Louisa Bennet - Monty and Me

Betty rubs her front paws together. ‘I can get us to there.’

‘And what, pray, would a rat know about directions?’ says Dante. ‘ I can use Google maps.’

She ignores his sarcasm. ‘I know the railway tracks like the back of my paw. In fact, I ride the trains a lot, just hop on and hop off whenever I want. I happen to know that the Waterloo train stops here at Milford, and two stops later, hey presto, you’re at Greyfield Common. If we take the train, we’ll be outside Larry Nice’s flat before you can say Bob’s-your-uncle, Fanny’s-your-aunt. Then, Mr Brainbox, it’ll be up to you to find this Truscott Estate place. Think you can manage that?’

Dante rears his head up. ‘What you fail to comprehend, madam, is that I have better things to do with my time. Something your tiny little rat brain wouldn’t understand.’

‘Piss off, Dante!’ says Betty, hands on hips. ‘At least I don’t have a poncy name like you.’

‘I am named after The Divine Comedy , I’ll have you know. A masterful poem.’

‘Yeah, I know The Divine bloody Comedy. Ate some pages from it once. Tasted like shit. You like to think you’re all dark and menacing, don’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you! You’re just a grumpy old bird!’

Dante opens his wings and screeches, ‘Harridan!’

‘Stop it! Both of you,’ I say. ‘You’ll wake Rose!’

Instantly silent and still, we listen, like cardboard cut-out silhouettes in the laptop’s brightness. Rose doesn’t stir.

‘I like your idea of the train, Betty,’ I say, quietly, ‘but I’m a big dog. You can hop on and off unnoticed; I can’t.’

‘That’s true,’ says Betty, ‘but the first train of the day is almost always empty and the driver is too sleepy to notice who gets on and off. Milford is a small station with loads of bushes. We hide until the train comes and then, just when the doors are about to close, we jump on.’

‘When’s the first train?’ I ask, feeling uneasy.

‘Five-thirty.’

‘I can’t do this, Betty. I don’t know what time Rose gets up for work. It’s too risky.’

Betty stands between my front paws, looking up into my eyes. I hang my head and our noses almost touch.

‘What if Larry Nice is the killer and gets away with it, all because you didn’t want to leave this house? You want to know the truth, don’t you?’

I pace up and down, wondering what to do. Disobey Rose, or stay put and feel useless? I think of the Queen’s Corgis and their secret night escapades from Windsor Castle. But they know they’ll get a royal pardon. I won’t be so lucky. I think of Rose upstairs who’s been very kind to me and what it might mean to betray her trust. Then I think of the promise I made to find the bastard who took Paddy from me.

‘Well?’ asks Betty, her ball-bearing eyes gleaming with mischief.

‘Let’s do it,’ I say.

‘Rose won’t know a thing,’ Betty promises.

Famous last words.

Dante nods at my dog tag. ‘We made a deal,’ he says.

My tag says I belong to Patrick Salt. It still smells of him. I don’t want to let it go but I am a dog of my word.

‘We’ll need you to guide us to the Truscott Estate tomorrow.’

‘Fine. My tag?’

‘Betty, can you use your teeth to free the tag from my collar?’

‘You sure?’ she asks.

‘I’m sure.’

She scurries up my chest fur and before I know it, the tag clanks to the floor. Dante swoops down, picks it up in his claws and flies out of the kitchen window like a black ghost. I watch my only remaining memory of Paddy disappear into the night. But Betty won’t let me feel down for long. She is squirming with excitement.

‘We’re going on an adventure, we’re going on an adventure!’ she squeaks, as she does The Twist.

‘This could be dangerous. Are you sure you want to come?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Besides, we’re mates and I never abandon a mate.’

It’s five in the morning and it’s dark. I have no idea why big’uns say it’s raining cats and dogs, but it’s pouring down on this particular dog as I squeeze through the garden hedge and follow a bedraggled Betty hopping along the railway track.

‘Keep away from that. It’s the live rail,’ she says.

It doesn’t look remotely alive to me, but I do as she says. Every now and again I look back, worried that the big screeching monster I heard last night will attack from behind. We pass an owl sheltering in a hollow tree, its yellow eyes piercing the blackness. It’s reciting Shakespeare. Owls often do this to confuse their prey. And let’s face it, Hamlet would confuse anybody. There you are going about your business and you look up wondering who’s wittering on about death and dreaming, and then, Bam! You’re skewered by a hooked beak in the back.

‘One may smile and smile and be a te-wit,’ the owl hoots.

‘Does he mean us?’ Betty asks.

‘I hope not,’ I say, starting to doubt our plan.

We reach Milford station, which is little more than two raised platforms, one on either side of the tracks, and a footbridge over the line. The ticket office is closed. I hunker down on sodden shingle, while Betty scampers up the platform ramp.

‘All clear,’ she whispers. ‘We’ll hide in here till the train comes.’

I follow her into a tangled mess of brambles laden with decaying blackberries and wait for the five-thirty train.

‘Breakfast,’ she says, and nibbles a berry. She stands beneath a wide leaf and uses it as an umbrella. ‘So, tell me, how did you save Dante’s life, then?’

I blink away a raindrop. ‘It was nothing. Hardly worth telling.’

I sniff a blackberry and try one. Not bad. A bit furry.

‘Oh go on. Tell me. We’ve got nothing else to do till the train comes.’

‘All right then. Dante found a silver necklace at the side of the road. The main road into Geldeford. He was so busy trying to peck open the locket he didn’t see a petrol tanker bearing down on him. He was going to get squashed. I was walking with Paddy at the time and I managed to grab Dante by the neck and pull him out of harm’s way. He thought I was going to kill him so he kicked up a terrible fuss and tried to poke my eyes out. When the tanker hurtled past and nearly clipped the both of us he realised I’d saved his life.’

Betty stares at me with her piercing ball-bearing eyes. ‘But why? Why risk your life for a magpie? Especially a miserable git like Dante.’

‘I don’t know. I like to help, I guess. That’s why I wanted to be a guide dog.’

‘Still don’t get it.’

Betty eats in silence. Despite the pat pat of rain on leaves and the ting of water hitting guttering, I hear the train approach before it comes into view. As it lumbers into the station, the platform lights illuminate its bright colours – yellow, red (or it could be green as I get these two muddled up), white and blue. It doesn’t seem fearsome at all, more like a colossal, brightly coloured centipede with gigantic eyes. Apart from the driver I only see one person in a carriage. Two men clutching hard hats run onto the platform just in time and board the front carriage. When the doors start to beep, Betty shoves me and we bolt into the last carriage.

I sniff the stale air. The floor’s been mopped in dirty water – I detect a faint hint of cleaning fluid. Perhaps a thimbleful. Still smells of old coffee, stale chips, greasy hair and crumpled newspapers. I don’t hear any coat rustling or throat clearing or human breathing. We are alone, for now anyway. I give myself an almighty shake, which starts from the very tip of my nose, then sets my jowls flapping, ears bouncing, migrates down my spine in a cork-screw fashion, before becoming a bottom wiggle and capping the whole performance off with a tail wave. Ever watched a slow-motion dog shake? Worth it, I promise you. Anyway, water, loose fur and slobber sprays outwards in all directions, blanketing the floor, nearby windows, seats and Betty. Boy, does that feel good!