by Nikki Attree
Since then Jack had found it difficult to let himself truly love anyone. What had happened to his dog could just as easily happen with a person, and he never wanted to experience that gut-retching feeling, ever again. The feeling of having his best friend wrenched away from him was just too raw. So he dealt with it by never allowing himself to get too involved.
Now Angus was reawakening those long buried emotions, and it scares him.
* * *
The next morning the dog’s stomach has stopped rumbling, and he seems much better. Jack takes him for a walk, and he trots along the High Street on the bit of string that they’re using as a lead. Harry is relieved to hear that they can finally exchange the mutt for some dosh, so after breakfast the dognappers go to see Harry's mum to give her the lowdown, leaving Angus to snooze happily on Jack’s bed.
Pauline lives in a council house just off the Holloway Road. All the other houses in the street have been sold to their tenants or to property developers. The area is fast becoming ‘gentrified’, but Pauline is bucking the trend.
The council have a long list of complaints from her neighbors and have tried many times to re-home her. Every few months they send round a housing officer to explain that she must move out within three months, and that they have a much bigger, better house for her.
Pauline’s answer is always the same. She’s having nothing to do with no ‘ousing officer, and she’s staying put. They’re going to have to drag her out by ‘er dead body, and they’re welcome to ‘ave a go. The house is just round the corner from her 'ome from 'ome - Holloway prison, and she ain’t moving no further away from it.
Pauline's case has become the stuff of legends in the local housing department. They never refer to her by name, simply as: “the Difficult Client” (or simply “DC”). Those of the staff that have made one of the DC visits talk, in hushed tones, about “the Appointment from Hell" (or “AFH”) and refuse pointblank to go near the house again. At least, not without considerable financial inducement and police back-up.
Given the absence of volunteers, the manager either resorts to drawing straws, or waits for a newly recruited housing officer. The blissfully unaware recruit is told that they are being assigned to the DC case, and that they must arrange an AFH. The new staff member has no idea what these acronyms mean, but they sound important, and of course they are keen to impress.
The fresh-faced young officer arrives 'chez Pauline' full of hope, confident that he can resolve this straightforward relocation issue ... and returns to the office mentally drained, and often physically scarred. The manager considers it a very useful training exercise though. A baptism of fire, like training new soldiers with live ammunition.
Anyhow, we digress ... Jack and Harry arrive at Pauline’s infamous house and ring the bell. It’s not working, so they bang on the window. There’s a shout from inside: “if you’re from the pigin ‘ousing you can bugger off!”
Harry’s been here before. “No ma, it’s only me” he shouts.
Pauline undoes the six heavy-duty bolts, opens the front door, and gives her son a big hug. Once he can breathe again, Harry greets his mum and Jack explains her role in their cunning plan: “give Angus' owner a ring, and say you found their dog wandering up Highgate Hill. Tell ‘em that you got their number from the poster outside the butchers when you went to buy a bit of chicken for the pooch.”
"Sounds easy enough, I can do that" she says, and a few minutes later she’s called the grateful owner and arranged to return Angus that afternoon.
“Lovely jubbly. Well done Pauline. Now we’re cooking on gas” says the Lad. “Right then, have you got anything else to wear that’s not quite so, umm...” Jack pauses, looks to Harry for help, gets a blank look, and eventually finishes his sentence: “...that’s not quite so erm colourful?”.
Pauline looks confused, then annoyed. “Oi just you watch it. What the bleedin ‘ell do you mean colourful? What the fuck’s wrong with leopard-skin and pink? I always dress very sophisticated, don't I ‘Arry?"
"Yeah that’s right ma. You dress real posh."
“Yeah right mate” Jack thinks, “your idea of smart is changing a T-shirt once a month.” Anyway, at least Harry has got the right idea: they have to humour Pauline for the plan to succeed. He tries again ...
“No, no don't get me wrong Pauline. Of course you dress very well. It's just that we want to go for the sympathy vote. If you turn up with Angus wearing what you’ve got on now, they’ll never believe you’re a poor pensioner and need the reward money. I mean, you just don’t look old enough. See what I mean ...?”
“Oh, right, yeah I get yer drift.” Pauline calms down, pats her bleached hair, and preens herself like a toothless old peacock. “OK, well let’s see ... I’ve got that coat what Tracey (Pauline’s eldest) gave me for me seventieth, bless ‘er. I ain’t never worn it, to be honest, but don’t go telling ‘er.”
She puts the sensible black overcoat on, and it’s a big improvement, but it’s not quite long enough to cover up the leggings. Jack looks at Pauline and smiles weakly.
“What’s that look ‘sposed to mean eh? Still not granny enough for yer then?"
"Well, nearly ... we’re getting there. The thing is, your leggings are still showing" replies Jack nervously.
"So what the fuck’s the matter with that?” She looks like she’s about ready to give the Lad a slap now, but again his diplomacy and acting skills diffuse the situation: "well, it’s the same thing again Pauline. They make you look far too young ... and attractive” he adds quickly. “Same with your hair. It should really be grey, not that lovely natural blond colour. Um, have you got a hat you can cover it up with?”
“Oh fer fark’s sake, if I’d known that I ‘ad to get dressed up like an old bat, I’d never ‘ave told ‘Arry I’d do it.”
Pauline is getting increasingly exasperated now, and the whole plan is in danger of going pear-shaped, until Jack saves the day with some quick thinking yet again: “Harry told me that you used to be the best con-woman in North London. I bet you had some great disguises back then? It’ll be just like the old days. Oh, and I nearly forgot: did he mention that you’ll be making a couple of hundred quid by helping us out?”
Finally Pauline is convinced: “yeah, you’re right - I was pretty clever with lookin the part in them days. Still am ‘an all. OK, I s’pose there might be a woolly hat around ‘ere somewhere, and I think I’ve still got them black leggings I wear to funerals."
Once Pauline has her “disguise” on she looks a lot less scary, and less like she’s just escaped from a seventies ‘Carry On’ movie.
“Brilliant ma. You never lost it. You’re still on top of yer game” Harry says, sounding relieved, and Jack agrees: “yep, you’re all set now. Let’s just run through the rest of the plan, OK Pauline? We’ll drop you off with the dog a couple of streets away from the house. Once you’ve collected the dosh, get a taxi back to the community centre in Haringey, and then get a bus back home."
Pauline gives him a blank look. Her eyes are glazing over as she reaches the limits of her attention span, and she’s confused again: "why the ‘ell can't I just get a taxi straight back ‘ome then?"
Jack sighs. He’s also reaching the limits of his patience. “Just in case the dog’s owners are suspicious and follow you. Oh, and obviously don’t give them your real name or address, OK?”
They say goodbye to Pauline. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours, ma” Harry shouts as they get back in the car.
“Well, that went well” he says to Jack as they drive off. The Lad sighs, and wonders, yet again, if he chose the right partner in crime.
* * *
A few hours later they’re back to pick up Pauline (disguised as a harmless old lady) and drop her off a few blocks from Angus' house in Hampstead.
“Remember what you have to say Pauline? And what not to say?” Jack reminds her.
"Yeah, yeah I remember. Give us the bleedin mutt then."
Jack pats the po
och on the head, and speaks softly to him: "goodbye Angus mate. You'll be back with your owner very soon. Be a good boy, and don’t eat too many of them bickies.” He passes the dog to Pauline.
Harry just can’t believe this. “You’re definitely going soft mate. I keep telling you: it’s just a stinkin mutt!” he says, laughing his head off.
Pauline waddles off around the corner and arrives at Angus’ house. It looks like a mansion. She presses the bell on the massive wrought-iron gates and a disembodied voice speaks posh to her: “yes? Good morning. To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“It’s Paul... umm...” she remembers, just in time, not to use her real name. “Er, it’s missus Spencer here with your mutt - um sorry, I mean your lovely little dog.”
“Oh yes, excellent. I’ll just tell Mrs Hamilton-Cooper. She’ll be so relieved. I am her housekeeper. Please wait at the gate for a moment.”
“Blimey” thinks Pauline, “the bleedin woman’s so posh she ‘as someone to answer ‘er own front door!”
A moment later the electric gate swings open to reveal a sweeping gravel drive. An elegantly dressed woman in her mid fifties comes out of the house. When she sees Angus she bursts into tears.
"My poor baby! I’m so glad to see you. I thought that you were gone for ever. Come to mummy, quick, quick ..."
Pauline yanks Angus by the bit of string so hard that he flies through the air, narrowly missing an expensive-looking ceramic pot. “Ere ee is then ...”
“Mrs Spencer, I beg you, please be careful with my precious little furry angel!"
“Yeah, er sorry” Pauline says, biting her lip and trying not to laugh.
Angus is lifted off his paws and showered with kisses. When the touching reunion is finally over, Mrs Hamilton-Cooper thanks Pauline profusely, and asks if she would like a cup of tea.
"No fanks. Must be runnin’ along now. Y’know, fings to do, an’ all that"
"Ah yes, of course. Don’t let me keep you. I'll just open the gate for you then." She points a remote control at the wrought-iron gates and they swing open smoothly.
Pauline stands there for a minute, wondering when this ‘Amilton-whatsit woman is going to give her the dosh. The two women look at each other expectantly.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs Spencer? Would you like my chauffeur, Arthur, to give you a lift home in the Bentley?"
"No, I’m alright fanks. I'll get a taxi ‘ome. It's just that I need some cash ..." Pauline hopes that this will prompt the posh woman to hand over the reward money.
“Oh yes, of course. I am sorry. Yes, some cash, of course. I'll just get my handbag.”
Mrs Hamilton-Cooper returns with her handbag, and hands over the money with a grateful smile. Pauline stares at the two ten-pound notes in her hand, and makes a kind of angry spluttering noise. It sounds like several hundred four-letter words being rapidly swallowed.
"Is that not sufficient, Mrs Spencer? I am terribly sorry, but I never take taxis. We have Arthur, you see. So I’m quite out of touch. Here's another ten pounds. Will that be enough to get you home?”
Now Pauline is starting to get properly angry, and it’s not a pretty sight. The nice old lady disguise can’t hide the seething rage. This farkin posh bitch is ‘avin a larf. She promised two thousand quid on the phone. Bugger Jack’s softly-softly methods, she’s going to have to use her own rather more direct approach ...
"Now look ‘ere missus. When we spoke on the dog-and-bone earlier, you said you would ‘ave two fousan quid ready for me. You’ve got yer mutt back, now where’s my money? I’m a farkin pensioner you know, and I ain’t even got enough dosh to feed me own dog. You don’t want ‘im to starve to def do ya?”
The last bit is said in an impressively menacing tone. It’s meant as a threat rather than aiming for Jack’s “sympathy vote”.
Mrs Hamilton-Cooper takes a step back and says timidly: “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Spencer. I had no idea that you were in such dire straights. I thought you might be offended if I offered you reward money.”
“Bleedin ‘ell, why the feck would I be offended?" Pauline shouts.
Mrs Hamilton-Cooper scurries back into the house and returns with the cash. She hands it to Pauline, who counts it meticulously. It’s all there.
“Right, I’ll be off then. Oh and fanks for the taxi money. Every little bit ‘elps us poor grannies y’know.”
* * *
Jack and Harry are in the ‘Bucket of Blood’ celebrating the success of their first dognapping, and spending some of their ill-gotten gains.
“Drinks are on me!” says Harry, after carefully checking that they’re the only customers.
“Oh, thanks very much. I’ll ‘ave a double malt then” says Rosie, the exuberantly endowed barmaid.
Harry scowls at her, but it can’t spoil his good mood. “ ‘Ere’s to the first of many, mate. Jobs for us I mean, Jack lad. And drinks for you Rosie, of course” he smirks, and winks at her.
Jack is equally elated that his cunning plan has worked like a dream. Well, all except for Pauline’s contribution. That was a bit of a nightmare to be honest.
“Yep, cheers mate. We make a good team eh ‘Arry?” he says, a little uncertainly. “Your muscle, my brain, and Pauline’s umm ...”
“Style?” says Harry. They both laugh, drink up, and get another round in.
“Right then. Let’s get down the ‘eath tomorrow and nick anuver one, eh Jack? Strike while the iron’s ‘ot an all that.”
The Lad is rather less gung-ho. He’s advising caution, and explains to Harry that if a whole string of dogs go missing from the same location it’s just going to alert the police. They have to be careful to leave enough time between raids, and lie low until the heat is off. What’s more, it worked like clockwork this time because they did the background research. If they just nick any old random mutt from the heath, how will they know if the owner is loaded? No, they have to put in the hard work and stake out their next victim properly.
* * *
The following morning Jack goes back to the Heath, on his own. It’s better like that. Harry just doesn’t have the patience for the research side of the job, whereas for the Lad it’s all part of being a professional criminal. His parents brought him up with a strong work ethic, and middle-class aspirations. Deep down he’s always wanted a ‘proper’ job. Now that job is crime, he’s determined to make a career of it.
He remembers something they taught him at the posh private school: “if you fail to prepare, then prepare to fail.” Yep they had a point, but perhaps they didn’t envisage the kind of preparation that he’s doing right now: stalking dog walkers for their next victim.
Of course there were some perks to the job. You’re basically your own boss (or partner in Jack’s case); you can choose your own hours (in collaboration with your colleague(s) of course); and being out-and-about on a lovely morning like today was the best part of being a stalker.
So there he was, full of the joys of spring, happily wandering around the Heath studying dogs and their owners. When he spots a potential target he waits till the dog-walker isn’t looking, and snaps a photo on his phone. If they notice him he pretends to be besotted by their cute pooch.
Actually, this doesn’t require much pretense from Jack. He’s finding himself increasingly fascinated by dogs, and starting to feel quite envious of their owners. Every day they had the perfect excuse to get out of the house into the fresh air, and their pooches’ antics were just so funny. As he watches their carefree running, jumping, digging, sniffing each other, it seems to be an excellent way to escape from everyday stress for a bit.
There’s clearly a close bond between the dogs and their humans. Well, most of them anyway. He sees them talking affectionately, cuddling them, and he thinks how true the old cliché is: ‘man’s best friend’. These doggie people have got it right: if you want a really loyal friend, then you’re probably best off with a dog. He wonders how things might have turned out if his dad
hadn’t got rid of Scruffy, and his good mood starts to sour. He quickly reminds himself that he’s there to work, not to mope around feeling sorry for himself.
As he studies the canine arena more closely, he notices that while most of the doggie people have totally bonded with their pets and are clearly the owners, there’s a small minority who don’t seem to be having as much fun. They’re not bothering to throw sticks, or even let their dogs off the lead at all. For them it seems to be more of a chore, to be got out of the way as quickly as possible. These humans are more likely to shout angrily at their pooch if he wants to stop for a bit of a sniff, and yank him around by the lead, rather than call him a good boy and throw a stick for him.
Jack concludes that these are probably the professional dog-walkers, and he targets them. Their employers are so busy making money that they can’t afford half an hour to exercise their own pooch. Not only does that make them the wealthiest, but also, in Jack’s opinion, the most deserving of targets. I mean, if they can’t be bothered to spend a bit of time with their dog, then why have one? Well, in that case, let’s see how much they really miss their pooch.
One young woman seems particularly annoyed with her canine client (a gorgeous white Labrador-Poodle cross, with long legs and floppy ears). Jack instantly falls for the pooch, but feels nothing but anger for the walker. It’s clear from her body language and behavior that she just wants to get this over with as soon as possible. The poor pooch is never allowed a second to settle, have a sniff, lift a leg, say hello to a furry friend.
The girl doesn’t even look at the dog as she drags it along by the collar. She’s wearing headphones and she’s totally absorbed in her little screen, stabbing away at it and occasionally speaking out loud. A casual observer from just a few decades ago might have considered this kind of behavior worryingly eccentric, perhaps even a symptom of mental illness, but nowadays it was, of course, quite normal to see people walking along talking to thin air.
