Monty and Me

I back out and am about to enter an empty bedroom when I detect something I’ve only ever come across once before: the smell of a human sickness that causes people to waste away and die. It’s not easy to describe but it’s like a mix of sunburnt human skin and rust. I back away. I really don’t want to go in there and it takes all my willpower not to whimper. It’s faint so I know the person isn’t there any more. I pace round in circles, willing myself to get on with the search, and, holding my breath, I enter.

The room has curtains and a bedspread in matching florals. The double bed has a carved wooden bedhead. Dolls in dresses, with glass eyes and long eyelashes, are arranged on the bed near the pillows, and a tasselled lampshade over a reading lamp sits on the bedside table. On that table are two gardening books and on top of them are some reading glasses. I breathe.

I’m drawn to the many photographs on a chest of drawers, some faded, some in colour, some black and white. In them, the number of people gets fewer and fewer, as the woman who is in all the photos gets older and older. One particular photo stands out. It is of two women arm in arm and both look to be about Rose’s age. One is tall with dark curly hair, wearing dungarees that flare out at the bottom. The other is of petite build, with mousy brown hair that flicks outwards on either side of a central parting, and pale blue eyes. She’s wearing chunky gold earrings and a skirted fawn suit with huge shoulder pads. I am struck by the similarity between this last woman and Rose. But this image was captured a long time ago. I sniff this photo and pick up the aroma of decaying rose petals – the smell of sadness. The wardrobe is closed but I know that the clothes hanging inside belonged to a woman who smoked cigarettes and liked a particular perfume. I think she was Aunt what-you-me-call-it.

My head hangs and my tail droops. I am overcome by the room’s melancholy. I almost give up my search when I spot a pair of fluffy slippers and a torch under the bed. Perhaps she had it there in case of a power cut? I take its long rubber handle in my mouth. It’s a relief to leave the room. The torch is heavy and hangs at an awkward angle but I manage to carry it down the stairs and into the kitchen.

‘Now what?’ asks Betty.

I put the torch down and look out of the window at the full moon. ‘We go outside and get Dante’s attention.’

‘Mate, door’s shut, in case you haven’t noticed.’

My mouth curls into a smile. ‘Leave that to me.’

Chapter Nine

The stable-style back door has a wrought-iron handle that reminds me of a rawhide chew with a knot at one end. I jump up, place my front paws on the door, take the handle between my teeth and drop my head. Trouble is the door opens inwards so the first time I do this, I succeed in unlatching it, but my weight shuts it again. The next time I get it right. I use my paws instead of my mouth to push the handle down and teeter on my back legs, dropping to all fours as soon as I can. The door opens a fraction but that’s all I need. I squeeze a paw and then my head into the gap, and force it open. I grab the torch and Betty and I walk out into the moonlit garden. I can see everything as clear as day, including the sleeping ducks and a couple of startled hares, eyes as wide as my water bowl.

‘Now what? Now what?’ Betty squeals, as she hops about with excitement.

I drop the torch in the grass and nuzzle the handle until I find the bumpy bit Paddy used to push to switch it on.

‘Press this,’ I say to Betty.

She does so, and jumps back as a powerful beam of light illuminates the middle section of the garden. The hares do backflips and dart for the nearest cover. I angle the torch so that the big oak tree is floodlit. It’s like I’m calling Batman from his cave. I twist the handle a little, first one way, and then the other, so the beam shudders against the tree’s tall branches.

‘Oh wow!’ says Betty, clapping her paws together.

I can’t speak – I have my mouth full. I just hope that Dante is near enough to see it. He’s very fond of bright lights and shiny things. Well, a bit more than fond. It’s his obsession. Just as mine is food, his is all things glittery. It’s landed him in all sorts of trouble, and I mean trouble with The Law. Big’uns’ law.

‘I say! You there! What do you think you’re doing?’

I almost drop the torch in shock. I can’t work out where the nasal voice is coming from. He sounds like he has a clothes peg on his nose.

‘There!’ Betty says, pointing at the oak’s wide trunk.

Lowering the torch a fraction, I see an upside down squirrel clinging to the bark with its claws.

‘I don’t wish to be rude but this behaviour just won’t do. This is a nice neighbourhood,’ he continues.

Since dogs and squirrels have existed, we’ve always played Chase. We chase squirrels on the ground and they scamper into the trees. Gives us the opportunity for a jolly good bark. No harm done. But this squirrel is clearly in no mood for fun. I lay the torch on the lawn and go for the friendly approach.

‘Hi there. Name’s Monty, and this is Betty. What’s yours?’

‘Nigel. Your local Animal Neighbourhood Watch representative.’ He puffs out his chest. ‘Very important work. Without my constant vigilance, this quiet hamlet would descend into anarchy.’

‘It would?’

‘It would,’ says Nigel, flicking his tail. ‘Look, I don’t want us to get off on the wrong paw, but there are by-laws about this sort of thing.’

Betty and I exchange glances.

‘What sort of thing?’ I ask.

‘Disturbing the peace, of course. You can’t flash lights like that at this time of night. It’s just not neighbourly. The hares are complaining of migraines already.’

‘We won’t be much longer. We’re trying to attract someone’s attention.’

‘And what will be next? A rock band? Drunken brawls?’ The squirrel scampers up the trunk and stops on a branch. ‘Mark my words, young hound. Your actions tonight are the first step on the slippery slope to oblivion.’

In a flash of vibrating tail, Nigel disappears into the dark foliage. He’s humming the Mission: Impossible theme tune again.

‘Who does he think he is?’ Betty protests.

‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ I say, gripping the torch between my teeth and waving it about.

It’s not long before I hear a familiar chattering in the dis-tance. Initially, I mistake a large bat for Dante. Then I see the magpie, heading straight for the flickering beam. As he crosses it, his black and white plumage is illuminated – it’s Batman in a white T-shirt.

‘Bleeding Nora,’ says Betty, as she runs under my body to hide. ‘He’s a big bastard!’

I lower the torch and bark, as quietly as I can, ‘Dante, it’s me, Monty. Down here!’

I glance at the upper windows but Rose’s face doesn’t appear. The magpie lands, claws outstretched, a few feet away. Betty cowers. In the torch’s beam his striking features are visible – black beak and head, white above his wings and on his belly, and long dark tail feathers that shimmer a peacock green.

‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ he snaps, stomping towards me, his black, beady eyes angry. ‘You’re giving me a headache.’

‘Dante, calm down, I need your help and had to get your attention.’ I try to keep my voice to a quiet woof so that Rose doesn’t wake.

The magpie goose-steps up and down. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Monty, find someone else to tap those bloody keys. I have better things to do.’

‘No, no. This is important.’

‘What? Doggie lost his bone?’

He’s in a foul mood. Not good.

‘My master’s dead.’

Dante dips his head, as if scooping up water, and his tail lifts high. He then returns to his normal stiff posture.

‘Dead? Oh dear me. I see.’ He clears his throat. ‘That explains what you’re doing so far from home.’ He resumes his pacing. ‘I did wonder what all that commotion was about on Friday. Lots of shiny badges and glistening equipment.’

I step closer, forgetting my jittery friend sheltering beneath me. She darts to one side, before I tread on her.

‘Did you see what happened?’ My tail has gone berserk. It’s going so fast Dante’s feathers are getting ruffled by the breeze I’m creating. ‘Do you know where the killer went?’

Dante has noticed Betty. His eyes sparkle. He darts forward, sharp beak open. I block his path.

‘No! Betty is not a midnight snack.’

My teeth are bared. Shocked, Dante backs off. He knows that if I chose, I could break his neck.

‘Fine way to treat a friend,’ he complains.

‘Betty is my friend too. I need you two to get along.’

Dante laughs, the kind of nasal, withering laugh I’ve heard from villains on the TV. ‘Oh, please! You don’t expect me to befriend my food, do you?’

‘This one isn’t food, okay?’

‘This is preposterous! Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t eat? I’m leaving.’

He turns his back on me.

‘Wait! I need your help to find my master’s killer.’

The magpie ignores me and is about to take off.

‘You owe me, remember.’

I had vowed I would never mention this, but I’m desperate. It’s not just about finding Larry Nice’s address. Dante can be my eyes in the sky.

He turns quickly and screeches. ‘I’ve paid that debt!’ He’s opened his wings wide and looks menacing. Betty darts behind a flowerpot.

I step forward but keep a safe distance from his sharp beak. ‘Not yet. You help me find Paddy’s killer, then the debt is paid.’

He folds his wings and tilts his smooth black head to one side, as if contemplating my offer.

‘And you can have my shiny dog tag. You’ve wanted it for ages. Well, now you can have it.’

Dante stares at the round tag, a red and silver paw on one side, my name and the Professor’s address engraved into the metal, on the other. This tag is the only thing I have to remember my beloved master by. It means the world to me. But finding his killer means more.

He nods. ‘Throw in the torch, too.’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘It’s not mine to give.’

He opens his wings wide again and I think he’s about to fly off. But he folds them.

‘Oh all right. I’ll help you find Salt’s killer. You have my word,’ says Dante. ‘But, I want the tag now. Call it a down payment.’

‘And you won’t hurt Betty, or any other creature who helps me?’

Dante sighs. ‘Yes, yes, okay, but try not to involve the whole wretched animal kingdom, otherwise I’ll starve to death.’

I look over my shoulder at Betty. ‘It’s okay, Betty. Dante is a bird of his word.’ She shakes her head and stays put. I focus back on Dante. ‘The laptop’s inside.’

Dante glances into the kitchen. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘A suspect’s address in The White Pages.’

‘That’s it? Oh for goodness’ sake! What a waste of my exceptional talent.’

I ignore his griping. ‘That’s just the start. Follow me.’

Dante flies behind me and deftly lands on the kitchen table. He focuses his steely stare on me. ‘Whose laptop is this?’

‘Belongs to my new master, Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom, who’s working on the case.’

‘Sidebottom? They have a coat of arms, you know. Ancient big’un family. Been around since the Norman Conquest of 1066. Famous for their prowess in the saddle and for their noble hunting hounds.’ He cocks his head as if deciding whether I qualify as a noble hound. Unfortunately, a long strand of drool hangs from my mouth and one side of my jowl is tucked into my gums, having got stuck there from when I held the torch. Dante tutts. Apparently not.

‘How do you know about coats of arms?’

‘Bit of a history buff. Did you know my ancestors originally guarded the Tower Of London, not those wretched usurpers, the ravens?’

‘We’re pressed for time so can you get on with it?’

He sighs but positions himself so that his claws rest on the edge of the keyboard. He leans forward and taps a key with his beak. As the screen is illuminated, Dante becomes mesmerised, as he is by everything bright.

Betty has followed us at a distance. She tugs my fur. I drop my head so I can hear what she says.

‘So why does he owe you?’ she whispers.

I whisper back. ‘I saved his life.’

Chapter Ten

Rose’s laptop is demanding a password. Dante turns his dark, sleek head in my direction and blinks.

‘Well? Any idea?’

Betty leans into me as if trying to hide in my fur: she’s still fearful the magpie will try to eat her.

‘Let me think,’ I say. ‘It wouldn’t be her name …’

‘Obviously,’ says Dante, with withering condescension. All magpies sound arrogant, but Dante’s exceptional intellect makes him particularly intolerant. ‘Date of birth, something that’s important to her?’ he suggests. ‘Humans are sentimental like that.’

‘Duckdown! Try duckdown,’ I say, wagging my tail, confident I’ve cracked it.

Dante taps in the word and up pops, Incorrect Password. ‘Try harder, Monty,’ he says, sighing. ‘Only two more goes, then we get locked out.’

I feel Betty fidget. ‘Oy, Mr Dante. Why don’t you have a guess?’ she says.

‘Madam, I have an IQ in the top ninety-ninth percentile in the world and I would be a member of Mensa, if big’uns allowed birds to join, which they don’t, the stupid snobs. However, I don’t know the owner of this laptop so your guess is as good as mine.’

‘What about a car number plate?’ I suggest. ‘I know big’uns love their cars.’

The magpie nods. ‘A possibility.’

‘Wait here.’

I run out of the kitchen door, down the side passage to the front of the house where her car is parked. Betty comes with me, muttering something about not being ‘left alone with that tosser’. I memorise the number plate and we race back to the kitchen.

But it doesn’t work – Incorrect Password.

‘One more try,’ Dante announces.

My tail is drooping as my confidence wanes. I realise I know very little about my new master. Where does she come from? Somewhere by the sea, but that doesn’t help. Is she a pack animal or, as I suspect, a lone wolf? I know she’s a detective. I know she loves this house but is sad sometimes because the person who lived here before her has gone away. What was her aunt’s name? I think back to when Rose and I stood outside the dilapidated shed. It’s a bit hazy. Oh, hold on …

‘Kay! Her aunt! Could she be the password?’

‘A bit short for a password, and remember this is your last chance.’

‘Okay then, try Aunt Kay. That’s what she called her.’

My nose is dry so I lick it. I can feel Betty clinging to my leg. Dante taps in AuntKay. And …

We are in! I’m so excited I run around in circles. But I collide with a chair on the turn and skid to a halt. Betty squeaks with delight. Dante ignores us. Colourful short-cut icons appear on the desktop, looking like tasty sweets in tiny jars. This reminds me of food. I peer longingly at the larder door, distracted by the mountain of deliciousness I know is stored within. My stomach rumbles.

‘I’m in The White Pages. Who are you after?’ Dante asks.

I tell him. A moment later we have Larry Nice’s address: Block D, Flat 251, Truscott Estate, Greyfield Common.

Betty rubs her front paws together. ‘I can get us to there.’

‘And what, pray, would a rat know about directions?’ says Dante. ‘I can use Google maps.’

She ignores his sarcasm. ‘I know the railway tracks like the back of my paw. In fact, I ride the trains a lot, just hop on and hop off whenever I want. I happen to know that the Waterloo train stops here at Milford, and two stops later, hey presto, you’re at Greyfield Common. If we take the train, we’ll be outside Larry Nice’s flat before you can say Bob’s-your-uncle, Fanny’s-your-aunt. Then, Mr Brainbox, it’ll be up to you to find this Truscott Estate place. Think you can manage that?’

Dante rears his head up. ‘What you fail to comprehend, madam, is that I have better things to do with my time. Something your tiny little rat brain wouldn’t understand.’

‘Piss off, Dante!’ says Betty, hands on hips. ‘At least I don’t have a poncy name like you.’

‘I am named after The Divine Comedy, I’ll have you know. A masterful poem.’

‘Yeah, I know The Divine bloody Comedy. Ate some pages from it once. Tasted like shit. You like to think you’re all dark and menacing, don’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you! You’re just a grumpy old bird!’

Dante opens his wings and screeches, ‘Harridan!’

‘Stop it! Both of you,’ I say. ‘You’ll wake Rose!’

Instantly silent and still, we listen, like cardboard cut-out silhouettes in the laptop’s brightness. Rose doesn’t stir.

‘I like your idea of the train, Betty,’ I say, quietly, ‘but I’m a big dog. You can hop on and off unnoticed; I can’t.’

‘That’s true,’ says Betty, ‘but the first train of the day is almost always empty and the driver is too sleepy to notice who gets on and off. Milford is a small station with loads of bushes. We hide until the train comes and then, just when the doors are about to close, we jump on.’

‘When’s the first train?’ I ask, feeling uneasy.

‘Five-thirty.’

‘I can’t do this, Betty. I don’t know what time Rose gets up for work. It’s too risky.’

Betty stands between my front paws, looking up into my eyes. I hang my head and our noses almost touch.

‘What if Larry Nice is the killer and gets away with it, all because you didn’t want to leave this house? You want to know the truth, don’t you?’

I pace up and down, wondering what to do. Disobey Rose, or stay put and feel useless? I think of the Queen’s Corgis and their secret night escapades from Windsor Castle. But they know they’ll get a royal pardon. I won’t be so lucky. I think of Rose upstairs who’s been very kind to me and what it might mean to betray her trust. Then I think of the promise I made to find the bastard who took Paddy from me.

‘Well?’ asks Betty, her ball-bearing eyes gleaming with mischief.

‘Let’s do it,’ I say.

‘Rose won’t know a thing,’ Betty promises.

Famous last words.

Dante nods at my dog tag. ‘We made a deal,’ he says.

My tag says I belong to Patrick Salt. It still smells of him. I don’t want to let it go but I am a dog of my word.

‘We’ll need you to guide us to the Truscott Estate tomorrow.’

‘Fine. My tag?’

‘Betty, can you use your teeth to free the tag from my collar?’

‘You sure?’ she asks.

‘I’m sure.’

She scurries up my chest fur and before I know it, the tag clanks to the floor. Dante swoops down, picks it up in his claws and flies out of the kitchen window like a black ghost. I watch my only remaining memory of Paddy disappear into the night. But Betty won’t let me feel down for long. She is squirming with excitement.

‘We’re going on an adventure, we’re going on an adventure!’ she squeaks, as she does The Twist.

‘This could be dangerous. Are you sure you want to come?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Besides, we’re mates and I never abandon a mate.’

Chapter Eleven

It’s five in the morning and it’s dark. I have no idea why big’uns say it’s raining cats and dogs, but it’s pouring down on this particular dog as I squeeze through the garden hedge and follow a bedraggled Betty hopping along the railway track.

‘Keep away from that. It’s the live rail,’ she says.

It doesn’t look remotely alive to me, but I do as she says. Every now and again I look back, worried that the big screeching monster I heard last night will attack from behind. We pass an owl sheltering in a hollow tree, its yellow eyes piercing the blackness. It’s reciting Shakespeare. Owls often do this to confuse their prey. And let’s face it, Hamlet would confuse anybody. There you are going about your business and you look up wondering who’s wittering on about death and dreaming, and then, Bam! You’re skewered by a hooked beak in the back.

‘One may smile and smile and be a te-wit,’ the owl hoots.

‘Does he mean us?’ Betty asks.

‘I hope not,’ I say, starting to doubt our plan.

We reach Milford station, which is little more than two raised platforms, one on either side of the tracks, and a footbridge over the line. The ticket office is closed. I hunker down on sodden shingle, while Betty scampers up the platform ramp.

‘All clear,’ she whispers. ‘We’ll hide in here till the train comes.’

I follow her into a tangled mess of brambles laden with decaying blackberries and wait for the five-thirty train.

‘Breakfast,’ she says, and nibbles a berry. She stands beneath a wide leaf and uses it as an umbrella. ‘So, tell me, how did you save Dante’s life, then?’

I blink away a raindrop. ‘It was nothing. Hardly worth telling.’

I sniff a blackberry and try one. Not bad. A bit furry.

‘Oh go on. Tell me. We’ve got nothing else to do till the train comes.’

‘All right then. Dante found a silver necklace at the side of the road. The main road into Geldeford. He was so busy trying to peck open the locket he didn’t see a petrol tanker bearing down on him. He was going to get squashed. I was walking with Paddy at the time and I managed to grab Dante by the neck and pull him out of harm’s way. He thought I was going to kill him so he kicked up a terrible fuss and tried to poke my eyes out. When the tanker hurtled past and nearly clipped the both of us he realised I’d saved his life.’

Betty stares at me with her piercing ball-bearing eyes. ‘But why? Why risk your life for a magpie? Especially a miserable git like Dante.’

‘I don’t know. I like to help, I guess. That’s why I wanted to be a guide dog.’

‘Still don’t get it.’

Betty eats in silence. Despite the pat pat of rain on leaves and the ting of water hitting guttering, I hear the train approach before it comes into view. As it lumbers into the station, the platform lights illuminate its bright colours – yellow, red (or it could be green as I get these two muddled up), white and blue. It doesn’t seem fearsome at all, more like a colossal, brightly coloured centipede with gigantic eyes. Apart from the driver I only see one person in a carriage. Two men clutching hard hats run onto the platform just in time and board the front carriage. When the doors start to beep, Betty shoves me and we bolt into the last carriage.

I sniff the stale air. The floor’s been mopped in dirty water – I detect a faint hint of cleaning fluid. Perhaps a thimbleful. Still smells of old coffee, stale chips, greasy hair and crumpled newspapers. I don’t hear any coat rustling or throat clearing or human breathing. We are alone, for now anyway. I give myself an almighty shake, which starts from the very tip of my nose, then sets my jowls flapping, ears bouncing, migrates down my spine in a cork-screw fashion, before becoming a bottom wiggle and capping the whole performance off with a tail wave. Ever watched a slow-motion dog shake? Worth it, I promise you. Anyway, water, loose fur and slobber sprays outwards in all directions, blanketing the floor, nearby windows, seats and Betty. Boy, does that feel good!

She stands there glaring at me, a double-drowned rat. ‘Thanks a bunch!’ Betty does her own little shake and her fur fluffs back out.

‘What now?’ I ask.

‘When we get to Greyfield Common, we run out the door and head for the tunnel.’

‘Tunnel?’

‘Yeah, under the road. Until then, we lie down between these seats and hope no big’uns see us.’

I follow her.

‘Dante won’t let us down, will he?’ Betty asks.

I want to do another shake – one is never enough – and my ears tickle. Must have water in them. I waggle my head instead, so as not to soak Betty again.

‘He’ll be there.’

‘So what I don’t get is how come you and Dante are friends when he’s such a patronising git and you’re such a nice dog?’