The Last Dog on Earth

by Adrian J. Walker

  Does God only know? Or can we know too? Are we supposed to know? What would we do if we did?

  Blaaahdy ’ell, what the fuck has gotten into me? Proper unusual feeling, this, proper unusual.

  Anyway, so Reg is up there doing his crazy scientific shit (although his angle looks all wrong – he wants to slew that tripod round and tilt up to get the full show, otherwise he’s just clocking buildings) and I’m down here on the flat roof watching the sky and getting my head rubbed by the girl, nice and full, with my mouth still drooling from the feed.

  Ahh, lovely.

  It’s busy up there in the sky with all those stars and planets and galaxies twirling about. They’re like partners in a billion interstellar reels, dancing away the eons. Then deep in the shadows, out of sight, you’ve got your weirdos – the gas giants and black holes, suns gone mad that devour the darkness till there’s nothing left but pinpoints of insanity. Photons stream into them like ships in a maelstrom, and as they do, fresh nebulae boom and thunder with showers of nuclear sparks that erupt for a million years. From this new suns are born. They pull in cold rocks and warm them, breathe life upon them, then kill them and eat them and die like all the rest.

  It’s all ever so pretty. Twinkly.

  Here’s something I know about those stars. If you were able to stand on one of them with a telescope like the one Reg is looking through now – maybe one with a teeny bit more magnification – and looked down on us, you wouldn’t see us at all. Depending on which particular pinprick of light you chose and how far away it was, you might see me as a pup having a bash on my old mum’s tits, or you as a baby kicking your legs. Or you might see the blitzkrieg raging, or great ships drowning in a North Atlantic fire, or a man talking softly to a crowd about how simple life is, or the first stone of the great pyramids crashing into place amidst the silent roar of slaves. Go a bit further out, deeper into the night and onto the stars that you can’t see, and you might see dogs creeping down the hillside with fires flickering in their eyes.

  That’s because light takes time to travel and everything’s far apart, so what you see is never the truth, just a shadow of it. And that’s not just true of stars. It’s everything. The falling leaf has already fallen, the sun has already set, your lover’s laugh has already waned. All we see are shadows and reflections.

  Gravity too, that’s a funny one. What makes that thing over there want to come over here when there’s nothing in between it but space? Answer: because space is twisted and warped by the things themselves.

  Fuck me. Can you believe that?

  Space is twisted.

  Not only that, but the things themselves are only just twists and warps in space. And all things are in constant motion. Nothing is still. There’s no such thing as the speed of now, and there’s no such thing as perfect rest. Everything is moving and unaware of reality.

  We’re all slipping and sliding together in this impossible, crumpled blanket of time and space with no control, so to say there is nothing between us makes no sense, because there is no us at all, just this thing, this blanket trying to form a shape. You and I, we’re connected. Like me and this girl wrapped up beside me who’s rubbing my fur and making me all sleepy. There is no ‘her’, and there is no ‘me’. There is no ‘we’ at all.

  Christ on a bike. What the fuck am I going on about? Amazing what a good feed will do, isn’t it? You should try it some time. Next time you’re down or weary, or the world makes no sense – have a nice Ruby and look up at the stars.

  Fucking magic.

  Fixing Beardsley

  REGINALD HARDY’S JOURNAL

  10TH DECEMBER 2021

  Three hundred times magnification. Three hundred. I can barely look at my binoculars now, let alone through them.

  ‘Did you, er, liberate this too?’ I asked, as I stood at Mira’s attic window, marvelling at her beautiful telescope as she adjusted the dials. Its chrome-rimmed barrel gleamed in the starlight.

  ‘No,’ replied Mira, stepping back. ‘This was my father’s. Take a look. Go on, put your eye to it.’

  I bent down to the eyepiece and my vision immediately filled with dark brickwork, pebbledash and glass.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ I said.

  ‘Home, Mr Hardy. That is your flat.’

  ‘No, that’s not …’

  But it was. Sure enough, buried in the twilight between the peaks of tenements, car parks and bare trees, was our block. On the balcony I spotted the empty plant pot that had always been there, the brush, and the old rusted seat. Through the window I could just make out Lineker’s chair and, barely visible, I saw the ink circles I had made, one of which I was now standing in, looking back.

  ‘So it is,’ I said, standing up. ‘You saw me too, then, did you?’

  ‘I suppose we must have.’

  ‘Suppose?’

  ‘Well, it’s not like you’re the only one out there.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I saw them too. Did you ever meet them? They must be that way …’ I craned my neck to look east along the street. ‘A bit tricky to see from this angle, though.’

  She gave me one of her strange looks again. ‘Not those ones.’

  I frowned as she checked her watch. Then she gestured towards home again. ‘Look.’

  The sky had darkened and the buildings were now in shadow.

  ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘Any second.’

  I waited while nothing happened. But then, over the shoulder of Seton Bayley, I saw a glimmer. A light had come on. I pushed my head out of the window and watched in disbelief as it grew.

  ‘Who’s that? Who is that?’

  I reached for the telescope and swung it right, searching. Dark shapes swept by in muddles, but within them I saw a bright streak. I stopped and swung back. The view shuddered as the scope steadied.

  ‘How do I focus?’

  Mira reached for a dial. ‘This one.’

  Gradually the light sharpened. It was another window – a dormer set into a rooftop about half a mile behind our block.

  ‘I didn’t know about that one,’ I said.

  ‘Watch,’ said Mira.

  Another one appeared beyond the first. Then another, and another. My neck prickled as, slowly, the dark, muffled rooftops illuminated with a scatter of light. I edged away from the telescope.

  ‘There must be twenty … thirty other lights out there,’ I said.

  ‘Roughly, yes. You really didn’t know about them?’

  I shook my head, befuddled. ‘They’re all behind us. I wouldn’t have seen.’

  ‘What about from the roof? Haven’t you ever been out there?’

  ‘The door to the roof was locked and I always keep locked doors shut.’

  She paused. ‘What about from the other flats in your block?’

  ‘I only went in them once, the open ones, for food. I only ever looked this way. I never … never thought to look behind me.’

  ‘So you never made contact?

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘Collective 18, of course.’

  ‘What? What do you mean, collective?’

  She frowned. ‘Mother!’ she yelled. A muffled voice came back from downstairs.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s dark, so find your coat. We’re going out.’

  She made for the door. ‘Come, Mr Hardy.’

  I took one last look at the array of twinkling lights surrounding Seton Bayley, feeling my nerves jangle, picking my fingernails. Then I followed her.

  ‘But what about on the streets?’ she said, picking her way down the steep, narrow staircase from the attic. ‘Surely you must have seen them?’

  ‘No … no, I keep to the same streets, the same area, only open doors. Routine and territory, you see, that’s what it’s all about. Routine and territory, keep to your own.’

  I stopped at the bottom of the steps. The front room was lit by two kerosene lamps, their burned amber halos crossing in a pinched oval on the ce
iling.

  ‘So you saw me?’ I said.

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m coming.’

  Mira’s mother was lifting a heavy parka from a hook near the door.

  ‘And the others: Pearce, Gasgoine, Butcher …’

  She screwed up her face. ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

  I shook my head. ‘The other lights, the other ones in this area. You know them?’

  ‘Know them?’

  Mira helped her mother with the huge coat. I noticed that there was another light in the corner; a small bedside lamp struggling to power its dim bulb.

  ‘Where do you get your power?’ I said.

  Mira ignored me, too busy struggling with the old lady. ‘Come on mother, you old vampire.’

  I stuck my head out of the window, where Lineker was lying fast asleep with the girl in the corner of the balcony roof. His eyes opened and he jumped up, padding across the bitumen sheet to meet me. The girl, roused, sat up and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, and she followed us in.

  ‘Mother, seriously! Push your hand through!’

  ‘All right, all right, no need to shout, so angry with me.’

  I looked at the table lamp, buzzing. ‘I don’t hear a generator,’ I said.

  ‘There,’ breathed Mira, plonking her hands on her hips. ‘Finally.’

  Her mother zipped her coat up to her chin with a shrug and a childish smile. Mira turned to me.

  ‘Now, what were you saying?’

  ‘Power,’ I said, pointing at the lamp. ‘Where’s it coming from?’

  ‘The generators are all rigged up in number 26, but there’s a problem with them. There’s no power at all going to the east of the street, and the fridges in the storeroom aren’t working either. Nobody’s found the problem yet.’

  ‘Generators …’ I said. ‘And, er, how long has your power been out?’

  ‘About a week. It’s getting cold, but that meat still won’t last long if we can’t fix the power supply. We could really use an electrician.’

  The girl had buttoned her coat and gave a groggy yawn, while Lineker sat patiently by her side. I smiled, thinking how nice it would be not to have to red-card Beardsley after all.

  ‘Do you have any tools?’ I asked.

  ‘Rats,’ I said.

  Mira had taken one of the kerosene lamps and led us through a door at the back of their flat, which wasn’t really a door at all but an oblong hole torn in the wall. I had fingered the tattered plasterwork as I ducked through.

  ‘You do know this is a load-bearing wall, don’t you?’ I had said.

  She had ignored me, striding down a dark, creaking corridor that I imagined had once been the landing of the next-door flat.

  ‘Good evening, Emily,’ she had said to a small girl in a long dress lighting candles with a thin taper.

  ‘Hello,’ the girl had replied, catching my eye and smiling at Aisha. I had flinched as she passed.

  Soon we had passed through another makeshift door with planks hammered over its corners. Candles were already burning along the soot-stained walls.

  ‘We decided it was easier and safer to knock all the flats through,’ Mira had said, striding ahead. ‘That way we can get to where we want to be without having to go outside. It’s a much more natural way of living, don’t you think? Sharing space like this. Better for the children too.’

  She had winked at two boys playing with fire engines.

  ‘I don’t know about natural,’ I had murmured. The idea seemed like hell. ‘And I’m surprised these joists haven’t buckled.’

  After a few more similar corridors, we had found ourselves in an open room with stripped floorboards covered with a mess of wires and cables. Along one wall were three generators, all off. I had set down Mira’s toolbox and regarded the chaos. It hadn’t taken me long to find the problem.

  ‘Definitely rats.’

  I looked at the ragged cable covering and the frayed wires within. Lineker’s snout addressed the cable and he sat back, licking his chops as if in agreement.

  ‘They’ll chew through absolutely anything. The one that did this must have lost half his face in the shock. Probably knocked him senseless for a bit, then he crawled off to die somewhere. Not far, either, judging by the smell. Pass me those pliers will you, Mira?’

  I heard rummaging and, from the corner of my eye, saw the pliers thrust at me as I inspected the cable.

  ‘On the floor is fine,’ I said. She laid them next to me and stood back.

  ‘I’m not surprised, in all honesty,’ I continued. ‘You’ve opened up all these walls after all, got all this movement between the buildings, dirt, food, people, children. How many of you are there, anyway? Rats will have been streaming in here in droves. If you’d only sealed the holes … screwdriver, please, flat head.’

  After another search, a screwdriver appeared neatly on the floor.

  ‘Thank you. If you’d sealed the holes, done a proper job of the plastering, then you might have stood a chance. And this cabling …’

  I looked around at the black spaghetti knotted around the room and stuck through walls. ‘Did you even think about how this was going to work? Duct tape, please.’

  An inky black roll landed on the floorboard. I picked it up and tore off some pieces.

  ‘You haven’t even insulated the main cables. The whole thing’s a farce. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if at least two of those machines had shorted. Do you even have a fuse box? You can’t just rig these things up and pray for the best, you know. Another driver, Philips this time. And that yellow voltage tester.’

  More rummaging, and the clatter of tools at my feet.

  ‘No,’ I sighed. ‘I’m afraid people don’t do proper jobs any more. They simply don’t put the time or effort in, it’s all careless, slapdash, lick-and-a-promise rubbish that gets done these days. Not what this country used to be built on. I mean, the Poles are hard workers but nobody does a decent finish any more. And if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth – hammer, please – you know you could have a serious accident? One spark and the whole street could be wiped out. You’ve already created a wind tunnel by knocking those walls through, a blaze would tear through this like a herd of ruddy wildebeest … there.’

  I sat back with a sniff. ‘That should hold. Let’s give her a whirl.’

  I held the lamp over the first generator and made a few adjustments to the choke. Lineker sat by my heel, tail wagging on the floor.

  ‘Ready?’ I said. I tried the starter, and after a few spluttering yanks the beast roared into life. The bulb hanging from the ceiling glimmered and glowed bright, and Lineker jumped, spinning and barking for joy. ‘There!’ I said, grinning. ‘It’s just a patch, mind you, but it should—’

  I turned at the sound of a clang. Standing by the toolbox, where I thought Mira had been, was the girl. The tools she had been holding now clattered at her feet as she threw her hands to her ears, her face creased in fright. Mira was nowhere to be seen.

  I switched off the generator and it spluttered to a stop. The bulb faded and the room returned to its dim, amber state, the roar of the engines replaced by the putting hiss of the kerosene lamp.

  ‘Were you … ?’ I said, looking in disbelief at the array of tools around her. ‘Where’s Mira?’

  Cautiously, the girl took her hands from her ears and pointed at the door, through which I could hear voices murmuring. I followed the sound out onto the landing and found Mira in conversation with someone a little way down the corridor. Their voices were hushed and serious. Mira’s mother sat reading a book to three children.

  As I drew nearer I saw that Mira was talking to a man, thickset with a bald patch. He looked up as I approached.

  ‘Rats,’ I said. ‘You have rats.’

  He blinked and unfolded his arms. ‘We heard the generators,’ he said. ‘So you were able to fix it?’

  ‘Just a patch. The entire set-up needs rebuild
ing from scratch.’

  ‘Reg Hardy, this is Benjamin,’ said Mira. ‘He’s the duty officer this week; we take it in turns.’

  ‘Ben. Welcome, Reg,’ said the man, offering his hand. I stepped away with both of mine held up.

  ‘Reginald,’ I corrected. ‘Nothing personal.’

  Mira explained. After a moment’s consideration, Benjamin nodded and let his hand fall to his hip.

  ‘Thank you, Reg. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ I said.

  The girl arrived next to us. Ben looked at her, then back at me.

  ‘So where are you from, Reg? Collective 18? I don’t recognise you. 16?’

  ‘It’s Reginald, and I’m not really—’

  ‘He’s not part of a Collective,’ said Mira, giving him some encoded look.

  ‘I see,’ said Ben, glancing at the girl again. ‘Well, no offence, Reg, but we don’t tend to get many visitors from outside the Collectives. Do you have any papers? A contact?’

  ‘He was taking this young lady to safety. She was separated from an evacuation party heading north through Peckham. It was an ambush.’

  ‘In Peckham? But that means—’

  ‘I know, Ben,’ said Mira, placing a hand on his arm. ‘I know.’

  Ben rubbed his chin, exhaled and looked down at the girl.

  ‘And who is this, then?’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘Do you have a name?’ He bent down and she gasped, springing back. Ben looked up at me. ‘All right,’ he said, standing. ‘All right.’

  ‘I said that we would take the girl from here,’ said Mira.

  ‘Right,’ Ben nodded. ‘Much safer. She can travel with one of the data runs, they’re heavily guarded. If that’s all right with you, Reg?’

  ‘Reginald, and yes, there’s no reason why I …’

  He had already turned to Mira. ‘This changes things,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to meet with the council. We’ll send out scouts, contact the other Collectives. Reg, it would be safer if you stayed with us tonight.’

  ‘I would rather be on my way.’

  ‘I insist.’ He put out his hand. ‘Thank you again.’

  I looked down at his hand. With a nervous huff, he withdrew it, nodded and walked away.