There Is No Dog Page 11

  ‘I’d say the girl is obviously quite gaga over you.’ He spoke cautiously.

  Bob looked gloomily at the floor. ‘I love her more than the moon and the stars. And all that stuff.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mr B paused, wondering how much Bob cared for the moon and the stars, if at all. ‘Well, clever old you. She’s obviously a girl worth having.’

  ‘You don’t even have the first idea. She’s amazing. She’s miraculous. She’s the most incredible, beautiful girl. And I made her.’

  Mr B raised an eyebrow.

  Bob recoiled. ‘Not like that. I made the people who made her and the ones who made them and the ones who made them. And so on and so on, back and back and back. And each set of perfect combinations came together because of the way I made them.’

  ‘You are a genius.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And your decision to move slowly is an excellent one …’

  Bob’s laughter was scornful. ‘You’re giving me advice on how to seduce a woman? You? Mr Useless Old Past-It with bells on?’

  What a wit the boy had. What a keen knife’s edge of irony. What a bloody prodigy he was, oh, yes indeed, a definite genius in too many realms to count. ‘So, what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I told you, I’m going to do everything the right way this time. Just like humans do. I’ll talk to her parents. Get them to give me her hand. In marriage.’

  Mr B looked at him. Marriage?

  ‘That’s what people do.’ Bob adopted his superior tone.

  ‘How fascinating.’ Mr B stared. ‘Are you quite certain that’s what you want?’

  Bob snorted. ‘Am I certain? Am I certain? Of course I’m certain. I’m beyond certain. I’m ridiculously certain.’

  Mr B removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Your mother is worried about you, you know.’

  ‘My mother? You’ve been talking to my mother?’

  ‘Only casually.’

  Bob exploded. ‘There is no such thing as a casual conversation with my mother. Every single word will be twisted beyond recognition until before you know it you’re playing Russian Roulette in a wind tunnel with a psychotic dwarf, having wagered your birthright for a piece of cheese …’

  Mr B blinked. ‘Forget your mother. It was only a short chat.’ He cleared his throat. ‘There’s a little favour I’d like to ask, however. A problem I need help solving.’

  ‘No.’ Bob pivoted on one superior heel and stormed out. The door slammed.

  Mr B sighed. Bring on the fourteenth of July, he prayed, to no one in particular.

  30

  Bernard had always been a little shy about prayer. Having spent nearly twenty years as an army chaplain, he’d developed a definite unease about the job God was doing here on Earth. It was no surprise, therefore, that his bond with the Almighty, the most intense of his life, involved long and difficult conversations more than actual worship. And yet he wouldn’t have chosen any other way to live, for he believed fervently in man’s potential to improve life on Earth.

  This was a political and philosophical belief as much as a spiritual one, requiring faith in concepts such as right and wrong, good and evil, salvation and grace. Bernard wanted very badly to believe that he and God had a single goal, and that the goal involved the eradication of suffering. Not that he believed, exactly, that suffering could be eradicated. But he believed in the process, the desire to make things better. Without human perfectibility as a goal, he could see no purpose to life on Earth.

  In the early days of his career, he had considered the army good and useful and necessary. Even as that conviction waned, he had for many years felt that his presence in a war zone served a purpose, made life better for his men. When even that faded, he had returned to civilian life, and nowadays battled on the frontlines of the suburban middle class. His professional career, when he could bear to think about it, struck him as a slow tapering-off of worth.

  Bernard had never been tempted to treat the Bible as literal truth, but all this vengeful weather disturbed him. Looking around the church at his parishioners, each valiantly trying to make the best of being marooned, he began to sag under a feeling of hopelessness. Perhaps the end of the world really was nigh.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Edelweiss,’ he said, pouring out a cup of tea. ‘How are you this morning?’

  She stared at him. ‘How should I be, sleeping in a room full of strangers?’

  Bernard flinched. ‘Yes, of course, it’s intolerable. But until we find you alternative housing, I’m afraid …’ The woman was in her eighties, her hands twisted with arthritis. She should not be sleeping on a camp bed in a church hall, sharing four toilets with ninety others. ‘We’re doing our best to get you somewhere more comfortable, as soon as … look, the rain has –’

  But as they both turned to the window, it was obvious that the rain hadn’t. Only, it wasn’t rain, as such. It looked as if the bottom of a lake had begun to spill over the church eaves. Bernard stared in wonder. The uninterrupted weight of water was dense as a wall.

  Mrs Edelweiss was one of dozens around the room silently telegraphing the vulnerability and shame she felt at tolerating these conditions badly. Everywhere Bernard turned, he felt eyes upon him, apologetic, accusing. The old people had become accustomed to invisibility in a way the sturdy middle-aged were not; they had given over hope of being first in line for comfort or food or consolation. Their humility embarrassed Bernard. He checked his watch and grimaced, as if suddenly remembering an important engagement, then retreated to his tiny office behind the altar. He closed and locked the door and slumped into his chair. Un-Christian though the sentiment was, he wanted these people out of his church.

  There came a tap on the door, and a familiar voice whispered, ‘Bernard?’

  He stood and unlocked it. ‘Laura. Sorry. That wasn’t meant to keep you out.’

  A whiff of something distinctly Bernard puffed out at her as he opened the door – a hint of leather and candles and starched shorts; something arousingly vicarish. She handed him a cup of tea, wiping both hands on the apron she wore round her waist. ‘Never mind. Tea and biscuits have been served, and we’re all settling down to some nice Haydn quartets. Even the children are listening. Very good for the savage beast, you know.’

  Breast, he thought, averting his eyes. Savage breast.

  He pulled a chair out for her. ‘Sit down for a moment. You’ve done too much.’ Her efficiency implicated him somehow.

  ‘I’ve actually come for a reason – more people have arrived and I thought you really ought to do the proper thing – welcome to Noah’s ark, etc.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’ He rose to his feet without enthusiasm. More refugees.

  A youngish couple with two small children stood at the entrance to the church. The man, ginger-haired with freckles and pale eyes, put his hand out to Bernard.

  ‘Hello, vicar. I’m afraid we’ve come for the high ground. Geographically speaking, that is.’

  Bernard smiled. ‘Please claim it however it serves you best.’

  ‘We’re stuck,’ said his wife. ‘Our kitchen’s under half a metre of water, which,’ she looked concerned, and even a little frightened, ‘froze solid last night. In summer!’ Indicating the two little girls, she added, ‘This is Giselle, and Tamsin. I’m Rosalie. And Tom.’

  ‘Welcome.’ What a nice-looking family. Perhaps they’d come on Sundays when the emergency was over. They’d have to if they planned to get their little girls into St Anthony’s C. of E. primary. Not for the first time, Bernard wondered who had less shame, the families playing this game, or the church insisting they play it.

  Laura nudged him.

  ‘There’s someone else.’

  He turned in the direction indicated by her chin.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No.’

  The vicar frowned. Somethin
g about this young man set the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, and his first impulse was to turn him straight back out into the rain. The muscles in his arms tensed. He opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted.

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t want your tea. I’m looking for her.’ The young man pointed at Laura, his finger aimed at her nose.

  Bernard’s smile did not include his eyes. ‘How fortunate, then, that you’ve found her.’

  The young man ignored him, speaking directly to Laura. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Mrs Davenport straightened her back, tipped her head slightly towards the ceiling and peered at the interloper along the short straight slope of her nose. In a pinch, she thought, I could probably take him. He may be young but he doesn’t appear to be very fit. It wouldn’t be difficult. Spike heel to instep, knee to groin, fingers in eyes (don’t be afraid to gouge), heel of hand extended full force into Adam’s apple. These thoughts distracted her, so that she barely noticed that the personage was speaking once more.

  ‘I would like to discuss your daughter.’

  She didn’t recognize his accent. It appeared to contain a slight Russian inflection, or (could it be?) Chinese. And the slightest trace of – though perhaps she was mistaken – something Latin American? Portuguese?

  ‘Which daughter?’ Laura had no doubt which daughter he meant, though the thought of either of her children mixed up with such a creature made her shudder.

  ‘Lucy.’

  Lucy, of course. Carina’s boyfriend was the son of an old family friend. Darling Carina, ambitious and unimaginative. A most restful sort of child. But Lucy … it figured that a girl with a compulsion for bringing home injured, abandoned and otherwise unsavoury mammals would somehow hook herself up with this. She stared at Bob with her hardest, coldest eyes. ‘I’m Laura Davenport,’ she said.

  ‘I know who you are.’ The young man glanced around. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  Could the boy actually have sneered a little? There was no mistaking the peculiar arrogance of his reply. Bernard had backed off to a tactful distance, watching the strange young man out of the corner of one eye. Now he took a step forward. ‘Why don’t you use my office? I’m happy to stay if you like, Laura.’ His look was pointed.

  ‘Thank you, but that shouldn’t be necessary.’ She drew back the corners of her mouth ever so slightly and spoke with an Arctic froideur. ‘Follow me, …?’

  ‘Bob.’ He did not offer his hand.

  ‘Bob.’ She marched off towards Bernard’s office, trusting the boy to follow. She left the door open. Neither sat.

  She waited.

  ‘I have an interest in your daughter.’

  Of course he did. Lucy attracted a great deal of interest – what mother could possibly remain ignorant of that fact? Laura was somewhat disturbed by her daughter’s wanton ability to arouse. So different from her own tidy sexuality.

  ‘What sort of interest, precisely?’

  ‘I am deeply and passionately in love with her.’

  Deeply and passionately in love? The creature’s use of language was as quaint as his accent – antique, almost, as if he’d studied with an Edwardian schoolmaster. She struggled to place him. Born in Hong Kong, perhaps? Educated at Eton? And why was it suddenly so hot? Long habits of discipline prevented her from clawing at her clothing, undoing every button and clasp. It will pass, she told herself. It will pass.

  ‘And I believe I have made significant progress in winning her affections.’

  ‘Why do you imagine your progress might interest me?’ Laura’s syntax acquired a patina of antiquity to match her opponent’s. ‘Lucy no longer lives at home and my influence over her, what little I have, does not include selecting her suitors. From what I understand, she is perfectly capable of organizing her social life entirely on her own, though of course I don’t expect her taste to be suitable in every case.’ She paused, giving him time to absorb the barb. ‘In fact, I fail to comprehend the necessity for this conversation at all …’

  Something extraordinary interrupted the flow of her lecture, and Laura could not be certain, then or later, exactly what that something was. Bob appeared to grow taller, and had it not been so patently unimaginable, she might have sworn that he began to morph, first into a dragon, then a gigantic cyclops, a minotaur, and a satyr of considerable height and breadth with eyes that glowed and hair shot through with fire. She blinked, wondering if perhaps she were having a stroke, squeezed her eyes shut and reopened them.

  Bob stood before her exactly as he had a moment earlier.

  Well. She had obviously imagined it. Of course she had. And yet, why hadn’t she noticed the peculiar intensity of him before? There was something at the core of him that felt as dense as the centre of the Earth. How had she failed to notice how he sucked all of the surrounding light into himself, swallowing it down until the edges of his figure glowed a fiery white?

  Laura shook her head once more. Who was the boy? Even his eyes appeared to have changed colour and texture. Had they been molten amber before, threatening to flow out of his sockets like lava? She stared.

  His voice was low, impatient. ‘I should like to ask you for your daughter’s hand,’ he said, and when she looked alarmed, added, ‘In marriage.’ He stared at her expectantly and stood, cross-armed and impatient, tapping the floor with his foot.

  As if from a trance, Laura came back to herself, feeling damp and slightly thick-headed. The room no longer felt unbearably hot. What if this peculiar boy-man were some sort of crazy stalker? She’d have to phone Lucy the moment he left.

  Steadying herself against the wall, she took a deep breath. Lucy was a good girl. She always had been. Engaging and friendly. Her involvement with this strange person disturbed Laura greatly.

  ‘The answer,’ she said, ‘is no. I’m afraid Lucy will have to make that sort of decision for herself … um … what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Bob.’

  ‘Bob … what?’

  The young man didn’t answer. He made no move to go.

  ‘I should like to know …’ she began. How had he found her? And what was all that odd – a cyclops? A minotaur? Really? She could barely form the questions that filled her brain. ‘Did Lucy give you my address?’ But this wasn’t her address. She was in Bernard’s church, more than a mile from home. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I ask whether my daughter is aware that you’ve come to see me today?’

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ said Bob, and disappeared.

  31

  Estelle observed her father patiently. ‘Surely you can finish for the day,’ she said. ‘You’ve been working much too hard lately.’

  ‘Too much to do, as ever,’ Hed growled. He looked up at her. ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Just now. And there is something I’d like to discuss with you.’

  Hed grimaced. What had happened to the days when his daughter (or anyone else, for that matter) sought him out for the sole purpose of a pleasant chat? Nowadays it was all, ‘Daddy, could you please’ and ‘Mr Hed, I have a proposition’…

  He wondered what was coming next. Likely she wanted something. Oh blast, he thought. I hope she’s not planning to go on about that idiot wager with Mona. Of course he had to go through with it now. And he supposed the sweetest meat in nine thousand galaxies was something to look forward to, even if it had to be swallowed along with his daughter’s disapproval.

  ‘Yes, Estelle?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Daddy.’

  ‘Admirable.’ He scowled.

  ‘I’ve been wondering about Bob. How he got his job.’

  Hed’s face registered surprise. Not what he’d been expecting at all. He rubbed his jaw. ‘Well, I’d have to think. A poker game. Yes, definitely a poker game. Not one you attended. Mona won the job from me and passed it on to Bob.’ If ever you needed proof of the evils of gambling, Hed thought. ‘Why d
o you ask?’

  ‘Just curious.’

  The look Hed gave her was that of a man accustomed to discerning truth from untruth the way most men knew whiskey from gin. ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing.’ Estelle’s expression was mild.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘What about me?’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Why didn’t you offer the job to me?’

  Hed sat up, genuinely astonished. ‘It never crossed my mind.’

  She waited.

  ‘Of course, by all means, have a job if you like, but not that one. Nasty little place, gloomy location, miles from anywhere and completely buggered up by Mona’s idiot son. Not the sort of thing suitable for you at all.’ He stared at her some more. ‘If you’re wanting a position, I’ll make enquiries, of course. But why not work for me? Handle my portfolio. Too many bits and pieces to manage properly these days, and impossible to get trustworthy stewards.’ He sat back, eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me, Estelle. You’ve said yourself how many interesting places and creatures you’ve encountered on your travels. So why this obsession with Earth?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I’ve taken an interest in Earth because it needs help.’

  ‘Demolition is what it needs,’ growled Hed. ‘Far too much of a mess to sort out now. And anyway, like it or not, that idiot Bob is God.’

  ‘Forever?’

  Hed shrugged. ‘Who else would have him? Or it?’

  Estelle hesitated. ‘What if something were to change?’

  Hed snorted. ‘Exceptionally unlikely.’

  Estelle was silent.

  ‘Tell me,’ her father said. ‘What other things have you been thinking about?’

  At this very moment, Estelle was thinking about her future. She had made up her mind long ago that the family business was not for her, for she was quite certain that she did not share her father’s ruthless streak (though in this, she was substantially mistaken). Over a period of time, she had slowly been coming to a conclusion.