James Herbert - Fluke

Think I’m going a bit far now? Just wait till later.

The ghost drifted across the road towards me, a shadowy form, a wispy, vaporous figure. It didn’t see me, or, if it did, it chose to ignore me, and as the shape drew nearer, I was able to distinguish a face, shoulders, and a part of a torso. The apparition seemed to be wearing a jacket, and I could certainly make out a shirt-collar and tie. Why wasn’t it naked — why do astral bodies never seem to be naked? Don’t ask me, I’m only a dog.

Now, I was disturbed, I admit it. There was nothing evil emanating from the spirit, I’m sure, but it was my first ghost both as a dog or as a man. My hair stood on end and my eyes widened. My mouth suddenly felt very dry. I was too frightened even to whine and the power to run had left me completely.

It had the saddest countenance I’ve ever seen, a face that had been made aware of the ills of mankind, had learned the first lesson in death. It passed by me, close enough to touch, and I could clearly see the rain drizzling through it. Then the spectre was gone, drifting off into the night, leaving me to wonder if my restless mind hadn’t invented the whole thing. It hadn’t, for I was to see many more of these wandering spirits, most with the same burden of sadness, unaware it was just a phase for them; but it was to be a long time before I discovered their meaning.

The experience drained me of what strength I had left and I fell into a deep undisturbed sleep.

Gentle nudging woke me.

I shifted my position and tried to ignore the prodding, but I was too cold to become comfortable again. My eyes opened of their own accord and I saw a big black dog hovering over me.

‘Come on, squirt, don’t let them find you napping there.’

I blinked my eyes furiously, now fully awake.

‘Where did you get loose from, eh? Run away from home, or did they lose you on purpose?’ The big dog grinned down at me.

I shivered and tottered to my feet. ‘Who are you?’ I asked, unable to stifle a yawn. I stretched stiff limbs, my front legs going down on the ground, my back pushing my rump into the air as far as it could go.

‘Rumbo’s what they call me. You got a name?’

I shook my head. ‘I might have. I can’t remember it, though.’

The dog regarded me silently for a few moments, then had a sniff around me.

‘There’s something funny about you,’ he announced finally.

I gulped at the understatement. ‘You don’t seem like the other dogs I know either,’ I said. And he wasn’t, I could sense it immediately. He was somehow brighter, or un-doglike, or… more human.

‘We’re all different. Some are more dopey than others, that’s all. But with you it’s something else. You’re definitely a dog, aren’t you?’

I nearly blurted out my problems to him there and then, but he suddenly lost interest in that line of thought and directed my own on to a much more basic level. ‘You hungry?’ he asked.

Only ravenous, I thought, nodding my head sharply.

‘Come on, then, let’s go and find something.’ He turned away and was off down the road at a brisk pace. I had to scamper to catch up with him.

He was a bony mongrel, about five or six years old, an amalgamation of several breeds. Imagine a Dalmatian without spots, just black all over, and without elegant lines, with turned-in toes, cow-hocked hindquarters, excessive angulation of the back legs (they stuck out backwards too far) and weak pasterns, then you’d have a fair impression of Rumbo. He certainly wasn’t ugly — not to me anyway — but he wouldn’t have won any prizes, either.

‘Come on, pup!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘We don’t want to be late for breakfast!’

I drew level with him and said breathlessly, ‘Do you think we could stop for just a minute, I need to do something?’

‘What? Oh yes, all right.’ He stopped and I squatted on the ground before him. He turned away in disgust and trotted over to a nearby lamp-post, cocked his leg and relieved himself in a professional manner. ‘You’ll avoid accidents if you do it this way,’ he called over, as I tried to shift a leg that was being threatened by a spreading puddle.

I smiled back feebly, grateful that the streets were fairly empty and no human could see me in this undignified pose. It was the first time I’d felt self-conscious about that sort of thing, a sign of the dog versus human instinct conflict that was going on inside me.

Rumbo came over and sniffed mine and I went over to the lamp-post and sniffed his. When we were both satisfied, we went on our way.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked him, but he ignored me, his step becoming faster, excitement tightening his movements. Then I caught the first whiff of food, and my attention was captured.

The roads were busier now, yet the noise and the bustle didn’t seem to bother Rumbo at all. I stuck as close to him as possible, my shoulder occasionally bumping against his thigh. The roads still frightened me; the buses seemed like mobile blocks of flats and the cars like charging elephants. My supersensitive vision didn’t help matters much, the blinding colours heightening my fears, but nothing seemed to bother Rumbo. He skilfully avoided pedestrians and used crossings to negotiate the dangerous roads, always waiting for a human to cross first, then trailing behind him, with me trying to become an extension of his body.

We reached a thunderous place where, even though it was still early morning, there were masses of people, hustling, bustling, hurrying — worrying. The noise was deafening, with men shouting, lorries hooting and hand-pulled barrows grinding along the concrete. Rich scents filled the air — the tang of many different fruits, the more earthy smell of vegetables, raw potatoes. If it hadn’t been for the apparent chaos, I would have believed I’d found Heaven.

We were in a market, not a street-market, but a covered wholesale market, where restaurateurs, fruiterers, street-traders — anyone who sold fruit, veg or flowers — came to buy their stock; where growers and farmers brought their goods; where lorries arrived from the docks laden with food bought from exotic countries, and trucks departed, full to bursting point, bound for different parts of the country, or back to the docks where their contents would be loaded on to ships; where voices were surly as barter took place, as credit was extended — even as debts were paid.

A burly man, red-faced, bull-necked, wearing a dirty once-white smock, lumbered past us, pulling a barrow piled high with precariously balanced boxes, all packed with greenish-yellow bananas. He sang at the top of his voice, stopping only to swear amiably at a passing workmate, unaware that a hand of bananas was about to topple from the top of his load. As it did so I started forward, but Rumbo barked sharply.

‘Don’t you dare,’ he warned me. ‘They’d skin you alive in this place if they caught you stealing.’

Someone shouted and the man stopped his barrow, looking back round the stacked boxes to see the stray bananas. He cheerfully walked back to them and threw them high on to his load. He spotted us as he returned to the barrow’s handles and stopped to give Rumbo a hearty pat on his back. I think the pat would have broken my spine. My new friend wagged his tail and tried to lick the man’s hand.

‘Hello, boy. Brought a friend with you today, ‘ave you?’ the market porter said, reaching out for me. I backed away; my young body was too tender for such rough treatment. The man chuckled and turned back to his barrow, resuming his tuneless tune.

I was puzzled by Rumbo’s attitude: why had we come here if we couldn’t sample the food?

‘Come on,’ he said, as if in answer, and we were off again, dodging round salesmen, porters and buyers, threading our way through the disorder, Rumbo receiving a welcome or a friendly pat now and again. Occasionally we would be shooed on, and once we had to avoid a malicious boot aimed at us, but generally my older companion seemed to be well-known and an accepted part of the scene. Rumbo must have been working at it for quite a long time, for animals — apart from rat-catching cats — aren’t generally tolerated around food-markets, particularly strays.