Num8ers - By Rachel Ward Page 0,70

them, it’s just odd, isn’t it? They don’t see them for what they are: something other, different, not human.

“Close the door behind you,” Britney hissed. “This is Ray, he’s Dad’s work dog.”

Christ! I was shut in a room now, ten by eight, with a bloody police dog.

“He was looking for you yesterday, too, weren’t you, Rayray? You’ve found her now, haven’t you? Clever boy! Say hello to him,” she said to me, “he’ll be fine.”

“Hello,” I said, trying not to look him in the eye or wind him up in any way.

Britney stifled a giggle. “No, not like that, pet him, on his shoulder, not his head. Go on, he’ll know you’re a friend.”

“Is he going to bite me?”

She smiled and shook her head.

I edged toward him, waiting for him to lunge forward and grab my arm in his massive jaws. Slowly, slowly, I leaned forward and put my hand on the fur at the bottom of his neck and rested it there. I could feel his solid body underneath, warm and full of life, and the fur itself, it was fantastic: clean and soft. It felt like I was touching a lion. I moved my hand gently. “Hello, Ray. You’re a nice dog.” My words were as wooden as my movements. He sniffed at my leg and then quickly, almost violently, rubbed his huge, hard muzzle up and down my jeans, almost knocking me over.

“What’s he doing?”

“Nothing. He likes you. He’s putting his scent on you. Just let him.” I wasn’t going to argue, and so I stood there and let him mark me as one of his own. Not so bright after all, dogs. He hadn’t got a clue he was cozying up to the enemy.

Britney was busy in the corner with her back to me. When she turned ’round, she proudly held up a backpack, black with all sorts of stuff sewn onto it, and badges.

“I’ve put some things in. Your clothes and a bit of food, some water. I’ve got a blanket here, too, but it won’t fit inside. I’ll tie it on with some string.” She fished in a drawer, found a ball of twine, and started wrapping it ’round the rolled-up blanket. I didn’t know what to say.

“Is that your bag?”

“My schoolbag.”

“Won’t you need it?”

“I’ll just get another one, say the strap broke. No biggie.”

From upstairs, there was the sound of the bathroom door opening. We looked at each other. I wanted to bolt, there and then. Britney held her hand up to stop me. After the bog flushed, a man’s voice rang out from the landing.

“Who’s that down there? Britney, is that you?” My heart was up in my mouth again. Britney opened the kitchen door and shouted up.

“It’s OK, Dad. It’s me. The dog was whining. I’m going to take him out.”

“OK. Thanks, love.”

She came back in, finished tying the blanket onto the bag, then clipped the dog onto its leash and made for the back door, beckoning me to follow her. I closed it carefully behind us, shocked to feel the cool air on my face again. I’d felt out of place indoors, stifled, but now that I was heading back to an outdoor life, the uncomfortable reality of it came back to me.

Britney led me along the back alleys. She was holding the dog, and I had the backpack on. We walked in silence. The paths were so narrow it was single file, anyway: dog, Britney, and me. After a few minutes of twists and turns, we came to a stile between two fences. Britney unclipped Ray, and he jumped over, like it was nothing. We both clambered over after him. Off his leash, in the open field, he was more unpredictable. I kept expecting him to come to his senses and go for me like he was trained to do.

“Is he alright, like that?”

“What?”

“Just running about.”

“Yeah, he’s fine. He’ll come back when I call.”

“I mean, is it safe?”

She got what I meant this time. “’Course. You’re his friend now, he won’t go after you. He’ll have a look for some rabbits in a bit, once he’s taken a crap. The path goes over to that corner.”

I’d expected Britney to turn back once we’d got to the fields, but she walked with me a little way, the dog falling behind and then bounding up to us. We didn’t say much — we’d pretty much said it all last night — but it was fine, walking along together.

“Where are you heading?”