Peter Temple: White Dog

I could hear shouting, then a whistle, not a human whistle. A beam of light touched the top of the vegetation across the dam.

Chokka and Jimbo were on their way.

On the bank, I stood in complete exhaustion, nowhere to go, I couldn’t run anymore. I touched my shoulder, looked at my hand. It was black with my blood.

I turned and walked a few paces, kicked something, almost fell over. It was an old truck door lying on the mud. I stood and looked down at it in a stupid, fuddled way, shook myself, looked up.

The white dog was twenty metres away, in full stride, all legs off the ground, coming for me, silent, huge, powerful, head the size of a giant marrow.

Fuck you.

I bent and grasped the ancient door by its top, pulled it up, heard the glup sound as I broke the bond between metal and mud, it wasn’t heavy, just a sheet of rusted tin.

The dog was two cars’ length away, the awful teeth biting air.

I turned like a hammerthrower, turned to my right, arms at full stretch, swinging the door parallel to the ground, reversed direction, came back with the door, released it, threw it at the dog, he was about to spring, melon head up.

The door’s rusted bottom edge severed the massive Baskerville head. The head went up, the torso kept coming, ran into me, hit me like a motorbike, knocked me flat, lay on me, covered me.

Hot blood in my mouth, in my eyes, up my nose, I breathed in the blood, felt the warm weight of the headless creature on me, its final jerks.

The whistle, three or four blasts, sharp, imperious. The light coming around the other side of the dam.

Chokka and Jimbo. No more dogs.

Just me and the boys left.

I was filled with a maniacal joy, a fifty short-blacks hit, anything was possible, I didn’t much care about anything. I got out from under the dog, spat the blood, walked the way it had come, walked, to fucking hell with running, I’d done the running.

Jesus, Chokka would shoot me. He was always going to shoot me when the dogs had finished.

Run.

Still able to run, my legs moved, how amazing, no, not amazing, running on terror-produced chemicals flooding through me, why doesn’t matter, just run.

I ran, clockwise, around the dam, crawled up a bank, away from the flashlight, away from the boys, I had a start. There was a passage through the scrub here, once a path perhaps, running again, this wasn’t bad, settle down to a pace, I could keep going like this…

‘Freeze fucker!’

Light in my eyes, close up.

Jimbo.

I kept going, dived at the light, didn’t care, heard the crack, felt something brush my face, hot, I had him by the hair, long hair, he fell backwards, I went with him, on top of him, got him by the throat, squeezed, sat on him, bashed his head against the ground. He offered almost no fight.

After a while, too tired to go on, I stopped, reached for the torch, found the rifle, bolt action. I worked the bolt, pressed the muzzle against his throat.

Jimbo lay with his eyes closed, playing dead.

I got up, stood back. ‘Get up,’ I said, ‘or I’ll shoot you.’

I wanted to shoot him but he got up instantly.

‘Run, you bastard,’ I said.

He ran.

I ran the other way, switching off the torch, carrying it in my left hand, the rifle in the other. Where was I going? Go back to the mine, open ground, it would be light soon, surely? I could find a position, see them coming.

The overgrown path ended at a wider track. My sense of direction was gone. I turned right, tried to run, couldn’t. Never mind, I had the rifle. I walked in the right-hand wheel furrow. The moon seemed to be down but the sky was lightening, just a shade. The track went uphill then down. If I was going towards the mine, the creek I’d crossed would be down there.

Would they go directly back to the mine? They’d know the quickest way, they’d be there before me.

Panic. I started to run again, got my legs moving, it wasn’t too bad, it was downhill. My left shoulder was now a steady ache. Tetanus. I needed an injection. The least of my worries. Water. I was in water, the creek, I was going the right way. No, only the right way if Chokka wasn’t there first.

Uphill from the creek. How far had it been? Not far. A minute or two of petrified running. I stopped, walked fifty or sixty metres, the track was steep, the rifle heavier with every step.

A building against the sky ahead, to the right. I kept going. The track intersected with another one running towards the mine. This was the way we’d driven in. I turned right, walked beside the track.

The old truck and the Valiant came into sight. I crossed the track, put the truck between me and the buildings.

Was he waiting for me? Coming back was a stupid idea, I should be in the bush, they didn’t have dogs now, they couldn’t track me.

The vehicles. The Dodge truck and the rusty Valiant. Would they leave the keys in them?

I went between the truck and a row of steel drums, stooping, reached up and opened the passenger door. It was heavy and it squeaked. Too hell with caution, I got in, reached across the steering column to feel for keys.

Nothing.

I was withdrawing my arm when I touched a projection.

Key in the dashboard.

I pulled myself into the driver’s seat. The gear lever was on the floor. I put my foot on the clutch, moved the lever. It was heavy. Where was first?

Never mind. Put it into neutral. See if it starts. It probably won’t, it probably hasn’t run in years. I turned the key.

A whine, a whine that died.

Light, a torch switched on. Chokka, fifty metres away.

Another starter whine, another fade-out.

Something hit the windscreen, slapped against it, a short shriek. Bullet glancing off.

Oh, God. Out. Take cover.

The engine fired.

I got it into gear, let in the clutch. Shit, first gear, going forward. I was scrabbling around, pulled the stick towards me and down, clutch in. Yes. Jerking backwards. I couldn’t see anything, right hand down, into a roaring turn, smack on my door, another bullet, find another gear, lurching forward, not first gear, sluggish but moving.

Swinging the huge beast left, I put my foot flat, a long travel, Christ, no lights, looking for the headlights switch, pulling knobs on the dashboard, lights on, off the track, flattening bushes, hitting a rock, bumping back onto the road.

No more shots.

The truck picked up speed, reached the right gear speed. I changed up, flying high as a hawk on adrenalin and relief. The speedo was pre-metric, we were doing forty-five miles an hour and it felt like a hundred, everything vibrating, slack steering, total concentration required to keep the truck on the track. Top speed was close, probably fifty. Road twistier than I remembered, that wasn’t surprising: I’d been cold with dread in the back seat, not paying attention to the road.

They would come after me in the Valiant. They couldn’t let me go, I was supposed to have been killed, bled, stamped, bits put in the acid bath, those were their instructions from someone who would do exactly that to them.

The day was dawning, grey in the sky now, an end to hideous night, there was a sharp drop to the right.

Lights behind me. Close.

There would never be an end to this night.

The back window exploded, I ducked, broken glass hit the back of my head, stung my neck, bounced off the windscreen.

Without thinking, I took my foot off the accelerator, slowed, obeyed an imperative from the cluster of brain cells that handled survival, the survival control centre.

I coasted, slowing, head to the right, foot on the brake, eyes on the mirror.

The Valiant slowed with me. I could make out two shapes in the front.

I stopped, changed gear, I knew the gears now.