Джералд Керш - Nightshade and Damnations

“Going?” I asked.

“Yes, my dear sir, I am,” said Mr. Butts.

“Did Busto——”

“Of course. But he is sorry, now. You know, my dear sir, I never go out of my way to do anybody any harm, but people who wrong me always suffer for it afterwards. Busto throws me out into the street. Very good. An hour ago, his dog was run over. You see?”

“No! His dog?”

“Run over, my dear sir, by a taxi. Could you lend me fourpence?”

“Twopence?”

“A thousand thanks, my dear sir. . . . Good-bye, good-bye!”

The door slammed heavily. The rickety umbrella-stand vibrated to a standstill. Silence, darkness, and the evil odors of dampness and decay settled upon the passage. I went downstairs to the disused wash-house in which Busto lived and slept. I knocked. He tore the door open and cried. “Yes? Yes?” But when he saw me his face fell, and he said: “Oh, you. Hooh! I toughta you was da vet.”

“The vet?” I said. “Why, is Ouif ill?”

“Yes.”

“May I see him? I know a little bit about dogs.”

“Yeh? Come in.”

Ouif lay on Busto’s bed, surrounded with pillows and covered with a blanket.

“Run over, eh?” I said.

“Ah-ah. How you know?”

Without replying, I lifted the blanket. Ouif was crushed, bent sideways. Practically unconscious, he breathed with a strenuous, groaning noise, his mouth wide open.

“Whacan I do?” asked Busto. “I touch ’im, it ’urts. You tella me. What I oughta do?”

I passed my hand gently down the dog’s body. Ouif was smashed, finished. I replied: “I don’t think there’s anything much you can do.”

“A hotawatta-bottle?”

“A hot-water bottle’s no use. Wait till the vet comes.”

“Hooh. But what I do? Dis is my dog. Brandy?”

“Don’t be silly. Brandy’ll make him cough, and it hurts him even to breathe.”

“Hell!” exclaimed Busto, savagely.

I touched Ouif’s stomach. He yelped sharply. I covered him again.

“How did it happen?”

Busto flung up his big, earth-colored fists in a helpless gesture. “Me, I go buya one-two bottla wine ova da road. Ouif run afta me. Dam taxi comes arounda da corner. Brr-rrr-oum! Fffff! Run aright ova da dog, withouta stop!” shouted Busto, opening and closing his hands with awful ferocity. “Hell, Ker- ist! If I getta holda diss fella. Gordamighty I tear ’im up a-to bits! Lissen; I tear outa diss fella’s ’eart an’ tear dat up a-to bits too! Yes!” shrieked Busto, striking at the wall with his knuckles and scattering flakes of distemper. “Lissen, you think ’e die, Ouif?”

“I’m afraid he might. All his stomach’s crushed. And his ribs. All the bones——”

“ Basta , basta , eh? Enough.” Busto slouched over to the table, seized a bottle of wine and filled two tea-cups. “Drink!” he commanded, handing one to me; and emptied his cup at a gulp. I swallowed a mouthful of the wine. It seemed to vaporize in my stomach like water on a red-hot stove— psssst! —and the fumes rushed up to my head. Busto drank another cup, banging down the bottle.

“You like this dog, eh?” I said.

“I send my fraynd for the vet. Why don’t dey come, dis vet?”

There was a knock at the front door. Busto rushed upstairs, and then came down followed by a wizened man who looked like a racing tipster, and a tall old man with a black bag.

“Dissa my dog.”

“What happened?” asked the vet.

“Run over,” said the little man, “I told yer, didn’t I?”

“Well, let’s have a look.” The vet stooped, pulled back the blanket, and began to touch Ouif here and there with light, skillful hands; looked at his eyes, said “Hm!” and then shook his head.

“So?” said Busto.

“Nothing much to be done, I’m afraid. Quite hopeless.”

“’E die, hah?”

“I’m afraid so. The best thing to do will be to put him out of his misery quickly.”

“Misery?”

“I say, the kindest thing will be to put him to sleep.”

“Kill ’im, ’e means,” said the wizened man.

“Lissen,” said Busto. “You mak this dog oright, I give you lotta money. Uh?”

“But I tell you, nothing can possibly be done. His pelvis is all smashed to——”

“Yes, yes, but lissen. You maka dis dog oright, I give you ten quid.”

“Even if you offered me ten thousand pounds, Mister . . . er . . . I couldn’t save your dog. I know how you feel, and I’m sorry. But I tell you, the kindest thing you can possibly do is put him quietly to sleep. He’ll only go on suffering, to no purpose.”

“Dammit, fifty quid!” cried Busto.

“I’m not considering money. If it were possible to help your dog, I would; but I can’t.”

“Dammit, a hundreda quid!” yelled Busto. “You tink I aina got no money? Hah! Look!” He dragged open his waistcoat.

“Nothing can be done. I’m sorry,” said the vet.

Busto rebuttoned his waistcoat. “So what you wanna do? Killum?”

“It’s the only merciful thing to do.”

“How mucha dat cost?”

“Mmmmm, five shillings.”

“But make ’im oright, dat aina possible?”

“Quite impossible.”

“Not for no money?”

“Not for all the money in the world.”

“Hooh! Well, what you want?”

“For my visit? Oh, well, I’ll say half a crown.”

“Go ’way,” said Busto, poking half a crown at him.

“The dog will only suffer if you let him live on like this. I really——”

“I give-a you money for cure. For killum? No.”

“I’ll do it for nothing, then. I can’t see the dog suffering——”

“You go ’way. Dissa my dog, hah? I killum! You go ’way, hah?” He approached the vet with such menace that the poor man backed out of the room. Busto poured another cup of red Lisbon, and drained it at once. “You!” he shouted to me, “Drink! . . . You, Mick! Drink!”

The wizened man helped himself to wine. Busto fumbled under one of the pillows on the bed, very gently in order not to disturb the dog, and dragged out a huge old French revolver.

“Hey!” I said. “What are you going to do?”

“Killum,” said Busto. He patted the dog’s head; then, with a set face, stooped and put the muzzle of the revolver to Ouif’s ear. With clenched teeth and contracted stomach-muscles, I waited for the explosion. But Busto lowered his weapon; thought for a moment, rose and swung round, all in the same movement, confronting the lithograph of Mona Lisa.

“Twenna-five quid ada Convent!” he shouted.

Mona Lisa still smiled inscrutably.

“Fifty!” cried Busto. He returned to the table, poured three more drinks, and emptied another cup. Nobody spoke. Fifteen minutes passed. Ouif, brought back to consciousness by pain, began to whine.

“No good,” said Busto. He clenched his teeth and again aimed at the dog’s head. “Gooda dog, hah? Lil Ouif, hmm?”

He pressed the trigger. There was a sharp click, nothing more. The revolver had misfired. The dog whined louder.

“I knoo a bloke,” said Mick, “a bloke what made money during the War aht o’ profiteerin’ on grub. Done everybody aht of everyfink, ’e did. So ’ e ’as to live; this ’ere dawg ’as to die.”

The walls of the room seemed to be undulating in a pale mist; the wine burned my throat. Busto opened a third bottle, drank, and returned to the bed.

“You look aht you don’t spoil that there piller,” said Mick, “if you get what I mean.”

I shut my eyes tight. Out of a rickety, vinous darkness, there came again the brief click of the hammer on the second cartridge.

“Now, agen,” said Mick.