There Is No Dog Page 15

  He jumps to page two. There is a description of his next job, ‘as a reward for sterling performance’. Oh, happiness upon happiness! He knows the planet; it is one of the best – sane and orderly, with an ancient structure, a perfect climate, a wise and contented population. He will be top God, sole God, with a full support staff that he imagines will prove entirely unnecessary. It seems wondrously, impossibly perfect.

  Returning to his desk, Mr B experiences a temporary setback at the sight of his files spilling in heaps on every surface. This is the usual state of things, but he sees it with the eyes of a man surveying a place for the last time. So many petitions, so many prayers that will remain unheard unto eternity. Perhaps once he is gone, Bob will rise to the occasion.

  Perhaps.

  Perhaps (despite the accolades he now has in writing), perhaps he has not managed to fulfil the conditions of his job so well after all. Is he at fault? Has he failed to carry out the responsibilities that are within his control?

  ‘Highest standards … sterling performance …’

  His heart, which has been beating in frantic rhythm for hours, abruptly slows. The heaviness to which, over the years, he has become accustomed, returns to his limbs and for a moment he thinks he may sink to the floor. A pain at the centre of his being increases, radiating down both arms, up into his neck and jaw and head, down his trunk and both legs. He feels as if he is made of lead. If he did not know better, he would imagine that he is having a stroke.

  ‘Valued service …’

  How can he leave all of this behind? How will Bob alone take responsibility for Earth? At least he has managed, over the years, to satisfy the occasional request, reverse the fortunes of one in a thousand, one in a million, in ten million. At least he has tried. He has cared, genuinely cared, for the poor unfortunates created in the headlong rush of Bob’s indifference, those destined to live out their fates in succeeding doomed generations, ad infinitum. He has cared for them as individuals as well as en masse. He has saved a few, eased some suffering, diverted a massacre where he could. One or two mothers’ hearts have offered him thanks, despite the infinite number who have wept oceans of tears and cursed Bob’s indifference.

  His head is bowed; he half leans on his desk.

  It is he, not Bob, who cares for this world.

  Bob is not, and never has been, fit to rule. He is a cog. A boob. A cur.

  He is no God.

  If there even is such a thing as God, thinks Mr B. If there is such a being, it cannot be Bob.

  He hesitates, and all at once a realization explodes in his brain like a bomb. He groans, gripping the desk to avoid falling.

  Why has he never seen it before? The obviousness of it.

  With purest clarity he realizes that Bob is not the God to whom the multitudes direct their entreaties. Bob is not the all-merciful, the all-seeing, all-knowing deity of grace and wisdom and compassion. If there is such a being, it is not the indifferent, underage parent of this world, the thoughtless creator. It is the other, the one who has struggled day after day to make things better, to answer a few prayers, right a few wrongs, who has suffered along with his planet and tried to fix things, in however small a manner, to change a detail here and there for the good of mankind, for the creatures, for all who suffer and long for a better life.

  No. Bob is not God.

  He is.

  Demo version limitation

  46

  Mr B enters this place for what must surely be the last time, followed closely by Mona.

  ‘Hello, darlings!’ She leans down and kisses Bob, who swats at her with one apathetic hand. He has spent the night huddled in the dark at the bottom of his wardrobe, thinking of Lucy and hoping the world would come to an end before dawn.

  It will certainly come to an end for Eck, who is today due to be served up to Emoto Hed, lightly sautéed in butter and topped with a delicious peppercorn sauce.

  Mona helps herself to a large glass of champagne. She hands another to Mr B, who puts it down.

  ‘You’re looking peaky, my darling,’ says Bob’s mother, reaching to feel God’s forehead with the back of her hand.

  ‘That’s because my life is ruined.’ Bob coughs and shudders, every muscle cramped and aching from his night on the dusty cupboard floor.

  ‘Oh, dearest, I am sorry.’ She frowns for an instant, then beams. ‘But never mind that now.’ She refills her empty glass.

  Bob rolls off the large, L-shaped sofa and crawls over to Mr B. ‘Could I speak with you for a moment, alone?’

  The older man follows him out.

  ‘I’ve done it.’

  Mr B looks down at him, surprised. ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes. But just FYI, when I requested that you get rid of my mother, I didn’t also require you to get rid of the only girl in the world I ever loved.’

  ‘Lucy?’ Mr B is somewhat bemused by so many turns of events. The safest course of action seems to be to say nothing.

  ‘And, by the way, my mother is still around.’ Bob is too dispirited to continue. With the last dregs of his energy, he crawls back to the sofa, pulls himself up on to one end and closes his eyes. The final image to imprint itself upon his waking eyeball is a fish.

  Estelle, with her usual air of quiet resolution, has arrived accompanied by a nervous and much thinner Eck. The air of doom surrounding him is palpable. Mona has temporarily disappeared, perhaps to fetch more champagne. Mr B takes the seat beside Estelle and places one hand on Eck’s sad, snuffling nose.

  ‘I promised Bob I’d get rid of Mona,’ he says.

  She turns to look at him. ‘I know,’ she says.

  Another mystery, thinks Mr B.

  Outside in the world, a murmur has begun, rapidly increasing in volume. Mr B is first at the window. Estelle is next; they stare, transfixed. Mona crowds in, still clutching her champagne. She begins to laugh, clapping one hand over her mouth like a delighted child.

  They all turn to look at Bob, who sleeps so deeply he could be dead.

  It is a miracle. There are hundreds of them. Thousands. They hover just above tree level, basking in the warm sun. They are rising, each at a different pace. In the early moments they lie still, as if stunned by lightness. One shudders, like a dog, and lowers his tail – an experiment. He flows upwards towards the clouds, cautious at first, his great bulk light as air. Another joins him, and another.

  There are too many, now, to count. They are big and small, in all shades of black and grey and green and fawn and mottled blue, giant baleens, majestic orca, sperm whales, humpbacks, grey whales, porpoises, pilots, beaked and minke whales. By the time the last ones have floated free of their inky dank soup, the leaders have risen to the height of a mast, a mountain, an aeroplane. Some swoop together like birds, birds of unimaginable size and bulk, their smiling mouths ajar. They click and twitter and boom out their gratitude, the sweetness of joy rumbles up from the depths of each gigantic gorge.

  It is not just the whales who have learned to fly.

  The other creatures of the oceans rise up too: great electric eels, whole shimmering shoals of silvery minnows, giant tuna, delicate transparent jellyfish, stingrays flapping their prehistoric wings, squid the size of luxury cars. The sky is crowded now, the faces of observers transfigured with ecstasy and fear. Mr B feels as if he has returned to the enchantment of that first time, when Bob created all that the waters brought forth abundantly.

  Only this time, they are brought forth abundantly into the sky.

  Wherever the great whales have struggled against annihilation, they rise. They frolic in the sky.

  Estelle holds out her hand. A sardine evades her fingers with a flick of its tail. On the street below, everyone stares upwards. They have poured out of homes and schools and shops; they lean out of windows and doorways. They stand on balconies, gawping, astonished. The spectacle is so extraordinary that no one looks away. Men and women of all
ages, children, babies, dogs and cats – everyone stares, faces turned to the sky.

  Bob stirs. Opens one eye. See? says his expression. I did what I said I’d do. A second later he is unconscious again.

  With tears in his eyes, Mr B looks at what Bob has wrought. It is miraculous, extraordinary, yes. But a solution? How will this solve his problem? What will happen next? He wants to shake Bob, demand to know what he was thinking, require him to return things to the way they were, to fix the oceans properly, for God’s sake.

  He looks at Bob and sees a hopeless callow schoolboy, selfish and lazy, obsessed with sex. But can he deny that there is also the strange energy, the flashes of brilliance, the miracles? Bob doesn’t plan or consider consequences, but once in a while, when he puts his mind to it, he achieves magnificence. And then, a minute later, the vast tangled mountain of chaos reveals itself.

  Bob blinks awake. He registers Mr B’s gaze and in return sees only what he might become, and most dreads.

  Around the world in every place without hope or light, the people stand, faces upturned with wonder. For a brief instant in the long and painful history of the planet, wars stop, blood feuds are forgotten, no one is murdered or desperate or sad. The entire world hesitates, uncertain and amazed. Perhaps, some think, the Red Sea really did part. Perhaps stone tablets truly did come down from the sky.

  If whales can fly, surely more miracles are possible? Tomorrow another; the day after, another?

  And maybe, thinks Mr B, before it all goes horribly wrong (for he feels certain that the world has witnessed a moment, nothing more), he can do something about the seas, so that when the creatures return home their lives will be better.

  When their lives are better, so is his. That is where he differs from Bob.

  What am I? he wonders. I am the one who bullies and prods, who cajoles and begs and pleads. I am the one with the files and the lists and the knowledge of life and death. I am the one who yanks Bob out of bed to do what needs to be done. I am the brain and the conscience of Bob; what is Bob without me? What am I without Bob, he wonders.

  He looks at Estelle, who looks back at him with eyes that are calm and cool and kind.

  They will soon know.

  47

  Emoto Hed has arrived with his chef. The expression on his face is grim. He suspects diversions, is impatient with the peculiar behaviour of the fish. Mona tries to smile. She turns to Mr B; panic boils in her head. Get it over with, she seems to be saying. She will not be safe until the transaction is complete.

  Fish swim past the windows.

  Bob is no longer asleep. He slouches beside Mr B, who has placed the transfer document face down upon the table. Beside Mr B stands Estelle. She holds the injured Eck in her arms, his nose on her shoulder. Silent tears trickle softly to the floor.

  Estelle glances down at the document. She looks again. Blinks. What she sees causes her eyes to open very wide, to forget, for an instant, the fate of the Eck.

  Hed’s chef sharpens his butcher’s knife against a well-used sharpening steel. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. The noise is sickening. Something dreadful is about to happen here, while outside, fish continue to swim through the air. Despite the miserable drama unfolding before them, the entire company hesitates briefly as a gigantic blue manta ray performs a series of swooping slow somersaults across the windows of the flat. For twenty seconds (or is it twenty years?) they all turn to gaze at the afternoon sky.

  But now Emoto Hed nods to indicate readiness. His chef prises the Eck from Estelle’s arms. She barely seems to notice.

  For the first time, the assembled cast can see his injuries, the terrible bruises, unhealed gashes, the great lump on the side of his head. He sports a heavy bandage on one arm. Emoto Hed looks appalled.

  ‘You expect me to eat that?’

  The chef whispers in his ear. His finished meal will show no sign of the creature’s flaws; any irregularities in the meat will disappear beneath the silky sauce. The chef squeezes and prods poor Eck, nodding and making mental notes for marinating and cooking times. At last, he raises the knife, tests it carefully with his thumb and positions it just in front of Eck’s throat, planning the depth and the angle of his cut.

  ‘Stop.’ It is Estelle.

  The colour rises in Hed’s face, which begins to twist with rage. Mona shrinks, thinking of his terrible power, of everything that is at stake. But Estelle, unfazed, takes a step forward. She stays the knife by placing one firm hand on the chef’s arm.

  ‘I offer Mona,’ she says in her clear soft voice. ‘In lieu of the Eck.’

  Hed looks intrigued. ‘To eat?’

  Mona gasps and collapses.

  ‘If you like,’ says Estelle calmly. ‘But it would be a waste. Alive, she will play cards with you day and night and amuse you in a thousand different ways. She is extremely beautiful and will make an excellent companion, although she did lie to you most shamefully about Ecks being delicious. Didn’t you, Mona?’

  Mona’s eyes flicker open. From her position on the floor the assembled company all appear to be gazing down at her. Is there a right answer to this question? One that won’t inspire Hed to convert her to a long thin scream of eternal agony?

  Hed looks from one to the other, from the odd little damaged penguiny thing to the voluptuous golden goddess.

  ‘So he is not the most delicious creature in nine thousand galaxies?’ Hed’s fury threatens to bring down the ceiling.

  ‘Not exactly,’ whispers Mona at last. Though secretly she is thinking that the one she ate was the most delicious in at least two or three thousand galaxies.

  What follows is the most ominous pause in nine thousand millennia. The room itself seems to tremble.

  At last Hed speaks. ‘Well,’ he says, and shrugs. ‘If I can’t eat the Eck, I’d only have to throw it away.’ He looks at Mona with an expression that is not a great deal more pleasant than a threat, and before she can react he leans down to take her arm. With a sound like a great inhalation of breath, they disappear.

  Bob glances at Mr B. The fish are saved and his mother is gone. Things are looking up.

  Only one question remains.

  With a flourish, Mr B lifts the authorization for his new job from the table. He holds it at arm’s length for all to see. Closing his eyes, he imagines the pleasure of freedom from Earth, life on his orderly new planet, how happy he will be.

  ‘Ahem.’ In time-honoured tradition, he taps a knife on Mona’s champagne glass. ‘I have an announcement to make.’ He speaks to what remains of the assembly, which is, in truth, a bit of a disappointing audience: Bob, Estelle, Eck. And Emoto Hed’s chef, who looks uncomfortable. A guest at the wrong party. ‘I am afraid I shall be leaving you.’

  ‘Off you go then.’ Bob rolls his eyes.

  ‘For good.’

  ‘You’re leaving Earth?’ Bob’s mouth drops open. ‘No you’re not. I won’t allow it.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a done deal.’

  Bob’s voice booms with the power of outrage. ‘I AM GOD. YOU CAN DO NOTHING WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.’

  ‘Terribly sorry, but technically speaking I’m afraid that’s incorrect. My resignation has been accepted, and I have received transfer orders to a new planet. Quite a beautiful planet, in fact.’ Mr B radiates bliss. This is his moment, the one he has imagined over and over, year after year, millennium after millennium.

  Bob’s face has gone purple with fury. He shrinks to the size of a button and expands like a huge balloon.

  Estelle stands very still. Watching.

  Mr B continues: ‘I hope you will not consider me immodest if I quote from this letter: In recognition of your sterling service in the face of insurmountable odds, etc., etc., etc., exceptional forbearance combined with creativity of the highest order, we are pleased to offer you –’ he skims down – ‘with our highest admiration … effective immediately.’ Overcome with the emotion of the
moment, he wipes tears away with the back of his hand. ‘I shall miss you all, and trust you to carry on, without me, the job I sought to do, and to remember in my name that there is much to accomplish on Earth, despite what often appears to be the most hopeless burden of woe …’

  ‘La la la la la la!’ Bob has closed his eyes, placed a finger in each ear and begun to sing, loudly. Hed’s chef wanders off to the kitchen to rifle through the pantry cupboards, searching for something for lunch. Only Estelle and Eck attend Mr B now. Estelle’s pure brow is slightly creased, but she smiles at him with tender sympathy. Eck’s eyes have grown heavy. They close.

  When there is no one left to witness them, Estelle gently takes the papers from him. With exquisite tact, she turns them over. Her finger slips down across the writing on the back of the envelope until it comes to the address. The addressee. Her finger rests long enough for Mr B to read the name carefully, something he has not done before.

  He gasps. It cannot be. Staggering a little, he groans, grabbing on to the windowsill. Then he clamps his eyes shut; his entire body shivers violently.

  Bob is suddenly alert. What’s this? He removes his fingers from his ears. What new development is this?

  Estelle hands the transfer papers to Bob, who scans them quickly. His petulant lip quivers, his eyes widen. He frowns, confused. When the truth finally dawns on him, he grins and whoops.

  ‘Me!’ he shrieks. ‘The transfer is for me! I’m the genius!’ He jabs his finger at the paper. ‘Me! Me! Look! It says so right here in black and white!’ His voice rises. ‘I am king of the gods, the best, the bravest! I’m the dog’s bollocks; I’m the one with the fabulous new job! Hello? Would you like to see my promotion? My promotion? Who’s the clever one, now? Me! Exceptional forbearance and creativity of the highest order? Me! Sterling service in the face of insurmountable odds? Me! I’m the one who gets to leave.’ He begins to dance around the room, tucking in his chin, pumping his arms, lifting his knees and chanting: ‘New plan-et! New plan-et! New plan-et!’