an injured dog needs is someone locked away in his imagination, then again the last thing the dog really needed was to be hit by a Mini.
A child is at an adjacent window staring out. He has not seen the incident but has heard a noise which has aroused intrigue. His mother comes to the window, knocking the child’s head with her breast as she leans forward, before closing the curtain and resuming her position in front of the television.
I walk over to the dog because it is getting dark. If another car comes along and runs over it again I am never going to be able to peel it off the tarmac. As I close in I consider obtaining some chalk and drawing around its body. Fortunately I have no chalk at hand which forces me to take more productive action.
I considered taking it into the house with me. Putting it on the table where the TV should be, and telling mother I have brought her an inexpensive pet; one that does not need feeding or walking, a polite pet that will never bite the postman or shit on the carpet. It is an inoffensive pet that will lie next to her on the sofa and never tire of being stroked, the perfect pet for an imperfect and lazy generation. Then again perhaps I should just dump it inside the wheelie bin. I think they collect on a Thursday.
Instead I have another cigarette.
Once I ran over a snake. It was black and at first I thought it was a stick or the inner valve of a bicycle tyre. In hindsight, as far as road-kills go, it is up there with the best. You are hard fetched to find one in a field let alone slivering across the slow lane of the A52. I reversed to confirm my suspicions and although I knew it was dead I just wanted to look at it. As I wound my window down a crow made a noise and then perched upon a tree. As it squawked, I felt as if it was telling me not to worry. That it would sort out the mess. I wish that crow was here now.
Perhaps because I had run out of cigarettes I was forced into action. I edged forwards and inspected the animal, not too sure if I should stroke it or give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Suddenly the dog moves and it lets out the most delayed and pained scream I have ever heard. It is like it has sucked in the entire pain of the universe and it can bear the weight no more.
Arrrrrrraagggggggghhhhhhhhwwoooooooofehhhhhhh.
Now I’m not exaggerating, that’s exactly what it was like. It went fucking nuts. I could feel the total confusion, the pain and the frustration all juxtaposed into one deafening scream, more eloquent than if it’d been able to speak.
The dog proceeded to bound around in a circle whilst continuing its scream. It seemed to be intent on catching its tail as if this was culpable for the pain. The fact that it could not catch it seemed to frustrate it more and before I knew what was happening I became its surrogate tail. Suddenly it ran at me, diving through the air, before biting me in the nuts and bolting over the nearest garden fence. Fortunately I had on a pair of particularly tight Wranglers so its fangs couldn’t penetrate beyond undoing a seam on my flies.
Such ingratitude.
It would have been fun explaining that one to a future girlfriend. If it is not bad enough that I live with my mum, nearing thirty, unemployed and divorced without the added allure of having only half a penis due to a crazy dog. It is no wonder the kids continued to play football as the Mini drove on and that there are no crows around. Only an idiot would stop to give help.
I went
back to my place and got another packet of cigarettes as I tried to figure out which one of the neighbours’ dogs it was. Nowadays I don’t even know which one of the kids belongs to which neighbour let alone which pets. You don’t see anybody about anymore. Only kids playing football and the occasional parent struggling with ripped Co-Op bags down the road.
I knock on a few doors. Nobody knows who owns the dog but everybody wants to know why I want to know. I try to explain the howling noise it made and how it tried to bite my nuts but they just look at me like I am a pervert so I apologise for bothering them. As I make my way down the street they hang on to their front doors tracing my footsteps. They look like dominoes, all waiting to fall back inside their doors once a reason has been ascertained. I wonder if they would be so interested if Eastenders was on.
Finally a woman answers a door and admits to owning a black dog. She has a baby in her hand and immediately hands the baby to the husband. He sniffs at its nappy as if he has been set up.
‘Don’t worry. But I have some bad news.’
I watch the woman’s face turn from a pale brown to a red, before settling on white.
‘Your dog ran out in the road…’
Before I can finish she lunges at me and I feel her nails claw into my neck. One becomes lodged in my ear and I realise they are false and probably quite expensive. Then she kicks me in the nuts and I see what they mean about owners resembling their pets. She tells me I am a wanker and I should drive more carefully and then punches me so I fall back on to the floor. Within seconds she is sat on my chest and as she screams, drops of spittle fall from her mouth and land inside mine which for some strange reason, I find quite erotic. Her husband ignores the behaviour as if it is commonplace and seems only to be concerned as to why he is still holding the baby. He sniffs at the nappy again and when he can smell nothing becomes suspicious.
His wife punches me in the nuts again as if evolutionary knowledge states that this is the only way to defeat a man. Once more I am grateful for my skin-tight Wranglers that serve as armour and thankful I am not a slave to fashion, as baggies would have served as poor protection.
‘Dog killer…that was our child’s pet…poor Benji.’
There is no point explaining to her that I did not run over the dog. Sometimes it is like this in life, but through habit rather than choice, I try to explain.
‘Your dog is alive.’
‘You sick bastard. You liar. What kind of thing do you get off on?’
She is now stood above me and kicks me in the nuts. This time I feel something and a strange melting in my stomach takes place like when you leave butter near a window and it turns to a salty liquid. The seam has obviously taken its last blow and is now caving in. I will have to take them back and complain.
‘The dog hit the side of the wheel. It ran in a circle howling and then leaped over that fence. It was a massive jump, like a horse in the Grand National.’
She continues kicking, proving that women have the potential to be as good as men at football.
‘I figured the dog must be from around here as it ran off near your house. I just figured I should tell someone, as it may be curled up somewhere in pain. It’s not like it can go to a doctor or tell someone what’s happened.’
She runs off, shouting ‘Benji, my darling’ and then back towards me. ‘You bastard.’ Sometimes due to her distress she shouts ‘You bastard’ in the direction of Benji, whilst calling me ‘My darling’, something I chose not to point out.
The father walks over to me. ‘I hated that fucking dog. I bet it’s still alive as well. It’s always pissing on the floor. You don’t want to be slipping in piss after a day at work. Sometimes I think she cares more for the dog than me.’
The baby changes colour and a smell emanates from its nappy. The man shakes his head. ‘Kids and fucking dogs. It’s all shit and piss.’ He calls after his wife and when she returns he presents her with the baby, and its shit, and she starts to cry. But not before reminding me once more that I have completely destroyed her child’s happiness by killing the family pet. I do not bother to point out that the dog is still alive or that the child is so young it will have forgotten by bedtime. Instead I make my way home.
When Mother came home she asked me if I had had a good day, and like all children I told her exactly what she needed to hear; yes I had and that life was just dandy. She then had a go at me for ruining my jeans and asked me how I was going to replace them when I had no job or money. Was I expecting her to pay for a new pair when she hardly had any money as it was? I told her I was going to sew them up but she demanded them off me. If anyone was going to do any sewing it was going to be her. What did I know about sewing? And so I disrobed and presented her the damaged Wranglers, thinking to myself that I never envisaged standing in front of my mother at twenty-eight in my pants having her still look after me.
After that day every time I saw that bloody dog it would run at me and try to bite me. Over time it became less fixated on my nuts and seemed to settle for any bodily part it could sink its teeth in to. I suppose we all settle for second best in the end and that this is better than nothing. The Wranglers served as ample protection and I soon found myself buying a jacket to match so my arms and chest had similar protection. Meeting a girl I accepted would now be impossible, unless they were into double denim.
Strangest of all was after biting me everyday the dog would still run in a circle and then leap over an adjacent fence. It was as if it had been given a new role in life, a new perspective. I don’t know if it thought it was a horse or if it thought it could fly now, but it certainly seemed happier. Maybe its near death experience gave it a new lease of life, no longer constrained by the limitations of its species. But to be perfectly honest, it was me who was experiencing the possibility of death each time I left the house as its owner continued to attack me as well.
Over time I have come to accept that it will be hard to persuade future girlfriends that I am a good person whilst being constantly attacked by my neighbour and her pet. Besides, it’s never really ever that bad. As a result of running away from Benji and his owner I have lost a little weight and am reasonably fit. Perhaps when I have reached my peak fitness I will keep on running until I find a neighbourhood of sensible adults and sensible pets and drivers that are more careful on roads.
Authors Biogs
Malcolm Aslett was born in South Shields and grew up in the North East though he has spent much of his adult life abroad. He is married and presently lives in Buckinghamshire.
Peter Bromley lives in Northumberland. As well as having work published in Route 14, he has had short fiction published in Chapman, the Echo Room and has won a number of awards, including the 2004 Biscuit Publication competition and a New Writing North Northern Promise award. He is currently putting together a collection of short stories.
Mark Costello was born in Batley, 1969. After being a biscuit packer, aluminium fabricator and care assistant, he decided to get educated. A few years later having gained a degree in Sociology and training as a Careers Adviser then Teacher, he met a princess called Cathryn had a son called Bram moved to Cumbria and had a daughter called Dory. All four now live in the middle of a sheep field up the side of a fell. This is Mark’s first attempt at short story writing. He may write another.
Steve Dearden was writer-in-residence at Bluewater Shopping Centre as part of www.architexts.org and is currently one of three Yorkshire based writers working with three from Ostrobothnia, Finland on Interland, a watery tour and publication. He runs the National Association for Literature Development and the Writing Squad for writers aged 16-20. Visit www.stevedearden.com
Penny Feeny is an award-winning short story writer whose work has appeared widely in print, on radio and online. Her publication credits include Atlantic Monthly, Mslexia, Staple and The Reader as well as Arc’s Northern Stories anthology and Tindal Street’s Her Majesty. She has lived and worked in various cities: Cambridge, Bristol, London and Rome, but has b
een settled for many years now in Liverpool with her family.
Jane Graham is bitten by a certain wanderlust and, at the point of publication, resides in Denmark. Previous works include Floozy (published in 1997 by Slab-O-Concrete), a series of sometimes funny, often nerve-racking adventures around the more grubby haunts of the north of England, Kitchen Sink which appeared in the anthology Brit Pulp! in 1999, and the self-published zine Shag Stamp produced throughout the nineties and still remembered among zinesters. She is also a regular contributor to the underground periodical Headpress. Expectanz was written shortly after giving birth to her first child.
Lee James Harrison was born and bound to the Nation-State of Kingston-upon-Hull. From a young age, he tried to write about monsters and baddies, rather than deal with his life. ‘I nearly might have had a story made into a film’ he screams. More stories and an attempt at a novel are forthcoming. He has no spare time, but is often seen staggering along the fish-paved streets of Hull wearing a paisley tuxedo, speaking in a badly dubbed voice and spraying Lynx at gullible tourists.
Mandy MacFarlane is from Dundee and has lived in Leeds for the last eleven years. She is currently putting together a collection of short stories for publication.
Char March is an award-winning poet and playwright. Credits include: three collections of poetry, five BBC Radio 4 plays and seven stage plays. She has also been published widely in literary magazines and anthologies here and in the States. Char is currently working on her fourth poetry collection and her first novel. She grew up in Scotland and now divides her time between the Highlands and Yorkshire.
James Nash grew up in West London. He came to Leeds University in 1971 to do an MA in English and Anglo-Irish literature. Having taught for many years in inner-city schools, he now works as a journalist and writer, editing a poetry column in The Leeds Guide. His third collection of poems Coma Songs was published in 2003 to great acclaim. He is writer-in-residence for Leeds University, Faculty of Education, and for High Schools in Calderdale. He also teaches creative writing at HM Prison Wakefield, and hosts many literary events across the country.
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