Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

After a further check of the street outside, Foyle settled on the edge of the sofa. As he undid the backpack’s straps, he studied Brillo.

‘Your dog?’ he asked.

‘Sort of.’

‘I was never allowed a pet. Dad wouldn’t let me.’

‘I spoke with your mother — he seems to have been a piece of work.’

‘That’s why he wrote the journal — a sort of apology, I suppose.’

‘Your mum doesn’t know about it?’

Foyle shook his head. ‘He handed it to me one night, told me to keep it to myself. He knew he was ill by then…’ He broke off. ‘Easier if you see for yourself.’ He got up off the sofa and crossed the room towards Rebus, handing over a moleskin notebook, held closed by an elasticated cloth band. ‘I’ll maybe go get that sandwich,’ the young man said, leaving the room.

Rebus unhooked the band and began to read.

The first thing I need you to know, Jordan, is that I wasn’t born Mark Foyle. Mark was a lad I got to know when I was sleeping rough in London. He was an addict and one winter he just passed away. Similar age to me and he still had a National Insurance card, so it was easy enough to take his identity. Up till then I’d been Bryan Holroyd. That’s the name I was born with. My real birthday’s exactly a month before you think it is. Not that I’ll be having any more birthdays. I’ve not said anything to your mum but I’ve been seeing doctors and it doesn’t look good — there’s an operation I could have but I don’t want it. When it’s time, it’s time. I’ve cheated death once, and once was probably enough. I was hanging around in a café before one of the consultations, thinking the usual morbid thoughts, when the song came on. At first I couldn’t think where I’d heard it, then I remembered. I opened Shazam on my phone and got a match — ‘Even Dogs in the Wild’. It’s by a group called the Associates. Turns out they’re Scottish. It had been playing that night, as they drove me out to a forest in Fife to bury me. It all came flooding back then, and I felt suddenly really shitty about the way I’d treated you. I couldn’t bring myself to love you. I just couldn’t. Maybe after reading this you’ll understand why…

Rebus broke off and watched as Jordan Foyle resumed his perch, the club sandwich in one hand and an open can in the other. The young man chewed, saying nothing, his eyes on Rebus’s. Rebus lowered his own eyes and took up the story again.

For a while I was worried I must be gay. I mean, I didn’t feel gay, but I’d had sex with a man, so did that make me gay? When Denise showed an interest, I tried putting her off, but you know your mum — she’s nothing if not persistent! And later on, when I would wake up sobbing, she’d calm me down. She knew there was something I wasn’t telling her, but she said I’d confide in her when I was good and ready. That day’s never come. Maybe you’ll show her this and maybe you won’t — your decision. She was the love of my life — she probably saved my life — and that’s the truth. Then she got pregnant and out you popped. And I was cold towards you from the start. I wanted to shut you away from the world, from all the predators out there. I even feared I might turn out to be one myself. So I pushed you away and I know that hurt you — it won’t be any consolation that it hurt me too…

‘First few pages are mostly family,’ Jordan Foyle stated, slurping from the can. ‘Bit that might interest you is further on.’

Rebus turned some pages until he saw names he recognised and started to read again.

They’d been drinking and doing drugs, and forcing them on me too. Anything to deaden the thoughts and feelings. These were men with gross appetites and nothing to stop them indulging those appetites to the full. Me and the other kids weren’t going to be listened to. We were the dregs. David was David Minton, a bigwig lawyer — for years I felt queasy if I ever saw him in a newspaper or on TV. His pal was an MP called Howard Champ. Jimmy was James Broadfoot, and believe it or not, he was Chief Constable in the city. See? These are the kind of men they were — powerful and full of themselves. Todd Dalrymple mostly liked to watch, or just hang out with these bastards. I think he owned a casino in the city. Mickey Tolland worked at Acorn House — everyone based there knew what went on, but he was the one doing the organising. And guess what? He won the bloody lottery a few years back — I had to switch the news off when they showed his stupid grinning face. Married, too. Happy as a pig in shit. Pricks and bastards, the lot of them.

It was Champ who throttled me. That was his thing. But instead of going along with it, I keeled over and pretended I was convulsing. Then I went stock still and held my breath. Thought I was going to be rumbled when someone checked my pulse, but they were so out of it and panicky, they obviously didn’t do it right. A man called Cafferty was mentioned. He’d sort it out. By which they meant get rid of my body. So these two men arrived. By that time, I’d been wrapped up in the sheet I was lying on, which was fine by me — I could breathe a bit without them noticing. They threw me into the boot of their car and that was that. Their names were Paul and Dave, but that’s all I know. And they had the radio on. No, actually it was a tape, because one of them ejected it — he didn’t like the song. The same song I heard in that café — ‘Even Dogs in the Wild’. I listened to it and couldn’t believe the words. It was almost as if they’d been written for me. I decided there and then to buy this diary and write in it, something for you to have while I’m still alive.

Rebus looked up again. Lured by the sandwich, Brillo was sitting on the floor at Foyle’s feet. Foyle was feeding him morsels of chicken and bacon and rubbing his coat at the same time.

‘Did you talk to him?’ Rebus asked.

‘He only gave it to me the night before he died. But that morning, I gave him a hug in the upstairs hall. We weren’t great at talking. And all because of what happened in that place. His life ruined, my relationship with him ruined — because of those fuckers.’ Foyle nodded towards the book. ‘He ran for his life and lay shivering in those woods all night, covered with leaves and whatever else he could scoop up. Then he stole clothes and money from a house and got as far away as he could. London for a while, then Glasgow — that’s where he met Mum.’ He paused. ‘Did you mean what you said about an inquiry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would it do any good?’

‘It might take down a few reputations.’

‘And meanwhile I’ll be doing time for murder?’

‘You’ll plead diminished responsibility. Throw post-traumatic stress into the mix and you should be fine.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You’ll serve a few years, but not many.’

‘ If I turn myself in.’

‘What else are you going to do — run away to London?’

‘That man Cafferty — he’ll put a price on my head.’

‘No he won’t. He wanted your dad found so he could say sorry to him. My guess is, the same apology’s coming to you.’

‘Even though I tried to kill him?’

‘Even so,’ Rebus confirmed.

Foyle turned his head towards the backpack sitting next to him on the sofa. ‘I was seriously thinking about blowing my brains out — after I’d settled with Dalrymple.’

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Rebus said quietly. Then: ‘Any chance I can have my phone back?’

Foyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

‘I want to see if I can get on the internet. There’s a song I really need to hear.’

Foyle considered for a moment, then handed the phone over. But before he did anything, Rebus skipped to the end of the journal, reading Bryan Holroyd’s last words.