Nobody's Dog Read online

  ‘There’s more where that came from if you’re still hungry afterwards,’ she told him. She was enjoying herself too. It was a new experience for her to be waiting on a young man.

  ‘You’re so good,’ Frank kept saying between mouthfuls. ‘I hope I don’t mess your kitchen up with my dirty things.’

  ‘And that’s another thing. You need some more clothes,’ she told him. ‘Don’t you qualify for an allowance of some kind?’

  ‘I don’t take anything,’ Frank replied proudly. He groped in a pocket and brought out his mouth-organ. ‘Here’s how I earn my crust.’

  ‘I know all about that,’ Miss Crisp said. ‘But you need smartening up. Get yourself a proper job and digs. You should accept what’s due to you.’

  Frank smiled. ‘I’ll do it in my own way,’ he told her gently. ‘But let’s talk about Digby. Have you any idea which way he was heading? I must get him back.’

  Miss Crisp told him all she knew. Frank noticed Digby’s broken lead dangling from a hook on the door. He finished his breakfast and stood up. Miss Crisp brought him the holdall as promised. ‘How will I know how to reach you if I hear from the police?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ Frank said. ‘Can you scribble your phone number down for me?’

  They parted, Frank expressing his gratitude. It wasn’t until quite a while later that he actually opened the bag to see what was in it. The first thing that caught his eye was a ten-pound note folded in half right on top of the other items. ‘Bless you,’ he murmured. There were two blankets, a small cushion, a towel, a packet of soap tablets, a carton of toothpaste and a large bar of chocolate. ‘I’ll pay you back one day, you dear woman,’ he murmured aloud. ‘You’ll see.’

  He had no clear idea of where Digby would have gone, since he was well aware that most of the surrounding area was unknown territory to the collie.

  ‘I’ll go down the roads he does know to begin with,’ he told himself. ‘There are quite a few people who’ve seen Digby with me by the station, so there’s a good chance someone will have recognized him.’

  Unfortunately, the man who had grabbed Digby was no well-wisher. He viewed the dog’s crossing his path as a piece of luck and he meant to hang on to him. He knew where to go to get a good price for a healthy young collie like Digby. There was a market for dogs like him and unscrupulous black market operators could undercut professional breeders’ prices without fear of an investigation.

  ‘What are you going to do with him, Ken?’ one of the big man’s doorway neighbours called.

  ‘I dunno yet,’ came the grudging answer as the man peered down at the trembling collie. ‘It needs some thinking about. I hope he’s a pedigree.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘I wouldn’t. I mean to pass him off as such.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to keep him, then?’

  Ken laughed a gravelly laugh low in his throat. ‘What, pay out money to keep him fed and watered? You must be joking. I intend him to make me money, not cost me.’

  ‘You’ll have to feed him in the meantime.’

  ‘We’ll see about that, Denis,’ the big man growled. ‘I’m not going to be out of pocket for him.’ He squatted down, wheezing with the effort, and gave Digby a thorough examination, pinching the dog’s sides and belly. Digby yelped. ‘No, he don’t need feeding,’ Ken said categorically. ‘He’s fat enough.’

  Before the night was over Ken had moved Digby out of sight. In that part of the city there was always an empty shed or a derelict building where a dog could be tied up and none the wiser. Ken replaced the useless remnant of Digby’s lead with a serviceable piece of string and left him without a qualm, not even thinking to provide a container of water. His mind was occupied with one thought: how to pass the collie on as quickly as possible and take his cut. He made the necessary contact and arranged for pick-up the next evening.

  During the day the shed in which Digby had been dumped grew very hot. The roof was made of corrugated iron and the spring sun beat down on it hour after hour. Digby had a raging thirst and there was not even a muddy puddle from which to quench it. He panted endlessly, suffering not only the torment of heat and thirst but also that of despair. He could think of nothing but Frank. Would his master be able to find him? Would he rescue him from the horrible man who had captured him? All day he lay on dry, stony ground longing for the young man to stride in, release him and whisk him away. Digby recognized once again the fatal error he had made in running from the kind woman’s house. Unfamiliar as that had been, how much worse was this dreadful place! At last, worn out by his miserable captivity, he fell asleep.

  There was a ray of hope for Digby. Chip had witnessed his capture. Although he had fled instinctively, the mongrel had crept back to the spot later the same night. Ken and Digby were no longer around, but Chip could follow a scent as well as any dog and set himself on their trail. Every now and again the scent mingled with so many others that it took Chip a while to disentangle the one he wanted from the rest, so it was far into the day when his nose finally led him to Digby’s hiding-place. Chip was well pleased with himself when he peeped inside and saw the collie stretched out on the ground before him. He couldn’t have told himself why he had acted in the way he had. And the sight of Digby lying alone in the shed made Chip experience something very unusual for him: a feeling of pity.

  ‘There you are then,’ he said awkwardly.

  Digby woke at once and gave a squeal of delight. ‘Chip! How did you find me?’

  ‘Lying flat out,’ Chip joked.

  Digby barked. ‘There’s no time for humour. Have you seen my master?’

  ‘Mr Perfect? No. I just followed my nose. I – I’m sorry I ran away, Digby. I didn’t mean to desert you. I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Digby swallowed hard. ‘Chip, I’m almost dying of thirst. There’s no water here. Please fetch my master and get me out of here. The man tied me up. I can barely move at all.’

  ‘Find him?’ Chip echoed. ‘Easier said than done, y’see, Digby. I mean – we don’t know where he is, do we?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Digby gasped. ‘If you go back to where he left me, he’s bound to return there some time. Perhaps he’s there now.’

  ‘Where did he leave you?’

  ‘Not far from where we were all living together. Farther down that road towards the corner. I can’t remember much more about it. Another human – a female one – lives there. She took me in.’

  ‘Oh yeah? That tells me a lot,’ Chip commented sarcastically. But he could see Digby really was suffering. ‘All right. I’ll do what I can. If I see him, I’ll try to make him understand. He must be worried about you.’

  The thought made Digby more miserable than ever, and he howled piteously. Chip made haste to leave. ‘All’s not lost yet,’ he said encouragingly. ‘I’m still free to come and go.’

  ‘But be quick, Chip,’ Digby begged. ‘The man might come back. Run as fast as you can!’

  ‘I’m off!’

  It was comparatively easy for Chip to find his way back to Keserly Street. But at that time of day a dog running free in city streets was an uncommon sight and one which attracted attention. Chip was well aware of this and tried to keep away from the main thoroughfares. The last thing he wanted now was for some well-meaning human to pounce on him in the belief that he was someone’s lost pet. There was, moreover, the danger from traffic, at its height just then, and Chip needed to be particularly careful. He hated crossing roads in the daylight hours, but it was unavoidable. Digby was depending on him.

  He had learnt that human pedestrians stood together in little groups at the roadside, waiting for motor traffic to come to a halt, when they wished to cross. He stood amongst them, warily watching for their reactions, and then, when they began to move, he darted across and put as much distance between him and them as he could as soon as he was safe. At all other times he kept well away from them, using kerbs and gutters in quiet
roads to run along and brushing close to walls where it was sensible to avoid detection. He knew he drew comments and exclamations as he made his way along, but whenever a human cry was directed at him he broke into a loping run and soon was lost from view.

  The familiar buildings of Keserly Street came into sight. Chip ran past the demolished house where he and Digby had lived uneasily together. The mongrel understood the situation was quite different now. Without any definite intention on his part they had somehow become friends. Chip thought of Norman and wished he might see him again. But then he spied the unmistakable figure of Frank ahead, in conversation with a woman, and all else was forgotten.

  ‘No, I’ve heard nothing, I’m afraid,’ Miss Crisp was saying. Frank had returned to her flat in the flimsy hope that the police might have contacted her while he had been searching the likeliest spots in the local area for Digby. He had drawn a blank himself. ‘I’ve written out a “missing” notice,’ Miss Crisp went on, ‘with my telephone number on it. I’m going to take photocopies of it at work and then I can stick them on lamp-posts and telephone poles in some of the roads round here. You can take a look at it.’

  Frank read the piece of paper she handed to him.

  LOST. Welsh Border Collie, about three years old.

  Wearing blue leather collar. If found, please

  contact police or telephone 0171–675 1179.

  Reward.

  ‘A reward?’ He whistled. ‘You’d do that – for my dog?’

  ‘He’s worth it, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but why should—Chip!’ Frank suddenly cried out. ‘Hello, boy! Oh, this is great. Look, Miss Crisp. Here’s the other dog from my squat!’

  Chip was demonstrating a mixture of delight and impatience, waltzing around Frank with his tail thrashing, but at the same time muttering little cries of exasperation.

  ‘If Chip’s come back,’ Frank said eagerly, ‘then maybe Digby isn’t far behind?’ He scanned the road, shading his eyes from the setting sun.

  ‘I think he’s trying to tell you something,’ Miss Crisp said sharply. ‘Look how he’s pawing you.’

  Chip was clawing at Frank’s jeans and now began to bark. He ran off a little way and then turned, still barking insistently. Frank understood. ‘All right, Chip, I’m coming!’ He grinned at Miss Crisp.’ I think this is it! I think he’s found Digby!’ He dropped the holdall and dashed off.

  At that moment Digby was in such distress that he would almost have welcomed the return of Ken if he had been carrying a bowl of water. Shadows had crept into the shed and the temperature, mercifully, began to fall. Digby drooped, his head between his paws. Every now and then he lifted an ear as he caught the sound of footsteps nearby. But nobody appeared and he was left to fret at Chip’s long absence.

  At last he heard some scuffling as someone surreptitiously entered the shed. Digby was immediately alert and on his feet as he recognized the wheezing breaths of Ken. He drew back as the big man approached.

  ‘That’s good,’ the man panted, relieved to see the dog was still where he had left him. However, even Ken could see the collie was in great discomfort. The dog’s sides heaved and he trembled violently. Ken looked round for something which would hold water. He wasn’t concerned on his own account, but he knew that the handler who was coming to fetch the collie would be angry if he should find him in this state. But there was nothing, not even a tin lid.

  ‘You’d better stop that shuddering,’ Ken growled. ‘What d’you think you look like?’ Digby shuddered all the more at the man’s tone of voice. Ken shook his head and muttered, ‘Wish I’d left a pail of water or something.’

  It was too late. A car drew up outside. A door slammed and there were more footsteps. Ken stood in front of Digby, hoping to screen the dog’s suffering as far as possible from the other man.

  ‘Hello, Mr Green.’

  ‘Hi.’ A tall thin man wearing an anorak entered the shed, and stared at Ken until he shuffled out of the way. Digby recoiled. ‘How long’s he been in here?’ the man demanded.

  ‘Since last night, Mr Green.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘Yes. I – I think he may need something to drink. I forgot to—’

  ‘May need!’ exclaimed Green. ‘He looks all in. You don’t give a toss about it, do you?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Ken began.

  ‘No, you don’t!’ Green interjected. ‘I know you of old. All right, what did we say? Twenty-five?’

  ‘Er – it was going to be more. He’s a pedigree; you can see that.’

  ‘I can’t see anything of the sort in here,’ Green said. ‘And how do you know he is? Are you an expert suddenly?’ He shook his head and swore. ‘You haven’t kept him properly. I’m not paying a penny more than I said.’

  ‘You said forty on the phone.’

  ‘Yeah. If he was up to standard. He’s not.’ Green began counting out five-pound notes. Ken was desperate for money and had no option but to take what was offered. Grumbling beneath his breath, he took the notes. Green untied Digby who hung back, digging in his heels, so that he had to be hauled outside.

  As Green opened the car door another dog barked from nearby. There was the sound of someone running towards them. The two men glanced up as Chip came galloping along the road with Frank in hot pursuit. Green bundled Digby into the back of the car and jumped into the driving seat. Ken looked worried and tried to climb in the other side.

  ‘You’re not required,’ Green snapped and pushed him away, at the same time starting the engine.

  Frank started to shout as he saw Chip dancing round the car. The mongrel was in a fever of excitement. Green ignored the dog and put the car into gear. Frank raced up and just managed to wrench Chip clear as the car moved away. He saw Digby lurch across the back seat and yelled ‘Stop!’ It was useless. The car disappeared down the road while Ken took advantage of Frank’s anguish to make himself scarce.

  The young man still held Miss Crisp’s ‘missing’ note in his hand. His eyes filled with tears as he re-read it. ‘Lost,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, well and truly lost now. Lost for good.’

  8

  In the car, Digby’s frantic barks were distracting the driver. The collie was leaping about from one seat to another in a kind of frenzy, and Green knew the dog had to be secured before he caused an accident. He drove slowly, looking for a place to park.

  Green was not a black marketeer. He merely acted as the source of supply, acquiring stolen dogs, lost dogs, dogs from unlicensed breeders, and passing them on to the usual dealer. What happened to them then he didn’t know and he didn’t want to know. He made sure he had the responsibility of the dogs for as short a time as possible. He wasn’t cruel to them and he didn’t mistreat them. They were the commodity from which he made his money.

  Eventually he spotted a gap ahead and eased his car into it. The pavements were quiet; a jogger in a track-suit was the only figure visible in the distance. Green jumped out and went round to the back. He drew on a pair of gloves. He was quite used to dogs attempting to bite him. Cautiously he prised open one of the rear doors. Digby growled at him savagely. Green made a grab for the string that was still attached to the dog’s collar. He pulled it up short and looped it round the inside door handle, fastening it tightly and forcing Digby to the floor of the car. There were only twenty centimetres or so of slack and the collie could barely turn round.

  ‘That’s sorted you,’ Green commented with satisfaction. He slammed the car door, then hesitated. A pub sign was illuminated a little way away. Green glanced back at Digby, remembering the dog had had nothing to drink for nearly twenty-four hours. He locked the car and hurried off to the pub.

  ‘Do me a favour, will you?’ he asked the barman. ‘My dog’s in a bit of a state. We’ve been in the car a long time and he needs a drink. Can you give me a bowl of water for him? And I’ll have a beer myself.’

  The barman was quite happy to oblige. While he went to fetch the water Green swiftly gulped down a
glass of light ale. Then he carried the bowl back to the car, opened the door on the road side and placed the bowl on the floor.

  Digby was in a fever to get at it. He twisted round from his position by the opposite door handle and strained with all his might to reach the water. However, Green had left the free part of the string so short that he couldn’t quite make it. It was torture to see and scent the water but not be able to reach it, and Digby was driven nearly mad. With one supreme effort he yanked at the string, which tightened so suddenly round his neck that he was all but strangled. He slumped down, momentarily immobilized, but just as Green was about to lean further into the car to move the water nearer a lorry approached. The man had no choice but to slam the car door and flatten himself against it to enable the vehicle to pass. Meanwhile, Digby recovered slightly and once more in sheer desperation lurched for the water. The string, already dangerously tight, tightened some more and this time Digby collapsed completely. By the time Green was able to get to him the collie was merely a limp body on the floor of the car.

  Green swore vehemently. Digby’s eyes were bulging and his tongue protruded from his mouth. Green quickly loosened the string and untied it but it appeared to be too late. The dog let out a long gasp and lay still.

  Green returned to the driver’s seat. He drove off slowly, looking for a place where the dog’s body could be dumped without suspicion. After a while he came to a triangle of grass bordered by plane trees. There were a couple of park benches by a path, and the area was suitably shadowy. He stopped the car, and Digby was soon in his arms. The dog hung slackly as Green carried him towards one of the benches, but all at once he stirred slightly and started to take some gasping breaths. Green was surprised to find himself experiencing a sense of relief. But it made no difference now.

  He was bending to deposit the collie under the nearest bench when he noticed that the farther seat had a puddle of water under it. ‘I can do that much for him anyway,’ he told himself and straightened again. He carried the dog to the far bench and laid him underneath. ‘That’s it,’ he said aloud, dusting his hands. He was soon on his way again.