Fluke

by James Herbert

  ‘Wait for me, Rumbo!’ I called out, and he slowed his pace to a trot, allowing me to draw alongside.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re going to have our breakfast now,’ he replied.

  Rumbo led me through a confusing number of side-streets until we reached an enormous corrugated-iron wall running the length of the pavement. We reached a break in it and Rumbo trotted through, his nose twitching for some familiar scent.

  ‘Good,’ he said to me. ‘He’s in his office. Now listen to me, pup: stay good and quiet. The Guvnor doesn’t have much patience with dogs, so don’t be a nuisance. If he talks to you, just wag your tail and play dumb. Don’t get frisky. If he’s in a bad mood – I’ll give you the nod if he is – make yourself scarce. We can try again later. Okay?’

  I nodded, beginning to feel apprehensive about meeting this ‘Guvnor’. Looking around, I saw we were in a vast yard filled with old broken-up and broken-down cars, all piled in precarious-looking heaps. Other, smaller heaps were scattered around and I saw these were made up of rusted parts from the damaged cars. A weary-looking crane stood at one end and I realized we were in a breaker’s yard.

  Rumbo had made his way towards a dilapidated wooden hut which stood in the centre of the metal-torn domain and stood scratching at its door, occasionally giving out a moderate bark. The shiny blue Rover parked near the hut stood out like a sore thumb among the mangled wrecks around it, the bright morning sun making its bodywork gleam disdainfully.

  The door of the hut swung open and the Guvnor stepped out.

  ‘’Allo Rumbo, boy!’ He beamed down at my tail-wagging friend; his mood seemed good. ‘You been out all night again? You’re supposed to be a guard dog, you know, stop me having headaches.’ He squatted in front of Rumbo and ruffled the dog’s fur, slapping his flanks for extra welcome. Rumbo was good – very good; he wagged his tail and shuffled his feet, grinning up at the Guvnor all the time, but not trying to thrust himself on to him, his tongue hanging loose, occasionally flicking upwards to lick the man’s face. The Guvnor was heavily built, his long leather jacket bulging tight around the shoulders. He had that fleshy-looking hardness about him, a tough nut who had become used to the good things in life – good food and good liquor. A fat cigar protruded from his mouth and it looked a part of him, like his flattened nose; he would have looked silly without either. His hair, which was just beginning to thin, covered his ears and flowed over his collar at the back. A gold-sovereign ring flaunted itself from one hand while a large diamond ring outdid it on the other. He was about fortyish and had ‘Villain’ written all over him.

  ‘Who’s this you got with you?’ The Guvnor looked over at me, surprise on his face. ‘Got a little girlfriend, have you?’

  I bridled at his silly mistake. Fortunately, he corrected himself. ‘Oh no, I can see he’s just a pal. Here boy, come on.’ He extended a hand towards me but I backed away, a little afraid of him.

  ‘Get over here, squirt,’ said Rumbo quietly, warning me with annoyance in his voice.

  I crept forward cautiously, very uncertain of this man, for he was a strange mixture of kindness and cruelty. Generally, when you taste them, people have both these qualities but usually one is more dominant than the other. With the Guvnor, both characteristics were equally balanced, something I now know is very common in men of his kind. I licked his fingers, ready to bolt at the least sign of aggression. He stopped me as I got carried away with his delicious flavours by clamping my jaws together with a big fist.

  ‘What’s your name then, eh?’ He yanked at my collar and I tried to pull away, very fearful of him now.

  ‘It’s all right, squirt, he won’t hurt you if you behave yourself,’ Rumbo reassured me.

  ‘No name? No address? Someone didn’t want you very much, did they?’ The Guvnor let me go, giving me a playful shove towards Rumbo. He stood up and I could sense I was instantly forgotten.

  ‘Okay, Rumbo, let’s see what the missis has sent you.’ The man walked round to the boot of his Rover, unlocked it and pulled out an interesting-looking plastic bag – interesting because it bulged with what our noses told us could only be food. We danced around his ankles and he held the bag aloft out of reach. ‘All right, all right, take it easy. Anyone would think you hadn’t eaten for a week.’ Rumbo grinned at me.

  The Guvnor walked round to the back of the hut to where an old plastic bowl lay and emptied the contents of the bag into it. A meaty bone, soggy cornflakes, bits of bacon fat and half a chocolate bar fell into the bowl, a rich concoction of leftovers. There were even some cold baked beans among the scraps. As a human, my stomach would have turned over; as a dog, it was a gastronomic delight. Our noses disappeared into the mixture and for a few moments our minds were concentrated solely on filling our bellies. Rumbo got the tastier morsels, of course, but I didn’t do too badly.

  When the bowl was spotlessly clean, my friend wandered over to another bowl which stood beneath a dripping tap. He began to lap greedily at the water and I, my stomach fit to burst, drifted over and did the same. We slumped on the ground after that, too full to move.

  ‘Do you eat this well every day, Rumbo?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not always. It’s been a good morning. The Guvnor doesn’t always bring me something – there’ve been times he hasn’t fed me for days – and it’s not always easy to steal. The shopkeepers around here are a bit wary of me now.’

  The Guvnor had disappeared inside the hut and I could hear music blaring from a radio.

  ‘Have you always belonged to the Guvnor?’

  ‘I can’t remember, to tell you the truth. He’s all I’ve known.’ Rumbo became deep in thought. Finally he said, ‘No, it’s no good. My mind goes fuzzy when I try to think too hard. Sometimes I remember scents when I sniff certain people. They seem familiar to me. I can’t remember not knowing the Guvnor, though. He’s always been there.’

  ‘Is he good to you?’

  ‘Most of the time. Sometimes he ties me up when he wants to make sure I stay in all night, and sometimes he kicks me hard for shouting too loudly. But I can’t help it. He’s got some nasty friends and I just let fly at them when they come round.’

  ‘What do they do here?’

  ‘Talk mostly. They stay in that hut for hours, arguing and laughing. There’s a few regulars who do the work around here, mess around with those heaps of junk, and things; bring new ones in. They’re never very busy.’

  ‘What does the Guvnor do?’

  ‘You’re a bit nosy, aren’t you, squirt?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just interested, that’s all.’

  Rumbo eyed me suspiciously for a few moments. ‘You’re not like other dogs, are you? You’re . . . Well, you’re a bit like me. Most dogs are very stupid. You’re stupid, but not in the same way. Where exactly are you from, pup?’

  I told him all I could remember and discovered I was beginning to forget my past also. I could still remember the market where I was bought, but not much more between there and the dogs’ home. It’s something that’s happening to me more and more; I have periods of complete lucidity, then my mind can go virtually blank – my past, my origins, a vague blur. I often forget I was a man.

  I didn’t voice my anxiety over my human ancestry at that time because I didn’t want to alarm Rumbo in any way; I needed him so I could learn how to survive as a dog. Acceptance of circumstances comes more easily to an animal, you see, and it was that animal part of me which turned away maddening thoughts.

  ‘You were lucky to get away from the dogs’ home, pup. That’s the death-house for many,’ Rumbo said.

  ‘Have you ever been inside?’

  ‘No, not me. They’ll never catch me as long as I can run.’

  ‘Rumbo, why aren’t all dogs like us? I mean, why don’t they talk like us, think like us?’

  He shrugged. ‘They just aren’t.’

  ‘Rumbo, were you ever . . . do you ever remember being . . . er, have you always been a dog?
’

  His head jerked up. ‘What are you talking about? Of course I’ve always been a dog. What else could I have been?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ My head sank miserably down on to my paws. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘You’re a strange pup. Don’t cause me any trouble here, shrimp, otherwise I’ll turn you out. And stop asking silly questions.’

  ‘Sorry, Rumbo,’ I said, and quickly changed the subject. ‘What does the Guvnor do?’ I asked again.

  Rumbo’s answering glare and bared teeth killed my curiosity for the moment. I decided to take a little nap, but just before I dozed off another thought struck me.

  ‘Why don’t men understand us when we talk, Rumbo?’

  His voice was drowsy with sleep when he replied. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes the Guvnor understands me when I talk to him, but usually he just ignores me, tells me to quit yapping. Humans are just as stupid as stupid dogs sometimes. Now leave me alone, I’m tired.’

  It was then that I realized we hadn’t actually been communicating with words: it had been our minds speaking to each other. All animals or insects – fish even – have a way of communication, whether it’s by sound, scent or body display, and I’ve come to learn that even the dumbest creature has some sort of mental link with his own species – as well as others. It goes far beyond physical communications: how do you explain individual grasshoppers grouping into a swarm of locusts, what makes soldier ants march, what suddenly makes the lemming decide it’s time to jump in the sea? Instinct, communication by body secretions, the sense of race survival: they all play their part, but it goes deeper. I’m a dog, and I know.

  But I didn’t know then. I was a pup, and a confused one at that. I’d found a friend I could talk to through my mind, someone who was more like me than the other dogs I’d met; a few had come close, but none were like old Rumbo. I gazed at him fondly through blurred eyes, then I dozed off.

  8

  They were good, those days with Rumbo. The first morning had been enlightening and the days that followed were an education. We spent a large part of the time foraging for food, visiting the huge market most mornings (it slowly dawned on me that this was Nine Elms, the fruit and veg market which had been yanked cruelly from the Covent Garden area to an obscure South Thames position, so I knew I was in South London, somewhere around Vauxhall) and then visiting the shops to see what we could steal. I soon learned to be as swift and cunning as Rumbo, but I never became as audacious. He would disappear into an open doorway of a house and seconds later calmly stroll out with a packet of biscuits, or a loaf, or anything he could lay his jaws on (he once emerged with a leg of lamb between his teeth but he didn’t get away with that; a coloured lady came flying out and frightened old Rumbo so much with her shrieking he dropped the meat and bolted, a thrown milk bottle shattering on the pavement behind him).

  Once we came across one of those pastry vans unloading its morning delivery. It was filled with trays of sweet-smelling buns and cakes, not to mention freshly baked bread. Rumbo waited until the driver had taken a large tray of pastries into the baker’s, then leapt into the open interior of the van. I held back, of course, coward that I am, and watched enviously as

  Rumbo jumped from the van with a lovely sugared bun glued to his mouth. He crouched beneath the vehicle wolfing his booty as the driver returned for another tray. When he went back into the shop, freshly laden, Rumbo was up inside the van again, gulping down the remains of the first bun while snatching a chocolate éclair from another tray. He did this three times, each time hiding beneath the van before the driver returned, swallowing as fast as he could, when the dope (me) decided to chance his arm. I waited until the man was well inside the shop, scrambled up into the van (no easy task for a pup) and fussily sniffed my way along the delicious racks of confectionery. Rumbo was in and out like a shot, needless to say, but me – I had to be choosy. I had just decided upon a large, succulent-looking lemon meringue tart, torn between it and the chocolate éclair oozing cream lying beside it, when a shadow fell across the open doorway.

  I yelped in fright and the man yelped in surprise. His surprise turned to menace and my fright turned to more fright. I tried to explain I was starving, that I hadn’t eaten for a week, but he wasn’t having any of it. He lurched forward and grabbed for my collar; I backed further into the van. The man cursed and hauled himself inside, crouching so he wouldn’t hit his head on the low roof. He advanced on me and I retreated as far as I could go, which wasn’t far enough. It’s an unpleasant feeling when you know you’re going to be hurt and, I must admit, I indulged in pity for myself to the full. Why had I allowed myself to be led on by that thief Rumbo, that crook in dog’s clothing? Why had I let myself be bullied into this low life of petty thieving by this sneaky mongrel?

  And then there he was, good old Rumbo, on the tail-end of the van, snarling at the delivery man’s back, shouting defiantly at him. He was magnificent! The man turned in alarm, bumped his head on the roof, lost his balance and fell backwards on to the trays with their squashy contents. He slipped almost to the floor of the van, only the confined space saving him, and his elbows sunk into the creamy goodies behind him.

  I dodged over his sprawled legs and leapt from the van, running even as I landed. Rumbo took his time and helped himself to one more delicacy before he jumped down after me. When we stopped, about a hundred miles later, he was smacking his lips contentedly. I panted my thanks to him and he grinned in his superior way. ‘Sometimes, squirt, you’re as dumb as the other mutts – maybe dumber. Still I suppose it takes time to teach a new dog old tricks.’ For some reason, he thought that was very funny and repeated it to himself over and over for the rest of that day.

  Another trick of Rumbo’s, using me as bait, was his diversion tactic. I would gallop up to an unsuspecting, shopping-bag-laden housewife and use all my puppy charms to make her lower her burden to the ground and pet me, maybe even offer me a titbit. If she had children with her it was even easier, for she would be forced into making a fuss of me with them, or at least drag them away. When all her attention was on me – I’d be licking her face or rolling on the ground, offering my tummy to be rubbed – Rumbo would rummage through her unguarded shopping. When he found something tasty he would streak off, leaving me to make my excuses and follow at a more leisurely pace. We often got found out before he’d grabbed anything useful, but that didn’t spoil the enjoyment of the game.

  Taking sweets from babies was another delightful pastime. Mothers would howl and their offspring would bawl as we scooted off with our prizes. Sudden raids on kids around icecream vans were always rewarding, the van’s jangling jingle acting as a homing beacon for us. The coming of winter forced us to cut down on this kind of activity unfortunately, for the parks were empty and the ice-cream vans in hibernation.

  Rumbo loved to taunt other dogs. He looked down on all other animals as inferiors, resenting their stupidity, especially dogs, most of whom he considered more feeble-minded than any other living creature. I don’t know why he held such a prejudice against dogs; it may have been because he was ashamed of them, ashamed they didn’t have his intelligence, his dignity. Oh yes, rogue that he was, Rumbo had bits of dignity. Rumbo never begged, for instance; he asked for food, or he stole it, but he never grovelled for it. Sometimes he might act out a parody of a dog begging for food or affection, but this was always for his own cynical amusement. He taught me that life took advantage of the living, and to exist – really to exist – you had to take advantage of life. In his opinion, dogs had let themselves become slaves to man. He wasn’t owned by the Guvnor, he did a job of work for him by guarding the yard, thereby earning his keep, such as it was. The Guvnor understood this and their relationship was based on mutual respect. I wasn’t sure the Guvnor had such finer feelings, but I kept my opinion to myself, for I was only a pupil – Rumbo was the master.

  Anyway, my companion never lost a chance of telling another dog how stupid he was. Poodles were his greatest source of deri
sion and he would laugh uncontrollably at their clipped curls. The poor old dachshund came in for a bellyful too. Rumbo didn’t care whom he picked on, be it an Alsatian or a Chihuahua. However, I did once witness him go very quiet and reflective when a Dobermann passed us by.

  He got himself, and often me, into some fine old scrapes, other dogs sensing our difference and ganging up on us. I suffered as a pup, but it certainly toughened me up. I learned to run a lot faster too. The funny thing was, Rumbo could have been leader of the pack easily, for he was strong as well as smart, a good combination for the dog world; but he was essentially a loner, he went where he wanted to go, unhampered by thoughts of others. I’m still not sure why he took up with me; I can only suppose he recognized our mutual freakishness.

  He was a Romeo, too. He loved the ladies, did Rumbo, and there again, size or breed meant nothing to him. He would disappear for days, returning with a tired but smug grin on his face. When I asked where he’d been, he always said he’d tell me when I was old enough to know.

  I always knew when he would be off, for a strangely exciting smell would suddenly fill the air and Rumbo would stiffen, sniff, and bolt out of the yard – with me vainly trying to follow. It would be a bitch in heat, of course, somewhere in the neighbourhood, possibly a couple of miles away, but I was too young to know about such things. So I’d wait patiently for his return, moping around until he did, angry at being left behind. Still, Rumbo was always pretty easy to live with for the next few days.

  Another great pastime of his was rat-catching. God, how he hated rats, that Rumbo! There were never many in the yard, he made sure of that, but occasionally the odd two or three would make a reconnoitre, looking for a fresh supply of food, I suppose, or perhaps a new breeding ground. Rumbo would always know when they were about, he had a sixth sense for it. His hairs would bristle and his lips curl back revealing yellow fang-like teeth, and he’d snarl a deep menacing animal snarl. It would frighten the life out of me. Then he’d creep forward, taking his time, and he’d mooch through the old junks, oblivious of me, a hunter stalking his prey, a killer closing in on his kill. At first, I’d stay in the background, the vile creatures terrifying me with their evil looks and their foul language, but eventually Rumbo’s hate passed on to me, turning my fear into revulsion then detestation. Detestation led to anger, and anger overcame my nervousness. So we’d rout the rats together.