Fluke

by James Herbert

  I found myself in Edenbridge High Street a day or so later. I’m not sure just how long it took me to get there because, as you can imagine, my mind was in a turmoil after my meeting with the badger. I had to accept that, as a man, I was dead (if I were to believe the badger’s revelations), and there would be no return to normality for me. But if I was dead, then how did I die? Old age? Somehow, I doubted it. My wife seemed fairly young in my memories of her, and my daughter could have been no more than five or six. Illness? Possibly. Yet why did I feel so strongly against this mysterious man? Why was he so evil to me? Had he killed me?

  I felt sure this was the answer, otherwise why should I feel such hate for him? I was determined to find the truth. First, though, I had to find my family.

  The High Street was fairly busy with shoppers and delivery vans and the scene was vaguely familiar to me. I must have lived here, I told myself, or why else would I have been drawn to the little town? It wouldn’t click though, it just wouldn’t click.

  The shoppers must have been puzzled by the thoughtful-looking mongrel who paced up and down that street, peering up at passing faces, snooping into shop doorways. I ignored all enticements, for I had more serious things on my mind than playing games.

  By late afternoon I was still no better off. I just couldn’t remember clearly any of the shops, pubs or people, although everything appeared too frustratingly familiar! That old teaser hunger reminded me he was still around and had no intention of letting me off the hook just because I had problems. The shopkeepers shooed me away as soon as I put my sniffing nose through their doorways, and a sudden jaw-snapping thrust at an overloaded shopping-basket earned me a sharp smack on the snout and a lot of abuse.

  Not wanting to cause a fuss (I didn’t want to be picked up by the police since I needed to stay around that town until something happened to restore my memory) I left the main street and wandered on to what looked like a vast council estate. Then something did click, although it wasn’t particularly helpful to me: many South Londoners had been moved down to Edenbridge over the last twenty or so years, away from their slums into modern estates surrounded by good countryside. Many had taken to their new environment, while others (like Lenny, the Guvnor’s man) had still yearned for their old surroundings and spent much of their time to-ing and fro-ing from the two vastly different communities. I was conscious of all this because I’d obviously lived in the town and knew of its history, but where had I lived? On one of those estates? No, it didn’t click; it didn’t feel right.

  I followed a couple of small boys home, much to their delight, and managed to scrounge a few scraps from their scolding but kind-hearted mother. The food wasn’t much but enough to keep me going for a while, and to the boys’ disappointment I scampered out of their back garden and towards the High Street again.

  This time I drifted down all the side-streets on one side, then all the side-streets on the other, but nothing jarred that tiny trigger in my mind which I knew would unleash a flood of memories.

  Night fell and so did my spirits. Nothing had happened. I’d felt so sure that when I reached the town it would be easy to find my home, familiar things would guide me to it, but it hadn’t happened. I was still in the dark mentally, and now physically.

  I wandered down to the very edge of the town, passing pubs, walking across a bridge, past a big garage, a hospital – and then the buildings ran out. There was only black countryside ahead. Utterly dejected, I entered the hospital grounds, found a quiet corner in the yard at the rear of the white single-storey building, and slept.

  The smell of lovely cooking awoke me the following morning and I sniffed my way over to an open window from which it wafted. Rearing up on my hind legs, I rested my paws on the window-ledge. Unfortunately, the window was too high for me to see into the room beyond, but, sticking my nose into the air, I drank in the delicious smells, then cried out in appreciation. A huge round brown head suddenly appeared above and white teeth flashed a startled welcome at me. Reds and oranges shimmered in the woman’s huge face as she grinned even more broadly.

  ‘You hungry, fellah?’ she chuckled, and I wagged my tail in anticipation. ‘Now don’ you go away,’ she told me.

  The beaming head disappeared then reappeared almost instantly, the smile now threatening to split the face in half: A thin, partly burnt slice of bacon was dangled before me.

  ‘You get this down you, honey,’ she said, dropping the hot finger of meat into my open mouth.

  I spat the bacon out instantly as my throat was scorched then drooled saliva on the piping meat to cool it before wolfing it down.

  ‘Good boy,’ came the woman’s voice from above, then another piece of bacon plopped on the gravel beside me. This lasted for about as long as the first and I looked up hopefully, tongue hanging out.

  ‘You’s a greedy dog!’ said the coloured (multicoloured) woman, laughing. ‘Okay, I get you one more, then you scat – you get me into trouble!’

  The promised third slice appeared and disappeared almost as quickly, and I looked up for more. Still chuckling, the woman waggled her index finger at me and then closed the window as a final word.

  It wasn’t a bad start to the day and my spirits rose as I trotted round to the hospital’s main entrance. Hot food in my belly and a day for discovery ahead of me! Perhaps life (or death) wasn’t so bad after all. Dogs are born optimists, as I said.

  I reached the entrance and turned left, heading towards the High Street again, sure it was my only chance of finding someone or something I knew.

  Without thinking, I wandered into the road and screamed with fright as a green monster roared down on me. The single-decker bus screeched to a halt as I scurried to the other side of the road, tail between my legs and hair on end, and the driver hurled abuse at me, thumping his horn angrily. I cowered in a hedge and rolled my eyes at him, and with a final threatening gesture he threw his vehicle into gear again and slowly moved off.

  As the row of windows went by, accusing faces glared down at me while others shook in pity. And one small pair of eyes locked into mine and held my gaze until the progress of the bus no longer allowed them to. Even then, the little girl’s head craned round and pushed itself against the glass so I was visible for as long as possible.

  Only when the bus had disappeared over the hump-backed bridge did I realize just whom I had been looking at and had been returning my stare. It was my daughter, Gillian, only I called her Polly because I preferred the name! I had been right! Edenbridge was my home town! I had found them!

  But I hadn’t found them. The bus was gone and no memories came flooding back. I remembered the names, the minor disagreement over my daughter’s, but that was all. I waited for the visions to appear, sure they would, but they didn’t.

  I groaned in disappointment and longing, then set off after the bus, determined to catch it, refusing to throw away such a chance encounter. As I mounted the hump of the bridge I saw the bus at a stop in the distance. Barking in my eagerness, I increased my speed and hurtled down that High Street like a bullet from a gun. It was no use, though; the bus lurched forward and continued its journey down the long road. I watched it getting smaller and smaller and my legs grew wearier and wearier until I came to a panting halt.

  It was hopeless. The bus – and my child – had got away.

  Two more days of anguished searching went by – searching of the town and searching of my mind – both of which proved fruitless. I had eaten regularly at the hospital, having my breakfast and evening meal there thanks to the generosity of the coloured cook, and had spent the rest of the time looking through the town and its outer fringes, but all to no avail. Then on the third day, which must have been a Saturday judging by the amount of shoppers there were around, I struck lucky.

  I had been wandering up and down the High Street, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible (a few people had already tried to catch me now I was becoming a familiar sight around the shops), and had glanced down the small side-
turning which led to the car park at the rear of the shops. There I caught a glimpse of a small familiar figure skipping alongside the much taller figure of a woman. They disappeared around a corner but I knew instantly who they were. My heart tried to escape through my throat and my knees suddenly went wobbly.

  ‘Carol!’ I gurgled. ‘Carol! Polly! Wait for me! Stay there!’

  The shoppers must have thought they had a mad dog among them, for they all froze at the sound of my barking and stared in amazement as I staggered into the small side-turning. It was like a bad dream, for the shock had turned my legs to jelly and they refused to function properly. I took a grip of myself, realizing this was a chance I just could not afford to miss, and willed the power to flow through my quakey limbs. It did, but I had lost valuable seconds. I set off in pursuit of the two figures, mother and daughter, my wife and my child, and was just in time to see them climbing into a green Renault.

  ‘Carol! Stop! It’s me!’

  They turned and looked in my direction, surprise, then fear showing in their faces.

  ‘Quick, Gillian,’ I heard my wife say, ‘get in the car and close the door!’

  ‘No, Carol! It’s me! Don’t you know me?’

  I was soon across the car park and yapping around the Renault, frantic for my wife to recognize me.

  They both stared down at me, their fright obvious. I didn’t have the sense to calm down, my emotions were running too high. Carol rolled down the window on her side and flapped a hand at me. ‘Shoo, go away! Bad dog!’

  ‘Carol, for Christ’s sake, it’s me – Nigel!’ (Nigel? I remembered that was my previous name; I think I preferred Horace.)

  ‘Mummy, it’s the poor doggy I told you about, the one that nearly got run over,’ I heard my daughter say.

  Then I did a quick double take. Was this my daughter? She seemed much older than I remembered; at least two or three years older. But the woman was Carol, and she had called the girl Gillian. Of course it was my daughter!

  I leapt up at the side of the car and pushed my nose against the bottom of the half-open window.

  ‘Polly, it’s your daddy! Don’t you remember me, Polly?’ I pleaded.

  Carol smacked me on the top of the head, not viciously but defensively. Then the car’s engine roared into life, the gears clunked, and the vehicle began slowly to move away.

  ‘No!’ I screamed. ‘Don’t leave me, Carol! Please don’t leave me!’

  I ran alongside the car, dangerously close, but it gathered speed and soon outpaced me. I was sobbing by now, seeing them slip through my paws like this, knowing I could never match their speed, realizing they were driving from my life again. I felt like throwing myself beneath the wheels to make them stop, but common sense and my old chum, cowardice, prevented me from doing so.

  ‘Come back, come back, come back!’

  But they wouldn’t.

  I saw Polly’s wide-eyed face as the car twisted its way round the winding road that led from the car park to the outskirts of the town, and willed her to make her mother stop the car; but it was no use, they sped away.

  Many onlookers were regarding me rather nervously by now and I had the good judgement to make myself scarce before I was reported. I took off after the Renault and, as I ran, memories began to pour into me.

  Soon I remembered where I had lived.

  17

  Marsh Green is a tiny, one-street village just outside Eden-bridge. It has a church at one end and a pub at the other, one general store in the middle and a few houses on either side. There are other houses hidden away at the back of these, one of which I stood gazing at now.

  I knew this was where my wife and daughter lived – where I had once lived. My name had been Nigel Nettle (yes, I’m afraid so) and I had originally come from Tonbridge, Kent. As a boy, I’d spent a lot of time working for local farmers (hence my knowledge of the countryside and animals), but careerwise I’d turned to – of all things – plastics. I’d managed to set up a small factory in Edenbridge on the industrial estate leading to the town and had specialized in flexible packaging, branching out into other areas as the firm prospered and grew. Speaking as a dog, it all seemed very boring, but I suppose at the time the company meant a lot to me. We had moved to Marsh Green to be near the business, and I had found myself taking more and more trips up to London for business reasons (which is why the route was so familiar).

  As far as I could remember, we’d been very happy: my love for Carol had never diminished with time, only grown more comfortable; Polly (Gillian) was a delight, our home was a dream, and the business was expanding rapidly. So what had happened? I had died, that’s what.

  How, and when (Polly seemed so much older than I remembered) I had yet to find out; but I was even more convinced my death was connected with the mysterious man who floated into view so often, yet eluded me before recognition. If he were still a threat to my family (and that thought still clung to me), and if he had had something to do with my death (something told me he had been the cause of it), then I would find a way of dealing with him. Right now, though, I just wanted to be with Carol and Polly.

  It was mid-afternoon, I think, and the sun was hidden behind heavy clouds. I was at the bottom of an unmade road and staring at the detached house before me. The walls of the ground floor were constructed of red brick, while the upper floor’s surface was covered with red clay tiles; the doors and window-frames were painted white. A feeling of warmth spread through me and I swallowed hard.

  I had to steady myself, it was no good acting the way I had in the town; they would only become frightened again. Keep yourself under control, I told myself, act like a normal dog; there’ll be plenty of time to let them know who you really are once they’ve got used to you.

  Pushing the latch of the garden gate down with a paw, I nudged my way in and trotted up the path, keeping a firm rein on trembling body and quaking nerves. I reached the front door and scratched at its surface with a paw.

  Nothing happened. I tried again and still nothing happened. I knew they were in, because the Renault stood in the open garage to my left.

  I woofed, quietly at first, then louder. ‘Carol!’ I called out. ‘It’s me, Carol, open the door!’

  I heard footsteps inside, footsteps coming along the hall towards me. With a great effort of will, I stopped my barking and waited. The door opened slightly and a solitary eye peered through the two-inch crack.

  ‘Mummy, it’s that dog again!’ Polly cried out. The crack shrank to an inch, the eye now regarding me with both excitement and trepidation.

  More footsteps sounded down the hallway, then Carol’s eye appeared above my daughter’s. She looked at me in amazement.

  ‘How did you get here?’ she said.

  ‘I remembered where we lived, Carol. I couldn’t follow the car, but I remembered. It didn’t take long!’ I was finding it hard to contain myself.

  ‘Scat! Go away now, there’s a good dog,’ Carol urged.

  I whimpered. I didn’t want to go away; I’d only just found them.

  ‘Oh Mummy, I think he’s hungry,’ Polly said.

  ‘It might be dangerous, dear. We can’t take chances.’

  ‘Please,’ I wailed, giving them my most beseeching look. ‘I need you. Don’t turn me away.’

  ‘Look, Mummy, I think he’s crying!’

  And I was. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Carol said. ‘Dogs don’t cry.’

  But they do. In fact, I wasn’t just crying, I was blubbering.

  ‘Let him come in, please, Mummy. I’m sure he doesn’t mean us any harm,’ Polly pleaded.

  Carol looked doubtful ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t look very dangerous, but you never know with dogs. They’re a bit unpredictable.’

  I was really snivelling by now and looking as pitiful as I could. The hardest heart would have melted and I knew my wife’s heart was by no means hard.

  ‘All right then, let it in,’ she said with a sigh.
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  The door flew open and I flew in, crying and laughing at the same time, kissing and licking hands and legs. They were startled at first and leapt back in alarm, but soon realized I was only being friendly. ‘He’s lovely, Mummy!’ Polly cried, and knelt on both knees to cuddle me. Fear showed on Carol’s face for a second but she relaxed as I smothered Polly’s face with wet kisses. It’s impossible to tell you how wonderful that moment was – even now it gives me a choking feeling – but if parts of your lives closed in episodes as in a book, then that would have been the end of a chapter. Maybe the end of the book.

  My wife joined my daughter on the floor, ruffling my hair with a gentle hand, and I made the mistake of trying to take her in my arms and kiss her on the lips. She screamed in horrified glee and we became a struggling heap of squirming, giggling bodies on the hallway carpet. Polly tried to pull me off and her fingers dug into my ribs, making me shriek with laughter. The harsh tickling continued when she realized she had found my vulnerable spot. The fun stopped when the first sprinkle of water jetted from me (I tried hard but I’ve never been on the best of terms with my bladder) and Carol leapt to her feet, caught hold of my collar and dragged me towards the door.

  I found myself outside on the path again, and to convince my wife I was really quite clean I went through the exaggerated pantomime of cocking a leg (an art in itself) and sprinkling her flowerbed. She wasn’t too pleased about the flowers, but understood I was trying to prove something. I waited patiently, beaming up at her, tail wagging itself into a blur, wanting desperately to hug her and tell her I still loved her, until she invited me back into the house.

  ‘Thank you!’ I barked, and shot past her legs down the hallway.

  Polly chased after me, her laughter beautiful to my ears. I skidded to a halt when I reached the kitchen and my eyes drank in the room, the memories returning like old friends from an outing: the huge old black fireplace with its iron oven, a relic of the past which we decided to preserve; the round pine table, deliberately scored and scratched with initials, noughts and crosses, I LOVE YOUs and HAPPY BIRTHDAYs, and any messages we cared to mark for posterity; that antique clock which always informed us the time was a quarter to four, but did so in such an elegant way; the blue-and-yellow vase on the window-sill that looked as if it had been made up from a jigsaw, the result of my patiently piecing it together after Polly had knocked it on to the floor in her ‘just-about-walking’ days. There were new items around the kitchen, of course, but these seemed alien, an intrusion upon a memory. I sighed, ready to burst into tears again, but a hand grabbed my collar and interrupted my nostalgia.