A La Carte Read online

  Well, now, it was a December night about fifteen months ago – winter before last – and I was driving home a bit later than usual, and taking things carefully, because there were patches of fog. I turned on to a minor road near Hartley Wintney, partly because if you know the way it’s a short cut and partly because I was busting for a pee. I pulled up in the dark – side-lights left on, of course – where the road runs through a wood, got out, went across to the other side of the road where there were some bushes (I hate peeing against the wheel) and got on with it. I’d left the driver’s door open and that’s something I’ll regret to my dying day. I was in full stream, as you might say, when I saw Bruce jump over the driving seat and push his way out, I expect he wanted a pee, too, and anyway I hadn’t told him to stay where he was. He was in the middle of the road, crossing to me, when I heard a car coming and saw its lights.

  In the normal way I’d have run over to Bruce, but – well, I mean, I couldn’t, could I? I shouted ‘Bruce, stop!’ And that’s where I made my fatal mistake, because he did stop – he stopped right there in the road. At the same moment the car, a grey Peugeot 309 going much too fast, came ripping round the corner – spotlighting me – and knocked Bruce flying onto the verge. There was only one man in it: he didn’t stop: didn’t even slow down, although he must have felt the impact. In two seconds he was gone and I hadn’t got the number. But I’d noticed a discoloured patch on the boot.

  Bruce died in my arms about two minutes later. He was trying to lick my face. I’m not ashamed to tell you I was crying my eyes out. Wouldn’t you? Never mind how I took him home and disposed of him. Mrs Forster, good old soul, was terribly upset, too. I kept his collar. It’s on the dressing-table now.

  Things just weren’t the same without Bruce. I felt wretchedly lonely. I couldn’t bear to walk on the Downs without him. My bed at night didn’t feel the same. The long drives all day were miserable. Sometimes I’d wake up in the morning and I’d have forgotten and for a second I felt happy. Then it all came flooding back and I could hardly get up and shave. Mrs Forster was very kind and motherly, but I mean, what could she do? I thought of getting another dog, but it didn’t appeal – didn’t seem decent to replace Bruce like a pen or a pair of shoes. I drove alone. Sometimes I used to feel kind of mazed, thinking of Bruce and the way he died.

  One March evening about three months after the death of Bruce, I was driving down the M3 when suddenly I heard a noise in the back of the car. It was a frightening noise, and I couldn’t place it at first. Then I realised it was the growling of a dog: a big dog, too, it sounded like. It was growling on a rising note – real aggressive. I was scared.

  I stopped on the hard shoulder and looked in the back and then in the boot. Not a sausage. It was eerie: I knew I hadn’t been mistaken. After a bit I got back in and drove on. The noise didn’t come back and I didn’t mention it to Mrs Forster.

  But three days later, when I was driving home from Northampton on the A43 – a nasty bit of road near Juniper Hill – it suddenly began again. It was enough to scare the pants off anybody. In the back of my car was a large, savage dog, working itself up to attack – and nothing to be seen at all. You could even hear its claws on the seat and its coat brushing against the side. I stopped and jumped out; but then, after a few minutes, I got back in and drove on. The growling had stopped.

  But it kept on coming back – and just when you were least expecting it. I’d find myself overtaking a lorry, or doing a hill start when suddenly this appalling growling broke out in the back. Grrrr-owf! Grrrr-owf! I nearly crashed twice. I was horribly frightened. It was beginning to keep me awake nights.

  I wanted to talk to someone about it, but I mean how could you? My friends would say I was barmy with the death of Bruce. Mrs Forster wouldn’t be any good. If my employers got to know they’d think I’d got a hallucinatory nervous breakdown – perhaps I had – and very likely sack me. You need a rest, Jevons.’

  It went on, about twice a week or more, but I never got used to it. It fairly made my bowels loose when it came: it was right at the back of your head, you see, and you expected the brute to take you by the neck any minute.

  In the end I decided I’d try changing the car. I spun them some sort of a fanny at the office about the clutch-plate not being too good, and they gave me another car while they took it off the road for attention. When they brought it back I said the new car was so much better; could I keep it? Well, the old one had done seventy thousand odd anyway, so they said all right. I really felt relieved – for about three days. Then, one night north of Newbury, the growling came again; and it was worse than ever. I couldn’t stay in the car with it. It was like a wild animal. I stopped and got out and gave it half an hour. But it was getting me down. I was seriously beginning to wonder what would become of me.

  About a week later, I was coming home unusually late. It had been a hard, frustrating day – a bad day, really. I turned into the wooded minor road near Hartley Wintney where Bruce had been killed. And it was coming down that road, in the woods, when the steering began to go funny. I slowed down. Bump, bump. It was pouring with rain. I got out my torch. The off-side rear tyre was flat.

  Oh damn and shit! I thought. To have to change the wheel at this time of night, in all the rain! My shoes and hands will be filthy and I’ll get wet through and probably get a cold or worse. Well, there was no help for it, so I opened the boot, lugged out the jack, the wheelbrace and the spare tyre, prised off the hub-cap and started in.

  I’d done two of the nuts when I heard another car coming. The lights came round the bend, showing up the rods of rain, and then the car passed me and stopped. It was a grey Peugeot 309, and my torch showed the same discoloured patch on the boot. It was the car that had killed Bruce; I felt certain.

  The driving door opened and a man got out into the road. I shone the torch on him and he flapped his hand, dazzled. I didn’t like the look of him at all. He was big, heavy, about thirty, with a lot of black hair and a sort of nasty, oily smile. He came up to me.

  ‘Oh! Got a puncture, ’ave yer?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Bit of a sod, that. Want any ’elp?’

  That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘What’ll yer give me?’

  This surprised me, of course, but after a moment I said, ‘Well, how much do you want?’

  ‘Well,’ he answered, still with that horrible grin, ‘I think I’ll take what yer got.’

  And with this he stepped forward and seized me, pushing his fingers down between my neck and the front of my shirt. His other fist was clenched.

  Just at that moment the driver’s-door of my car flew open -I honestly can’t tell whether I’d shut it or not – and then the man staggered back, clutching at his throat and shouting, ‘Keep it off! Keep it off!’ It was like a dream – all unreal; I mean. He was ducking and weaving all over the place and trying to cover his head. As I looked at him, great rents appeared in his clothes. The growling and snarling was like I’d never heard. The man tried to kick out, and then grabbed at his ankle, screaming. I was crouching beside the car, wet through and terrified. Just as the man managed to lurch as far as his own car, a police car appeared and drew up.

  One of the policemen went straight to the man and tried to speak to him. Then he supported him into the back of the police car. There was some talk I couldn’t hear and then this policeman came over to me.

  ‘Stand up, sir, please. Is this your car, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  “Where is your dog, sir, please?’

  ‘I haven’t got a dog.’

  ‘Well, where is the dog?’

  ‘I haven’t seen a dog.’

  ‘Well, sir, this man’s been very badly bitten and mauled. It’s a hospital job, this is. Are you saying it wasn’t your dog that did it?’

  ‘There isn’t a dog. You can look in the car – anywhere.’ ‘The dog ran away?’

  ‘I tell you – I haven’t seen a dog.’

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