by Nikki Attree
He opens the side door, carefully picks up Doodle, and gently places her in the cage on a filthy old blanket. Doodle is not impressed. She’s used to the leather back seat of an immaculately valeted limousine, not being stuck in a cage in this crappy old rust bucket. Goodness knows where some of the smells come from. She shudders just thinking about it.
Harry grabs Gizmo, tosses him roughly into the cage, slams the door shut, and jumps in the driver’s seat. They never expected to be stealing two dogs of course, so it’s more than a little cramped in the cage. Gizmo is stoic. He can handle being intimately squashed together, but Doodle is not amused. “This is an outrageous way to treat next year’s winner of the Oscar for Best Non-Human Performance” she woofs. “Just wait till my mistress finds out.”
Gizmo assumes that she’s talking about herself rather than the actual star of the movie, and hey, who got chucked in here by the human gorilla anyway? But again he does his chivalrous best to reassure her. “Don’t worry, we’ll soon be back on my paradise island. You’ll love it there” he woofs.
Harry turns round and hisses menacingly to the dogs to “stop that f-ing barking, or else ...” Gizmo curls up around Doodle protectively and she relaxes a bit. Harry starts the engine. They see the receptionist wake up, stretch, and look around sleepily. The dognappers dive down in their seats like a pair of cartoon villains. Doodle looks at Gizmo and he does the canine equivalent of a shrug. They wait a few minutes until the receptionist is asleep again, and drive off with the two dogs curled up together in the cage.
Within thirty seconds Gizmo is snoring contentedly. Rusty vans and smelly cages don’t faze him. Traveling by road always relaxes him. Doodle is still sniffing the blanket suspiciously, and making little whimpering noises, but she’s soothed as Gizmo snuggles up to her, and soon both dogs are asleep.
After their previous experience with Angus, Jack is expecting a lot more resistance from the hostages. The lack of commotion from the back of the van is unexpected, and initially reassuring, but after a few minutes he starts to worry that something’s wrong with them. He asks Harry to stop the van.
“Bloody ‘ell Jack, the dogs are fine. I’m not going to f-ing stop now! This is s’posed to be a bleedin getaway, remember? As in getting away from that poncey dog ‘otel.”
For once the Lad has to admit that his partner has a point. They do need to put some distance between themselves and the crime scene. “OK mate, I suppose you’re right. It's just that they’re so quiet back there. I’m worried that they might be traumatised.”
“You worry me sometimes mate, you really do. For fecks sake, they’re only dogs!”
Harry puts his foot down. Jack takes a look behind him, and decides to let sleeping dogs lie this time. The dognappers head towards the M25, as perJack’s meticulously planned getaway route. Rather than head straight for home, which is definitely where Harry would rather be heading, the Lad reckons they should take a few detours in case anyone is following. After a few hours driving around the M25, it’s just getting light and Harry has had enough. They make their way back to Stoke Newington.
* * *
A couple of hours later Jennifer arrives at Wags to start her morning shift. She greets the night receptionist, who is getting ready to clock off. As he prepares to leave, she glances at the screens and points out to him that one of them is blank.
“Must be another dodgy camera” he says.
“OK, I’ll get it fixed. Who’s in that room?”
“Um, I think that’s Doodle, or possibly Gizmo? Whatever. Anyway, they’re both checking out early to catch a plane. They might have left already? I’m not sure.” He shrugs. “Alright then, I’m off home to get some sleep.”
“Yeah right. Like you’ve been awake all night - not!” Jennifer thinks to herself, but she says goodbye politely and starts her daily routine, cursing the lazy night guy as she chucks his empty crisp packets and cans of lager in the bin.
Next on her schedule is an early morning check of the rooms. She finds most of them empty. The canine occupants are already wolfing down breakfast, or taking their first exercise of the day. As she works her way methodically down the corridor, she comes across an occasional late sleeper who’s owners have requested the “Do Not Disturb - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie!” sign. As she reaches the end of the corridor she’s surprised to see one of these, complete with the cute little picture of a pampered pooch snoring happily, hanging on the door handle of Doodle’s room.
“That’s odd” she thinks. “Isn’t she meant to be getting up early to catch a plane?” She enters the room. It’s empty. “Phew. Panic over. The film company’s driver must have taken them to the airport already.”
Then she notices the Wags cap draped over the camera. “Aha. I know that trick” she thinks, blushing slightly. “That explains the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. I bet our night man has been doing some ‘entertaining’ in here.” With a shudder she straightens the bed covers and removes the Wags cap from the camera. “God knows who with though. He’s a right smelly slob. Very different from the smart young man who was checking the facilities with me the other day.”
She smiles to herself, and the memory puts an extra spring in her step as she returns to the reception desk. The camera is working again. “That’s one less thing to fix this morning” she thinks, yawning and settling back in the plush leather chair with a copy of her favourite showbiz magazine.
She wiles away a pleasant enough hour without too many distractions. More staff arrive and go about their jobs: exercising the guests; feeding, watering and entertaining them; cleaning the rooms; preparing the endless round of gourmet meals. She greets Charlotte, the stylist, and they share a bit of hot gossip about one of the celebrities in Jennifer’s magazine.
It’s just another routine morning at Wags, until a stretch-limo with blacked-out windows pulls up. A uniformed chauffeur gets out, swings through the big glass door, and marches up to the desk. “Good morning. I’m from ‘Cutting Edge Films’. Here to collect Gizmo and Doodle and take them to Gatwick.”
Jennifer looks up from her magazine, and stares at him in confusion. “Well, I’m sorry but I think you might be too late. I believe they’ve left already. You must be double booked.”
“No, no, that’s not possible. Look, it says nine am on my manifest.” He hands her his clipboard, and takes out his mobile. A few minutes later he has confirmed with his controller that no-one else has been sent to do the pickup.
“That’s very strange,” Jennifer says, puzzled. “I was sure that they’d been collected. They weren’t in their rooms when I looked, and I haven’t seen them this morning. Let me just check the computer.” She stares at the screen and navigates to the relevant page. There’s no sign that the dogs have checked out, or that their bill has been paid.
“Can you wait here please. They must still be in the hotel somewhere.” She bustles off in search of the canine film stars and looks everywhere, but there’s no sign of them. She returns to reception flustered, embarrassed, and more than slightly anxious. This has never happened before, and she’s not sure what to do.
“Have they done a runner?” she wonders, panicking now. Surely that’s not possible with the triple fencing and security systems at Wags? Even the dozy night guy wouldn’t have just opened the front door and let them walk out into the night. “Maybe they’ve been smuggled out by the client to avoid paying the bill?” she speculates. But no, that’s highly unlikely given the type of client and the budget involved in making their movie.
She calls the manager and explains the situation as calmly as she can. He struts over to the desk and starts to interrogate her. The chauffeur interrupts their whispered exchange: “look, I’m sorry but I can’t hang around here all day. I’ve got another pickup waiting at Gatwick. I’ll let the office know that there’s been a mix-up with the client.” He walks out of the hotel and drives off.
The manager gathers all the staff, and together they search every inch of the hotel. It’s a fruitl
ess, dogless, and as we know, pointless exercise. The manager scratches his head. This has never happened before. The two dogs appear to have vanished. He realises that he has to call the client. He picks up the phone, dials Cutting Edge Films, and asks to speak to Elizabeth.
Five minutes later and he is also flustered, embarrassed, and more than slightly anxious that his job at Wags might not be as secure as he supposed before this morning. The conversation did not go well:
“Hello. My name is Mr Charmley-Walker, executive client liaison at Wags - the Hilton for Hounds?”
Elizabeth: “oh yes, I was just about to call you. My logistics person has just told me that there’s been some kind of mix up with transport. I hope that my dogs have left for the airport now?”
“Well, that’s what I was calling you about, madam. We wondered if you’d had them collected earlier than arranged? You see, there’s no sign of the invoice being settled.”
“What are you talking about? Of course not. We booked the limo to collect them at nine. The driver signs the register, and you send us the bill. Why the hell did he leave without them? Where are the dogs now?”
A pause. “Umm ... as I say, that’s what I was calling you about, madam. We assumed that you have them.”
“No, of course I don't!” A longer pause. “Are you telling me that you don't know where they are? That you’ve lost them?”
An even longer pause. “Umm ... lost them, no ... that’s not possible at Wags ...”
“Well, what the hell are you saying then?”
A pause that seems endless, while the manager analyses and rejects all the possibilities, before arriving at the only one that remains possible:
“I think we might have to think the unthinkable and contemplate the doomsday scenario. It’s possible that your dogs have been stolen!”
This time there’s not much of a pause before Elizabeth explodes: “What the f...” Then she reverts to an icily emotionless tone. “Right. Stay where you are. I’ll be there in half an hour. If you’re are correct, Mr Charmer-Whatsit, and the two lead actors in our current film project have indeed been kidnapped ...”
The manager interrupts: “don’t you mean dog-napped?”
“What I mean is that we will see to it that the entire world gets to hear about this!” she yells, “... and I will personally make sure that you will no longer find employment in any business that services the film industry.”
She slams the phone down without a pause, and barks to her p/a to cancel all her meetings and hold all her calls: she’ll be out of the office indefinitely. As she drives to Wags the implications of what she has just been told start to sink in. She is very angry, very worried, and quite upset. Angry that people she has employed have failed to do the job that she has paid them bloody well to do; worried that months of work might be about to go down the drain; and, of course, a little bit upset that the dogs are missing, although she is more upset about the possible repercussions for her relationship with her daughter than about the dogs’ welfare.
So she is, for sure, very angry; certainly very worried; and probably quite upset; but there’s another little bit of her brain that is computing the publicity value of all this. As we know, Elizabeth is a master of multi tasking, and she can compute marketing strategies while doing anger, worry, and upset. She replays the conversation she’s just had with the odious Mr Charmer from Wags, and thinks: “the entire world gets to hear about this? Hmm, that’s quite a chunk of our target audience.”
9 HOSTAGES AT HARRY’S
Early that morning, as the dogs’ disappearance is being discovered at Wags, the dognappers finally arrive back in Stoke Newington, after one of the more protracted getaways in history. They’re both exhausted, and as usual Harry is complaining. Jack reminds him that this is their big break, and so far everything has gone to plan.
OK, so not quite everything. This time they have two dogs instead of one, but they can cope with that, maybe even use it to their advantage. Jack is not quite sure exactly how yet, but as always the cogs are turning, and he’s working on it. Anyway, all they have to do is hold their nerve, carry out the rest of his plan correctly, and they’ll be in the money.
Harry goes to the back of the van, opens the cage door, and tries to grab Doodle. She growls at him, and Gizmo wakes up. He usually has to be persuaded to leave a vehicle, and Harry looks like he’s about to do some persuading. He raises his fist threateningly, and Jack has to intervene: "I'll get the dogs into the house mate, you go and park the van in the lockup."
“Yeah, alright then. I’m fekin knackered. I need some kip, so I’ll leave the mutts to you, mate.”
After a bit of gentle coaxing, Jack leads the dogs into the house. He puts a bowl of water in front of them and Gizmo starts slurping it enthusiastically. Doodle looks confused and woofs to Gizmo: “so, where’s my bowl then?” He’s too busy slurping to answer.
“Oh no, don't tell me, we have to share? How disgusting! I’ll just wait till he fetches a bowl for me."
"Suit yourself princess” Gizmo woofs, wiping his whiskers. “Honestly, I don't know why you’re so fussy ... we were sharing a lot more than a bowl of water last night." He does the canine equivalent of a wink at her.
Jack notices that one of the dogs isn't drinking, so he moves the bowl closer to Doodle, but she turns her nose up and looks at him expectantly. He leaves the bowl on the kitchen floor, thinking: “perhaps this one is a bit nervous. She’ll drink when she’s ready anyway.”
Gizmo jumps up on the sofa and is soon snoring, but the Lad shoos him off. "You can't sleep there, mate. Harry will go nuts, and you don’t want to be anywhere near him when he’s angry."
He’s already decided that the dogs will stay in the spare bedroom when Harry is in the house. He doesn't want to leave them in the shed where they might woof and disturb the neighbours, but Harry isn’t too happy with this arrangement: “the mutts should be outside, not in the ‘ouse. It’s disgustin. Them fleabags must be full of fekin germs!”
“That’s ironic, coming from you, mate” Jack thinks. His partner’s idea of personal hygiene is a shower every two weeks, and he’s never grasped the concept of washing dishes - he just reuses the same plate, ignoring the colourful fungus growing on it. Jack keeps these thoughts to himself, and just reminds Harry that they need to keep a low profile with the dogs. It would be a disaster if anyone spots them, or worse, complains to the police about the noise.
“Yeah, alright, whatever. I’m too fekin knackered to argue with you, mate.” Harry yawns. “I need to catch up on some kip” and with that he disappears into his room.
While his partner sleeps, Jack decides to examine the dogs more closely. Logically, although the dogs look identical only one of them can actually be their target: Doodle. Perhaps they are not identical in every detail.
He sits down beside the more laid-back pooch, and starts stroking his fur, speaking softly: "so, are you Doodle, my friend?” No reaction from the dog he’s stroking, but the other one turns her head. “OK, let’s have a closer look at your 'bits' and see if you’re a girl doggy ...” Gizmo lifts his head, and gives Jack one of his one-eyed quizzical looks. “You’re such a good dog, I’m just going to turn you over and stroke your tummy ..."
Now Gizmo thinks it’s play time. He jumps up, and gleefully starts running around the sofa, making his “you can’t catch me” woof. Jack chases him, until eventually they are both exhausted. He manages to flip Gizmo over, and he lies on the sofa panting while Jack stokes his tummy. "Aha, so you do have a pinky, don’t you?” Another quizzical look from Gizmo. “Now we’re getting somewhere. So, you can’t be Doodle." A thoughtful pause as the familiar cogs turn in Jack’s brain. “You must be somebody’s doodle, but I wonder who’s ...?
Jack’s cogitations are interrupted by a rumpus from the next room. All the manic chasing and woofing has woken Harry. He flings open the door, barges into the room, and sees Gizmo on the settee. "Get that stinking mutt off my sofa!" he shouts. Gizmo j
umps down and runs over to Doodle, who is cowering in the corner, shaking with fear.
Jack tries to calm his partner down: "keep your voice down mate, we don't want the dogs to be terrified of us."
"Why the ‘ell not?” Harry snarls back. “They’re meant to be our feckin prisoners ain’t they? That’s the plan isn’t it? Or are they part of the bleedin family now?”
Jack shakes his head sadly, and looks at the dogs cowering in the corner. “Yes mate, that’s the plan. Anyway, I’ve worked out which one is our winning lottery ticket.”
“Yeah? That’s clever of you, mate” Harry hisses sarcastically. Secretly though, he’s impressed. The dogs look identical to him, and he can’t imagine how The Lad has sorted them out. "OK. Right then. So, what we gonna do with the other one? I say we get a sack and chuck it in the river."
Jack looks at Harry incredulously. He accepts that his partner lacks basic social skills, and he realises that he likes to act the hard man, but he still hopes that deep down he’s not such a bad guy. Jack himself sees no reason why being a a career criminal is any excuse to be unpleasant, and certainly not a reason to be cruel to animals.
"No Harry, we’re not going to chuck the dog in the river. Apart from being barbaric, it’s stupid. Think about it, mate. Where did we nick them from? A mega posh dog hotel. So, whoever he belongs to can afford to pay well to get his pooch back safe and sound, rather than a drowned corpse. Don’t you think, mate?”
A pause while the rusty cogs in Harry’s brain grind painfully slowly. “Yeah, well I s’pose you’ve got a fair point there" he agrees reluctantly.
"OK. Thank you. I’m glad you agree” Jack says, relieved. He looks at the dogs and Gizmo gives him another quizzical look, also relieved that the humans seem to be a bit less angry now. “Right then, I better take these two for a walk, they must need to go to the toilet by now."
