Somebody's Doodle

by Nikki Attree

  “Yeah, OK. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone then” he says, leering at Annie. He props up Pauline, and they stagger out into the night.

  Jack breathes a sigh of relief. The evening hasn’t exactly gone according to plan, but he hopes that it hasn’t done too much damage to his budding romance. He attempts some damage limitation: "sorry about Harry, he can be a bit tactless sometimes.”

  “Oh, don’t worry” Annie replies. “He’s a bit of a character, but I come across much worse in my work. Speaking of which ...” Out of the corner of her eye she’s just noticed another punter, slouched over his pint in a dimly lit corner, but annoyingly familiar.

  Jack ignores the distraction, and continues trying to put the record straight: “he's not really a friend, by the way. He offered me a room in his house while I’m looking for my own place, in exchange for helping to look after the dogs. We’re doing a bit of business together at the moment, but I’m planning to move on once our current project goes through. Like I was saying, I’m seriously considering trying to start up something to do with dogs. Perhaps you can even help me think through my options? I’d really appreciate your input.”

  Annie nods politely, but she’s only half listening to him. The shady punter in the corner has recognised her, and is scowling in her direction. It’s the odious mister Snake, the dodgy pet shop owner, who believes that dyeing parrots to increase their rarity value is good business practice. Of course, his shop: 'Da Mutt's Nuts’ is just around the corner, so it’s not surprising that he’s drinking in here. He doesn’t look too pleased to see her in his local.

  “Do you mind if we leave now?” she says to Jack. “I can feel one of my migraines coming on, and you don’t want to be around me if that happens.”

  “Yes, of course, no worries. I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

  She smiles at him. “Thanks for an interesting evening. It was good to visit your local, and meet your partner. I feel like I know you a little better. And of course I’ll help with your doggie startup, if I can. I’m not sure how much I can contribute though. I’m more of a cat person, as you know.”

  She’s relieved to hear that Jack’s dealings with his “business partner” will be concluded soon. She really didn’t like Harry at all. “A nasty bit of work” she’s thinking to herself as they make their way towards the exit. Not for the first time she wonders exactly what kind of business Jack is engaged in, and whether things can really work with him if this is the kind of company he keeps.

  Speaking of nasty bits of work ... as they head for the street, they pass Snake, skulking in his dimly lit corner. He looks up at Annie, hisses an obscenity, and spits in her direction. She flinches, but holds his gaze steadily.

  Jack can’t believe it. He bristles with anger and prepares for a full-on confrontation, but Annie tugs his arm and bustles him out of the pub. “Who the hell was that?” he demands, “and why on earth was he so rude to you?”

  “He’s just some scumbag that mistreats animals. I threatened to report him to the police because of the way he was treating the animals in his pet shop. You remember my brother’s a policeman? It comes in handy sometimes.”

  Jack walks with her to the bus-stop, gives her a big hug and a gentle kiss, and waves goodbye as she boards her bus. They each mull over their evening, as they make their way home. They both know that there’s a spark between them. They have lot in common, a wicked sense of humour for example, but they each have their doubts.

  Annie is now rather worried about the company that The Lad keeps, besides his reluctance to talk about his business dealings. Jack had few worries until this evening. Sure he was intrigued by the few hints she dropped about her work, and he wondered what exactly she did for a living, but now he’s a bit concerned that it might involve poking her nose into other people’s business, perhaps upsetting some unsavory people, and then relying on her brother to wade in and rescue her.

  11 A TAXI TO STOKE NEWINGTON

  The next day both Harry and his mum wake at midday with the mother-of-all-hangovers. “That’s wot ‘appens when ya go drinkin with yer mum ... a muvver of a ‘angover!” Harry moans.

  The following few hours are a bit of a blur for Pauline, spent mainly in bed. Eventually she surfaces, and goes looking for painkillers. There are none in the house, so she grabs her bag and empties the contents onto the kitchen table. In amongst the assorted detritus she finds some aspirins, long past their sell-by date, but she doesn’t care.

  Then she notices the envelope. The one with the ransom note that she’s supposed to deliver to the house in Hampstead. “Where the feck did that come from?” she wonders, cogs barely turning at snails’ pace.

  “From the black hole that is your fake Gucci bag!” is what an exasperated Jack would be shouting. “Where you put it when we gave it to you to deliver. So bloody well deliver it!”

  But it’s just Pauline, alone with her ‘thoughts’. The cogs grind, the snails accelerate, a few more neurons wake up, allowing limited cognitive activity ... and she remembers. She’s supposed to get the granny gear on, deliver the envelope, and then she’ll earn some dosh. But how much? She can’t remember. She stares at the envelope, and impulsively tears it open.

  Inside there’s a printed note, and a photo of two extremely dirty dogs. She reads the note and the penny drops: “so that’s why Jack an ‘Arry took em to the allotment.” She gets to the ransom demand (‘If you want to see them again, it’s going to cost you £200,000’) and she nearly falls off the chair. She has to count the number of noughts several times, before the figure computes for her. “Two ‘undred grand? For a couple of stinkin mutts? No way!” That’s considerably more money than she can even imagine. She stares at all those noughts, but she can’t for the life of her work out what’s going on here. Maybe they’ve made a mistake. Perhaps the comma is in the wrong place, and they really mean two hundred quid?

  She rereads this bit: ‘We know all about the film business, and we know that you can get the money easily.’ So, it must be right. “Two ‘undred bleedin grand! Yee bloody Haa!” Instinctively she realises that it’s not her son who planned this. It’s way out of his league. “That Jack, he’s one clever geezer. ‘Arry did good gettin togever with that lad.”

  Then she gets angry, or rather she’s fuming. If Pauline were a cartoon character smoke would be coming out of her ears. How much were they going to give her? She wishes she could remember, but however much it was, she knows now that it wasn’t nearly enough.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, back in Stoke Newington things are as they ever were. While Harry slowly recovers from his “muvver of a ‘angover”, Jack looks after the dogs. He’s stopped taking them to Clissold park for their walkies after the unfortunate incident with Basil the Yorkie, and now they have to be content with the same circuit through boring back-streets.

  Gizmo is missing his paradise island, Doodle is missing her gourmet food, and both of them are missing the fun they had in the park; but they’re stoic. Jack is turning into a real doggie person. He loves looking after them and they’re getting treated as well as (in Doodle’s case, better than) at home. He buys them all sorts of treats and toys, and generally spoils them. Of course this disgusts his partner and Harry is getting increasingly impatient with The Lad. “Look mate, I know you like ‘avin these bleedin mutts around, but I can’t wait to get ‘em out of my ‘ouse. When are we gonna get the money, Jack?” he demands.

  “Well, that depends on how Elizabeth reacts to the note” Jack replies. “I’m letting her stew for a bit right now. It’s an ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ strategy.”

  Harry snorts derisively. Jack ignores the unpleasant noise, and tries to focus on his plan. “By the way, have you heard from your mum?” he asks. “I’m assuming that she delivered the note OK?”

  Speaking of the devil ... the phone rings and it’s Pauline. She wants to speak to Harry, and she sounds angry. “Allo son, you theivin little scumbag!” she yells. “Oh, it’s you m
a” Harry replies, holding the phone at arms length. He affects a mock-posh hooray-Harry voice: “good evening to you as well”, before reverting to ‘ard-man-‘Arry: “ ‘ow ya feelin? Great night’s drinkin eh?”

  Jack whispers to him: “ask her if she’s delivered the note yet?”, but before Harry can put the question to his mum, she ploughs on: “‘ow much waz it you were gonna give me for puttin on that ridiculous granny gear?”

  Harry shrugs and looks at Jack for help. He can’t remember either. “Umm, not sure ma, but don’t worry, it’ll be more than the last time.”

  “Well, wadever it waz it ain’t enuff. I know all about this dog scam. This Elizabeth bird’s in the film biz, ain’t she? With a fekin ‘uge house in ‘Ampstead, right?”

  Harry looks nonplussed. He’s not sure what to say, but Pauline certainly does: “I want my share, OK? You speak to Jack about it, and get back to me. Nuff said!” With that, she slams the phone down.

  Harry repeats his mum’s demand to his partner. Jack isn’t phased though. He believes that if a job is worth doing, it’s worth paying for properly. “Tell her that we’ll give her a grand for each delivery.” Harry’s mouth drops open, but Jack continues before words come out. “There might be a few notes, and she’ll get a grand for each one, but she’ll only get paid when we get the ransom money. She’s got to get the gear on, and post the first one right away. Then we wait a couple of days, and she delivers another one to tell Elizabeth where to drop the money.”

  Harry digests all this information. It doesn’t help his indigestion that they’ll be giving Pauline more money than she’s ever seen in one go, and it’s their money, but Jack reminds him that in the big scheme of things, it’s peanuts.

  Harry hates peanuts - they give him indigestion, but he calls Pauline back and persuades her to accept the deal. She’s not sure whether to trust him, but she’s dead chuffed with her negotiating skills, and decides to strike while the iron’s hot. She gets dressed in her disguise, disgusted by how old and frumpy she looks in the mirror, and gets the bus to Hampstead. She finds Elizabeth’s Grand Design of a house next to the Heath, and posts the envelope in the fancy ornate box on the impressive wrought-iron gates.

  * * *

  Ever since the dogs disappeared from Wags, Elizabeth has been in a panic about the film. With shooting disrupted her schedule is a mess, and the budget has gone out the window. The crew are on paid ‘gardening leave’, the studio is on hold, and every day is costing Cutting Edge Films thousands. Her boss is not amused, and she’s genuinely worried about her job.

  They are, of course, insured against most kinds of unforeseen difficulties that can affect film production: adverse weather, equipment failure, even the lead actress walking off set in a strop because she’s having a bad hair day. The list of exceptions includes all the usual things: war, terrorism, ‘acts of God’, and a long list of ever smaller print. When she contacts their insurance company she is told that apparently it also includes hostage-taking, and ransom-related-incidents. These are classified as sub categories of terrorist activity.

  “Look, the bastards who stole our dogs are certainly evil so-and-so’s, but I wouldn’t call them terrorists” she says to the broker.

  “Please refer to your policy” he replies, “you’ll find it on page two hundred and ninety-one, paragraph seven, sub-clause five-B, under the subheadings: ‘terrorism slash hostages slash financial losses’.” Elizabeth looks it up, and it seems like the exception clause is indeed there. She can’t be absolutely sure because the print is too small for her to read.

  She reported the dogs’ disappearance to the police straight away of course, but they didn’t seem very interested. When she told them that the manager at Wags was convinced that the dogs had been stolen they nodded politely, and said that yes, there had been quite a spate of dognappings recently; many from Hampstead Heath in fact. So it was quite ironic that as soon as Elizabeth moved her dog from her house beside the Heath she was stolen. They told her that they might send someone to interview the hotel manager, but there was nothing much they could do until she had some sort of communication from the dognappers.

  She’s consulted their lawyer about taking action against the dog hotel, and he thinks that they might have a case. He initiates proceedings, but in her experience the legal solution is hardly ever up-to-speed enough for the ongoing demands of the movie industry. In any case, as up-market as Wags undoubtably is, they simply won’t have the kind of money that would compensate her production company for the delays.

  She realises that the only way to save the project is to think ‘out of the box’, and maximise the extra publicity generated by the celebrity dogs’ disappearance. So, while they wait for developments she does her best to keep the story in the news, and uses every media channel to appeal to the public to help find them.

  All this extra work, stress, and lateral thinking has meant that she’s hasn’t had time to feel upset about the dogs, or her daughter’s feelings. Miranda, on the other hand, has been getting increasingly distraught. It’s taken Doodle’s disappearance for her to realise that she genuinely misses her pooch. Now she feels guilty, and bitterly regrets not spending more time with her. She has to admit that she’s also a bit upset that she no longer has a celebrity dog to boast about to her friends. All the publicity is helping, and she’s getting loads of sympathy on Facebook, but she knows that it will only be temporary. People have a short attention span for stuff like that, and unless they are fed a continual stream of headlines, they’ll soon get bored with the missing dogs saga.

  Miranda is also genuinely worried about Gizmo, and she spends increasingly sleepless nights imagining what might be happening to both dogs. Her mother doesn’t seem to care though, or rather she doesn’t have time to listen to her daughter’s fears. All this puts even more strain on their relationship, and they argue all the time.

  Then the dognappers’ note arrives in their letterbox. Elizabeth reads it with mixed emotions:

  Elizabeth (see, we know your name, as well as where you live) ...

  She shivers, and gazes out of the window. She feels stalked, and it’s an unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling. She decides to hire a security guard to watch the house until this is resolved.

  We have your dogs: Doodle and Gizmo. They are being kept locked up in a shed day and night. As you see from the photos - they aren’t exactly enjoying it. But we haven’t even started on them yet.

  She looks at the photograph, and for a moment she’s overcome with genuine grief for the missing dogs. She steels herself, and reminds herself that she must stay strong.

  If you want to see them again, it’s going to cost you £200,000. We know all about the film business, and we know that you can get the money easily.

  “Ha, if only!” she thinks. “You obviously don’t know that the film business actually runs on credit. Until the film’s released, and we get some box office returns, there isn’t any spare cash. I’ll have to talk to the people who’ve invested in the film and see what they say. I suppose there’s also my bonus money, as a last resort. I mean, after all, I’m not going to get a bonus unless we finish the film anyway.”

  We’ll be in touch soon, to tell you where to leave the money.

  Don’t contact the police, or you’ll never see the dogs again.

  This presents her with a bit of a dilemma - several dilemmas in fact. As mentioned, she has already spoken to the police and they’ve told her to tell them about any communication with the dognappers. On the other hand, she needs some time to speak to the money people and consider her options. Along with these issues there’s also the ‘out of the box’, lateral thinking that she’s been doing. As a PR / marketing professional she can see the potential publicity value of the dognapping to raise the film’s profile, if she plays it right.

  She’s deep in thought, grappling with these issues, and doesn’t notice her daughter standing behind her, looking over her mother’s shoulder. “Oh my God, it’s Doodle!” Mirand
a gasps. “And Gizmo. They look terrible.”

  Elizabeth grabs the note and photo from the kitchen table but it’s too late, Miranda is crying now. “We have to save them” she sobs.

  “Yes, I know darling, and we will” her mother says. “Don’t worry, we will.”

  “But they look so sad, chained up. I can’t stand it ...” Miranda is weeping hysterically now.

  Elizabeth puts her arm around her daughter and tries to hug her, but Miranda shrugs off this rare show of affection and dashes upstairs to her room. “Sweetie, wait. Everything’s going to be OK, I promise. We’ll get Doodle back.” She follows Miranda upstairs, but before she can comfort her daughter, the phone rings.

  It’s Nikki calling from Tenerife. She sounds both panic stricken, and angry: “hello Elizabeth. I think you might have something to tell me?”

  “Oh, hi Nikki. How are you? How's the weather in Tenerife? It's dreadful here at the moment.”

  "Never mind the small talk. I’m waiting for an answer ..."

  "Ah, so you heard about Gizmo and Doodle going missing?" Elizabeth replies sheepishly.

  "I certainly did. It‘s trending all over the internet. Gizmo’s Twitter followers are very upset, and they’re asking me what the hell’s going on.”

  “Ah, Twitter, right. I hadn’t looked on there. So you haven’t told them about the film then?”

  “Screw the film! Why the hell didn't you tell me when it happened?" Nikki starts crying.

  Elizabeth has actually been putting off contacting Gizmo's owners as she was hoping the police would find the dogs before they heard the news. However, she forgot about the internet. The media coverage of their disappearance (largely organised by herself) was very comprehensive, and Nikki had spotted Elizabeth’s interview on Youtube. Now the producer needs to produce yet another damage limitation script.