The Last Dog on Earth

by Adrian J. Walker

  ‘Good afternoon!’ said a voice from above. ‘Blessings upon you and many welcomes. Lovely day, isn’t it?’

  I looked up to see a bare-breasted Indian woman sunning herself on the flat roof above a betting shop. She let the foil cardboard she had been holding beneath her chin drop and called through the open window.

  ‘Mother! We have guests!’

  ‘What kind of guests?’ croaked an ancient voice from inside. ‘Do I need to arm myself?’

  The woman got up from the chair, her full brown belly drooping over the waistband of her yellow bikini bottoms.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  She dropped her sunglasses.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said. ‘You look like you’ve never seen a woman’s body before.’

  I wanted to say that I had not seen any body for three years, but apparently my mouth had stopped working.

  So this, I realised, was Shilton. Light number three.

  Connection

  LINEKER

  There’s something about this girl. It’s strange but I already feel like we’re a part of each other, like we’re connected somehow. Is that possible?

  It must be. Take Reg and me, for example – now that’s connection, right? Proper deal, same wavelength, totally tuned in and locked on. No doubts there, none whatsoever.

  It took time, though, and those first few weeks together weren’t exactly a honeymoon. Unless your idea of a honeymoon involves lots of pissing and shitting, of course, which maybe it does. Who am I to judge?

  I was so happy to be out of that place, finally free from my cage and away from those dickheads yowling all day. Everything was bright and different. There was the journey home for a start; that rowdy-engined van bumping me about in my box, all those coloured streaks everywhere, and Reg’s voice, the radio, the smell of oil, hot metal, Polo mints, biscuit crumbs and a thousand layers of dead skin streaming up from his exquisitely filthy floor mats.

  And then came the flat itself, an enormous kingdom of odours, nooks and adventure. It couldn’t believe it; I actually lived there now, with this man, this hero, this king of the dom.

  But yeah, lots of wee wee, lots of poo.

  Reg corrected me, of course, gently. I had to learn. Couldn’t very well turn his house into a toilet now, could I? It pulls at you though, doesn’t it, learning not to do the thing your body’s telling you to do? You’ll have experienced it when you were a nipper too. One day that nappy came off and never went on again, and all of a sudden you were free! Free as the wind! So your bum said, There! Do it there, now! And then your mum said, No!

  Your bum and your mum. Two opposing voices – one small and fierce from long ago and deep within; and the other from outside, still growing, getting itself together, looming. The first shoves you on and screams what you need, the second pulls you in and tells you how it has to be done. This is how you change. This is how all things change – under the direction of two conflicting forces. Odd that. And it never stops, does it? Funny.

  Those first few weeks were hard. I got scared and I admit that sometimes I wondered if I might not be better off back in my cage, where things were shitty but at least they made sense. And I hadn’t even been outside yet.

  Then, one afternoon, about three weeks after I’d been set free, I woke from a fretful slumber on the floor near a fresh puddle, looked up and saw Reg asleep on the sofa. It was autumn and a low blade of orange sun grazed his cheek. I watched him dream and grunt as the fridge buzzed in the background and doors slammed safely in the distance. I stayed there for an hour at least, finding myself twitching whenever he did, or cocking my head when his eyebrows lifted. I was following the map of his dreams, and somehow I knew they were going places nobody should have to go alone. That’s when I first caught wind of Reg’s deep smell, that frozen bone sack abandoned on a moor.

  I couldn’t fathom how I knew this at the time. The Howl was only just making itself known, like leaves rustling before a tornado.

  All of a sudden I found I could no longer lie still, so I skittered over and sprang onto the sofa. It took me a few goes, but I managed to clamber up with my claws and found my way into the crook of his arm, all warm and soft and smelly, and I put my tiny pink snout right into his face and licked him back from those nightmares until he was fully awake, bearings found and laughing at my antics. We stayed that way, chuckling and snuffling in that beam of sun, until we settled back down and both fell into a sleep of excellent new dreams.

  That’s when we found our connection, Reg and I, and now we’re solid as a rock. But it took us the best part of a month.

  This girl, though, it was instant. She doesn’t speak (apart from a few sounds I’m fairly sure Reg doesn’t hear; little grunts like something’s trying to escape from her) but oh, the conversations we have together. She gives me fresh smells by the second, each one a new story from her life. Her base scent is of foal hair, wood smoke and cream, but there are other ones stuck in her clothes. Coarse soap, concrete, wet paper, onions, worms, tomato soup, saltwater, vomit, a powdery thing I can’t quite place, and slate. And voles, a thousand voles from a thousand holes.

  But buried within all that there’s this other smell too that I’ve never really smelled before. It’s only a glimmer, but it’s something like pebbles laid out on cotton, cut grass, glacial water and peanut butter. Something like that. I’m searching for it all the time. I know that it’s a power smell, which means it represents an emotion that can either drive you or hold you back, like Reg’s sack of bones. The strongest I’ve smelled it yet was during all that business at the crossroads, when Reg … well, I mean, there’s no two ways of saying it – when Reg ran off.

  Ha! Honestly, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. When Reg ran off. As if he would! Reg, solid as a rock, heart of gold, straight as a die, trust him with your life – Reg. Running off. Ridiculous!

  But he did. He ran off. Didn’t he?

  No. No, it’s too stupid to think about. He wouldn’t. He was probably just confused and thought we were right behind him. He was leading us to safety, creating a distraction – that’s it! Charging off down the road and drawing fire like a ruddy great hero. He even took a bullet for us – fucking legend.

  It was probably my fault. Stupid cunt, I should’ve used his clever diversionary tactics to get Aisha back over quicker, fucking idiot I am sometimes. But it all happened so fast.

  I remember crossing the road and hearing something zip by my ear. Most unusual smell, it was – glee, quarries and cobwebs. By the time I’d skidded to a halt by the girl, Reg was already powering down the road and putting his life on the line so that I had a chance to get the girl. Blimey, to think – such nerve, such valour – gives me the proper shivers it does. Anyway, there’s me on the other side of the road (daft mug) and all I could think to do was bark.

  ‘Get up! Come on you silly twat, get up and run! I said get up and run!’

  And she did. She jumped up and followed me down the road, bullets flying all around, and all I was thinking was: I would die for this girl. I know I would. No question.

  Do you ever get that? That feeling that you’d die for someone you’ve only just met?

  I know, it’s probably more complicated than that. There’s way more stuff going on in those clockwork noggins of yours than my dumb dog brain can assimilate. It’s not as simple as just dying for someone, is it? You probably need a cause or something. Tonnes of people die for causes, tonnes. Although, not as many as kill for them. Right?

  Can you tell me, though, what is a cause? Because I’ve been racking my brains about this one and I can’t …

  Fuck, I’m rambling, sorry. It’s just that ever since we started out on this little adventure my mind’s been whirling. All those posters and smells along that street, the ghosts of what happened. Human beings fired up about a cause, enough to kill, but not to die. I don’t get it. I don’t know what a cause is.

  Forget it. These aren’t issues for a dog to
ponder. All I know is that this girl and me, we’re connected somehow, and I’m not imagining it either. Me and this little human have got a thing going on. True love, I reckon.

  So there I was trotting along, following Reg up even more new roads and getting extremely used to having this little human around, and what happens? Another one comes along. And this one had her tits out.

  Mira’s Place

  REGINALD HARDY’S JOURNAL

  10TH DECEMBER 2021

  ‘So, tell me your names,’ said the lady, landing heavily on a long claret sofa.

  I had not wanted to stop but I was in somewhat of a daze. The vodka, the sight of this great being beaming down upon us, topless in the winter sun, and the realisation that I had unwittingly stumbled upon the border of the lights, had rendered me senseless.

  Before I knew it she had arrived on the pavement, imploring us to come in. I had backed away from her great hands – and the rest of her of course, swaying about in monstrous tides – but she had ushered Aisha inside and Lineker zipped in after them, hungry for the exotic smells emanating from within.

  The front room was long and painted white, with a dark wood floor and rich decorations, completely at odds with the drab exterior. There were rugs on the walls, neatly hung and woven with bright reds, blues and golds. Some bore triptychs of Indian villages with men in tall hats and long trumpets, and women with baskets on their heads. Between them were paintings in thick, gilded frames. Dark portraits of ancient strangers, rugged landscapes and blue-skied deserts mingled with more modern pieces; flashes and swirls of abstract colour. Beneath them, lining the walls, were dark wood cabinets ornately carved and adorned with gleaming ornaments of elephants, monkeys and trees. Everything had been arranged with care.

  I loitered at the doorway. The girl stood next to me, although not for my sake; her mistrust was still evident in the distance she maintained. Something was stopping her from crossing the threshold, though, and I noticed that the lady’s voice – which caused the ornaments to rattle – made her flinch.

  ‘Well?’ said our host.

  ‘Reginald,’ I croaked. ‘Reginald Hardy.’

  Unless you count my exchange with the soldier outside our flat, this was my first conversation with another human being in three years. She beamed at me.

  ‘Welcome, Mr Hardy,’ she said, inclining her head. ‘My name is Mira Dhaji.’

  Mira was not an unattractive lady. She had glistening brown eyes, a cascade of long black hair that fell around her bare shoulders, and a wide-lipped mouth. This was pulled into a permanent quizzical smile, revealing bright white teeth which were just a little too big for their surroundings.

  There was a hoot and a coarse chuckle from a room at the back which, judging by the spicy smells, sizzles and clattering emanating from it, was a kitchen. Lineker had already made a beeline for it.

  ‘My, you’re a hungry boy, aren’t you!’ came the voice again. ‘There you go.’

  I peered through the gap in the door and saw another lady, white-haired and hunched with age, feeding Lineker a sliver of something from her stove.

  Mira turned and sighed.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse my mother,’ she said, waving a hand. ‘She is always cooking.’

  ‘Not always,’ her mother called back.

  ‘Always!’ insisted Mira. She rolled her eyes. ‘She cannot go outside, you see, so I have to do everything else.’

  ‘Why can’t she go outside?’ I was intrigued.

  ‘Because she’s allergic to sunlight.’

  Mira leaned towards me, one eyebrow raised in derision. ‘Can you believe that? Sunlight! Of all the things to be allergic to!’

  ‘I have sensitive skin,’ protested her mother from the kitchen. She leaned down with another morsel for Lineker and patted his head.

  ‘Sensitive skin,’ said Mira. She smiled and fluttered a hand down her curves. ‘Not such a problem for yours truly.’

  ‘It is very cold out there,’ I said, as my eyes dropped.

  I have neither sought out nor indulged in sexual activity for some time now, apart from the occasional bout of onanism whenever the pressure dials start twitching, but I am afraid I may have looked a little longer than I had intended at what Mira had on display.

  Mira cleared her throat and I pulled my eyes away from their enormous distractions. She had one eyebrow cocked like a pistol.

  ‘Art should be admired, Mr Hardy, not stared at.’

  ‘My apologies, madam. And it’s Reginald.’

  ‘Besides,’ she said, brightening again. ‘Cold air is good for the skin.’

  ‘Not mine,’ said her mother from the kitchen.

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘I wish you’d put those terrible things away. Just once.’

  Mira rolled her eyes and grabbed a huge green and silver throw from the arm of the sofa.

  ‘All right, all right! But bring us some tea, would you?’

  There was more clattering from the kitchen. Mira pulled the throw around her, tying it in a knot, fluffing, picking and smoothing it down around her. When she was happy she sighed and smiled. ‘Aren’t you going to come inside, Mr Hardy?’

  My feet did a strange shuffle of their own accord. My knee was throbbing with pain and I could think of nothing I would rather do than have a nice sit down, but it had been some time since I had been invited into somebody else’s home, least of all by a half-naked woman. And I had neglected to bring my laminate.

  Getting no reply, Mira looked down at the girl beside me. ‘And what about you, Chicken? Won’t you come in? What is your name?’

  The girl’s fingernails nibbled the edge of the door frame.

  ‘Your daughter?’ Mira asked me, in a gentle tone.

  I flinched. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. Then who?’

  The door opened and the old lady wobbled in with a tray, upon which clattered a tea set of intricate patterns in black and gold. Steam rose from the pot, smelling nothing like tea. She laid it down on the table, gave me a shiny-eyed smile and hobbled back to her stove, where she recommenced her cooking and Lineker’s bliss.

  Mira was still looking at me, awaiting an answer.

  ‘Her name is Aisha,’ I said. ‘I found her in the stair of my block. I think she was being evacuated, but she was separated.’

  Mira turned to the girl again. ‘Do you know where you were going?’ she said, with a cautious smile.

  Aisha blinked.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mira, looking around. ‘Let’s see … aha.’

  She stood and went to a corner table, from which she plucked a stuffed bear.

  ‘Here,’ she said, kneeling down before the girl. ‘You can have this. It was mine once – his name is William. Take it, go on.’

  The girl took the bear. As she examined it, Mira noticed the tag around her neck.

  ‘Wembley,’ she said. ‘Is that where you were heading, my sweet? Do you know?’

  ‘It’s no use,’ I said. ‘I’ve tried talking to her but she won’t respond. I don’t think she speaks English.’

  The girl shot me a look as if I had spoken out of turn. Mira laughed.

  ‘I believe that says it all, Mr Hardy,’ she laughed.

  ‘Reginald,’ I corrected.

  ‘She does speak English; she just finds it hard right now. Right, Chicken?’

  She looked deep into the girl’s eyes. ‘You’ve been through too much for your years already, haven’t you?’

  The girl ignored her and continued her examination of the bear.

  ‘So she’s mute?’ I suggested.

  Mira sighed and rested on her haunches. ‘We used to see a lot of children like Aisha back in the beginning, either rescued during a BU raid or freed from one of the sorting camps. They would come through here on their way to the evacuation centres. I thought that was all done with now. Where are you supposed to be, Aisha? Do you know? Where’s your family?’

  I neglected to ask exactly what ‘here’ meant, or ‘back in the beginn
ing’.

  ‘She is an orphan,’ I said. ‘It says so on her tag.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Many of them had just been separated from their parents. You remember what a mess it was back then. We were just starting up and the army was on its knees. More often than not they would mark children as orphans simply because they had no idea where their families had been taken.’

  ‘What do you mean? What about identification records, passports, national insurance numbers, that sort of thing?’

  Mira laughed. ‘Yes, not particularly useful when there is nothing to check them against, Mr Hardy.’

  I frowned. Her look of amusement wilted.

  ‘We lost everything – internet, communications, records – don’t you remember? Everything that tied our society together was destroyed.’

  After a moment’s thought I considered this a plausible scenario, and I was about to explain to Mira that my focus on basic security and sustenance, not to mention the location of a suitable power supply, had perhaps preoccupied me to such an extent in those days that I had neglected to keep abreast of developments further afield, when suddenly the girl dropped the bear and pulled something from her coat pocket. It was an envelope, and from inside she produced the photograph she had shown me the previous afternoon. She held it out for Mira to see.

  ‘What’s this, Chicken?’ said Mira. ‘Can I see?’

  She reached for the photograph but the girl gasped and snatched it to her chest. Mira held up her hands in surrender.

  ‘It’s OK, I won’t steal it. Can I see? Show me, please. Show Mira.’

  After some deliberation the girl held the photograph up once again, this time keeping it a safe distance from the potential thief.

  ‘A lovely photograph,’ said Mira. ‘Beautiful hills, rivers, trees, very pretty. Is that a farm? What is this place? And who’s this? Who is that, Aisha? Your mother? Your aunt? Grandmother?’

  I heard a faint breath from the girl’s lips, and she hastily replaced the photograph in its envelope. In doing so she gave us a glimpse of others inside.