His grip was warm and firm.
Death
LINEKER
Death. It’s a …
(Come on, Lineker, sort yourself out, Chief. Get it together.)
Haaaa. Hoooo. Ahem. Yes. Death. Funny one.
Did Wally know he was going to die? Did I? Were we both aware, as we lay there bedraggled in that bloody heap, that we were on a precipice from which one of us would soon fall and – with one last gasp – move no more? Did we even know that happened?
I bet you did, you clever bastard. The moment that brute sunk its fangs into Wally’s jugular, you knew his clock was ticking. Uh-oh, you thought. That’s not so good for old Wally, that might be game over. He was on that dreadful downward slope, and all you could do was watch until fate either dragged him back up or let him slide, disappearing into the void; bye bye Wally.
Because you know all about death. You’ve learned about the straight line of life and its fuzzy, frayed ends. ‘Once you weren’t here!’ you tell your young, and then, later, when the time is right, when the family goldfish or octogenarian or, gulp, DOG, pops its clogs in full view of the rest of the clan, you hold them close around the gurgling corpse of Jaws, Grandpa or Fido and say, ‘And one day you won’t be, I’m afraid, little loves.’
You carry that with you all through your life; the fact that at any given moment all this, the sky, the sea and the beautiful Earth with all its cheeseburgers, ladybirds, underpants and submarines will vanish in a puff of unknowable dust. You carry that with you.
It jars a little, this burden. It jars so much in fact that you pretend it simply isn’t the case, that life goes on, even though it doesn’t. You spend so much time pretending this that you build huge buildings to pretend it in, and read pretend books in, and sing songs and hold hands and smile and pretend together. And sometimes the pretending gets so real that you start to shout and scream about it. And the stories overtake the life they’re pretending to sustain, so that this extension to life becomes the actual life, and you blow yourselves up to get there quicker, and you take others with you, just for fun.
If only you knew how simple it was. This Howl. There are no trumpets or tall gates, no silver swords, no waking again as donkeys or hummingbirds, no waiting to see, no other side. There is no veil to lift; it’s already fucking happening.
It’s hard for you to grasp, I know. You deal in straight lines and your one ends, so that’s the truth you heave around with you.
Or do you?
Because it’s funny: us dogs don’t know about death, and yet, by your own reckoning, we live each day as if we’re moments away from it. But you, who live in death’s shadow, spend most of your days as if it’s nothing but a passing cloud. You’ll laugh about it, joke about it, even use it as an excuse to behave worse – ‘May as well, eh, might die tomorrow!’ you’ll say as you crack open another can of trampagne – but the moments when you honour that one dark certainty, that you must live today, are few and far between.
I know Reg has had them. He keeps memories of them somewhere I can’t see.
Now I’m no fool; I know they probably don’t involve me and that’s OK. I’m not jealous. I’m not going to start tearing his shirts and underpants to shreds with my teeth (would love to, though). I just wish I knew what they were. Sometimes I catch glimpses of them in the lines of his face, lingering like smells, I suppose, telling him it’s all right, that whatever other bollocks this big bad world throws him he’ll always have those moments.
So why doesn’t he live a little more?
Maybe we don’t understand what death means. Or maybe we do, and you’re the ones in the dark.
Either way, I’m not afraid of it. Which is why I’ve left Wally’s body to the worms of Greenwich Park and, against his advice, I’m heading north. I’m flying into the fray with this fucking whistle still bansheeing in my ear, my paws barely touching earth, and my snout filled with all the smells of hope and life.
I need to find Reg.
I need to warn him.
Jenkins
REGINALD HARDY’S JOURNAL
11TH DECEMBER 2021
The pub was warm and dry with wood panels and floorboards. The sky had darkened with the onset of evening, and candles lit the long tables at which drinkers sat on benches, murmuring in conversation and ignoring the soft sounds of fiddle, pipe and banjo drifting from the corner band.
Aisha and I sat at the end of one of these tables while John Farmer ordered us drinks at the bar. Our presence drew a few glances and murmurs; there were no other children in the place.
I saw John and the barman in close conversation. The barman looked over at us before disappearing through a side door, and John walked back to our table carrying two pints of dark, amber beer and a mug of steaming milk.
‘I’ve asked for word to be sent out,’ said John, licking milk from his thumb.
‘For Jenkins?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ He smiled. ‘Shouldn’t be too long.’
I looked around the bar. ‘Everyone seems nervous,’ I said.
‘Yes, well, understandable after what happened earlier. That’s the third one this week.’ He hung his long fingers over the rim of his glass. ‘They rarely get as far as the fence.’
‘What fence?’ I replied.
‘The camp fence. It was only supposed to be a temporary holding area while they set up better installations outside the city. But I suppose … well, there’s been some resistance there, of course, so maybe that held things up. Either way, it’s become a little more permanent than I think everyone had hoped.’
‘What camp?’
This time the frown went all the way. ‘Exactly how far south do you live?’ Almost immediately, his face broke into an apologetic smile. ‘Please forgive me,’ he said. ‘I forget that we’re somewhat in the middle of things up here. Perhaps news doesn’t always propagate the way it once did. It’s not as if we have Facebook or Twitter any more to tell us what may or may not be happening, is it?’
‘I was never on Facebook,’ I replied. ‘If I must communicate with other people then I prefer it to be face-to-face.’
He gave a laugh of surprise. ‘Good for you!’ he said and took a drink. His smile retreated a little and he gave me a thoughtful wink. ‘Perhaps if we’d all been like you, Reg, we wouldn’t have found ourselves in this mess, eh?’
Aisha was cradling her drink and kicking her legs under the table.
‘Reginald,’ I corrected as I watched the milk spin circles in her mug.
John looked around the room. ‘People are a little upset today, but things aren’t really so bad around here. Actually, they’re a little easier if you want my opinion.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, there was so much to think about before, wasn’t there? Everything now feels … I don’t know,’ he shrugged and the candlelight shimmered in his eyes, ‘more normal.’
The band had finished their tune and in the silence that followed, the door behind me creaked open and a woman entered, dressed in layers of sweaters and coats and wearing a shawl around her head. John eyed her as she made for the bar, ordered a drink, and took a single seat in the far corner. She kept her face hidden as she drank.
‘But out there,’ I said, leaning across the table.
John turned back from his distraction. ‘What?’
‘What happened this afternoon. That’s not normal.’
His expression became pained. ‘I’m not saying I agree with it, but what are we? Politicians? How the hell do we know what’s good and bad for a country? Are we all supposed to be experts at running things?’
‘No, but … they killed them.’
He turned back to his glass. ‘We just do what we need to do now, Reg. No need to worry about things outside of our control.’
‘Reginald,’ I said, but he had turned to the door behind me. It opened, bringing in an icy chill and two sets of boots that stopped behind us. The music and murmurs stumbled to an early finish, and Aisha f
roze over her milk. John looked back at me with a sudden cheerlessness.
‘I am sorry, Reg,’ he said.
I stood abruptly and spun round. There before me was a woman and, behind her, a man. Both wore purple jackets. The man was unremarkable; just another well-built, well-trained BU guard. But she – she was instantly recognisable. Her face was inches from mine; a brutal geometry of sharp mascara and thick red lipstick, framed by hair like raven feathers in an oil slick. It was her I had seen outside my flat, only – I realised with shock that a mere day had passed – the previous morning. But that was not where I had seen her first.
‘Well I never,’ she said with a ghastly smirk. ‘Hello, little Reggie H.’
‘Angela,’ I said. ‘Angela Hastings.’
She tapped a gold emblem on her lapel.
‘Captain Angela Hastings,’ she said with a wink.
She looked around the quiet room.
‘As you were,’ she said.
The music started up again and conversation resumed.
‘You know each other?’ said John Farmer, slouching somewhere to my right.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Angela, her eyes still on me. ‘Reggie and I go way back, don’t we, Reggie? Grew up together, in fact. Funny place to bump into an old friend, eh, Reg?’
Her voice still carried the same unnerving mischief it always had done, only now there was a curious clipped quality to her accent. It was that self-conscious over-pronunciation you sometimes hear when certain people catch a whiff of a life beyond their own, like minor windfalls or cruise ship holidays won in puzzle magazines. That desperate attempt to sound more refined than you are.
It did not make Angela Hastings sound more refined. It made her sound terrifying.
She cocked her head. ‘When was the last time we saw each other?’
‘Peckham Rye,’ I said. ‘Years ago. You were handing out pamphlets.’
‘Of course!’ She tutted and shook her head, as if at some forgotten embarrassment. ‘That’s when I’d just joined up. How things change, eh? Time does move us on, doesn’t it, Reggie?’
Her eyes flashed. I tried a smile and she nodded, biting her lip and – it was obvious now – refusing to acknowledge the girl at my hip. I could not help but notice the swabber hanging in her belt, inches from her fingertips.
John Farmer made a noise, and she turned. Her face fell.
‘You can go now, Farmer,’ she said.
He cleared his throat, looking for all the world like a grovelling bell boy.
‘Oh,’ said Angela, with a trace of disgust. She glanced at the guard behind her, who fished out a thin envelope and tossed it at Farmer. He fumbled with his prize and gave me a miserable look.
‘I’m sorry, Reg,’ he said, ‘we just do what we need to do.’ And with a last nod at Angela, he left.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Angela, when the door had closed. ‘I hope you don’t mind. We have to have eyes all over the place these days; this whole stretch is absolutely crawling with undesirables.’
She chose that moment to look down at Aisha. ‘And who do we have here?’ she said, beaming. Her forefinger idly tapped the swabber. Aisha flinched and pressed herself to my side. I wondered at how familiar the warmth of her touch had become in so short a time. I felt no heebies and no jeebies – just comfort and the raw, untethered instinct to protect.
‘Daughter,’ I blurted out. ‘This is my daughter.’
Slowly and robotically, Angela cocked her head and turned her frozen grin to me. ‘Daughter?’ she said. ‘But I thought …’
I put an arm around Aisha. ‘Like you say. Time moves us on.’
She blinked. ‘Captain,’ she corrected. She let her smile fall. ‘Was so sorry when I heard.’
‘Yes, well, all in the past now, I—’
‘Where’s Mother?’ she interrupted.
‘Pardon?’
‘Where is the girl’s mother?’
I noticed the guard straighten at this change of tone. My back was against the bench. I eyed the entrance, the swab on her belt.
‘I … er …’
Angela’s eyes travelled to Aisha again. It was the same look she had given Lineker all those years ago – cold, withering repugnance.
‘She’s not here right now,’ I faltered. ‘We were, er, separated in the incident outside. The escape attempt, you know.’
As I fumbled for words, Angela pulled the swabber from her belt. I froze and gripped the bench behind.
‘Have you ever seen one of these, sweetheart?’ said Angela, giving Aisha a sugary smile.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I mean, she doesn’t need to be, you know, you don’t need to …’
She held up the device and made a great display of examining it. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘what’s this switch?’
She flicked it and made an ‘O’ with her mouth, wide-eyed as the charging whistle rose. Aisha released a gasp of panic.
‘Oh, there’s no need to be afraid!’ said Angela. ‘It’s just a little thing, I’m sure you’ve had one before. Haven’t you?’
The swabber’s charging whistle reached its zenith and held. Aisha stared up at it, jaw tight, trembling.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Angela. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
At that moment the swabber gave an unhappy beep. Angela frowned at it. She pressed the charging button again, but it responded with the same disconsolate noise.
‘Bloody thing,’ muttered Angela. She turned to her companion. ‘Give me yours.’
‘I, I don’t have one, ma’am,’ was his reply.
Angela gave a rasp of frustration and turned back to her swabber, shaking it and banging the side with her palm.
‘It’s the battery,’ I said, remembering my afternoon investigating the ones I had stumbled upon in the skip. ‘Substandard. They leak. Or it could be the contacts. Either way, shoddy work in my opinion.’
Angela ceased in her punishment of the device and looked back at me with what I now accepted was her natural expression of malice. At that moment I sensed movement nearby and she shot a look to my right.
‘Reginald! There you are!’
A figure had bustled to my side. It was the woman in the shawl, which she had now dropped to her neck. She was in her fifties, face weathered by age but still showing the young woman she had once been. Her white hair was pulled into a long ponytail.
‘Darling!’ she said, flashing me a conspiratorial look and holding her hands out for Aisha. Aisha hesitated but, sensing the deception, allowed herself to be lifted into the woman’s arms.
‘I thought I’d lost you for good!’ said the woman. She shot me another glance. I was supposed to say something.
‘Yes,’ I said, doing my best to feign relief. ‘Thank goodness. Angela, I mean, Captain Hastings, this is my er, wife, and, er …’
‘Come on, dear, we should be on our way,’ said the woman, edging towards the door and pulling at me to follow. Still holding the faulty swabber aloft, Angela watched us stumble away with a curious frown.
‘Have to get going …’ said the woman as we pushed between benches and tables. ‘Must be off.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, fumbling with a glass I had toppled.
The guard moved to pursue us but stopped as Angela raised a finger. We reached the door and pushed it open, and I just had time to see her incredulous stare follow us out into the freezing, dark fog.
‘Follow me,’ muttered the woman, picking up pace. ‘Before she changes her mind.’
‘Who are you?’ I said, stumbling down the steps.
‘Charlotte Jenkins. Call me Charlie. Now come with me. Run!’
London’s Fuckfest of Smells
LINEKER
I say ‘flying’. Actually it took a while for me to leave Wally’s body. It was like I was stuck in his gravity, and I had to pad around him a few times before I could break the orbit.
But once free I picked up the pace and locked onto the fresh scent of Reg and the girl. It felt good to be running a
gain, dashing through hedgerows and scampering up strange new streets. Odd feeling though, not being by Reg’s side, not on that invisible leash that might be yanked back at any second with the call of my name. I was, I realised, untethered for the first time in …
Could it have been my entire life? Had I not tasted freedom until now? Had I been … ?
No time to think about that. I had a purpose, a cause, a quest! That’s right. Fucking knight of old, me – road for a steed, snout for a sword.
The scent. I had it. I had it almost all the way. Ten and twelve miles by my reckoning. Reg’s smell, and the girl’s by now, were branded upon me. There was no possible way I could ever rid myself of them. I felt sure of that.
The first place I stopped was a huge dome – full of distractions, that place, fucking rammed with humans in various states of excitement, anger, fear, hope, sharp arrows of determination trained upon some target I couldn’t fathom, far less care for. I kept myself hidden, tracked the scent and followed it out.
Then came the river, bursting with all those glorious temptations made of mud, grime and fish scales, but raise the banners and blow those fucking bugles – this knight remained true to his quest. Nothing could stop me, nothing, because I was on the right path. I was doing the right thing.
Feels good that, doesn’t it?
I left the river and found myself in a maze of streets, and that’s when I was properly tested. I mean, have you smelled London on a good day? It’s nose porn, a fuckfest of smells. History, in case you were unaware, is having an orgy right beneath your very nose. It’s an endless replay of worlds colliding, centuries mashing together and millions of souls sharing their secrets and hopes. Every alleyway I passed held the ghost of some ancient murder or the lingering jizz of a long-concluded dalliance. Every gutter held the tears of a wartime widow clutching a letter, or the drizzle from a dead queen newspaper headline dissolved in chip fat. It’s a lot to ignore for a dog like me.
The Last Dog on Earth Page 21
