James Herbert - Fluke

I bridled at his silly mistake. Fortunately, he corrected himself. ‘Oh no, I can see he’s just a pal. Here boy, come on.’ He extended a hand towards me but I backed away, a little afraid of him.

‘Get over here, squirt,’ said Rumbo quietly, warning me with annoyance in his voice.

I crept forward cautiously, very uncertain of this man, for he was a strange mixture of kindness and cruelty. Generally, when you taste them, people have both these qualities but usually one is more dominant than the other. With the Guvnor, both characteristics were equally balanced, something I now know is very common in men of his kind. I licked his fingers, ready to bolt at the least sign of aggression. He stopped me as I got carried away with his delicious flavours by clamping my jaws together with a big fist.

‘What’s your name then, eh?’ He yanked at my collar and I tried to pull away, very fearful of him now.

‘It’s all right, squirt, he won’t hurt you if you behave yourself,’ Rumbo reassured me.

‘No name? No address? Someone didn’t want you very much, did they?’ The Guvnor let me go, giving me a playful shove towards Rumbo. He stood up and I could sense I was instantly forgotten.

‘O.K., Rumbo, let’s see what the missis has sent you.’ The man walked round to the boot of his Rover, unlocked it and pulled out an interesting-looking plastic bag — interesting because it bulged with what our noses told us could only be food. We danced around his ankles and he held the bag aloft out of reach. ‘All right, all right, take it easy. Anyone would think you hadn’t eaten for a week.’ Rumbo grinned at me.

The Guvnor walked round to the back of the hut to where an old plastic bowl lay and emptied the contents of the bag into it. A meaty bone, soggy cornflakes, bits of bacon fat and half a chocolate bar fell into the bowl, a rich concoction of leftovers. There were even some cold baked beans among the scraps. As a human, my stomach would have turned over; as a dog, it was a gastronomic delight. Our noses disappeared into the mixture and for a few moments our minds were concentrated solely on filling our bellies. Rumbo got the tastier morsels, of course, but I didn’t do too badly.

When the bowl was spotlessly clean, my friend wandered over to another bowl which stood beneath a dripping tap. He began to lap greedily at the water and I, my stomach fit to burst, drifted over and did the same. We slumped on the ground after that, too full to move.

‘Do you eat this well every day, Rumbo?’ I asked.

‘No, not always. It’s been a good morning. The Guvnor doesn’t always bring me something — there’ve been times he hasn’t fed me for days — and it’s not always easy to steal. The shopkeepers around here are a bit wary of me now.’

The Guvnor had disappeared inside the hut and I could hear music blaring from a radio.

‘Have you always belonged to the Guvnor?’

‘I can’t remember, to tell you the truth. He’s all I’ve known.’ Rumbo became deep in thought. Finally he said, ‘No, it’s no good. My mind goes fuzzy when I try to think too hard. Sometimes I remember scents when I sniff certain people. They seem familiar to me. I can’t remember not knowing the Guvnor, though. He’s always been there.’

‘Is he good to you?’

‘Most of the time. Sometimes he ties me up when he wants to make sure I stay in all night, and sometimes he kicks me hard for shouting too loudly. But I can’t help it. He’s got some nasty friends and I just let fly at them when they come round.’

‘What do they do here?’

‘Talk mostly. They stay in that hut for hours, arguing and laughing. There’s a few regulars who do the work around here, mess around with those heaps of junk, and things; bring new ones in. They’re never very busy.’

‘What does the Guvnor do?’

‘You’re a bit nosy aren’t you, squirt?’

‘Sorry. I’m just interested, that’s all.’

Rumbo eyed me suspiciously for a few moments. ‘You’re not like other dogs, are you? You’re… Well, you’re a bit like me. Most dogs are very stupid. You’re stupid, but not in the same way. Where exactly are you from, pup?’

I told him all I could remember and discovered I was beginning to forget my past also. I could still remember the market where I was bought, but not much more between there and the dogs’ home. It’s something that’s happening to me more and more; I have periods of complete lucidity, then my mind can go virtually blank — my past, my origins, a vague blur. I often forget I was a man.

I didn’t voice my anxiety over my human ancestry at that time because I didn’t want to alarm Rumbo in any way; I needed him so I could learn how to survive as a dog. Acceptance of circumstances comes more easily to an animal, you see, and it was that animal part of me which turned away maddening thoughts.

‘You were lucky to get away from the dogs’ home, pup. That’s the death-house for many,’ Rumbo said.

‘Have you ever been inside?’

‘No, not me. They’ll never catch me as long as I can run.’

‘Rumbo, why aren’t all dogs like us? I mean, why don’t they talk like us, think like us?’

He shrugged. ‘They just aren’t.’

‘Rumbo, were you ever… do you ever remember being… er, have you always been a dog?’

His head jerked up. ‘What are you talking about? Of course I’ve always been a dog? What else could I have been?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ My head sank miserably down on to my paws. ‘I just wondered.’

‘You’re a strange pup. Don’t cause me any trouble here, shrimp, otherwise I’ll turn you out. And stop asking silly questions.’

‘Sorry, Rumbo,’ I said and quickly changed the subject. ‘What does the Guvnor do?’ I asked again.

Rumbo’s answering glare and bared teeth killed my curiosity for the moment. I decided to take a little nap, but just before I dozed off another thought struck me.

‘Why don’t men understand us when we talk, Rumbo?’

His voice was drowsy with sleep when he replied. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes the Guvnor understands me when I talk to him, but usually he just ignores me, tells me to quit yapping. Humans are just as stupid as stupid dogs sometimes. Now leave me alone, I’m tired.’

It was then that I realised we hadn’t actually been communicating with words: it had been our minds speaking to each other. All animals or insects — fish even — have a way of communication whether it’s by sound, scent or body display, and I’ve come to learn that even the dumbest creature has some sort of mental link with his own species — as well as others. It goes far beyond physical communications: how do you explain individual grasshoppers grouping into a swarm of locusts, what makes soldier ants march, what suddenly makes the lemming decide it’s time to jump in the sea? Instinct, communication by body secretions, the sense of race survival: they all play their part, but it goes deeper. I’m a dog, and I know.

But I didn’t know then. I was a pup, and a confused one at that. I’d found a friend I could talk to through my mind, someone who was more like me than the other dogs I’d met; few had come close, but none were like old Rumbo. I gazed at him fondly through blurred eyes, then I dozed off.

They were good, those days with Rumbo. The first morning had been enlightening and the days that followed were an education. We spent a large part of the time foraging for food, visiting the huge market most mornings (it slowly dawned on me that this was Nine Elms, the fruit and veg. market which had been yanked cruelly from the Covent Garden area to an obscure South Thames position, so I knew I was in South London, somewhere around Vauxhall) and then visiting the shops to see what we could steal. I soon learned to be as swift and cunning as Rumbo, but I never became as audacious. He would disappear into an open doorway of a house and seconds later calmly stroll out with a packet of biscuits, or a loaf, or anything he could lay his jaws on (he once emerged with a leg of lamb between his teeth but he didn’t get away with that; a coloured lady came flying out and frightened old Rumbo so much with her shrieking he dropped the meat and bolted, a thrown milk bottle shattering on the pavement behind him).