Monty and Me

I heard the killer move through the house to the study – I knew exactly which creaky floorboard he stepped on – and the rasp of desk drawers yanked open, then dull thuds. He was throwing something heavy in his bag. Then paper files slid against the fabric too. He moved to the sitting room, drawers thrown on the floor. Then the clank of metal.

I crawled over to Paddy and licked his face. Perhaps he was alive after all? I so wanted to be wrong. I did it again and again and his head jerked with each increasingly desperate lick. But his eyes didn’t flicker.

I whimpered, “Wake up! Please wake up!”

I placed my snout above his mouth and sniffed for breath, hoping to feel the slightest waft of air. Nothing. I howled, my nose pointing to the darkening sky. I howled in pain and grief, as we have done for centuries. I howled because I can’t weep like big’uns. I howled because I love my master more than anything.

I stopped when I heard the front door open and shut and the man’s feet crunched on the gravel drive. A car door opened. But not quietly. It was metal screeching on metal. I smelt diesel as he drove away, and heard a tink, tink, tink of something rattling.

I grew weaker and dizzier as the pool of blood from my wound grew. But I would not leave Paddy. He was my world and someone had taken him from me. I howled again, but my head felt so very heavy. I rested it on Paddy’s chest, his white shirt drenched in blood where the blade had pierced his no longer beating heart. I vowed to myself that if I was to live I would never rest until I found the man who took him from me.’

Chapter Six

A wall clock marks our silence as the second hand jerks around the face. I slump to the floor. Betty sidles up to me and lies, belly down, prostrate along the length of my paw, gripping it tightly as if it were a life raft in a big sea. Her head droops.

‘You poor, poor thing,’ she replies, stroking my fur, as if she is paddling her raft. ‘And poor Mr Salt.’ Then she peers up at me, nose twitching. ‘Can you tell me what happened next?’

I return to my story.

‘Some time later, I became conscious of an old, quivering voice. Sounded like Mr Grace next door, but my eyes were shut. I opened my jaw and made a sound, a whimper, or at least I thought I did. I lapsed back into unconsciousness and heard Paddy calling my name. He’s alive! I rushed towards him and he knelt down and hugged me. I tucked my head into his chest and snuffled.

“It’s okay, boy, I’m here,” he said.

We walked side-by-side along the river bank. He threw a ball into the water and I charged after it, enjoying the river’s coolness. I was floating. No effort, no paddling, I was light as air. The surface glistened in the sun and I heard the words, “Fetch. There’s a good boy.”

A piercing and repetitive wailing burst into my dream. It threatened to drag me back to reality. I wanted to stay with Paddy. But the siren grew louder and more insistent. Then footsteps, urgent voices, big’uns shouting. I felt a warm hand on my neck. It was hesitant, the person, perspiring. She didn’t like dogs, I could tell. Was she trying to hurt me? I managed to shift my head a little, which was still resting on Paddy’s chest. The hand was withdrawn in an instant and the woman leapt backwards like a startled cat.

I mustered a weak growl. I wasn’t dead yet and wouldn’t let anyone touch my master if I could stop it.

“Dog’s still alive!” the woman said.

Someone else bent over me. “Got to move him. The man could be too.”

I opened both eyes, or tried to, but the lashes touching Paddy’s chest were glued together with blood.

“No,” I growled, and tried to sit up, but the growl came out as more of a moan.

I recognised the police uniforms and those funny chequered hat bands that look like reflective dog collars. My upper body was lifted from my master’s chest, but my hind quarters stayed more-or-less where they had been. The result was I lay next to Paddy, my head facing him. The ambulance crew crouched over him searching for signs of life. A machine beeped and Paddy jolted, but his eyes still stared vacantly at the sky.

I heard, “Get a vet. Dog’s bleeding to death by the looks of it. He’s a surviving witness, poor fellow.”

“Witness? It’s just a dog!”

More voices. More sirens, car doors slammed, feet pounding up and down the side path. Someone issued orders in that sharp tone of a big’un in charge.

Another man kneeled next to me. His shoes were covered in blue booties and he wore a white body suit. He had black spiky hair and large hands. I knew he was a vet from the smell of disinfectant and various animals he carried on him. Several cats, a guinea pig, a tortoise (now, there’s an odd creature), dogs, even a Jack Russell I think I recognised called Flash, and cows. Lots of cows. Always know when a vet’s been near cows. That smell of shit stays with them for days. Of course, big’uns can’t smell it after they’ve washed, but we can.’

Betty nods knowingly. ‘Cows really stink.’

I didn’t want to say that rats are high up on the animal kingdom stink-ometer, too. Best not to offend her. I go on with my tale.

‘The vet patted my head.

“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, then he lifted my lip. “Lip colour’s not good. He’s lost a lot of blood.” He drew closer. “There’s some fabric caught between his teeth. Could be from the assailant,” he said, looking at Paddy lying next to me.

As the vet listened to my heart through a tube, a small female hand gently touched my brow. I liked her smell. It reminded me of a vanilla milkshake at the seaside. She stroked my face to relax me as she read my name tag. She was not afraid of me at all. It was Rose.

“Monty,” she said, then glanced at the vet. “Malcolm, we need SOCO to swab his mouth.”

She waved someone over, also wearing an all-in-one white suit and small white mask.

“Looks like he bit the killer,” Rose said to the lady, then to the vet, “Can you hold his mouth open while we do this?”

“I’ll give him some pain relief first.”

I felt a slight sting in the scruff of my neck and within seconds I was drowsy again. Before I knew it, strong hands had prized my jaw open and the SOCO lady had removed something stuck between a canine and my back teeth.

Rose patted me, her disposable gloves bloody.

“It’s okay, Monty, you’ve been very brave and we’ll take care of Professor Salt now.”

I looked up into a heart-shaped face and large blue eyes. I saw her properly for the first time. Her smile was genuine and in human terms she had a natural kind of translucent-skinned beauty. None of that greasy make-up stuff that many women wear. Doesn’t taste good when you lick their faces, I can tell you. It’s hard to tell the age of a big’un but I guessed Rose was no more than twenty-one. Much younger than everyone else there.

Distracted by her soothing presence, I didn’t see the vet approaching with a muzzle until it was too late. I pulled my head back and managed to lift a paw to push the muzzle away, but it was already fastened. I struggled, trying to cry out, “No, I must stay with Paddy.” But they didn’t understand.

Rose said, “Must you use that? After all he’s been through? He won’t bite.”

I tried to hold onto Paddy’s shirt but I couldn’t because of the muzzle. Malcolm placed his arms under me.

“Best to be safe,” he replied as he lifted me, which is no mean feat given I’m thirty-eight kilos.

“Would you look at that!” Rose said, looking down. “Dog was lying on the murder weapon. Good boy.”

I tried to wriggle out of Malcolm’s grip, but the agony was too much, despite the painkiller.

“It’s okay, boy, you’ll be okay,” Rose said, her voice soft as a puppy blanket.

As Malcolm carried me away I glanced back to see people in white suits walking towards Paddy. Rose was about to pick up the knife but stopped.

“Yes, take it,” I urged.

“Sir, over here,” she called.

People stepped out of his way. Eyes followed him. The man in charge. He reminded me of a Bulldog I once had a nasty encounter with. He placed the knife in a bag, nodded, and walked away.

A tall blond man with slicked-back hair like an over-groomed show dog shouted at her, “Sidebottom! Over here! Leave that mangy dog. And mind where you step.”

She looked in my direction and sighed, then strode towards the man who’d called her name. She referred to him as “guv”. He directed Rose into the house and as she walked, he stared at her backside. The alpha male claiming the female. All swagger. I didn’t like him at all.’

Chapter Seven

I glance down at Betty who is up on her hind legs, shadow boxing.

‘Nasty toe-rag!’ she exclaims, punching the air. ‘How dare he! You’re not mangy, you’re a bleeding hero. You wait till I meet this big’un. I’ll give him a nasty nip.’

‘I’m no hero, Betty, and I’d rather you help me find the killer.’

‘With pleasure, Mr Monty. I need a project to focus on. Will stop me worrying about my pups.’

‘You’re a mum?’

I dumbly look around as if her brood is huddled behind her.

‘All left the nest, doing their own thing now. Miss them terribly.’

Betty slumps against my leg. Her whiskers droop. She looks glum.

‘Must be difficult to let them go,’ I say.

‘That’s the hardest thing. I can’t help wondering if they’re okay. Makes no difference they’re my fifth litter. I love them just as much as my first.’

‘And their dad? Is he with you?’

She leaps up. ‘You must be joking. He’s the reason I left the tunnel. Bastard!’

I clearly touched a sore point so I stay quiet.

‘Right, no point moping about. As my dear old mum used to say, “Don’t get down, get up and at ’em.” So, let’s get on with solving this murder.’ She scratches her head. ‘The killer’s scent? You’d know it again?’

‘How could I forget?’ I snort, reliving the smell. ‘A stinky food, like rotten egg; damp walls; those funny cigarettes made from weeds; and a disease linked to an insect I’ve never come across before.’

‘Do you mean he’s been smoking weed?’

I look blankly at Betty.

‘You know, makes big’uns giggle and eat lots.’

‘I’m not sure about that. Sometimes Paddy would take me with him to the university and some of his students’ clothes smelt of this weed.’

Betty nods sagely. ‘And the disease? You think he’s ill?’

‘There is a sickness in him but I don’t know what. It was like licking copper.’

‘Do that often, do you?’ Betty is giving me a worried look.

‘Not really.’

‘Okay, so we need to get your nose near some suspects. Sniff ’em out, so to speak. Hmm. How we going to do that?’

‘That’s my problem, you see. I’m not a police dog. I want to help, but how can I, if I’m stuck here?’

‘Shush, shush, shush. Let me think. What has Rose said? Has she mentioned any names?’

I think back to earlier that evening when she collected me from the vet’s. At first, all I remember is my excitement at being free of my cage and, once she was driving, all the amazing smells zooming past the open window so fast I could barely inhale them in time. I’ve always wondered why smells speed up when I’m in a car. Perhaps they’re running, trying to keep up with the moving vehicle, a bit like dogs chasing a cyclist?

‘Come to think of it,’ I say, after the clock’s second hand has twitched away a minute, ‘someone rang Rose when she was driving. She said she couldn’t believe a Larry somebody-or-other could be a murderer. Called him a … what was it? A small-time thief. That’s it.’

‘Larry who?’

I get up and have a good shake to clear my mind. Fur and slobber flies everywhere. Luckily the fall-out misses Betty but a few slippery blobs litter the lino floor.

‘Larry Rice? Lice? No. Larry Ni … Nice! That’s it. Larry Nice. I remember thinking he didn’t sound nice at all.’

‘Why’s this bloke a suspect?’

‘Not sure, but I heard the caller say they’d let him go.’

‘Did they say where he lived?’ she asks.

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Then what we need is The White Pages. There’s a copy on the hall table. We look up his address and pay him a visit.’ Betty nods conclusively. But her brow slowly creases. ‘Oops. We may have a slight problem.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ve eaten the top right hand corner.’

‘Of that big fat book?’ I stare at her large stomach. No wonder she’s so round!

She examines her claws, avoiding eye contact. ‘I get peckish.’

I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t leave here. I promised Rose I wouldn’t run away.’

Betty tutt tutts. ‘Oh you dogs are so domesticated. Think outside the square, will you? I get that you’ve been trained to take orders. But don’t tell me you’ve never broken the rules. Come on! You must have.’

‘I was a naughty pup. I mean, who isn’t? Chewed a few shoes, stole food, peed on a trouser leg, that sort of thing. But I soon learned not to. And, okay, I’ll admit to a few slip-ups since, but they weren’t intentional. Not planned, like this. And they always involved food. I’m good as gold until I smell … well, anything meaty, to be honest. Then my mind gets fuzzy and I completely forget what I’m meant to be doing. It’s a bit of a problem, really.’

Betty scurries up my leg and sits between my shoulder blades and whispers in my ear. ‘There you go! Why’s this any different? And finding Larry is for a good cause. After all, we’re trying to catch a killer.’

I remember Paddy chuckling at a TV cartoon in which a tiny red devil sits on one shoulder and a little white angel sits on the other. Both are whispering in the big’un’s ears. I glance round at Betty – my own little devil.

‘Betty, you’re asking me to break one of the canine Ten Commandments: Obey your master. I promised Rose I wouldn’t run away. This is premeditated disobedience.’

She leans closer to my ear. ‘But you’re helping Rose solve the case. There are exceptions to every rule, Mr Monty.’

Betty just doesn’t get it. Leaving Duckdown Cottage without Rose’s permission is like Mutiny on the Bounty, Spartacus and Rebel Without a Cause all rolled up into one mega-pic of rebelliousness. It’s all very well squeezing through the hedge, lapping up the left-overs of someone’s lunch and then hopping back into the garden again. It’s a whole other thing to travel far from home.

Betty scampers back down my leg and stands in front of me.

‘You’re not serious about these what-did-you-call-’em? Commandy things?’

‘I am, Betty. The Commandments were laid down by our founding fathers, way back when the wolf nation first agreed to work alongside big’uns. They’re our laws and are centuries old and every dog in the world is taught them as a pup. It’s because of these laws that we have such a special relationship with people.’

‘Yeah, but there’s got to be a rule about keeping your master safe, surely?’

‘That’s number three: defend your master.’

‘What’s number one then?’

‘Love your master.’

‘Exactly!’ Betty jumps up and down with excitement. ‘So you did your very best to defend him. But now you need to demonstrate how much you love him and break the dis-obeying rule so you can hunt down his killer. You see where I’m coming from?’

I shake my head. ‘If I run away to find this man, I risk being ostracised by my kind. Do you understand what that means?’

‘Oh yes, only too well.’

Betty slumps against my leg like a deflated balloon and stares into space. Her moods go up and down very fast. I wait. Nothing happens, so I nudge her gently with my nose. No response.

‘Are you an outcast, Betty?’

She looks sideways at me and sighs. ‘Nah. Course not.’ But she doesn’t sound convincing.

Suddenly she jumps up and points a paw at the moon shining in through the kitchen window. I’m so surprised I rear up and bark.

‘But you’re not going to break any commandy things, Mr Monty, because Rose won’t even know you’ve left the house. We’ve got all night, you see. This Larry bloke is bound to be a local, so you’ll be back before she wakes up. So no harm done.’

I know what she’s proposing isn’t right but I’ll never find Paddy’s killer if I never leave the cottage.

‘Look. At least let’s find out where he lives before we make any decisions?’ Betty urges. ‘What harm can that do?’

I nod.

Chapter Eight

I position my front paws on a narrow hall table, my hind legs on the floor. A phone, notepad, mug of pens and a brick-thick copy of a phone directory lies, dusty and unused, on top. With my nose I push The White Pages until a corner of it hovers beyond the table top. Tiny bits of dust rain down on Betty and she sneezes, and again, and again. I take the big book in my mouth, careful to apply just enough pressure to keep it there, but not enough to tear the cover. It sure is heavy! As usual my mouth is full of slobber and there is a moment when I feel the directory slip, but I tilt my head just in time to stop it falling. Relieved, I quietly place it on the worn carpet.

‘Allow me,’ the rat says, spying the drool-coated cover. She slides on her belly across its surface, her fur like a cloth, wiping up the mess. ‘Who needs Sainsbury’s wipes when you’ve got me?’

She chuckles like raindrops on a tin roof.

I stare down at a well-chewed directory that’s three years out of date. And it’s not just the top right hand corner that’s missing.

‘I thought you said you’d only nibbled a corner?’

‘Okay, so it’s a little bit more than that.’

I give the book a shove with my nose and it falls open at the E section.

‘Can you turn the pages? My paws are too big.’

‘No problem, governor.’

Digging her front claws into the carpet, she kicks out her back legs, flipping the pages at lightning speed.

‘Tell me when to stop. I can’t read.’

‘Slow down,’ I say.

‘How’d you learn reading then? The Professor teach you?’

‘Yes, but don’t tell anyone, Betty. Do you know what happens to animals that do anything out of the ordinary? They put them in cages and experiment on them. Betty, you’ve got to promise me you’ll keep this to yourself.’

‘I promise, on my pups’ lives.’ Betty is panting. ‘This is like a bleeding workout, this is.’

She passes the Ls.

‘Paddy was interested in how animals communicate, especially bees. He was a professor of bees, you see.’

‘Didn’t know they had such a thing.’ She’s slowing down.

‘Paddy saw I was a fast learner, so he started teaching me the English language. I’m not talking about sounds and tones or basic commands. I mean letters of the alphabet.’

Betty stops kicking the pages and stares up at me, jaw open, her minuscule sharp teeth on display. I bet they could inflict a nasty nip. ‘Bleeding Nora! Are you for real?’

‘I got lucky; I had a brilliant teacher. But I get in a muddle when there are too many words, and Mr Google baffles me.’

‘Who’s Mr Google?’

‘A very clever man who lives inside a computer,’ I say. ‘Can you keep going, Betty? We’re nearly there.’

She turns round and kicks the pages again. She reaches the Ns.

‘Stop!’

I follow the columns of names, addresses and phone numbers:

A Nice

Benjamin Nice

Mrs CE Nice

Then nothing. Just teeth marks and a circular hole.

‘Oops,’ she says. ‘Did I eat Larry Nice?’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I never thought I was actually going to need to use it.’

Betty looks sheepish, if it’s possible for a rat to look sheepish.

I sit and consider our situation. ‘I guess we’re going to have to use Rose’s laptop, but I’m a klutz with the keyboard. I’m going to need some help.’

‘Don’t look at me,’ says Betty. ‘I can’t spell and I wouldn’t know one end of a computer from another. There wasn’t much call for reading in them tunnels.’

‘Then we need Dante. He’s really fast with a keyboard.’

‘Dante!’ Betty laughs. ‘Jeez, he must fancy himself with a name like that.’

‘Well, he is a magpie.’

Betty jumps back as if she’s touched hot metal. ‘Magpie! What you doing being friendly with those devils? They’re nasty buggers.’

‘Dante’s all right. He can be a bit snappy sometimes and he thinks he’s a bit of an intellectual, but he’s helped me out before.’

‘A magpie?’ Betty spits on the floor, although the gob is so small I can barely see it. ‘Nah, I’ll never trust one of them. They lie and steal and he’ll probably try to eat me. Can’t you use the laptop without him?’

‘Why don’t you give him a chance?’

‘You guarantee my safety?’

‘I’ll keep you safe. But first we have to contact him.’

‘So how do we do that?’

‘A torch will do.’

‘Where do we find one of them, then?’

‘Paddy used to keep his in a cupboard under the sink.’

The kitchen cupboard doors have small circular knobs and I manage to pull them open, but there is no sign of a torch. There are two bins under the sink: everyday waste and recycling. Betty has crawled onto my shoulder and we both inhale the left-overs. Before I know it, Betty has dived head first into the general waste bin as if it were a swimming pool. I can’t resist any longer and shove my nozzle in and ferret around for left-over chicken. I lick my muzzle. Now what was I doing?

I shake my head, realising I got side-tracked. Again.

‘Betty, we must stay focused. Get out of there, will you?’

‘You’re one to talk,’ she replies, part-buried under scraps.

It takes all my willpower to turn away but just as I’m free of the bins, the larder starts calling to me. Before I know it, my nose is stuck to the door as if it were a magnet. Ah, those biscuits smell so good.

‘Come on,’ Betty says, suddenly by my side, a little slimy with soy sauce in her fur. ‘We’ll have a big feast later. Let’s keep looking for that torch.’

I plod from room to room, with Betty at my side. She has to run to keep up. I discover a dusty dining room that hasn’t been used for years; a cosy sitting room with faded sofa and armchairs; a very messy study with piles of books on the floor like mini skyscrapers; and an under-the-stairs loo. The toilet is making gurgling noises.

‘Should it be doing that?’ I ask.

Betty shrugs. ‘No idea, mate.’

I peer up the stairs. I know they creak but I don’t know where to tread yet to avoid the noise. I prick up my ears to check Rose is still asleep. Her breathing is slow and steady with the occasional little snore. Luckily, she’s a deep sleeper.

‘Best you don’t come up, Betty. If Rose hears me, all she’ll do is send me back to the kitchen. But, if she sees you, I’m not sure how she’ll react.’

‘I’ll wait here then,’ Betty replies, and plonks down on a threadbare section of carpet and starts licking the soy sauce off her fur.

I creep up, as quiet as a mouse – or a rat – although Betty has to be one of the chattiest rats I’ve ever met. I’m making good progress when the tread of a middle stair makes a rasping sound. I lift my paw and freeze. Rose’s breathing is still a slow rhythm. She hasn’t heard. I continue and hit another loose floorboard and this one makes a terrible screech. Again I freeze, paw raised. Rose’s breathing pattern remains unchanged.

On the landing, I find only one door is shut: Rose’s bedroom. There are three other rooms. One is a bathroom – I smell drains, toilet cleaner and fruity shampoo. I tiptoe in to find an ancient bath and basin in a very stylish yellow, something like the colour of vomit, and a toilet with a split wooden seat. Dangling from the chain-pull is a rubber basin plug instead of a wooden handle. There’s a mirror above the basin, the surface mottled with damp. I peer up at some shelves littered with lotions. But I can’t see a torch. A silvery face suddenly appears at the bathroom window and I jump backwards, almost knocking over the bin. It’s that same squirrel again, tail flicking aggressively. What is his problem? To confuse me further, I swear I can hear him humming the theme tune for Mission: Impossible. I remember it from the time Paddy and I watched the movie together on TV.