Dogs and Glasshouses

'If I make 'em last, I'm down to twenty-a-day,' says Mr Lynch,
dragging a dog-end to his sick fingertips. He blows smoke against the
windscreen, head still, yellow eyes scanning the horizon. We're parked
on Maze Hill, up from the John Roan, where the trees thin out and you
can see over the park and across to the Dogs.

'They say you can't change the habits of a lifetime, eh Barney. Well
I'm living proof that you can.' He thumps the dash. His hand trembles
on the vinyl like a scared rabbit, and he pulls away leaving a damp
handprint.
'All the stuff they tell us. Don't drink. Don't smoke. Don't drive when
you can walk. Rubbish. Never did the Queen mum no 'arm did it? God rest
'er soul.' He shakes his head, inhales sharply and explodes into a
coughing fit. It sounds like a film I saw where a guy hacked up his
guts and snakes came out. Mr Lynch yanks open the car door and empties
his lungs onto the tarmac. He holds his chest until the fit subsides
and peers out of the door. ''S ok,' he mumbles, pulling the door
closed, 'no blood.'

He lights up again. It's the hottest day of the year so far. The Jag is
full of smoke but Mr Lynch won't let me roll down a window because of
his pollen allergy. 'All the crap in the air,' he says, 'you can't see
it, but the air's full of it. Chemicals, pesticides, DVTs - they do for
your lungs. Yours too Barney. Sooner or later, you'll be looking for
blood in your phlegm. Sad state of affairs it is. But I'll do my bit.
I'm no quitter, but I'll quit the smokes. We'll see if it makes things
any better.'

He's not happy today. He hasn't been happy any day since he got put on
errands with me. He messed up badly, put people to trouble. He won't
give details but now he's running errands with me. It's a punishment,
payment of a debt - favours or money. With Mr Lynch I think his
goodwill is well into the red. For me it's compound interest. So we've
been keeping our heads down, making the best of a bad deal. When you
belong to Stone Tone that's the best you can hope for.

Smoking helps Mr Lynch wait. He's good at waiting. He spends his life
planning on going somewhere. But he never got there. Not like me. I'm
always 'moving forwards, never looking back', just like dad taught me.
When I've repaid the debt, I want a normal life: wife, kids, cat, dog,
house, car, a desk job and cash in hand, away from all this
madness.

I ask Mr Lynch, 'Is that him Mr Lynch?' He looks into the sun, through
the railings into the park where a man is walking his dog along the
edge of the footie pitch. He shakes his head, dropping ash that he
flicks from his sleeve. He takes another drag.
'You know Barney, you've got to learn patience,' he says, from the
corner of his mouth. 'I've been in this business long enough to know.
Patience is a man's best friend.' He pats a jaundiced hand on my knee.
'Look around. Enjoy the pinnacles of summer. Take in the couples
strolling in the park. Kids playing football on the grass. Think of
their unattended homes and their inadequate security. Ripe pickings,
Barney, ripe pickings.'
'But Mr Lynch, Stone Tone said you don't do houses no more.'
He sighs. Nails dig into my jeans. Whatever he'd like to be doing, he
has no choice. There's a job to be done. 'That's right Barney. You've
got the idea. I've been around this business long enough to know. Times
have changed. The market has changed. No more ransacking places and
shifting the goods down the pub. Supply and demand. That's what it's
all about now. Tony demands and we supply: a widescreen TV for Danny
Franklin's kids, a nice little runabout for Lionel Scrapper's
Missus.'
'A dog for Stone Tone?'
'Yes Barney, even a dog for Stone Tone.'
'But, this is the thing I don't understand. Why can't we nip over to
Battersea, show them the photo and hand over some cash?'
'Because, Barney, we're not after any old dog. We're looking for a
pedigree animal, one that answers to the name of Biggles. A monstrous
dog, one bred to guard. One that mauled Tony's own minder before he
bolted. A dangerous dog, a dog that looks - just like that!'

Mr Lynch leaps from the passenger seat, scattering ash. He leaves the
door wide open, legs it to the railings, wrestles with them, finds his
footing and bellyflops into the grass. He scuttles across the pitch on
collision course with a kid. The kid can't be more than fourteen,
slapped down hair, dirty shell-suit bottoms and constipated face,
straining against a taut lead. The beast - a foaming sea of wrinkles
flecked with silver teeth - swaggers resolutely towards the penalty
spot, bowels fit to burst.

I'm giving him a head start. It will make him feel better. I pull the
keys slowly from the ignition and close both the doors. No point in
locking it. Around here car locks are like fag-packet wrappers. A
security system based on respect. Everybody round here knows what Stone
Tone does to people who don't respect company cars.
I pat the roof and steal over the railings into the park. Mr Lynch has
stalled. When I reach the doubled-up silhouette in the middle of the
field, he has one hand on his chest, the other pointing at the kid,
who's kicking a deflated ball around the goalmouth.
'I swear this air 'll kill me.'
'Are you all right Mr Lynch? Need your inhaler?'
He looks at me, eyes red and exasperated, 'Are you going to get the
bloody dog or not?'

The kid's playing keepie-uppies. The dog's squatting on the churned-up
grass. They're both ignoring the other. The dog ignores me, but the kid
looks up sharply when I approach. 'C'mon Bruiser. Hurry up and finish
your shitting.'
'His name's Biggles.'
The ball flops to the ground. The kid inspects my shoes. Then he
laughs, bit nervous, and doesn't say anything.
'C'mon Biggles,' I say, holding out my hand. The dog pulls back on its
hind legs, and emits a rumbling base note. The lips tense and lift to
show curls of fangs.
'What you doin' mister?'
'This ain't your dog.'
'That's right mister. It ain't my dog. It's Silverfish's dog. You know
who Silverfish is?'
'Never heard of him.'
'We'll he's my brother and 'e's rock hard. Diamond hard, meaner than a
shitting hound. See, you better leave the dog and me alone.' He picks
up the flat ball as if he's going to throw it. The dog scrapes his paws
on the ground. I hear hoarse rasps coming up behind me.
'Have you got the dog yet Barney?' gasps Mr Lynch.
'He says it's his brother's.'
'Barney!' groans Mr Lynch, 'you have to stop believing what these kids
tell you. Look son, your brother stole this dog from a very important
man, our boss. We're here to take the dog home.'
'Silverfish don't steal dogs off no one. Go and get your own dog mister
and leave me alone.'
'Now come on son. Here's what I'll do. Here's fifty quid. You can tell
your brother the dog did a runner and you couldn't catch 'im.'
'I ain't going to do anything for your cash. I've heard of perverts
like you. The parks are full of 'em.'
'Right,' says Mr Lynch. He spreads a fan of tenners in his hand. 'This
is my final offer.' The boy looks at the cash, at the dog, and at the
cash again. Mr Lynch walks up to him. 'Look, a ton. Buy another dog
with that if you want. Save yourself some trouble son.'
Suddenly, the dog lets out a wild snort and throws itself at Mr Lynch,
knocking him to the ground in a blur of coat sleeves, notes, and fur.
Before I can reach them, Mr Lynch squeals like a cow with a pistol at
its head. It's all I can do to grab the dog's back legs and pull it off
him. The dog fights furiously until I swing it round and there's the
dull crack against a goalpost. The animal's body goes slack and drops
to the ground.
Mr Lynch is screaming, 'It bit my finger. It bit my finger off.' He's
on his knees, covered in blood, squeezing his right hand, and turning
white.
I bend down to help but the kid starts kicking at my leg. Tears stream
down his face. 'You killed my dog!' he screams. I kick back and send
him sprawling in the mud. He picks himself up and runs off, shouting,
'Silverfish'll get you mister.'
I watch him run. It must be good to run away. Then I hear Mr Lynch
calling to me in choked gulps. 'What is it Mr Lynch?'
His voice is very faint. He reaches up to my ear as if he was dying.
'Find my bloody finger Barney.'
There's no grass around the goalmouth. The cracked earth is kicked up
but hiding nothing. I move out onto the pitch, trying to get a search
pattern going. Mr Lynch growls behind me, but his finger isn't
there.
'Have you got it? Have you found it yet?'
I don't want to upset him. I walk over to the dog. It's sprawled
pornographically on the grass, head thrown back, mouth wide. The head
is still warm, heavy. It stinks. I wipe some of the spit away, force
the teeth wider apart and carefully poke my fingers in.
'It's ok Mr Lynch. I've got it. I got your finger. It was in its
mouth,' I shout.
'You had your fingers in its mouth?'
'It's ok Mr Lynch, it's dead.'
'Dead? You killed it? You killed the bloody dog? What did you go and do
that for?' He rolls over, head as limp as the dog's.
'It bit your finger Mr Lynch. Look, here it is.'
'Oh God. He's going to kill us. He was nuts about this dog, loved it
more than his kids. When Stone Tone finds out we've killed his dog he's
going to kill us. He's going to kill you.'
'I've got your finger.'
'I can't feel it. I can't feel it at all. I?' he faints

I like driving fast. I'm driving fast, skipping red lights and
overtaking on bends. I wish I had flashing lights like in the films,
where the fat detective leans out the window and sticks it on the roof.
Mr Lynch is slumped in the passenger seat. I take a corner too quick
and he flops over the gear stick, so I swerve the other way and his
head bangs against the window. That wakes him up.
'Where's the dog? Where's Stone Tone's dog?'
'In the boot. The dog's in the boot.'
'Where are we, where are we going?'
'I'm taking you to hospital.'
'Hospital. Are you crazy? Barney, we've got to hide, before Stone Tone
comes looking for us. Oh God, I can't feel my hand. Have you still got
my finger?'
'If you go to hospital they can sew it back on.'
'They'll ask questions. Things get complicated in hospital. I can't go
to hospital.'
'I know somewhere else. A friend, she's a nurse. She'll know what to
do.'
'Get me my painkillers. And a fag.'
He passes out again.

I'm throwing stones at an upstairs window. Lynch is slumped against the
passenger door, stumbling in and out of consciousness. 'Dog ate my
finger,' he mumbles. 'What are you doing?'
'This is the nurse's place.' I throw a big stone too hard and it cracks
against a pane. There are banging noises from above and the window
jerks open.
'What do you want?'
'Natalie, it's me. It's Barney.'
'I can see who it is. I'm asking what you think you're doing
here.'
'This is my friend Mr Lynch. He's had an accident.'
'I thought I told you, I didn't want to see you again after what you
did. Didn't I tell you that?'
'A dog ate my finger,' says Mr Lynch, lifting the blood-soaked
handkerchief that binds his hand. 'I'm not feeling very well.'
'You see Nat? A dog ate his finger. He needs treatment.'
'Well go to a doctor then.'
'We can't. Mr Lynch says it's too complicated.'
'Complicated is it? Complicated, like you made my life?'
'Come on Natalie. You're meant to be compassionate.'
Mr Lynch decides to get out of the car, but his legs don't work and he
spews out across the pavement. Natalie looks down. His yellow
complexion is fading into white.
'I've got his finger,' I say.
She lets out an exasperated raspberry and bangs the window shut. A
second later the door buzzes and clicks open.

It isn't easy getting Lynch's comatose body up the steep stairs. He
bounces between the narrow walls, screaming if his hand brushes against
the wood chip. Natalie is standing on the top step. She takes his left
shoulder, throws me a dirty look, and we haul him inside and pour him
onto the couch. She gives him a large orange tablet with a glass of
water.
'Well, that'll have to come off,' she says, with her arms
crossed.
'No!' he barks and hides his paw away, which means he was awake all
along.
'Come on, we need to get that jacket off him. Get me some scissors. Now
then Mr Lynch.'

In the kitchen, I pull out the same dismal blue drawers but find
different things inside. She's moved everything around since my
days.
'What's his first name,' she calls to me. I can't think what Mr Lynch's
first name is. I knew it once but now I've forgotten it, so I just
ignore her. Then I find the scissors. When I get back in there she's
all over the man as if he was dying. I hand her the scissors.
'Now Mr Lynch, what I'm going to do is cut the arm of your jacket so I
can get to your hand.' She moves the steel blade to the edge of the
cuff but he pulls away, yapping. I swear that bite is having an effect
on him. 'OK, Mr Lynch,' she tells him, 'I'm going to have to pull your
jacket off instead. It might hurt a little. Barney, can you free his
shoulder please? OK. Mr Lynch, are you ready? This won't hurt at
all.'
Nat pulls the jacket and he howls with pain. An acrid tang floats over
his aftershave. She puts her hand on his shoulder. 'That was very
brave,' she says directly into his face, 'but I need to take your nice
silk shirt off too. Barney can you undo his left sleeve please.' I
reach for the buttons at his wrist, but he cowers, shouting, 'Cut! Cut
the shirt,' so Natalie glides the blade up his arm. I feel
uncomfortable seeing him half-naked. I didn't know how old Lynch is,
even his birthday, but the blubber shivering around his middle is
shrivelled and sprouting, skin losing suppleness, filling with brown
patches. I'd never thought of him as vulnerable before.
Natalie kneels by the wounded animal of his hand, polyester skirt
stretched across her behind. 'Now, let's have a look,' she whispers and
starts to unwrap the bloody rag, Lynch wincing every turn. She catches
me staring. 'Make some tea then Barn. Three mugs, lots of sugar.'

When I was seeing Natalie, the kitchen was a place of refuge to shelter
in after difficult days or, more often, difficult nights. Plaster
scars, unhealed beneath a coat of cheap paint, commemorate our time
together. The view is still the same, rows of bricks and a smell of
chip fat, but most everything else is different. I shouldn't have
brought him here. It makes me think of history I should keep buried. It
took a long time for the taste of this life to disappear, now its back
in a lump at the back of my throat.
'No tea then?'
'How is he?'
'He smells disgusting.'
'That's normal. He says washing is no good for the complexion.'
'I can't believe you brought one of your cronies here Barney, not after
all this time. I thought I was out of your world.'
'He needed to see someone.'
'You couldn't just go to hospital like anyone else then? No, I suppose
that would be too much to ask. On the wanted list again, are you? No, I
don't want to know Barney.'
'Is he going to be alright Nat?'
'Well I can't sew his finger back on. Whatever this is, it isn't a
finger. Looks like a dog biscuit. But only the tip has gone. He
probably won't miss it, unless he plays piano. Sometimes they even grow
back, but that's in mice. Don't know about people. He's lost quite a
bit of blood, so he needs to stay here for a bit. And he said to tell
you to get rid of the dog. I don't want to know what that means.'

I open the boot. I had thought maybe the corpse would be covered in
flies or it would have cooked in the baking afternoon sun, but it
hadn't changed at all. Sprawled across the box files that constitute
Lynch's mobile office the dog looks peaceful, except for the bloody
wound above its ear. I have an idea that if I shake the dog it might
jump up and solve our problems, but I can't touch the dead fur. I don't
want to feel its coldness, so I close the lid and drive, slowly, a
funeral procession. I haven't got a plan. Lynch makes plans all the
time but with him asleep on Nat's couch I just drive until the roads
are not sprayed Stone Tone's territory.
I could put it in the river but old Tone likes to keep informed of
articles plucked from the tide. He likes to be informed of other
people's business. That how he got his name. He says nobody's clean. He
uses all those filthy bits of dirt to keep us all in our place: Lynch,
me, dad.

Tone took me to the glasshouses when I was fifteen. He explained my old
man's financial problems, what dad owed, how he couldn't pay. He asked
me what I was going to do about it. I got angry, said I'd squeal. He
told me to be careful threatening people. 'Make sure your own house is
in order first and all that. Don't want to bring trouble on yourself.
Skeletons, wearing dirty laundry, if you follow me.' Then he handed me
a rock, said, 'come on son, have a throw.' He made dad's problems mine.
That's how he holds it all together. You have to admire man, people
round here do. And now I've killed the dog he loves over his kids.
What's he going to do to me? What's he going to do to dad?

Horns pull me back to the wheel. I know this street. I haven't been
here for a long time, but it looks the same. The Spar on the corner
never got the shutters working from the time me and Martin Sebald
superglued them down. That was ten years ago. I've not seen Mart for
five or six. Heard he was emigrating, wish I'd had the courage. I get
to the burnt out wrecks by the tower blocks. Newer models melted down
to the same rusting skeletons. My mother's house, where it stood, was
always in shadow. Now, the shadow falls across the supermarket they
built over it. The supermarket is burnt out too, boarded up, all the
windows smashed. I look at the space from the car, but don't get out.
If mum was still there, I could creep round the side gate and bury the
dog. Job done. But our shaded garden is concreted over and the past
buried.

Near the playing fields, a short kid with spiky hair scrapes his
trainers across the pavement. I slow down and pull level with him. He
ignores me so I roll down the window and say, 'Hey kid, want to earn
yourself some cash?' His watery little eyes peer in. He keeps walking
but slows. I stay level with him. I pull a twenty out and wave it at
him. He slows more. 'Have you got a spade,' I shout.

'Wow,' says the kid. We're standing round the back of the car with the
boot popped. He pokes the dog in the stomach and a death reflex kicks
its leg. 'Hey mister, he ain't dead. Did you see him move?'
'He's dead alright.'
'No, he's still warm. I think he's breathing.'
'Fetch a spade and you get this,' I tell him, flicking the twenty. 'Go
on, get a spade.'
He comes back just when I'm thinking about leaving, sparking a spade
twice his height on the concrete. He's brought friends, a gang of five
or six, all lean and empty looking. They gather round the boot.
'This bloke's going to bury his dog alive,' Spiky introduces me.
I lift the dog out in a rug so I don't have to touch it. The body
weighs as much as a dead man. I wanted to get the boys carry it, but
that would cost me, so I drag it along the ground behind me, off the
road, through a scrubby hedge and onto the field. This was where I
first touched a girl's breast.
When I stop, the kids surround me. I look at Spiky and he looks back
with the spade towering above him. There's no way he could dig with it
so I hold my hand out and start digging.

The hole covers a much larger area than I expected. To dig down deep
enough I have to dig wide. The ever-expanding circle of kids taunts my
labour until I can take no more.
'Right,' I say to draw a line under the digging part of the operation.
Then, with a few grunts, I pull the rug into the hole.
'That moved!' shouts a red nosed boy in a squeaky voice. I just look at
him.
Spiky starts up, 'see, I told you, he's burying it alive.' There was a
rumble of unease from the group. These kids are like I used to be -
desperate enough to stop when man offers money in the street, bored
enough to burn down shops, but still horrified that this monster of a
dog might be buried alive.
I pick up a good shovelful of earth and throw it into the hole.
'Look, it's dead.' I hurl another shovelful on top. I turn to get
another and there's a shriek.
A boy, who might be a dirty little girl, is pointing down into the
grave, jumping up and down, 'Look, Look!' I shovel more earth in. Keep
shovelling. Get it over with.

Then the soil moves. A whimper rises from the ground. All the eyes turn
on me. There must be some thread of life in the beast still. It must be
in a lot of pain. Can this be more difficult? Someone taking Stone Tone
a half-dead dog is probably more dangerous than no dog at all. I raise
the spade above my head and wave of shock unifies the group of
vagabonds in a step back.

Before the shovel can fall, the mound shudders, the girl/boy squeals,
and a black ball of fur bursts from the grave, snarling, leaping for my
throat, and knocking me to the ground. There are cries, but they are
from the children. My words suffocated by the monster's slobbering.
When they pull it off, I find my face is intact. The dog is wandering
in slow spirals around the spoil heap, veering to the left. When I
stand up it comes over and starts licking my shoes.
'Told you it weren't dead,' says Spiky.

It takes me hour and a half, and a pound of Spiky's mum's best steak,
to lure the dog back into the car. Even then it insists on sitting in
the front, lolling over the gear stick. I drive back to Nat's in
second. Already there are posters on the lampposts around the park. A
picture of a boy with his arms around the monster of a dog, reward
offered. The animal's breath is making me queasy. I stop, rummage under
the passenger seat for the photo, and hold it next to the dog. The dog
licks the photo, and then licks my face. It isn't the same dog. Or, if
it is, it's gone soft. I look at the poster kid.
I don't want to do what Stone Tone wants anymore. I never did, but
there's my dad. I can look after myself, but dad, I don't know. But how
much longer do I have to keep paying the debt? I think about Nat. She
was looking good. In my dream of after the madness, she was in it. She
was always in it, and I was an idiot to write her out. I reach over and
shove the door open.
'Go on then dog. You don't want to work for Stone Tone either,' but the
dog just sits there, tongue flapping. I swing my legs and shove it. A
woman with a pram walks past and gives me a funny look. 'Walkies!' I
shout.
Finally, after I've got out, lifted the dog onto the pavement and
slammed the door, I rest my head against the warm steering wheel. I can
smell the sweat it's absorbed over the years. Lynch won't like it, but
he's a mean old sod, too frightened of blokes with stupid nicknames.
I've seen a dog come back from the dead. Anything can happen. When I
look up the dog's gone.

The sun is still awake when I get back to Nat's. We crack open the
paint on the kitchen window and crawl onto the flat roof to smoke, like
we used to. I tell her about the dog and she asks me about my dad. I
look at the fireball sinking behind the rooftops. Maybe I'll think of a
way out. I tell her I can't promise her anything. She smiles says she
wouldn't believe me if I did. Then she stands up, asks if I think it's
going to rain, and bends down to kiss me.

In the morning, she doesn't say much. Lynch has conversation for three,
most of it revolving around his spinning head and throbbing hand. It's
almost soothing to hear.
In the car, wearing one of Nat's theatre smocks, jacket around his
shoulders, he lights up. 'Nice girl,' he says, 'but she ain't a
nurse.'
'She is a nurse.'
'She gave me horse tranquilliser.'
'Well she's a veterinary nurse.'
'A veterinary nurse? You took me to a vet.'
'She's a very good vet nurse. She talks to the animals. They hardly
ever die.'
'You let her bath me. You let her cut my shirt.'
'She said she saw that on the telly once.'
'She confiscated my cigarettes and took advantage of me. Did you get
rid of the dog?'
'I got rid of the dog.'

In the end we got a dog from the home. It didn't look too much like
Biggles in the photos but we trained it to recognise the name with best
steak. Then we made it crazy by not feeding it for three days. It
nearly bit Stone Tone's face off and he fell in love straight away.