Fluke

by James Herbert

  ‘Let’s just see who you belong to,’ Carol said, tugging the nameplate round into view. ‘Fluke? Is that your name?’

  Polly cupped a hand to her mouth and tittered.

  ‘No address? Nobody wants you, do they?’ Carol said, shaking her head.

  I shook my own head in agreement.

  ‘Can we keep him?’ Polly said excitedly.

  ‘No,’ was Carol’s firm reply. ‘We’ll take it to the police station tomorrow and see if it’s been reported missing.’

  ‘But can we keep him if no one wants him?’

  ‘I don’t know, we’ll have to ask Uncle Reg.’

  Uncle Reg? Who was he?

  Polly seemed pleased enough with that and began to run her fingers down my back. ‘Can we feed Fluke, Mummy? I’m sure he’s very hungry.’

  ‘Let’s see what we’ve got for it, then.’

  Please call me him, or he, Carol, not it. I’m not an it. I prefer Fluke to it. I prefer Horace to it.

  Carol went to a freezer, a new item in the kitchen, and looked thoughtfully into it. ‘I’m sure you’d like a leg of lamb or some nice juicy steak, wouldn’t you, Fluke?’

  I nodded, licking my lips in anticipation, but she closed the freezer and said to Polly, ‘Run down to the shop and buy a tin of dogfood. That should keep him happy until tomorrow.’

  ‘Can I take Fluke with me, Mummy?’ Polly jumped up and down at the prospect and I began to get excited at her excitement.

  ‘All right, but make sure he doesn’t run out into the main road.’

  So off we set, my daughter and I, girl and dog, down the lane that led to the main road and the village’s only shop. We played as we went and for a while I forgot I was Polly’s father and became her companion. I stayed close to her skipping feet, occasionally jumping up to pull at her cardigan, licking her face anxiously when she tripped and fell. I tried to lick her glazed knees clean, but she pushed me away and waged a reprimanding finger. While she was buying my dinner in the grocery I stayed on my best behaviour, refusing to be tempted by the pile of within-easy-reach packets of potato crisps, ‘all flavours’. We raced down the lane and I let her beat me for most of the way, hiding behind a tree when she reached the garden gate. She looked around, bewildered, and called out my name; I remained hidden, snickering into the long grass at the base of the tree. I heard footsteps coming back down the lane and, when she drew level with my hiding-place, raced around the other side, scooting towards the gate. Polly caught sight of me and gave chase, but I was an easy winner.

  She reached me, giggling and breathless, and threw her arms around my neck, squeezing me tight.

  We went into the house – my home – and Polly told Carol everything that had happened. Half the tin of dogfood was poured on to a plate and placed on the floor, together with a dish full of water. I buried my nose in the meat and cleared the plate. Then I cleared the dish. Then I begged for more. And more I got.

  Everything was rosy. I was home, I was with my family. I had food in my belly and hope in my heart. I’d find a way of letting them know who I was, and if I couldn’t . . . well, did it matter that much? As long as I was with them, there to protect them, there to keep the mysterious stranger at bay, my true identity wasn’t that important. I wasn’t worried about the police station tomorrow, for there’d be no one to claim me, and I was sure I could ingratiate myself enough for them to want to keep me. Yes, everything was rosy.

  And you know how things have a habit of turning nasty for me just at their rosiest.

  We’d settled down for the night (I thought). Polly was upstairs in bed, Carol was relaxed on the settee, her legs tucked up beneath her as she watched television, and I lay sprawled on the floor below her, my eyes never leaving hers. Occasionally, she would look down at me and smile, and I would smile back, breathing deep sighs of contentment. Several times I tried to tell her who I was, but she didn’t seem to understand, telling me to stop grizzling. I gave up in the end and succumbed to the tiredness that had crept up on me. I couldn’t sleep – I was too happy for that – but I rested and studied my wife’s features with adoring eyes.

  She’d aged slightly, lines at the corners of her eyes and at the base of her neck where there’d been no lines before. There was a sadness about her, but it was a well-hidden inner sadness, one you had to sense rather than see; it was obvious to me why it was there.

  I wondered how she had coped without me, how Polly had accepted my death. I wondered about my own acceptance of the badger’s pronouncement that I certainly was dead as a man. The lounge still contained all the cosiness I remembered so well, but the atmosphere of the whole house was very different now. Part of its personality had gone, and that was me. It’s people who create atmosphere, not wood or brick, nor accessories – they only create surroundings.

  I had looked around for photographs, hoping to catch a glimpse of my past image, but to my surprise had found none on display. I racked my brain to remember if ever there had been any framed photographs of myself around, but, as usually happens whenever I try consciously to remember, my mind became a blank. Perhaps they had been too painful a reminder to Carol and Polly and had been put away somewhere to be taken out only when they could cope.

  Whether my plastics business had been sold or was still running I had no way of knowing, but I was relieved to see my family seemed to be under no great hardship. Various household items confirmed this: the freezer in the kitchen, the new television set here in the lounge, various odd items of furniture scattered about the house.

  Carol was still as attractive as ever, despite the telltale lines; she’d never been what you might call beautiful, but her face possessed a quality that made it seem so. Her body was still an inch away from plumpness all round, as it always had been, her legs long and gracefully curved. Ironically, for the first time as a dog, I felt physical feeling stir, a hunger aroused. I wanted my wife, but she was a woman and I was a dog.

  I quickly turned my thoughts towards Polly. How she’d grown! She’d lost her baby chubbiness but retained her prettiness, fair skin and darkening hair emphasizing her small, delicately featured face. I was surprised and strangely moved to see her don brown-rimmed spectacles to watch television earlier on in the evening; it seemed to make her even more vulnerable somehow. I was pleased with her; she’d grown into a gentle child, with none of the petulance or awkwardness so many of her age seemed to have. And there was a special closeness between her and her mother, perhaps a closeness born out of mutual loss.

  As I had noticed before, she appeared to be about seven or eight, and I pondered over the question of how long I had been dead.

  Outside, the sky had dulled as night bullied its way in, and a chill had crept into the air with it, an agitator urging the night on. Carol switched on one of those long, sleek, electric fires (another new item, for we’d always insisted on open fires in the past – logs and coal and flames – but maybe that romanticism had gone with me) and settled back on the settee. Headlights suddenly brightened up the room and I heard a car crunching its way down the gravelly lane. It stopped outside and the engine purred on while gates grated their way open. Carol craned her head around and looked towards the window, then turned her attention back towards the television, tidying her hair with deft fingers and smoothing her skirt over her thighs. The car became mobile again, the glare from its lights swinging around the room and then vanishing. The engine stopped, a car door slammed, and a shadowy figure walked past the window rattling fingers against the glass as it did so.

  My head jerked up and I growled menacingly, following the shadow until it had gone from view.

  ‘Shhh, Fluke! Settle down.’ Carol reached forward and patted the top of my head.

  I heard a key going into its latch, then footsteps in the hallway. I was on my feet now. Carol grabbed my collar, concern showing on her face. My body stiffened as the door of the lounge began to open.

  ‘Hello . . .’ a man’s voice began to say, and he entered the room, a
smile on his face.

  I broke loose from Carol’s grip and went for him, a roar of rage and hate tearing itself from me. I recognized him.

  It was the man who had killed me!

  18

  I leapt up, my teeth seeking his throat, but the man managed to get an arm between us. It was better than nothing so I sank my teeth into that instead.

  Carol was screaming, but I paid her no heed; I wouldn’t let this assassin anywhere near her. He cried out at the sudden pain and grabbed at my hair with his other hand; we fell back against the door jamb and slid to the floor. My attack was ferocious for my hate was strong, and I could smell the fear in him. I relished it.

  Hands grabbed me from behind and I realized Carol was trying to tug me away, obviously afraid I would kill the man. I hung on; she didn’t understand the danger she was in.

  For a few snap seconds I found myself eye-to-eye with him and his face seemed so familiar. And strangely – perhaps I imagined it – there seemed to be some recognition in his eyes too. The moment soon passed and we became a frenzied heap again. Carol had her arms around my throat and was squeezing and puffing at the same time; my victim had his free hand around my nose, fingers curled into my upper jaw, and was trying to prise my grip loose. Their combined strength had its effect: I was forced to let go.

  Instantly, the man slammed me in my underbelly with a clenched fist and I yelped at the pain, choking and trying to draw in breath immediately afterwards. I went straight back into the attack, but he’d had a chance to close both hands around my jaws, clumping my mouth tightly shut. I tried to rake him with my nails, but they had little effect against the suit he was wearing. Pushing myself into him was no use either; Carol’s restraining arms around my neck held me back. I called to her to let me go, but all that emerged from my clenched jaws was a muted growling noise.

  ‘Hang on to it, Carol!’ the man gasped. ‘Let’s get it out the door!’

  Keeping one hand tight around my mouth, he grabbed my collar between Carol’s arms and began to drag me into the hall. Carol helped by releasing one arm from my neck and grasping my tail. They propelled me forward and tears of frustration formed in my eyes. Why was Carol helping him?

  As I was dragged towards the front door, I caught a glimpse of Polly at the top of the stairs, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Stay there!’ Carol called out when she, too, saw her. ‘Don’t come down!’

  ‘What are you doing with Fluke, Mummy?’ she wailed. ‘Where are you taking him?’

  ‘It’s all right, Gillian,’ the man answered her between grunts. ‘We’ve got to get it ouside.’

  ‘Why, why? What’s he done?’

  They ignored her for, realizing I was losing, I had become frantic. I squirmed my body, twisting my neck, dug my paws into the carpet. It was no use, they were too strong.

  When we reached the front door he told Carol to open it, afraid to let go himself. She did and I felt the breeze rush in and ruffle my hair. With one last desperate effort I wrenched my head free and cried out, ‘Carol, it’s me, Nigel! I’ve come back to you! Don’t let him do this to me!’

  But of course all she heard was a mad dog barking.

  I managed to tear the sleeve of the man’s coat and draw blood from his wrist before being thrust out and having the door slammed in my face.

  I jumped up and down outside, throwing myself at the door and howling. Carol’s voice came to me through the wood; she was trying to soothe Polly. Then I heard the man’s voice. The words ‘mad dog’ and ‘attacker’ reached my ears and I realized he was speaking to someone on the phone.

  ‘No! Don’t let him, Carol! Please, it’s me!’ I knew he was calling the police.

  And sure enough, not more than five minutes later, headlights appeared at the end of the lane and a car bumped its way towards the house. I was underneath the ground floor window by now, running backwards and forwards, screaming and ranting, while Carol, Polly and the man watched me, white-faced. To my dismay, the man had his arms around both Carol’s and Polly’s shoulders.

  The little blue-and-white Panda car lurched to a halt and doors flew open as though it had suddenly sprouted butterfly wings. Two dark figures leapt from it, one carrying a long pole with a loop attached to it. I knew what that was for and decided not to give them a chance to use it. I fled into the night; but not too far into it.

  Later when the police had given up thrashing around in the dark in search of me, I crept back. I’d heard voices coming from the house, car doors slam, an engine start, then tyres crunching their way back down the lane. No doubt they’d be back tomorrow to give the area a thorough going over in the daylight, but for tonight I knew I’d be safe. I’d wait for the man to come out of the house and then I’d do my best to follow him – or maybe get him there and then. No, that would be foolish – it would only frighten Carol and Polly again, and Carol would probably call the police back. Besides, the man was a little too strong for me. That would be the best bet: follow him somehow – maybe I could even track his car’s scent (even cars have their own distinct smell) – then attack him, the element of surprise on my side. It was a hare-brained scheme, but then I was a pretty hare-brained dog. So I settled down to wait. And I waited. And waited.

  The shock of it hit me a few hours later: he wasn’t coming out that night. His car was still in the drive so I knew he hadn’t already left, and there would have been no reason for him to have gone with the police. He was staying the night!

  How could you, Carol? All right, I’d obviously been cold in my grave at least a couple of years, but how could you with him? The man who had murdered me? How could you with anyone after all we’d shared? Had it meant so little that you’d forget so soon?

  My howl filled the night and seconds later curtains moved in the bedroom window. My bedroom window!

  How could such evil exist? He’d killed me, then taken my wife! He’d pay – oh, I’d make him pay!

  I ran from the house then, unable to bear the pain of looking at it, imagining what was going on inside. I crashed around in the dark, frightening night creatures, disturbing those who were sleeping, and finally fell limp and weeping into a hollow covered with brambles. There I stayed till dawn.

  19

  Have patience now, my story’s nearly done.

  Do you still disbelieve all I’ve told you? I don’t blame you – I’m not sure I believe it myself. Maybe I’m a dog who’s just had hallucinations. How is it you understand me, though? You do understand me, don’t you?

  How’s the pain? You’ll forget it later; memories of pain are always insubstantial unless you actually feel the pain again. How’s the fear? Are you less afraid now, or more afraid? Anyway, let me go on: you’re not going anywhere, and I’ve got all the time in the world. Where was I? Oh yes . . .

  Dawn found me, full of self-pity again, confused and disappointed. But, as I keep telling you, dogs are born optimists; I decided to be constructive about my plight. First I would find out a little more about myself – like exactly when I died – and then the circumstances of my death. The first would be easy, for I had a good idea of where I would find myself. You see, now I was in familiar surroundings, memories had started to soak through. Well, perhaps not memories, but – how can I put it? – recognitions were soaking through. I was on home ground. I knew where I was. Hopefully, memories of events would soon follow.

  The second part – the circumstances of my death – was more difficult, and because I felt familiar pieces would begin to open memory valves, a visit to my plastics factory might help.

  First, though: When did I die?

  The graveyard was easy to find, since I knew the location of the dominating church (although the inside wasn’t too familiar to me). What was hard to locate, was my own grave. Reading had become difficult by now and many of these gravestones were poorly marked anyway. I found mine after two hours of squinting and concentrating, and was pleased to see it was still neat and tidy in appearance. I suppose to you i
t would seem a macabre kind of search, but I promise you, being dead is the most natural thing in the world, and it disturbed me not in the least to be mooching around for my own epitaph.

  A small white cross marked my resting-place, and neatly inscribed on it were these words: ‘NIGEL CLAIREMOUNT’ – I’m not kidding – ‘NETTLE. BELOVED HUSBAND OF CAROL, BELOVED FATHER OF GILLIAN. BORN 1943 – DIED 1975.’ I’d died at the age of thirty-two, so it seemed unlikely it was from natural causes. Below this, two more words were carved out in the stone, and these made my eyes mist up. These simply said: ‘NEVER FORGOTTEN.’

  Oh yes? I thought bitterly.

  The plastics factory was easy to locate too. In fact, as I trotted through the town, I began to remember the shops, the little restaurants, and the pubs. How I would have loved to have gone in and ordered a pint! I realized it was now Sunday, for the High Street was quiet and in the distance I could hear church bells start their guilt-provoking ringing. It was still early morning, but the thought that the pubs would not be open for a few hours yet did not lessen their attraction; I remembered I had always enjoyed my Sunday lunchtime drink.