The Guvnor was in agony, his arm trapped deep between the two wrecks. He was lucky, though: it could have been his whole body.
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A hand took me by the collar and dragged me gently away from the metal tomb, and I felt sympathy flowing from the policeman as he led me towards the front of the yard. I was too upset to resist. Rumbo was dead, and for the moment so was my will. I heard one of the officers tell someone to get an ambulance quickly; there was an injured man back there. I saw two men in plainclothes bringing the metal case from the hut and nodding towards another man questioning Lenny. Lenny was angry now, talking beligerently as he was held from behind by two uniformed men.
'Who done it then?' he was asking. 'Who fingered us?'
'We've had our eyes on this place a long time, son,' the man before him replied. 'Ever since one of our boys spotted Ronnie Smiley's car in here awhile back. We all know what Ronnie gets up to, don't we, so we thought we'd wait awhile and let things run their course. Very interesting when we saw the stolen van coming in, then the car. Even more so when they didn't come out again - until this morning, that is.' He laughed at Lenny's obvious displeasure. 'Oh don't worry, it wasn't only that. We've had suspicions about this yard for a long time now. Wondered where your governor got his money from. Now we know, don't we?'
Lenny just looked away sullenly. The plainclothes policeman spotted me being led away.
'Funny thing is,' he remarked, 'the constable was only investigating a couple of thieving dogs when he spotted Smiley's car. Take after their master, don't they?' He nodded at the man holding firmly on to Lenny and they pushed him towards one of the police cars at the entrance to the yard. Before Lenny departed he gave me one last penetrating look that made me shiver inside.
And it was then that I knew where I was going. It pushed its way through befuddled layers and struck me almost physically.
I twisted my neck and snapped at the hand that held me. The startled policeman quickly drew his hand away - and I was loose. I bolted for the street and once again I was running, running, running.
But this time I had somewhere to go.
Part Two
Twelve
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How do you feel now? Is your mind still closed to my story, or are you wondering? Let me go on; there's a few hours before dawn.
My journey to Edenbridge was a long one, but strangely I knew the way as if I'd travelled that route many times before. When the town had been mentioned in the yard it had evidently planted a seed in my mind, and it was a seed that suddenly grew and sprouted. I wasn't sure what the town meant to me, whether it was where my home was or if it had some other significance, but I knew it was the place to go, the place to start from. What other alternative had I anyway?
I must have run for at least an hour, narrowly avoiding being run down by uncaring traffic more than once, before I reached a piece of waste ground where I was able to grieve for my lost friend in private.
Creeping under a dumped sofa, its stuffing more out than in, I sank to the ground, resting my head between my paws. I could still see that trickle of blood running from beneath the rusted metal, forming a pool in a small dip in the earth and creating a miniature whirlpool, a vortex of Rumbo's life. Animals can feel grief just as deeply as any human, perhaps more so; they have limited ways of expressing their sorrow, though and their natural optimism usually enables recovery more quickly, there's the difference.
Unfortunately, I suffered both as a human and an animal, and it was heavy stuff.
I stayed there until long into the afternoon, afraid and bewildered once again. Only my loyal companion, hunger, roused me into movement. I forget from where I scrounged food, just as I have forgotten a great deal of that long journey, but I know I did eat and was soon moving onwards. I travelled by night through the city, preferring the empty quietness of the streets, the activity of the day making way for the quiet prowlings of night creatures. I met many prowlers - cats, other dogs, spirits (so many in the streets of the city) and strange men who flitted in and out of the shadows as though light or open spaces would harm their bodies - but I avoided communication with any of them. I had a purpose and would allow nothing to distract me from it.
Through Camberwell, through Lewisham, through Bromley I went, resting during the day, hiding in derelict houses, parks or on waste ground - anywhere away from inquisitive eyes. I ate badly, for I took few risks; I didn't want to be sent back to a home, you see, not now I had an objective. I had become timid again now that Rumbo wasn't there to spur me on, to chastise me when I cowered, to threaten me when I balked and to laugh when I surprised him.
Soon I reached open country.
It rolled out before me, green and fresh under the gentle beginnings of spring. It wasn't true countryside yet, for I was only just outside the London suburbs, but after the blacks and the greys and the browns and the reds and the garishness of everything in the city, it seemed like passing through a barrier to where nature governed, and human influence played only a minor part. I was no longer afraid to travel by daylight.
The sudden strength of growing things thrilled me. Fresh green shoots thrust their way through the earth to breathe in fresh air, bulbs and tubers were sprouting and buds were breaking open on broad-leaved trees. Everywhere things were stirring, new life was being created. A vibrancy filled the air, filled my lungs and filled my limbs with its tingling life. The greens and yellows were newer, more dazzling, and the reds and oranges glowed with fire, sending out waves of energy. Everything glistened, everything shone with wetness. Everything was firm, vigorous, even the most delicate flower. It put new life into me.
I scrambled through a hedge running alongside the road, ignoring the scratchy protest of the thorny
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hawthorn and prickly dogrose. Two startled wrens screeched and froze as I brushed by their small huddled forms. A group of bright yellow stars flashed before me as I wormed my way through lesser celandine, plants which are the first in the queue for spring regeneration. I burst through into a field and ran like mad through its dewy wetness, twisting and rolling on to my back until my whole coat was soaked. I sucked at the grass, drinking the pure water from them, and dug holes in the soft earth to see what I could find. Beetles scuttled away from my inquisitive nose and a mole turned a blind eye. An eight-inch-long keeled slug curled its slick grey body into a ball as I sniffed at him and I quickly spat him from my mouth after a tentative taste. Cooked snails might be a delicacy for many, but raw slug isn't even fit for a dog.
My appetite soon returned, however, and I began to explore the field in search of food. I was lucky enough to find a young rabbit nibbling at the bark of a tree and unlucky enough to be unable to catch him.
I cursed his speed then wondered if I could have killed the rabbit even had I caught up with him. I'd never killed for food before.
Fortunately, I found some late winter fungus among a group of trees and devoured the upturned yellow caps and stalks with relish, somehow aware that the mushrooms were not poisonous. Was this animal instinct or had I some human knowledge of fungi? The question bothered me for only a second or so, for a sleepy wood-mouse shuffled lazily between my legs, his black little eyes searching the ground for snails.
I felt no urge to eat or fight him, but I did give his reddish-brown back a playful tap with my paw. He stopped, looked up at me, then ambled on at the same pace, ignoring me totally. I watched him go then decided it was time to move on myself, the diversion pleasant enough but hardly profitable as far as self-discovery was concerned. I raced back across the field, scrambled through the hedge, and set off down the road again.
It wasn't long before I found myself back among shops and houses, but I kept on, pausing only once to steal an apple from a splendid display outside a fruiterer's. The road became more and more familiar to me now that the complications of the city streets were far behind, and I knew it was a route I must have taken many times before.
By the time I'd reached Keston my pads were very sore, but I kept going until I reached a small place called Leaves Green. There I rested through the cold night in a small wood, nervous of the country night noises, my unease finally driving me to seek shelter in somebody's front garden. I felt more comfortable being in range of human contact.
I didn't eat much the following day, but I won't bore you with the various misadventures that befell me in my search for sustenance; suffice to say, by the time I reached Westerham, I'd have bitten the leg off a cow.
It was at Westerham that a nasty experience was awaiting me. And this I must tell you about.
Thirteen
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Church bells woke me. They had a strident Sunday morning sound that sent my thoughts racing back to other times - human times.
Awareness of my present plight dismissed the memories before they gathered pace and I stretched my aching limbs, wincing at the tenderness of my foot-pads as I pushed them against the ground. A bus shelter had been my refuge for the night, but the early morning chill had crept into my bones and seemed reluctant to leave. I yawned and my stomach grumbled for nourishment. Glancing around, I saw there were no shops in the immediate vicinity, so I trotted gingerly along the street keeping my nose high in the air, acutely receptive for the faintest waft of food smells. I soon found myself in the High Street and to my dismay realised it was indeed Sunday, for all the shops - apart from a couple of newsagents - were closed. It was a pretty dismal dog who stood shivering by the kerbside, looking first left then right, undecided, unwanted and unfed.
It was the pealing bells that gave me the idea. Small groups of people were walking briskly towards the sound, clad in Sunday best, a brightness about them that would wear off as the day wore on. Children held hands with parents or skipped along ahead of them; grannies clutched at the elbows of middle-aged offspring; sombre husbands walked stiffly alongside beaming wives. There was a fresh friendly feeling in the air, the beginning of spring enhancing the Sunday morning ritual, encouraging goodwill to all men. And maybe dogs, too.
I followed the people to their church. It was on a hill, half hidden away from the road by a screen of trees, its entrance reached by a gravelly path winding through a surrounding graveyard. A few of the people clucked their tongues at me or gave me a friendly pat as they passed by, but soon they had all disappeared into the cold, grey-stoned building. I settled down on a flat gravestone to wait.
I enjoyed the muted singing that came from the church immensely, occasionally joining in at the bits I knew. The service seemed to go on forever, and I soon became bored with the long stretches of silence between hymns so I began to explore the churchyard and was surprised at the thriving animal and insect life in this place of the dead. The unmistakable sound of the congregation rising as one body inside the church drew me away from my fascinating study of a rainbow-coloured spider's web, and I trotted back round to the enormous doorway, keeping to the damp grass which was so cool to my sore pads. I waited to one side of the porch and soon the flock came pouring out, some looking uplifted, others looking relieved now that their weekly duty was done. It was one of the uplifted members I wanted.
I soon spotted her: a little old lady, probably in her mid-sixties, round-faced, smiling constantly, knowing and known by everybody, it seemed. All lace and kindness. Perfect.
She spent several minutes chatting to the vicar, occasionally breaking off from her conversation to call hello to a passing acquaintance, giving them a little blessing with her white-gloved hand. I waited patiently until she'd ended her dialogue with the cleric then followed her as she made her way through the remaining gossiping cliques. Smiling sweetly and stopping to chat to every third or fourth person she finally drew clear of the throng and strode spritely down the gravel path. I followed, keeping a few yards behind, not ready to make my move while she still had so many distractions. We reached the road and she turned left, climbing further up the steep hill and away from the town.
'Good morning, Miss Birdie!' the people we passed called out, and she acknowledged them with a cheery wave.
Now's the time, I thought, and scampered up ahead of her. I stopped four yards ahead, turned to face her and gave her my sweetest smile.
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'Woof,' I said.
Miss Birdie threw her hands up in surprise and beamed with delight. 'What a pretty dog!' she exclaimed and I wagged my rump with pride. She advanced on me and clasped my head between white-gloved hands.
'Oh, what a lovely boy!' She rubbed my back and I tried to lick her face, congratulating myself on finding another Bella. 'Yes, yes, he is!' she went on.
After a few moments of unbridled affection she bade me goodbye and strode on, waving at me as she went. I bounded after her and tried to leap into her arms, slobbering and grinning and desperately trying to fawn my way into her heart and charity. I admit it: I had no shame.
Miss Birdie gently pushed me down then patted my head. 'Off you go, now, there's a good dog,' she said in her kind way.
Sorry Rumbo, but at that point I whimpered.
Not only that, I hung my head, drooped my tail and looked cow-eyed at her. I was pathetic.
It worked, for she suddenly said, 'Oh my poor dear, you're starving, that's what it is! Look at those skinny old ribs.' My chin almost touched the ground as I hammed up my performance. 'Come along then, dear, you come with me and we'll soon put you to rights. Poor little wretch!'
I was in. I tried to lick her face again in glee, but she restrained me with a surprisingly firm hand. I needed no encouragement to follow her, although she seemed to think I did, for she constantly patted her thigh and called out 'Come along now.'