James Herbert - Fluke

I followed a couple of small boys home, much to their delight, and managed to scrounge a few scraps from their scolding but kind-hearted mother. The food wasn’t much but enough to keep me going for a while, and to the boys’ disappointment I scampered out of their back garden and towards the High Street again.

This time I drifted down all the side-streets on one side, then all the side-streets on the other, but nothing jarred that tiny trigger in my mind which I knew would unleash a flood of memories.

Night fell and so did my spirits. Nothing had happened. I’d felt so sure that when I reached the town it would be easy to find my home, familiar things would guide me to it, but it hadn’t happened. I was still in the dark mentally, and now physically.

I wandered down to the very edge of the town, passing pubs, walking across a bridge, past a big garage, a hospital — and then the buildings ran out. There was only black countryside ahead. Utterly dejected, I entered the hospital grounds, found a quiet corner in the yard at the rear of the white single-storey building, and slept.

The smell of lovely cooking awoke me the following morning and I sniffed my way over to an open window from which it wafted. Rearing up on my hind legs, I rested my paws on the window-ledge. Unfortunately, the window was too high for me to see into the room beyond, but, sticking my nose into the air, I drank in the delicious smells, then cried out in appreciation. A huge round brown head suddenly appeared above and white teeth flashed a startled welcome at me. Reds and oranges shimmered in the woman’s huge face as she grinned even more broadly.

‘You hungry, fellah?’ she chuckled, and I wagged my tail in anticipation. ‘Now don’ you go away,’ she told me.

The beaming head disappeared then reappeared almost instantly, the smile now threatening to split the face in half. A thin, partly burnt slice of bacon was dangled before me.

‘You get this down you, honey,’ she said, dropping the hot finger of meat into my open mouth.

I spat the bacon out instantly as my throat was scorched then drooled saliva on the piping meat to cool it before wolfing it down.

‘Good boy,’ came the woman’s voice from above, then another piece of bacon plopped on to the gravel beside me. This lasted for about as long as the first and I looked up hopefully, tongue hanging out.

‘You’s a greedy dog!’ said the coloured (multicoloured) woman, laughing. ‘O.K., I get you one more, then you scat — you get me into trouble!’

The promised third slice appeared and disappeared almost as quickly, and I looked up for more. Still chuckling, the woman waggled her index finger at me and then closed the window as a final word.

It wasn’t a bad start to the day and my spirits rose as I trotted round to the hospital’s main entrance. Hot food in my belly and a day for discovery ahead of me! Perhaps life (or death) wasn’t so bad after all. Dogs are born optimists, as I said.

I reached the entrance and turned left, heading towards the High Street again, sure it was my only chance of finding someone or something I knew.

Without thinking, I wandered into the road and screamed with fright as a green monster roared down on me. The single-decker bus screeched to a halt as I scurried to the other side of the road, tail between my legs and hair on end, and the driver hurled abuse at me, thumping his horn angrily. I cowered in a hedge and rolled my eyes at him, and with a final threatening gesture he threw his vehicle into gear again and slowly moved off.

As the row of windows went by, accusing faces glared down at me while others shook in pity. And one small pair of eyes locked into mine and held my gaze until the progress of the bus no longer allowed them to. Even then, the little girl’s head craned round and pushed itself against the glass so I was visible for as long as possible.

Only when the bus had disappeared over the hump-backed bridge did I realise just whom I had been looking at and had been returning my stare. It was my daughter, Gillian, only I called her Polly because I preferred the name! I had been right! Edenbridge was my hometown! I had found them!

But I hadn’t found them. The bus was gone and no memories came flooding back. I remembered the names, the minor disagreement over my daughter’s, but that was all. I waited for the visions to appear, sure they would, but they didn’t.

I groaned in disappointment and longing, then set off after the bus, determined to catch it, refusing to throw away such a chance encounter. As I mounted the hump of the bridge I saw the bus at a stop in the distance. Barking in my eagerness, I increased my speed and hurtled down that High Street like a bullet from a gun.

It was no use, though; the bus lurched forward and continued its journey down the long road. I watched it getting smaller and smaller and my legs grew wearier and wearier until I came to a panting halt.

It was hopeless. The bus — and my child — had got away.

Two more days of anguished searching went by — searching of the town and searching of my mind — both of which proved fruitless. I had eaten regularly at the hospital, having my breakfast and evening meal there thanks to the generosity of the coloured cook, and had spent the rest of the time looking through the town and its outer fringes, but all to no avail. Then on the third day, which must have been a Saturday judging by the amount of shoppers there were around, I struck lucky.

I had been wandering up and down the High Street, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible (a few people had already tried to catch me now I was becoming a familiar sight around the shops), and had glanced down the small side-turning which led to the car park at the rear of the shops. There I caught a glimpse of a small familiar figure skipping alongside the much taller figure of a woman. They disappeared around a corner but I knew instantly who they were. My heart tried to escape through my throat and my knees suddenly went wobbly.

‘Carol.!’ I gurgled. ‘Carol! Polly! Wait for me! Stay there!’

The shoppers must have thought they had a mad dog amongst them, for they all froze at the sound of my barking and stared in amazement as I staggered into the small side-turning. It was like a bad dream, for the shock had turned my legs to jelly and they refused to function properly. I took a grip of myself, realising this was a chance I just could not afford to miss, and willed the power to flow through my quakey limbs. It did, but I had lost valuable seconds. I set off in pursuit of the two figures, mother and daughter, my wife and my child, and was just in time to see them climbing into a green Renault.

‘Carol! Stop! It’s me!’

They turned and looked in my direction, surprise then fear showing in their faces.

‘Quick, Gillian,’ I heard my wife say, ‘get in the car and close the door!’

‘No, Carol! It’s me! Don’t you know me?’

I was soon across the car park and yapping around the Renault, frantic for my wife to recognise me.

They both stared down at me, their fright obvious. I didn’t have the sense to calm down, my emotions were running too high. Carol rolled down the window on her side and flapped a hand at me. ‘Shoo, go away! Bad dog!’

‘Carol, for Christ’s sake, it’s me — Nigel! (Nigel? I remembered that was my previous name; I think I preferred Horace.)

‘Mummy, it’s the poor doggy I told you about, the one that nearly got run over,’ I heard my daughter say.

Then I did a quick double-take. Was this my daughter? She seemed much older than I remembered; at least two or three years older. But the woman was Carol, and she had called the girl Gillian. Of course it was my daughter!

I leapt up at the side of the car and pushed my nose against the bottom of the half-open window.