Black Dog

Black Dog

Chapter Five

Jeannie lived a very simple life. Early every morning she would rise and wash and dress then come down to find Dog waiting at the foot of the stairs. She let him out into the garden while she made their breakfast and when that was eaten would laugh as he pointed out to her that his lead was still on the hook on the back door when it should be attached to his collar. That early walk was always quite a short one, just up the road to a scruffy area of grass and gravel with a dilapidated swing known locally as 'the rec'. There she would let him off the lead and play with him for a while. She had found that although he refused to 'fetch' as such, if she threw away the loop of rope that Kirsty had given her he would go and retrieve it in the hope that she would let him play tug-of-war again. It became a regular performance. She would say "What? This old thing? No, this is rubbish," and throw the rope as far as she could. Dog would rush to rescue it then it would be his turn to tease. "You threw it away," his demeanor seemed to say, "and you're not having it back unless..." and she would have to fight him for it. This way she managed to give him a fair amount of exercise without having to walk too far herself. Then it was time for work and she would put on her blue overalls and tuck her hair into a net and hurry off for her shift at the local electronics factory where she would spend five boring hours soldering nameless components to boards. It wasn't much of a job but it paid the bills and she enjoyed the casual camaraderie with the other workers. Dog would be shut in the kitchen with a blanket to lie on until Jeannie got home and took off her overalls and hairnet. They would have some lunch and then she would take him for a proper walk. Up the hill or down to the path along the river, they explored all the little town's lanes and by-ways and came to be quite well known amongst the other dog walkers who were very complimentary to Jeannie about Dog's good manners.

"If they only knew the real you," she liked to say to him severely. "The way you splash water all over my kitchen floor, and what you did to my slipper! You are awful." And Dog would cringe and look up at her sorrowfully until she relented and laughed.

After the afternoon walk, Jeannie would fetch one of the boxes from the spare room and sit and fold leaflets and stuff envelopes and apply address labels for an hour or so, ready for the man to collect on Thursdays. The electronics factory bought the bread but by folding leaflets and addressing envelopes Jeannie could sometimes have jam on it as well. Dog would doze at her feet until teatime when he would accompany her to the kitchen and supervise her cooking activities, catching and disposing of any small items of food she might happen to drop. Then, after dinner, Jeannie would read or watch television with the back door propped open so Dog could come and go as he pleased. On the whole he was a very quiet beast, making little noise, so she was surprised one night to hear a wavering howl from the back garden. When she investigated, he was standing on her lawn staring up at the full moon. She patted him and invited him back inside and, after some persuasion, he followed her with his head low and tail tucked well under, the picture of utter dejection. This procedure was repeated every full moon but otherwise, the neighbours assured her they would hardly know he was there. Jeannie shook her head over his monthly misery and made an especial fuss over him on these nights.

"Got the black dog, have you?" she'd ask, stroking his silky ears sympathetically. "I know the feeling, mate."

On the whole, Dog was quite content with his new life, although he enjoyed those days most when for some reason Jeannie didn't go the work but stayed at home and kept him company. Jeannie, too, seemed to be content but Dog could still sense her unease. A loud car engine in the street would draw her to the window to peer anxiously through the curtains. She always allowed the machine to answer the phone, listening carefully to the voice of the caller before picking up the receiver herself. Her handbag lived on the shelf by the back door and there was a case in the back of the car that she only ever took out in order to air the sets of clothes inside before repacking and replacing it. Dog didn't care. When the phone rang he would give it a warning growl and if someone came to the door he would give a single shattering bark and accompany Jeannie to the threshold to fix his blue eyes balefully on the visitor until he felt Jeannie relax and welcome them. Then he would welcome them too and many a visitor left picking black fluff from trousers or skirt.

Only once was there a real break in their routine. One showery May morning, Jeannie put him in the car and took him to work with her and he spent an incredibly boring few hours laying on the back seat and chewing his blanket, then when she came out she took him out of the car and passed his lead to a cheerful-looking young man in an oil-stained boiler suit.

"I should be back by six o'clock," she said. "If you could just give him a good walk then shut him in the kitchen with some biscuits, it'd be great. Bye, Dog, be a good boy for Sam, now." She patted him and drove away.

Sam watched her go, his fingers lightly scratching through Dog's ruff, then took Dog for a five mile walk along the ridge tops. Dog had liked him from the first so behaved well, coming when called and even deigning to fetch a stick a time or two. They both enjoyed their walk, Dog knew, even though Sam didn't say as much. He was a quiet fellow, saying little until they got back to Jennie's house, which he opened with her spare key.

"In you go, old lad," he said as he opened the kitchen door. He filled Dog's bowl with biscuit, topped up the water and stood patting Dog's side while Dog leaned against his leg and picked the best bits out of the biscuit.

"You're a big fellow," Sam said quietly, "and I expect you could turn nasty if you needed to. I'm bloody glad that poor kid's got you."

When Jeannie came back that evening she was very quiet and her eyes were red. Dog greeted her with enthusiasm, almost knocking her down and was shocked to the core of his being when she shouted at him and smacked him with a rolled up newspaper. He crept away to hide under the kitchen table, completely confused as to why he had been punished and spent an extremely unhappy hour while Jeannie hung out washing and banged pots and pans around. Eventually she stopped and went to the phone and made quite a long call, her voice rising and rising with distress. Dog winced as she swore then sobbed. After a while she rang off and went upstairs to change. Dog remained where he was in the darkness beneath the table but, when the food was ready, Jeannie called him out and hugged him and fed him and everything was all right again.

Spring was over and summer came, bringing the usual mixture of glorious sun and torrential rain and Jeannie didn't leave Dog with Sam again though they sometimes saw him walking his own dog, a half-grown mongrel pup with orange eyebrows, who in an excess of confidence tried to bully Dog - once. There was a flurry of movement, a sharp yelp and the pup was upside down with Dog's big paw on his throat.

"Dog!" Jeannie cried, "leave! Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry." And she pulled him away.

"Don't be," Sam said with a grin. "The little buggers need to learn from their elders and betters. There you are, Tag. Let that be a lesson to you." Tag was subdued for a few minutes but soon cheered up and Sam and Jeannie laughed as Dog endured the playful pup with much the same air of resigned tolerance he extended towards the local children.

Day succeeded day, all pretty much the same, and Dog grew sleek, his coat glossy and his eyes clear.

Then one Friday afternoon, just as Jeanne finished that day's box of leaflets, there came a knock at the door. They did their usual routine, eventually opening the door to a well but casually dressed middle aged man who smiled politely at Jeannie.

"Here's my card, madam," he said, proffering a small rectangle of cardboard. "Atkinson and Nugent, antique dealers. We are in your area today just to see if anyone has anything surplus to their requirements that they would be prepared to let us see. We also do valuations for insurance purposes. I don't suppose you would be at all interested?"

"I'm not sure," Jeannie frowned. "What sort of thing would you be interested in?"

"Furniture, bric-a-brac, jewellery, clocks and watches, old books and memorabilia. You'd be surprised what people collect these days." He smiled. "For instance, forgive me but I couldn't help noticing, there's a growing market for nineteen fifties ceramics, like that fruit bowl over there. Poole pottery, I'd guess, and I know a man in Hartlepool who'll take all I can get."

"It's not mine to sell," Jeannie said with just a trace of regret, "but I've a vase upstairs that is mine with a very similar pattern." She hesitated and the man smiled reassuringly.

"What have you got to lose?" he said. "Let me give you a valuation, at least, and if you decide not to sell - well, no harm done."

Jeannie glanced down at Dog who was sniffing at the hems of the man's well-cut slacks, then nodded.

"Fine," the man beamed. "Jim, over here."

"No, wait..." Jeannie began, alarmed, as another man turned away from a door on the opposite side of the street and began to walk across the road.

"Jim is our ceramics expert," the first man explained, moving smoothly past her into the sitting room, "while I do the furniture and objets d'art."

"Hello," Jim smiled warmly as well. "What've we got then, Clive."

"Vase, nineteen fifties, possibly Poole," Clive replied.

"Oh," Jeannie blinked at them and closed the front door. "I'll go and fetch the vase then, shall I?"

They smiled expectantly and she turned and climbed the stairs. Jim was about to move further into the house when he heard a low grumble and saw Dog glaring at him.

"Trust you to pick a house with the bloody Hound of the Baskervilles," he said.

"Just a feeling," Clive replied. "Look, she works for Hatherley Electrics."

He nodded towards an overall that was drying on a radiator but Jim was smirking at the underwear that was drying beside it.

"Nice," he said. "So?"

"So, today's payday."

Dog did not like them. They smelled sly and furtive and cowardly to him but he could also sense that they did not mean to hurt Jeannie. So he kept them both corralled by the front door until Jeanne returned and then sat protectively at her feet while they discussed the pottery. It wasn't Poole, Jim said, but a very pretty piece and he offered her fifteen pounds for it. Jeannie accepted with alacrity, then shyly produced a little box.

"This belonged to my grandmother," she said opening it and producing a little brooch.

Clive shot Jim a glance and pursed his lips thoughtfully, then reached for the brooch and took it gently.

"How very pretty," he murmured. "Let me see?" He glanced at Jeannie for permission and withdrew a jeweller's glass from his pocket and fitted it to his eye. He looked at the brooch for a moment or two then shook his head and rose to his feet and stepped across to the window. "Better light here," he explained. "Yes, very nice. It is gold of course. Look at the mark."

Jeannie stood at his side while he angled the back of the brooch into the weak sunlight and peered at the tiny markings.

"Yes?" she said, confused.

"Well, they tell me that this was made of nine carat gold in Birmingham in a nineteen - oh drat, I can't quite make it out - nineteen ten. I thought at first that these might be diamonds but I'm afraid they're only paste, good quality paste, though, and this stone is a garnet, rather than a ruby and these are freshwater pearls. But it is still a lovely piece. Are you interested in selling? The market is flooded with this early twentieth century stuff at the moment but I might be prepared to go to - oh, Christ."

There was a horrified shriek from the kitchen and Jeannie ran across the room and stopped at the door, staring. Jim was pinned to the back door, Dog's forepaws on his shoulder's and snarling teeth inches from his nose. On the draining board, Jeannie's handbag was laying up-ended with its contents scattered amongst the dishes but her purse and paypacket were clutched in one of Jim's hands.

"You bastard," she gasped and grabbed her bag, pushing everything back inside it and snatching her property from Jim's grasp.

"Call him off," Jim wavered. "Clive, help!"

But the front door banged open as Clive took to his heels.

"Leave," Jeannie shouted at Dog, seizing his collar and pulling him back. "Now, you. Get out!"

Jim needed no encouragement. He sprinted across the room and Dog gave a glad bark and wrenched his collar out of Jeannie's hand. He bounded at Jim's heels, snapping and snarling, all the way to where Clive was just fighting to get into his van, keys tangled in his pocket. Dog charged at him and snapped his teeth into the back of his stylish leather coat, just as he got the door open. Clive cried out with shock and struggled out of the coat, abandoning it to Dog who shook it thoroughly then went to the front of the van rearing high and placed both front paws on the windscreen. He dropped the coat and gave a series of barks, glaring through the glass at the two frightened faces within.

"Dog," Jeannie's voice was concerned. "Here boy, Dog!"

He darted aside as the two men managed to get the van moving and roared off, then he picked up his prize and returned with it to Jeannie.

"Oh, you good boy," she was gasping and grabbed his head and kissed him soundly between the ears. "Such a good dog. Let's see what you've got then."

Dog made her fight him for the coat but she got it away from him eventually and collapsed laughing on the floor.

The first item out of Clive's coat pocket was an envelope full of his, probably spurious, cards but this was followed in quick succession by several credit cards in different names, a cheque book in the name of Mrs M J Cartwright and a pension book belonging to a lady who lived a few houses down.

Jeanne shook her head in disgust at herself for having been so easily fooled and turned to the other pocket. The contents were similar, though there was also a small amount of cash in coins. As she fished them out, something sharp pricked her finger and she felt around the bottom of the pocket and withdrew a shard of gold set with a cracked red stone.

"Oh, no," she breathed and looked at the table where the box for her grandmother's brooch lay empty. The rest of it followed piece by piece. Whether Clive had broken it in his flight or Dog had caught it with his teeth she didn't know, but she could see that it was irreparable. Sadly she put the twisted strands of gold back into the box and placed them in the dresser drawer. Dog jumped up and pushed his head under her hand and she looked down at him with a rueful smile.

"Come on," she said. "It's time for tea."

Dog looked back at her, uneasily aware that she was no longer happy, and followed her into the kitchen.

Jeannie put a good face on her loss while she made her evening meal and watched Dog eat his, messily scattering the dry biscuit around the floor in his enthusiasm then carefully finding and consuming every last piece. She ate her own food silently then tried to settle in front of the television to watch a film but it didn't grip her, so she groomed Dog instead, working over his tangles with a comb until his coat lay glossy and smooth. He looked at her bright eyed, then shook himself until his fur was back in it's normal state of disorder and Jeannie found that she was able to laugh, after all.

"Oh, you dog, you," she said affectionately. "Go on, bed! I'm having an early night."

Dog shook himself again and went to the kitchen door, nosed it open and settled himself on his blanket in the corner.

"Goodnight, Dog," Jeannie said, then a gap on the kitchen shelf caught her eye.

Earlier she had been too outraged about her handbag to look about her and so she had not noticed that anything else was missing. She knew she had brought it down to polish it because it was looking a little tarnished. Perhaps she had returned it to its place on her bedside table. Quickly she turned and ran upstairs to her bedroom. The silver photo frame with the picture of her parents was missing. It was the final straw. She covered her face with her hands and wept sadly and quietly for all she had lost, for youth and dreams and love betrayed.

She did not hear the stealthy movements on the stairs or see her bedroom door swing open so she jumped violently when a big black head was thrust into her arms.

Dog pushed at her, ears flat and eyes rolling, and whined, his tail beating a very small and appeasing tattoo on the carpet. Jeannie was upset and he was convinced that somehow it was his fault.

"Oh, Dog," Jeannie sobbed and buried her face in the thick fur of his neck. "What would I do without you?" she asked. "Thank god, you're here for me, 'cos I certainly don't have anyone else."

*

It was surprisingly busy in the Cauldron, despite the hour, and drinkers making their way to and from the bar kept buffeting Ron with their sleeves and elbows.

I suppose it's not that surprising really, he thought. Almost everyone is back to normal now. It's no wonder they want to celebrate.

A burst of laughter from the other side of the room marked where a group of Aurors who had just come off shift were unwinding. Their numbers had been drastically reduced in the great battle and the few that had survived had been working double shifts ever since.

Ron grimaced as another sleeve slapped the back of his head and turned to complain.

"Weasley," a cool voice greeted him. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

This was patently ridiculous as there was just too much of Ron and his hair was far too red to have missed. But he was presently reeling from the shock of an apology from those particular lips so he did not say anything other than a grudging greeting.

"Malfoy," he said and began to turn away but Malfoy slid smoothly into the seat Ron had been saving for his brother.

"May I join you?" he asked, making himself comfortable and setting his glass down with a decisive click.

Ron eyed him with misgiving. The pale face was thinner than it had been, the fair hair shorter but the grey eyes were as wintry as ever, and the expression as aloof. The navy blue of his Auror robes set off his fairness and the gold flashes on the collar indicated that his rise through the ranks had been meteoric.

"I see you've made Legate already," he commented. "Natural talent?"

Draco Malfoy smiled.

"More an assumption that 'it takes one to catch one'," he replied. "And you - I hear you have been coordinating the volunteers."

Ron nodded.

"Job's about over now. Those first few weeks when everything broke down, it was chaos and we needed everyone who could wield a wand no matter who or what. But things are ticking over again and the volunteers are going home. The Yanks went last week and the Russians went on Sunday." He paused and grinned. "Somehow, I get the impression that the Aussies have no intention of leaving."

"We owe them our thanks," Malfoy admitted, "so I suppose we can put up with the excessive bonhomie. So everything's back to normal, is it? Nine and a half months! The power drain was absolutely phenomenal. It must have gone somewhere. Was the extent of the fall out area ever established?" he asked, curiously.

Ron shrugged.

"You'd have better access to the figures than I have, Malfoy. Why are you asking?"

"Just something that occurred to me the other day."

He paused, drank and chuckled.

"How are things chez Potter? The Wolfman still going through those silly witches like a mad satyr?"

"He has had a lot of catching up to do," Ron smiled. "For most of his life they would have screamed the place down if he had even spoken to them but now .... Oh, come on, Malfoy. Wouldn't you?"

Fair brows lifted disdainfully but Draco's smirk wasn't quite as offensive as once it would have been.

"I understand that Potter has had something of a disappointment," he said. "How is he bearing up under the strain?"

"You heard about that? It was Sirius all right, but the woman who took him gave a false name and address. She was supposed to bring the dog back to the kennels for neutering but never - laugh away, Malfoy, laugh away."

"Sorry," Draco mopped his eyes with a pristine, monogrammed handkerchief. "Carry on, what happened next?"

Ron took a mouthful of beer, wondering why he was bothering.

"She never came back," he continued. "Harry's hopping mad and Remus - well, it's the first time I've ever seen him really let rip. There were hexes bouncing off the walls. Then Hermione threw a total wobbler and said that he didn't want to be found and why couldn't we just leave him alone. Harry had to sedate them both."

"Bet you're glad you don't live under that roof," Draco said slyly and took another sip of the thick sparkling amber liquid in his flat bottomed tumbler.

"However," he continued, "it occurs to me that Hermione may have a point."

"What?" Ron scowled. "How can you say that? He's living as a dog, for god's sake! They might be going to neuter him," Ron's voice was appalled as he considered the prospect. "Didn't you hear about those obscene bastards who were going to make him fight?"

"Yes, I did and I thought that he had probably found his vocation. Black was always a fighter. They still quote him in Auror training, you know. The Black Principle, they call it. 'Instinct first, thought later when the smoke clears.' It works, too, nine times out of ten." He paused and sipped his drink again the sparkles glinting on his lips for a moment before he licked them away. "Don't you see what's happening here? Hermione doesn't want him back at all, and you would have realised that if you had half an ounce of sense. You're only desperate to get him back because it's what Harry and Remus want, not because it's better for Sirius."

"What do you mean about Hermione? And what do you want, Malfoy?" Ron demanded, putting a world of loathing into the word.

Draco flushed.

"Ask her," he said, adding, "and as for what I want - I want him to be at peace. You weren't there," he continued, his voice suddenly very low, his lips drawn thin with revulsion. "You didn't see what he did, had to do, was forced to do. You didn't see what was done to him. I saw and I'll never forget it. Hermione knows and will never forgive herself. It might be better if he died as a dog than returned to face what's waiting for him. "

"I don't believe I'm hearing this," Ron's face twisted with disgust. "He saved your life, Malfoy."

Draco drained his glass in one quick move.

"No," he said coolly, "he saved my soul and in the process may have lost his own. I'm getting another, do you want a refill?"

Ron shook his head and grimaced at Draco's empty glass.

"That stuff's lethal you know," he said. "It'll make you blind or drive you crazy."

"Funny," Draco stood up and smirked at him. "Father said exactly the same about playing with yourself. But you seem to be OK."

It was only later, after Bill had arrived and laughed at Ron's outrage and many more pints had been consumed, that it occurred to Ron that, in his own way, Malfoy had been trying to warn him of something.

*

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