Peter Temple - White Dog

Jimbo came around the corner to my left, two dogs on short leashes. One was big, white, it could eat from a kitchen counter, the other was below knee-height, brindle, broad, round head, low centre of gravity, some kind of pitbull cross. The dogs pulled away from Jimbo, came back, collided, the big one snarled, I saw teeth.

‘Big boy’s not blooded proper,’ said Chokka. ‘Just roos. Little fucker’s the killer. Bought him off a fuckin slope, killed so many dogs the other slopes won’t let him fight anymore. Turns out he’s also a fuckin tracker, gets a scent, nose fuckin down, he’s off. Go anywhere too. Run up a tree after a possum, straight fuckin up like he’s goin up stairs, the fuckin poss looks back, big fuckin eyes. Bang. They fall out of the tree, he’s got it.’

Jimbo brought the dogs up, let the small one sniff my legs, held the big one back. It bared its teeth at me, widely spaced fangs like a fish trap. I stepped back, felt the muzzle press.

Jimbo laughed, the deranged child sound.

‘Happy, boy?’ said Chokka, the voice of a father. ‘More fun than the girl he brung, hey? Whadya reckon, Jimbo?’

Jimbo dropped his head shyly, long strands of filthy hair covered his face. When he raised his chin, threw back his hair, he was looking sideways, embarrassed. Snot was running from his nostrils and he put out a long reptilian tongue and licked it into his mouth.

I felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature, cold in the core of my body.

‘Was the girl still alive when he brought her?’ I said.

Jimbo looked at me, head tilted. I could see the whites of his eyes.

He was smiling. He nodded. ‘Smelt nice,’ he said.

My arms were pulled back by the handcuffs. I heard the snick, they were free.

‘Run, fucker,’ said Chokka.

I didn’t know what to do.

‘Five minutes’ start,’ he said. ‘Howzat? See if you kin run faster’n these fuckin dogs. Fair go, hey, mate?’

Jimbo squealed with sexual pleasure.

Chokka kicked me in the base of my spine. The shock went into my skull. I stumbled a few paces, fell to my knees.

‘Go, fucker!’ Jimbo screamed. ‘Go! Go!’

I got up and ran into the dark, downhill, down the bare slope, there was a path, slippery, leather-soled shoes, I fell, got up, slipped, fell, rose, ran, got off the path, there was grass beside it, it was less slippery, a terrible pain in my left knee, it was of no consequence whatsoever.

The dogs wouldn’t kill me. They would maul me. I would be alive when Chokka and Jimbo arrived.

So it wouldn’t be over.

Only that part of the entertainment would be over. I would be alive.

Like Katelyn.

Get off the path, idiot.

I veered right, into the scrub, the moon was gone, ran over roots, ran into something, a tree, stunted thing, hit it with my right shoulder, spun around, fell over, got up.

Run.

Chokka wouldn’t wait five minutes, this wasn’t a sport with rules. He wanted to see if the small killer dog could track me.

Just run.

I ran, stumbling, falling, face whipped by low branches, I could see things, the moon was out, a sharp dip, going down, I kicked something, arrow of pain, broken big toe. I fell, knees in water.

A creek.

Go up the creek, stay in the water, dogs can’t smell you in water.

Hollywood. I knew that from films. Would the films save me? Would Cool Hand Luke save me? Water didn’t save Cool Hand Luke. No, that wasn’t Cool Hand Luke, that was Sidney Poitier handcuffed to a redneck.

How long? How far had I run?

I walked in the water, wobbly walking, no firm footing, feet freezing, slipped on a rock, fell awkwardly, my right knee meeting something hard.

Fuck the creek.

I got out of it, uphill now, some strength in my legs, surprising, a small hit of optimism moved through me.

I could get away from these mad ferals and their killer dogs. They were not very smart.

I was smart.

Smart enough.

Apes would be fucking insulted to be related to these idiots. Exactly. Stedman told them to kill me. But they wanted some fun.

I could come out of this.

A branch caught my nose, blood in my mouth, lots of it. I swallowed blood, blood was probably good for you, drinking your own piss was said to be good for you. Gandhi drank his own piss. A pioneer recycler.

The scrub was denser here, the ground riven with erosion furrows. I kept falling. Once I thought I’d sprained an ankle but the pain subsided.

Top of the hill. A stitch, pain in my side.

Barking.

Oh Christ, they were coming.

Keep going. Just keep going.

Downhill, steep, I tripped over something and rolled four or five metres. Felt no pain, just exhaustion.

Get up. Run. I couldn’t, I walked.

Barking. Much closer.

Run.

I stumbled down the slope, sweat in my eyes, mouth open gasping, trying to get air, legs like stumps, dead things, weights I was dragging.

I didn’t see the dense bush until I hit it. It seemed to grab me. I fought it, wrestled my way into it…

Oh Christ, trapped in a thicket like Brer Rabbit, the savage creatures would tear me apart at their leisure.

Barking, loud, maddened barking, not twenty metres away.

No. No.

I threw myself forward, dragged at the branches.

Ground crumbling under my feet. A precipice.

Jesus. Falling.

I tumbled down a slope, grabbing at stones, saplings, nothing holding. I hit water, rolled into it, got water in my mouth, swallowed it, mud-tasting water, ice-cold water, in my nose. I got up. I was up to my waist in a dam, a few metres from shore.

Howling dogs. Somewhere above me. Close.

I turned, tried to see the bank I’d fallen down, just a dark mass.

A blur. The smaller dog, coming down.

It landed on the narrow muddy bank on four paws, bounced, did not hesitate.

It leapt for me, straight for my chest, my throat.

In the second it was in the air, the moon came out and I saw its fierce cannonball head clearly, the whites of its wide-spaced eyes, the open jaws, the spiky teeth, the tongue.

Then the animal was on me.

Our heads collided. Blackness, pain.

I went over backwards, fierce pain in my left shoulder now, the dog’s teeth in me, both my hands on its broad collar, trying to pull it away.

We were under water, its weight on my chest.

Something said: Don’t push. Pull.

Stay down.

I pulled the dog to me, felt its jaws moving in my flesh, intense pain in my whole shoulder, up my neck.

Stay down.

I needed to breathe. I hadn’t prepared myself, hadn’t drawn a deep breath.

Hold on.

The animal’s body was thrashing, paws scrambling against me, trying to get purchase. I could feel its strength, totally out of proportion to its size. My grip on its collar was weakening, I had to let go, get my head out of water. Breathe.

Stay down.

I felt the teeth come out of me. It did nothing for the pain. The dog’s head was pulling backwards, astonishing strength in the neck. I couldn’t hold it.

Hold on. Just hold on.

No, I couldn’t.

I felt the dog’s strength go, I felt it as intimately as if it were my own.

It stopped thrashing, the neck was not fighting me.

I rose to the surface, breathed in the cold night air, smelling of stagnant water and mud. The dog was on my chest. I let it go, it floated away.

Baying from the shore. The huge white dog was a few metres away, looking at me, the hayfork teeth.

Christ, this would never be over.

I backed away, across the dam, it wasn’t wide, ten metres perhaps. It was deep in the middle, I turned, swam the five or six strokes needed, started to walk out, mud holding my shoes, looked back.

The big dog was gone.

It was coming around the dam. How long would that take? From which side? I couldn’t see the end of the dam, it tapered at both ends, that was all I could see.