The Strayby James Finn |
Table of Contents Part 1 appears in this issue. |
| conclusion |
“Report me! What! Are you crazy? The thing bit me for no reason, it’s a bloody menace and I want it out the house, now, tonight!” He looked at his hand and saw it was bleeding from numerous puncture marks. He washed it under the tap. “Christ knows what it’s carrying.” He looked up from his hand at his wife and what he saw made him forget about the pain in his hand, he froze. She had a cold and emotionless look on her face. It was a look of pure hate.
“He’s not going anywhere, Paul,” her tone was low and hard. “You can if you want to. But the dog is staying here with me.” She left the kitchen.
After wrapping a bandage around his hand Paul followed her into the lounge where his wife was stroking the side of the mutt’s head. “I don’t think you are being very rational,
Carla. I’m mean look at what just happened,” his voice was level.
Matching his tone. “Oh, I think I’m being rational. You’re the one with the problem. The dog probably felt threatened by you. It was protecting itself.”
“Tell me what I’ve done that’s so bad, Carla, tell me? Because I haven’t got a clue. The animal bit me for no reason. And if feeding the thing constitutes as a threat then it has a serious problem.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, just leave me and Buster alone. Go.”
“Well what about the date on the tag, have you even looked at it?”
“You don’t honestly think that this dog is over fifty years old, do you?” She scoffed.
“I think you really are sick. You saw how faded the tag is, how do you know you haven’t read it wrong, you idiot!”
It was as if she had slapped him.
“Lost for words? Oh well, never mind.” She got up. “You get the sofa tonight or a hotel, I’m not fussed which. I’ll spend my company with the dog.” She left the room with the animal walking close to her side.
* * *
Whatever sickness he had was getting worse, and not by slow degrees either. It was as if it was working as fast as it possibly could, eager to tear apart his immune system. Now it wasn’t just his head that throbbed but everything. He felt terribly strained, and his stomach was cramping up severely.
He called the doctor again, but the doctor couldn’t get to him for at least two hours as he was already out on call.
He staggered to the kitchen and got himself a glass of water which settled in his stomach like lead. Head bowed over the sink Paul tried to recall if he had eaten anything that would have caused such a condition. But there was nothing. No fast food or snack sandwiches. He began to retch and brought the water back up along with bile and at the same time messed his boxer shorts.
Oh, God, what’s happening to me?
Crawling to the downstairs toilet, he cleaned and changed himself; though the task left him feeling impossibly weak. He’d have to call an ambulance, screw the doctor, something was very wrong with him. A new batch of cancer that eats away at you within a day?
Making his way back in the living room, he was surprised by the sight of Carla and her faithful animal.
“You still here?” she asked not disguising her contempt.
He struggled for breath. “Carla, please... call the hospital I’m ill.” He dropped to his knees and the impact caused a massive shooting pain to jolt through his body. He let out a weak cry and clutched his stomach.
“Call it yourself. I’m not your slave, besides, Buster’s hungry and he needs to eat to build his strength back up. Poor thing.”
Paul watched as his wife and dog walked around him without so much as a flicker of emotion. His nose bled again and this time he felt something run from out his ear, and that’s when he realized he was dying, and his wife wasn’t lifting a finger to help. What was wrong with her?
“I hope you’re gonna clean that mess up. Blood stains, you know?” She walked back up stairs with Buster in tow.
Laying on the floor with his own blood pooling around his head, his body contorted in pain, Paul stared at the floor incapable of doing a thing. I’m going to die here, he thought, on the floor in a heap, helpless and stinking. He was about to close his eyes and resign himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do except wait for the inevitable, when his eyes caught upon something shiny on the carpet: the dog tag, it had fallen from the collar.
With a huge effort he reached out, picked it up and turned it over so the date faced him: 12/8/51. He looked at it closely, not like the name, the numbers were clear and legible, this was the correct date. But for what? The dog’s date of birth or the date its last owner had first purchased or come across the beast? Neither seemed as ludicrous as Carla had suggested. There was something wrong with the animal, something that defied logic. It wasn’t rabies or any other kind of disease. It was something worse. The dog was getting better and he was getting worse. And it was also influencing his wife, making her ignorant.
He attempted to get to his feet and only succeeded in falling back down again with another bone-shattering thud. He tried again, this time leaning some of his weight on the sofa until he managed to pull himself up onto the seat. It left him panting for breath. With an enormous effort he got to his feet where he swayed back and forth unsteady. His head was spinning and he felt as though he was going to vomit again. He took a step forward, then another one, then fell back down. This time he screamed out in agony. He couldn’t do it, he was too weak and in too much pain.
Blood was running from his eyes blurring his vision. I really am dead, he thought. He turned over and lay on his back, it was becoming difficult to breathe. Tilting his neck he looked around him. His eyes stopped on a letter opener on the coffee table.
Turning back over on his stomach, he crawled along the floor, every movement threatening to cause him to lose consciousness, but he was determined. After what seemed like miles he reached the edge of the table and grabbed at the opener which fell to the floor. Placing it between his teeth, he shuffled towards the stairs, imagining how ridiculous he must look.
He was gasping now. Spit spilling out of his mouth and over the long blade of the opener. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he groaned at the mammoth task ahead.
Body trembling, Paul began to make his ascent. He grunted with every step climbed as though he was scaling a mountain.
The dog’s bark caused him to cry out dropping the opener from his mouth and losing his grip on the stair. He fell back down to the bottom in a defeated heap.
The pain was blinding, but that wasn’t his main concern. His concern was finding the opener and killing the dog. To stop what was happening to him and to his wife.
He scanned around looking for the blade but couldn’t see it anywhere. He’d lost it.
The dog was staring at him, teeth showing, growl fierce and imminent.
“Well, well. Naughty Paul is up to mischief.” Carla was standing at the top of
the stairs. “What are you doing? Trying to hurt my sweet animal again?”
“Please, Carla, you have to listen,” he gasped. “It’s the dog. There’s something terribly wrong with the dog. He’s evil.”
Carla laughed. “The dog’s evil, what crap. You’re just jealous. Buster is fantastic, heaven-sent.” She began to descend the stairs.
Where the hell was the blade? He moved back and discovered he had been lying on it. Thank God! He grabbed it and lunged at the animal, but the beast was quicker and backed up the stairs to where Carla was.
“Keep away from me! The dog’s evil, it’s making me ill! Can’t you see that? That’s why it’s lived for so long. It takes life.”
Carla sat down on the stair next to Buster and began to run her fingers through his fur. “Poor, poor, Paul. I don’t think I want you around any more and neither does Buster.
He thinks you’re a bad man.” The dog began to lick her hand.
Spasms crippled Paul and blood began to run from every hole in his body.
“Paul, I think it is better that you leave us now, forever. We will be a lot happier without you around. Goodbye, Paul.”
“Bitchhh!” He couldn’t breathe, his head felt as though it was being shredded. The opener fell from his hand. He couldn’t even speak. He watched his wife stroke and cuddle the animal. It replied by licking her face. This was the last thing he saw.
Moments later Paul Given was dead.
* * *
A lot of people turned up to Paul’s funeral: family, friends and work colleagues. Carla wept as she watched his coffin being lowered into the cold, damp earth. People comforted her and she thanked them for their support in her time of need. But nobody made her feel better than her loving loyal dog who remained at her side throughout the entire service.
She had bought him a nice new collar and tag, it read: Buster. And on the reverse side was the numbers: 18/7/05. He was her dog now, and she’d remain with him until she passed on. And after that time he could find himself a nice new home, where somebody could love and feed him and where somebody else could give him life.
