Walking the Dog Read online

  WALKING THE DOG

  AND OTHER STORIES

  Bernard Mac Laverty

  W. W. NORTON & COMPANY

  New York London

  for Claire

  CONTENTS

  On the Art of the Short Story

  Walking the Dog

  The Voyeur

  The Grandmaster

  The Fountain-Pen Shop Woman

  A Silent Retreat

  Looking out the Window – I

  At the Beach

  By Train

  The Wake House

  A Visit to Norway

  In Bed

  This Fella I Knew

  A Foreign Dignitary

  O’Donnell v. Your Man

  Compensations

  St Mungo’s Mansion

  Just Visiting

  Looking out the Window – II

  ON THE ART OF THE SHORT STORY

  ‘This is a story with a trick beginning.’

  Your man put down his pen and considered the possibility that if he left this as the only sentence then his story would also have a trick ending.

  WALKING THE DOG

  As he left the house he heard the music for the start of the Nine O’Clock news. At the top of the cul-de-sac was a paved path which sloped steeply and could be dangerous in icy weather like this. The snow had melted a little during the day but frozen over again at night. It had done this for several days now – snowing a bit, melting a bit, freezing a bit. The walked-over ice crackled as he put his weight on it and he knew he wouldn’t go far. He was exercising the dog – not himself.

  The animal’s breath was visible on the cold air as it panted up the short slope onto the main road, straining against the leash. The dog stopped and lifted his leg against the cement post.

  ‘Here boy, come on.’

  He let him off the leash and wrapped the leather round his hand. The dog galloped away then stopped and turned, not used with the icy surface. He came back wagging his tail, his big paws slithering.

  ‘Daft bugger.’

  It was a country road lined by hedges and ditches. Beyond the housing estate were green fields as far as Lisburn. The city had grown out to here within the last couple of years. As yet there was no footpath. Which meant he had to be extra careful in keeping the dog under control. Car headlights bobbed over the hill and approached.

  ‘C’mere!’

  He patted his thigh and the dog stood close. Face the oncoming traffic. As the car passed, the undipped headlights turned the dog’s eyes swimming-pool green. Dark filled in again between the hedges. The noise of the car took a long time to disappear completely. The dog was now snuffling and sniffing at everything in the undergrowth – being the hunter.

  The man’s eyes were dazzled as another car came over the hill.

  ‘C’mere you.’ The dog came to him and he rumpled and patted the loose folds of skin around its neck. He stepped into the ditch and held the dog close by its collar. This time the car indicated and slowed and stopped just in front of him. The passenger door opened and a man got out and swung the back door wide so that nobody could pass on the inside. One end of a red scarf hung down the guy’s chest, the other had been flicked up around his mouth and nose.

  ‘Get in,’ the guy said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get in the fuckin car.’ He was beckoning with one hand and the other was pointing. Not pointing but aiming a gun at him. Was this a joke? Maybe a starting pistol.

  ‘Move or I’ll blow your fuckin head off.’ The dog saw the open door and leapt up into the back seat of the car. A voice shouted from inside,

  ‘Get that hound outa here.’

  ‘Come on. Get in,’ said the guy with the gun. ‘Nice and slow or I’ll blow your fuckin head off.’

  Car headlights were coming from the opposite direction. The driver shouted to hurry up. The guy with the gun grabbed him by the back of the neck and pushed – pushed his head down and shoved him into the car. And he was in the back seat beside his dog with the gunman crowding in beside him.

  ‘Get your head down.’ He felt a hand at the back of his neck forcing his head down to his knees. The headlights of the approaching car lit the interior for a moment – enough to see that the upholstery in front of him was blue – then everything went dark as the car passed. He could hear his dog panting. He felt a distinct metal hardness – a point – cold in the nape hair of his neck.

  ‘If you so much as move a muscle I’ll kill you. I will,’ said the gunman. His voice sounded as if it was shaking with nerves. ‘Right-oh driver.’

  ‘What about the dog?’ said the driver.

  ‘What about it? It’d run home. Start yapping, maybe. People’d start looking.’

  ‘Aye, mebby.’

  ‘On you go.’

  ‘There’s something not right about it. Bringing a dog.’

  ‘On you fuckin go.’

  The car took off, changed gear and cruised – there seemed to be no hurry about it.

  ‘We’re from the IRA,’ said the gunman. ‘Who are you?’

  There was a silence. He was incapable of answering.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  He cleared his throat and made a noise. Then said, ‘John.’ ‘John who?’

  ‘John Shields.’

  ‘What sort of a name is that?’

  It was hard to shrug in the position he was in. He had one foot on either side of the ridge covering the main drive shaft. They were now in an area of street lighting and he saw a Juicy Fruit chewing-gum paper under the driver’s seat. What was he playing the detective for? The car would be stolen anyway. His hands could touch the floor but were around his knees. He still had the dog’s lead wrapped round his fist.

  ‘Any other names?’

  ‘What like?’

  ‘A middle name.’

  The dog had settled and curled up on the seat beside him. There was an occasional bumping sound as his tail wagged. The gunman wore Doc Martens and stone-washed denims.

  ‘I said, any other names?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re lying in your teeth. Not even a Confirmation name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What school did you go to?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘It’s none of your business.’ There was a sudden staggering pain in the back of his head and he thought he’d been shot. ‘Aww – for fuck’s sake.’ The words had come from him so he couldn’t be dead. The bastard must have hit him with the butt of the gun.

  ‘No cheek,’ said the gunman. ‘This is serious.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, mate – take it easy.’ He was shouting and groaning and rubbing the back of his head. The anger in his voice raised the dog and it began to growl. His fingers were slippery. The blow must have broken the skin.

  ‘Let me make myself clear,’ said the gunman. ‘I’ll come to it in one. Are you a Protestant or a Roman Catholic?’

  There was a long pause. John pretended to concentrate on the back of his neck.

  ‘That really fuckin hurt,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll ask you again. Are you a Protestant or a Roman Catholic?’

  ‘I’m . . . I don’t believe in any of that crap. I suppose I’m nothing.’

  ‘You’re a fuckin wanker – if you ask me.’

  John protected his neck with his hands thinking he was going to be hit again. But nothing happened.

  ‘What was your parents?’

  ‘The same. In our house nobody believed in anything.’

  The car slowed and went down the gears. The driver indicated and John heard the rhythmic clinking as it flashed. This must be the Lisburn Road. A main road. This was happening on a main road in Belfast. They’d be heading for the Falls. Some Republican
safe house. The driver spoke over his shoulder.

  ‘Let’s hear you saying the alphabet.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yeah – say your abc’s for us,’ said the gunman.

  ‘This is so fuckin ridiculous,’ said John. He steeled himself for another blow.

  ‘Say it – or I’ll kill you.’ The gunman’s voice was very matter-of-fact now. John knew the myth that Protestants and Roman Catholics, because of separate schooling, pronounced the eighth letter of the alphabet differently. But he couldn’t remember who said which.

  ‘Eh . . . bee . . . cee, dee, ee . . . eff.’ He said it very slowly, hoping the right pronunciation would come to him. He stopped.

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Gee . . .’ John dropped his voice, ‘. . . aitch, haitch . . . aye jay kay.’

  ‘We have a real smart Alec here,’ said the gunman. The driver spoke again.

  ‘Stop fuckin about and ask him if he knows anybody in the IRA who can vouch for him.’

  ‘Well?’ said the gunman. ‘Do you?’

  There was another long pause. The muzzle of the gun touched his neck. Pressure was applied to the top bone of his vertebrae.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘It’s not fuckin Mastermind. Do you know anybody in the Provos? Answer me now or I’ll blow the fuckin head off you.’

  ‘No,’ John shouted. ‘There’s a couple of guys in work who are Roman Catholics – but there’s no way they’re Provos.’

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘The Gas Board.’

  ‘A meter man?’

  ‘No. I’m an E.O.’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ said the gunman to the driver.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘There’s not too many Fenians in the Gas Board.’

  ‘Naw,’ said the driver. ‘If there are any they’re not E.O. class. I think this is a dud.’

  ‘John Shields,’ said the gunman. ‘Tell us this. What do you think of us?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think of the IRA? The Provos?’

  ‘Catch yourselves on. You have a gun stuck in my neck and you want me to . . .’

  ‘Naw – it’d be interesting. Nothing’ll happen – no matter what you say. Tell us what you think.’

  There was silence as the car slowed down and came to a stop. The reflections from the chrome inside the car became red. Traffic lights. John heard the beeping of a ‘cross now’ signal. For the benefit of the blind. Like the pimples on the pavement. To let them know where they were.

  ‘Can you say the Hail Mary? To save your bacon?’

  ‘No – I told you I’m not interested in that kind of thing.’

  The driver said,

  ‘I think he’s okay.’

  ‘Sure,’ said the gunman. ‘But he still hasn’t told us what he thinks of us.’

  John cleared his throat – his voice was trembling.

  ‘I hate the Provos. I hate everything you stand for.’ There was a pause. ‘And I hate you for doing this to me.’

  ‘Spoken like a man.’

  The driver said,

  ‘He’s no more a Fenian than I am.’

  ‘Another one of our persuasion.’ The gunman sighed with a kind of irritation. The lights changed from orange to green. The car began to move. John heard the indicator clinking again and the driver turned off the main road into darkness. The car stopped and the hand brake was racked on. The gunman said,

  ‘Listen to me. Careful. It’s like in the fairy tale. If you look at us you’re dead.’

  ‘You never met us,’ said the driver.

  ‘And if you look at the car we’ll come back and kill you – no matter what side you’re from. Is that clear? Get out.’

  John heard the door opening at the gunman’s side. The gunman’s legs disappeared.

  ‘Come on. Keep the head down.’ John looked at his feet and edged his way across the back seat. He bent his head to get out and kept it at that angle. The gunman put his hands on John’s shoulders and turned him away from the car. There was a tree in front of him.

  ‘Assume the position,’ said the gunman. John placed his hands on the tree and spread his feet. His knees were shaking so much now that he was afraid of collapsing. ‘And keep your head down.’ The tarmac pavement was uneven where it had been ruptured by the tree’s roots. John found a place for his feet.

  The dog’s claws scrabbled on the metal sill of the car as it followed him out. It nudged against his leg and he saw the big eyes looking up at him. The gunman said,

  ‘Sorry about this, mate.’ John saw the gunman’s hand reach down and scratch the dog’s head. ‘Sorry about the thump. But we’re not playing games. She’s a nice dog.’

  ‘It’s not a she.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Whatever you say.’

  The car door closed and the car began reversing – crackling away over the refrozen slush. In the headlights his shadow was very black and sharp against the tree. There was a double shadow, one from each headlight. From the high-pitched whine of its engine he knew the car was still reversing. It occurred to him that they would not shoot him from that distance. For what seemed a long time he watched his shadow moving on the tree even though he kept as still as possible. It was a game he’d played as a child, hiding his eyes and counting to a hundred. Here I come, away or not. The headlights swung to the trees lining the other side of the road. His dog was whimpering a bit, wanting to get on. John risked a glance – moving just his eyes – and saw the red glow of the car’s tail lights disappearing onto the main road. He recognised where he was. It was the Malone Road. He leaned his head against the back of his hands. Even his arms were trembling now. He took deep breaths and put his head back to look up into the branches of the tree.

  ‘Fuck me,’ he said out loud. The sleeve of his anorak had slipped to reveal his watch. It was ten past nine. He began to unwind the leash from his hand. It left white scars where it had bitten into his skin. He put his hand to the back of his head. His hair was sticky with drying blood.

  ‘Come on boy.’ He began to walk towards the lights of the main road where he knew there was a phone box. But what was the point? He wouldn’t even have been missed yet.

  The street was so quiet he could hear the clinking of the dog’s identity disk as it padded along beside him.

  THE VOYEUR

  At night your man dresses for exercise. A navy track suit, thick-soled trainers to give bounce to his step. In the winter he wears woollen gloves. In summer he discards the track suit top for a vest. Your man runs, knowing all the time it’s not his body which is the cause for concern.

  In the darkness as he pants along city streets he looks for lit windows. In a street he knows of old he stops and stares into basements. He sees men, sometimes women, sitting at desks in a pool of light from an anglepoise, writing – sometimes reading. He stands, his breath returning slowly to normal, and, with wide eyes, watches the scene.

  Sometimes little dramas are enacted in front of him and his breathing almost disappears. To see the reader or the writer interrupted – for the man or woman to be absorbed in what they’re doing and be disturbed by their partner or spouse or friend – that, for him, is something special. They may have poor eyesight and have to put their glasses to one side to regard the interrupter – either by tilting them to the top of the head or dropping them to the middle of the chest to hang on a chain. The person who has been disturbed sighs with irritation at the loved one. Must you interrupt me, they seem to say. With finger and thumb they may massage the bridge of the nose, skin irritated by long contact with the spectacles. Or they stretch and yawn and engage in double-handed head scratching. They know they should stop – they have overdone it for one day. Too much bloody work, they seem to say.

  THE GRANDMASTER

  The lights beside the hotel swimming-pool were turned out at midnight. One moment Isobel was staring down from the ninth floor and the next there wa
s nothing but darkness and the sound of crickets. She pulled the curtains and undressed for bed.

  The knickers she was wearing were smaller than her bikini bottoms so she could see in the full-length mirror a margin of Scottish pale around her waist and groin. Everything else was red. Including her breasts.

  ‘Jesus – how utterly . . .’

  Her blood throbbed. She slipped a cotton nightdress over her head and gently lowered herself onto the bed nearest the window. For a while she attempted to read but could not concentrate. Then she switched out the light and tried to sleep. In the dark she felt she could take her pulse on any part of her exposed skin. The hotel radio had a digital clock which now showed one sixteen and still there was no sign of her daughter. She blew on her arms and it soothed them momentarily.

  She began to shiver. It came in waves. When she tensed it was difficult to control. If she relaxed the teeth-chattering stopped briefly. She switched on the light, got up and found a strip of paracetamol in her wash-bag and punched out two from the foil, swallowing them with a swig of bottled water.

  Within a few moments she was too hot again. She soaked a towel and took it to bed with her. She dabbed her face and shoulders and down the front of her nightdress between her breasts. Her watch on the bedside table agreed with the radio clock.

  ‘Damn and blast her.’

  Isobel was lying on her bed, trying not to make contact with any of it, when Gillian came in. The girl didn’t even look at her.

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’

  ‘The disco.’

  ‘Oh – I’m glad you were somewhere safe. An English lager lout or two . . . Do you know what time it is?’

  The girl shook her head, went into the bathroom and closed the door. Isobel heard the taps running and the flushing and the teeth-brushing. When Gillian came out she was in her pyjamas with her hair in a pony-tail.

  ‘For your information it’s two o’clock, girl.’

  Gillian looked over at the digital clock.

  ‘It’s one fifty-two,’ she said and got into her bed. She pulled the sheet up over her shoulder and turned her face to the wall.