Bill and the UFO1

There wasn’t much to Gina, Bill’s mum. She could have probably fitted comfortably in the cardboard boxes that Christmas trees come in and she had the same kind of up and down figure, no bumps, just sides on which to hang her long hair. But no box could have contained her whinging voice.

‘I’ve had it up to here with that dog.’ She didn’t bother raising her arms to show how far up to here she’d had it with the dog, but she did raise her voice to about a 6 on the let’s get rid of Todger scale.

George flicked at the corner of his newspaper so that it made a rustling sound to show that he was reading his Daily Record. He pushed himself up off the comfort of the easy-chair and sat teetering uneasily on its edge whilst she harangued him. If he tilted his head at a certain angle he found that he could look around his wife, standing centre stage in front of the square Persian rug from the third floor of the Co-op, and the two-bar electric fire, with faux orange light coal effect. He could look past her, as if she were a lamppost standing in the way of the telly picture world of David Attenborough, who was saying something far more interesting about cute lion cubs in glorious colour.

‘You know what he’s done now?’ Gina was up to about 8 on the Todger scale.

It seemed an age, civilisations had fallen quicker than George’s puffed out ‘whaaat?’

But there were mitigating circumstances. One of the Attenborough lion cubs had gone missing. And Todger panted and pushed his rectangular head into George’s hand so that he would be pampered and petted. He knew Gina was talking about him and he angled his head to look up at her and sniffed to show, in dog language, that he understood that he really was the best dog in the world.

‘He’s gone and ate the fuckin’ dinner.’ Gina didn’t usually swear, but had worked herself up to one of her foot stomping hissing fits, which was a 9 on the Todger scale.

‘What was it?’

‘Sausage, cabbage, beans and potatoes!’

George absentmindedly patted Todger on his flank as if to say good boy and that was it. Gina flew for George hitting him about the head and neck. He tried to get up, but he was too tall, a Smokey mountain range, folded into a small chair. He changed tack and fended her off with the newspaper, but a 10 on the Todger scale was not for letting up, so he settled into his seat and held his arms up to protect his head as best he could. His specs flew off his nose and Todger barked for all he was worth, joining in the merriment of this great new game they were playing.

Gina handed George his specs from under the wee side table as a placatory gesture. Todger gave another little bark and looked from one to the other to see if they were going to start playing again.

‘You know something that dog’s not human. He jumped from the floor to one of the seats and straight onto the kitchen table. “Down” I screamed at it, but the fat bastard just sat munching away looking at me. I was rattling through the drawers looking for the big kitchen knife. And you know the funny thing? It seemed to eat without moving its lips. I think its tongue is a boa constrictor. I think rather than chew, he strangles his food. And that’s all it ever does is eat and shite. He’s got to go.’

Todger pushed his head up against George to be petted, but after a couple of whacks off the Daily Record ambled away into the hall.

‘You’ve spoiled him. Just the same as you’ve spoiled that boy of yours. That dog thinks he’s human. Look at him lying down there. He puts a shine on the settee, on everything. I think he’s got a Brillo pad for an arse. He’s got to go.’

Todger’s deep-throated growl at the foot of Bill’s bed reassured him that all was right with the world, even though he was leaving it. He wasn’t much of a dog, more just a hairball with a slime tongue that seemed longer than his four legs and a stump of a tail. He had his own way of speaking to Bill a short sharp whine meant –feed me. A long drawn out howl meant-feed me. And ourt, ourt, ourt, bark meant-give me a bit of that whatever you’re eating. A snuffling nosey noise pointed at visitors, and Mrs McGonagle’s fanny, in particular, meant that smells interesting. If Todger had been born in an earlier age he might have changed history. No matter how many blows Bill’s mum gave to his blunt head he didn’t seem to learn anything, but he was never Pavlov’s dog, he was a one-man dog and he was Bill’s.

Bill sloped out of his bed and had his jammies off on no time. His clothes where lying on the floor ready for him to throw on. The birds were up and caterwauling about, squawking rifts, and lines, and carrying on outside his window as if there was no tomorrow. He practiced a bit of air guitar in case his mum ever let him grow his hair long and Sweet ever needed another guitarist as Brian Connelly looked down approvingly from his wallpaper home, He’d show her. She’d be sorry when he was away. Todger ignored Bill’s slaps on his chest, which meant in Tarzan language: ‘Come.’ He seemed content to dribble and fart away his life in doggy dreams.

Bill searched through his sock drawer until he found his birthday present still in its box in the sock drawer. He flung the Kodak in his school bag and two pairs of socks. A pair of Y-fronts was lying, under his bed, like a scrunched up grey slug on the linoleum. Bill sniffed them before flinging them into the bottom of his bag.

Todger padded behind Bill, squeaking through their bedroom door and down the hallway, because that meant food. He followed him into the bathroom because that meant food and he slumped at his feet in the kitchen, because that meant food. The world was full of food and Todger had the lazy eye of an opportunist thief.

Bill was trying to be fair when he rifled through his mum’s brown purse. There were lots of coins and a fiver and two pound notes. He figured if he took a pound and half the coins, which was about another pound his mum wouldn’t notice, but even if she did he was never coming back. And even if he did, he’d be older and able to pay her back. They’d probably laugh about it. He slipped another pound in his pocket in case they didn’t laugh about it and his mum got all moany again. With money jangling in his pocket he had it all worked out. It was all her fault anyway that that they had to run away.