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!
She stands there glaring at me, a double-drowned rat. ‘Thanks a bunch!’ Betty does her own little shake and her fur fluffs back out.
‘What now?’ I ask.
‘When we get to Greyfield Common, we run out the door and head for the tunnel.’
‘Tunnel?’
‘Yeah, under the road. Until then, we lie down between these seats and hope no big’uns see us.’
I follow her.
‘Dante won’t let us down, will he?’ Betty asks.
I want to do another shake – one is never enough – and my ears tickle. Must have water in them. I waggle my head instead, so as not to soak Betty again.
‘He’ll be there.’
‘So what I don’t get is how come you and Dante are friends when he’s such a patronising git and you’re such a nice dog?’
I spot a cold chip, missed by the cleaners, under a seat. I extend my long tongue and snap it up. A bit soggy, but nice all the same.
‘Some months after the locket incident, Dante set up a nest in Paddy’s garden. At first he ignored me, so I left him to it. He was like all magpies: stand-offish. Then one day I found him in the garden shed using a stolen laptop. A shiny, silvery one, of course. He needed the power point, you see. When he realised I could read a bit, he warmed to me and showed me how to use the laptop. Even helped me set up on Twitter. He was my first follower. I felt a bit sorry for him, to be honest. He only has six Twitter followers, well, seven, counting me.’
‘I’m surprised he’s got any at all.’
‘I don’t think he has any real friends. And he doesn’t realise it’s his own fault. I think he’s quite lonely.’
‘Serves him bleeding well right. He needs to learn some manners.’
The brakes screech and we stop at Geldeford station. My home is nearby! My old home anyway. I stand up, unable to fight the urge to leave the train and run to Paddy’s place.
‘What’re you doing?’ squeals Betty. ‘Hide!’
I lie down just in time. A woman gets into our carriage. Fortunately, she sits at the other end and doesn’t notice us, despite the puddle at the door and the paw prints. We are silent for the rest of the journey. At Greyfield Common we jump out, startling the woman, and run for the tunnel. Hidden in the darkness, we wait for the train to leave the station. We hear the flap of wings and Dante lands beside us.
‘Listen up!’ says the magpie, yelling like a drill sergeant. ‘These are your directions to the Truscott Estate. Follow the tunnel this-a-way.’ He points his