Tony Black - Loss

I was sweating now, my brows collecting beads of moisture. I had my mouth set in a grimace as I raced through the gears, getting to the box junction at the Carphone Warehouse. The lights turned red but I ran them. A Volvo came out from the stadium road and I was inches from its massive front bumper. The driver braked suddenly, brought the Volv’ to a halt. I flew past him; as I did, he regained some composure and pummelled the horn.

The dog didn’t look as if he was travelling well. His tongue had changed colour, seemed to have drained of blood. I patted his back, but he didn’t so much as murmur. I was losing hope, I sensed the dog slipping away from me.

‘Come on, boyo. Don’t you be leaving me. Come on, come on.’

I spun the wheel through my hands, it burned my palms. I hit a traffic island and the back end fishtailed out of control. I had to countermand the steering to get the car to right itself. The front end lurched at a parked car and there was a millisecond of impending damage before I got the bastard under control. I ramped up the revs again and the car lurched to the other side of the road. An oncoming motorist pulled out of the way, but we clipped wing mirrors.

‘Fuck it.’

The Punto’s mirror was hanging off. Banged on the side of the door.

In my rear-view I saw the driver of the other car stop. He opened his door and stood in the road, roaring at me. Like I gave a shit.

I had two streets to go. I took the car over the edge of the dropped kerb at the corner shop and rolled in neutral, then I had to slam on the anchors.

‘Bollocks!’

There were roadworks.

Two fat builders in high-visibility coats directed a reversing dumper truck. The other side of the street was filled with a pile of stone chippings. The road was blocked. I gripped at the wheel. Smacked my fists off the dash. What the fuck was I to do? I punched the steering wheel and the horn belted out.

The builders looked at me, mouthed something between themselves, then got back to work.

I looked at the dog: he lay lifeless. His body had slid towards the door when I hit the brakes, his face shoved up against the armrest. I put a hand on him — he felt cold, his nose dry.

‘Oh Christ, Usual!’

I jerked my hand from him and reached for the door. I ran round to the passenger side and yanked it open. Usual’s head flopped as the door’s support was taken from him. I leaned over, put my arms under his still body and picked him up. As I held him close, I reached for the raw steak that sat on the floor, shoved it in my coat pocket and ran.

I tanked it down the slush-filled streets.

I felt my steps give way on the slippery surface but I kept up a good pace. As I rounded the corner I fell, landed on one knee but held on to the dog. As I looked down his head lolled like a rag doll’s. I put my hand under the base of his skull, supported him. The vet’s surgery was in sight.

Normally, parked cars were lined up out front, and all the way down the street, but today there were none to be seen.

‘Oh, fucking hell… Don’t be closed on me.’

I chanked it as fast as I could for the last fifty yards. I thought my heart might let out. My lungs shrieked; I cursed myself for smoking so much.

‘Come on, be open. Be fucking open!’

There were no signs of life at the vet’s. It was nearly holiday time — had they shut up early?

‘Oh, Jesus…’

As I got closer to the door, sliding and cursing as I went, I suddenly saw a sight that fired hope in me — lights burning on a Christmas tree.

I rounded the path, grabbed the door handle. It opened — I gasped in relief.

Inside I got hit with the smell of disinfectant and dog food. I brushed past a man with a cat carrier in the foyer and took a noticeboard down with me. A woman on the reception desk looked as though I’d cracked it over her head.

‘Hey, hey, what you playing at?’ she yelped at me.

I shouldered customers out of the way; there was more yelping.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ I gasped, short of breath.

Some tutting was added to the cacophony.

As I reached the desk, I panted, completely out of breath. My heart was bursting. I was dizzy with exertion and fear. ‘My dog… My dog…’

The receptionist was indignant. ‘You’ve just pushed through the queue!’

I was ready to lamp her, but she caught sight of Usual in my arms and her tone changed immediately.

‘Oh my God, is this a road accident?… Has he been hit by a car?’

I shook my head, rummaged in my pocket. ‘It’s this… this.’

She looked scoobied, had no idea what I was giving her.

I shook the steak — blood dripped from it. ‘It’s meat, someone’s fed him this.’

Her brain clicked to on. She pushed back her chair. The wheels cut into the floorboards as she called out to the vet, ‘Bob, Bob… There’s a dog here been poisoned.’

The vet came running through, tucking a thermometer in his shirt pocket. He didn’t look at me; all I saw was the top of his bald and freckled head as he poked and prodded at Usual. He picked up the meat and sniffed it, shook his head, then lifted the dog. I watched him jog through to the surgery, calling out instructions to a girl who appeared wearing a green gown and gloves.

I was still gasping for air as the receptionist placed a hand on my arm, said, ‘Are you okay there?’

She seemed absorbed by me. I patted the back of the hand she placed on my arm, muttered, ‘I think so, yes… Do you reckon he’ll be all right?’

She had dark eyes; they stared up at me as she spoke. ‘You should go and get a seat.’

‘But, but I–I…’ I gripped on to her hand.

She pulled it away from me. ‘He’s in the best place now.’

It sounded like the kind of thing she’d said to a million people before. I wanted more than that, but I moved back, said, ‘Thank you.’

When I sat down in one of the practice’s plastic chairs, I sensed everyone turning towards me. I tried not to make any eye contact; knew full well that would only be an invitation to have them talk to me, and I was in no mood for chat.

I stared at my boots, let my heart rate reach a normal level again. I felt my breath returning but the blood still pumped hard in me.

I knew who had done this to Usual.

I could see the face on that parka-wearing pug as he fed the meat through the open window. I had both fists gripped. I’d fucking well feed him through a window when I got my hands on him. I didn’t care if he was one of the Undertaker’s boys, I’d do him. And I’d do him proper.

I got out of my seat, paced the floor.

Everywhere, pictures of dogs beamed from the walls: adverts for wormers, breed charts, an anatomy poster. I couldn’t look. Turned for the door, called to the woman on the desk, ‘I’m going for a smoke.’

She smiled. ‘I’ll give you a shout if I hear anything.’

I thanked her again.

Outside I sparked up. I was running low on Marlboros; I’d been smoking the ones Ronnie McMilne had left for me with Hod. The bullet rattled about in the pack. I took it out, looked at it. It was the size of the one on the Full Metal Jacket poster. When I got my hands on that pug, I’d lodge it in his fucking head, with or without a gun.

I could imagine the bastard laughing, telling his mates that he’d offed my dog because it bit him. I chugged deep on my tab. I knew chances were he’d poisoned Usual on the Undertaker’s instructions. It didn’t matter. I was going after the fucker whether he was working on initiative or not. He might be looked after by every face in Edinburgh — it wouldn’t stop me.

I reached the tab’s filter, lit another from the tip.

The sunshine had left the sky, great grey clouds came racing in again. I wondered if Usual would pull through. What was going on inside? There had to be a hope, there was, surely. The vet wouldn’t have taken him through to the surgery if he didn’t think there was a chance. I found myself staring at the sky. I knew God was dead, but it didn’t matter.