Rain steam and speed, p.13
Rain, Steam and Speed, page 13
“You speak Dutch?” asked the waiter, in Dutch.
“A little.”
“Would you like some cake?”
“Not this time, thank you,” replied Owen, in English again. “I was wondering about what I asked you before. Can you tell me where I can buy some cannabis? A lot of cannabis.”
“Hold on.”
The waiter went back to the counter, prepared Owen’s coffee, got a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote down the name of a dealer, with the house number and street. When he brought Owen’s coffee over to the table, he placed the piece of paper under the mug.
“Thank you,” responded Owen, in Dutch again.
“You’re welcome,” said the waiter, in Dutch.
As he drank his coffee, Owen checked the map he had bought on his last visit. When he finished his coffee he paid, left a generous tip, and cycled off to the contact’s address. It took about ten minutes to reach the house. He rang the doorbell and waited, holding the handlebars of the bike. The door opened a few inches.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“I was given your address. I would like to buy some cannabis, if it’s possible.”
“How much?”
“I have two hundred guilders. How much will that buy?”
The man gestured with his hands.
“That is good.”
“Wait here.”
The man disappeared back into the house and came out with a package. It was a little larger than he had anticipated. He figured he would probably be able to sell it for around four hundred in sterling, which was a decent profit. Opening the package, he smelt it, closed the package again, and handed the man two hundred guilders.
“Thank you,” responded the man.
“Thank you.”
Owen stuffed the package in his inside jacket pocket and sped off on the bicycle. He did not stop peddling until he was beyond the end of the street and halfway along the next, whereupon he free-wheeled round into a side-street and felt like he was not being followed. After consulting the map again, he took a slight detour back to the centre and returned the bicycle to the stand where he had hired it.
“You had a good ride?” asked the attendant, in fractured English.
“Thank you. Yes,” replied Owen in equally fractured Dutch.
He walked back to Anton and Kristina’s and decided not to say anything about his purchase. Anton was at work and Kristina was ironing.
“May I take a shower?”
“Of course.”
Owen put the package in his holdall under some clothes and went into the bathroom. When he came out, he got dry and dressed, unwrapped the windmill, stuffed the cannabis inside, re-wrapped it and returned it to his holdall. Unfortunately, there would not be enough room for both Delft tea service and windmill in the holdall, so he would have to carry the windmill in the plastic carrier bag. He went into the sitting room.
“Coffee or beer?”
“Beer please.”
Kristina got a beer from the fridge and removed the top.
“Are you OK. This is the second trip.”
“I can’t say ‘No’ to them. That said, they treat me well.”
“I know, but I wish we could get away from here, especially now the baby is on its way.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Anton is scared. He doesn’t show it, but he is.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. I expect we will see you again, in three months, Owen.”
“Quite possibly.”
Ten minutes later, Anton arrived home. After greeting Kristina with an affectionate kiss, he acknowledged Owen.
“Hello, my friend. Pleasant afternoon?”
“Yes. I hired a bicycle, like you suggested and went for a ride. I don’t cycle much in England because I have a motorcycle.”
“I would love to own a motorcycle. A big, powerful one. Then I would ride far away with Kristina.”
That was the closest Anton had come to admitting he wanted to leave Amsterdam. It felt strange, Anton and Kristina wanting to leave and Owen wanting to move there.
There was a roast chicken and potatoes for the evening meal, and of course, more beer, for Anton and Owen.
“Do you want to play cards again?” asked Anton, after the meal.
“Yes.”
They played until around eleven.
“I really need to go to bed. Early start. Very early.”
“Then, you will need this,” laughed Anton, getting another Delft Tea Service out of the cupboard and passing it to Owen.
“OK. I will see you at breakfast. Seven o’clock.”
“Maybe if I am not feeling sick, I will get up as well. If not, goodbye, be safe, until next time you visit us.”
“Thank you. Goodnight.”
Once the tea service was packed in the holdall, Owen lay in bed, waiting to fall asleep. He felt confident that Anton and Kristina were not on the same side as Nikolai. If he were able to move to Amsterdam, it was likely that he could spend time with them. Or were they playing him? Were the questions to test his loyalty? He’d always been insecure, but now he was caught up in drugs, he found he trusted no one.
In the morning, Anton made him coffee, but Kristina did not appear.
“Kristina had a rough night. She’s sleeping.”
“Say ‘goodbye’ from me.”
“I will, my friend.”
Owen went to shake Anton’s hand, who refused the hand and gave him another bear hug. He grabbed his holdall and plastic bag and left for the train station.
“Thank you, again, bye.”
“Goodbye, my friend.”
Once aboard the train, Owen put the plastic carrier bag between his legs and the holdall on his lap. He removed his jacket, folded it and lay it across the top, leant back into the corner between seat and window and closed his eyes. Just before Antwerp, he heard a voice.
“Passport please.”
He must have drifted off to sleep because he was momentarily disorientated.
“Passport,” repeated the official.
Owen lifted his jacket, took his passport out of the inside pocket and handed it to the guard.
“British?”
“Yes.”
“Is that your bag?”
“Yes.”
“Not left your sight?”
“No.”
The guard handed him back his passport and moved on.
Owen felt fortunate to have been woken and therefore disorientated, because otherwise, he might have come across as nervous.
The train reached Ostend, and Owen boarded the ship. There was still the UK border to pass through at Dover, but he was nearly home. If he slung the strap to the holdall over his shoulder, and carried the plastic bag, it might help him to relax. He was almost wishing he had worn jeans and T-shirt, not his suit, although it was perfectly possible for a returning businessman to buy a model of a windmill for his mother or sister or friend.
As the passengers moved towards customs, Owen swung the bag over his shoulder, narrowly missing the woman behind. He turned to apologize and caught sight of the punk-rocker. Was the punk-rocker doing the same thing as he was? Owen managed to stroll nonchalantly through customs and reached the platform at Dover train station. As the train pulled out of the station, he relaxed, free to anticipate an affectionate reunion with Kochai. Watching the Kent countryside rush past the window, he began to imagine what it might be like to travel on the Orient Express, to take an iconic steam train across Europe, from London, via Paris, through Switzerland, all the way to Istanbul. Which led into an even more ridiculous idea. What if he went from Istanbul to Afghanistan, right to the poppy fields, and bought his own supply, at source?
It was the end of term, and so far, none of the tutors had asked Owen where he had been, when he missed classes. Although he had stopped going to Old Russian Literature lectures, he still went to the fortnightly tutorials and bluffed his way through them. He made the decision to stay on until the end of the year, not so much because of the summer term grant cheque, although that was always welcome, but because he wanted to carry on using the language laboratory, for his Dutch. The problem facing Owen was that although there were no lectures in the summer term, there were exams to take.
He had always been the kind of student who gets away with the minimum study required. Every exam, throughout his school life, he had winged it. It there were three questions in a paper, he would revise five topics, sometimes even four. On his next trip into the university, he went to the library to look at some past exam papers, to find out how many questions there were. The matter may well have been addressed in one of the lectures or tutorials he missed, when he was in Amsterdam. So, even though he fully expected to drop out at the end of his first year, he figured it was sensible to do some revision, and at least sit the exams. And that is what he did.
To his great surprise, he did better than expected. For his two language papers, he gained a two-one and a two-two. For three of his literature modules, he achieved a two-two, but for Old Russian Literature, even though he had revised, and felt he had made reasonable attempts at his exam questions, he was not even awarded a pass. Only then did Owen consider his absence might have been noted, and the lecturer failed him through lack of attendance, not lack of essay content. The bottom line, Owen felt, was that the grant-awarding body were unlikely, now, to ask him to repay any money, and if by some strange quirk of fate, he ever wanted to attempt a Batchelors degree, at some point in the future, he had evidence of his capability. What he did, on receiving his results, was draft a letter to the head of the department, explaining his decision to leave the course, and thanking the lecturers for their excellent input.
Just after receiving his results, Nikolai asked Owen to make a third trip to Amsterdam, which Owen welcomed, largely because he was running short of his own supply of cannabis, again. Besides, it would be great to catch up with Anton and Kristina, and the £100 he received for his troubles, was an added bonus.
And for the next eighteen months, Owen’s life consisted of shifts at The Prince Albert, trafficking drugs, dealing cannabis out of Caterham railway station, and visiting the ‘banya’. The local council still had not noticed he was living rent-free in one of their flats. Kochai was still his loyal companion, enjoying his three-monthly breaks at Wendy’s, who was still pressuring Owen to find out who his imaginary girlfriend was. Anton and Kristina had a gorgeous baby boy, named Ivan, but they insisted Owen still come to stay at their house. Owen’s heroin addiction was being fed weekly, through his regular trips to the ‘banya’, where he had become something of a celebrity, although he only even injected into his legs, now. His own network, in Caterham, had expanded and he was earning a reasonable income. He had increased the amount of cannabis he sourced in Amsterdam. It was all going rather well, given his situation, when he first landed at Francis’ house, at the end of his ‘A’ level exams. That was until personal tragedy struck.
Owen was out walking Kochai, on 12th January 1982. It was bitterly cold, and there had been a frost overnight, with temperatures below zero. As they came out of the park gate, onto Plough Road, a car skidded on some black ice, mounted the pavement, missing Owen, but catching Kochai’s rear end. The dog shrieked in pain, collapsing on the floor, as the driver sped off. Owen cupped Kochai’s face in his hands.
“Hang in there, mate. I’m going to get you to a vet. Good boy.”
Owen took off his jacket and lay it on top of Kochai. He had no idea where the nearest vet practice was, as he had only ever been to the dogs’ home, and he started to panic. A driver, who came along a few minutes after the incident, had seen them on the pavement, pulled in, got out of her car and walked over to them.
“Can I help? Can I take you to a vet?”
“I don’t know where the nearest one is. You couldn’t take us to the dogs’ home, could you? That’s where he came from and where he last saw a vet.”
“No problem at all. Just tell me when and where to turn.”
She helped Owen lift Kochai into the car, but the pain was so great, Kochai yelped, and then fell unconscious. They carried him into the dogs’ home and were ushered straight into a side room, where the duty vet attended them.
“Thank you,” Owen said to the driver. “He would surely have died right there, without your help. Thank you.”
“I hope he’s OK,” replied the woman, leaving Owen and Kochai with the vet.
After an initial examination, the vet turned to Owen.
“I am really sorry, but his pelvis is shattered. I don’t think we can fix it. His heartbeat is weakening. I think there must be some internal bleeding. We need to get him x-rayed, but you must prepare for the worst. Owen went numb. We can take him to the vet practice we use, where they have the technology. Please come with us.”
The vet stuck his head out of the door, and an animal nurse came in. They loaded Kochai into a car and beckoned Owen to sit next to him. Kochai did not make it to the vet practice. He died next to Owen in the back of the car.
“What happens now?” Owen asked the vet.
He did not have a garden to bury Kochai and had no idea what he was meant to do with a dead Afghan Hound.
“We can cremate him, if you wish. Then you can scatter the ashes in a special place. It’s not free, though, but when dogs have been rescued, we usually share the fee with the dogs’ home.”
“Whatever. Just tell me how much and when.”
“We will. Are you still living where you were when you adopted Kochai?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t worry. We’ll contact you through them. They’ll have your address.”
“Wendy. Don’t tell Wendy. I’ll tell her myself.”
“Wendy who volunteers there?”
“Yes. She has looked after Kochai when I have had to go on a business trip. She’ll be devastated. She introduced me to Kochai.”
“Would you like to say your goodbyes?”
Owen cupped Kochai’s lifeless face in his hands, one last time, bent down to kiss his forehead, and whispered in his ear.
“Goodbye, my best ever friend.”
Back at the empty flat, Owen poured himself a large vodka and downed it in one. He sat on the settee, staring at Kochai’s basket. Going into the kitchen he saw the empty food and water bowls, and having held it in for so long, he allowed himself to cry. The hot tears flowed, and his body convulsed with grief. He had never felt so completely and utterly alone.
Telling Wendy was difficult. He left it until the next day, when his tears had stopped flowing, even though he looked like the morning after the night before. She knew something was wrong when Owen rang her doorbell at ten o’clock in the morning.
“What’s wrong, Owen? Do you want to come in?”
He followed her into the house, not saying a word, and sat down on the sofa.
“I think you probably need to sit down too.”
“What is it?”
“Kochai. He got hit by a car yesterday morning. He died from his injuries on the way to the vet.”
“Oh, Owen. I’m so sorry.”
Invading Owen’s personal space with a pinch to the cheek was second nature to Wendy, but now, she sat next to him and held him in her arms. He started crying again.
“It’s OK, Owen. Let it all out. I won’t tell a soul.”
After what felt like an eternity, Owen stopped sobbing, wiped his eyes, and pulled away from Wendy’s matronly embrace.
“Cup of tea or coffee?”
“Thanks. Tea. One sugar.”
Wendy went into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. She had been crying herself, and now took the opportunity to blow her nose, energetically. She carried two mugs of tea into the living room and sat back down on the sofa, leaving a cushion’s width between them.
“What happened?”
“It was bizarre, like in slow motion. We had just come out of the park when a vehicle skidded on some ice and came flying towards us. It missed me but caught Kochai’s back end. The driver drove off. A really nice lady pulled up just afterwards and took us to the dogs’ home, but even though the duty vet checked Kochai over, he said we needed to get x-rays done and to prepare for the worst. It was in the car that he died. The vet said his pelvis was shattered and probably internal bleeding because his heartbeat was getting weaker. He really screamed when the car hit him and yelped when we moved him into the back of the car to go to the vet practice. But he was unconscious when he died. I just feel so empty, Wendy. He was everything to me.”
“I know, I know. He was a lovely dog. He was special. It’s going to ache for ages. And you know where I am if you need anything.”
“I’m getting him cremated. Will you come with me when I scatter his ashes?”
“Of course, I will. When are you next on shift?”
“Not until tomorrow lunchtime.”
“Will you be alright?”
“I hope so.”
“Let me know if you need me to cover for you. Oh, wait a minute. Silly me. I’m already working then. If you need me to do the shift on my own, I’m sure Mr Longstaff will understand.”
“Thanks. If I’m there, you’ll know I’m there.”
Owen went home. The lead and collar were still at the vets, but he parcelled up Kochai’s basket, bowls and toys, in a bin liner. He thought about taking the things to a charity shop, but the bedding was well-used, and the bowls had seen better days, so he put everything in the dustbin. The flat was quiet, too quiet, and Owen grabbed his helmet and keys and went for a motorcycle ride. He knew he would still have to go home and sleep in the empty flat, but he just had to get out for a while. He was in Caterham, before he’d given any thought to direction or destination, but decided not to call in on Francis.
Over the next few weeks, Owen came to the decision that he would leave Battersea and go and live in Amsterdam. He had to let his customers know and he would have to hand in his notice at the pub, but he was not short of money. The most opportune moment to leave would be when he was running out of cannabis. It surely could not be that hard to find a squat in Amsterdam. Like when he arrived in London, he could find temporary work, until he established a network of customers. He also resolved not to tell Nikolai that he was leaving. Maybe, it would be uncomfortably difficult until he could find a Dutch supplier of heroin, and he was certain to experience some withdrawal symptoms, but it seemed like the lesser of two evils.
“A little.”
“Would you like some cake?”
“Not this time, thank you,” replied Owen, in English again. “I was wondering about what I asked you before. Can you tell me where I can buy some cannabis? A lot of cannabis.”
“Hold on.”
The waiter went back to the counter, prepared Owen’s coffee, got a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote down the name of a dealer, with the house number and street. When he brought Owen’s coffee over to the table, he placed the piece of paper under the mug.
“Thank you,” responded Owen, in Dutch again.
“You’re welcome,” said the waiter, in Dutch.
As he drank his coffee, Owen checked the map he had bought on his last visit. When he finished his coffee he paid, left a generous tip, and cycled off to the contact’s address. It took about ten minutes to reach the house. He rang the doorbell and waited, holding the handlebars of the bike. The door opened a few inches.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“I was given your address. I would like to buy some cannabis, if it’s possible.”
“How much?”
“I have two hundred guilders. How much will that buy?”
The man gestured with his hands.
“That is good.”
“Wait here.”
The man disappeared back into the house and came out with a package. It was a little larger than he had anticipated. He figured he would probably be able to sell it for around four hundred in sterling, which was a decent profit. Opening the package, he smelt it, closed the package again, and handed the man two hundred guilders.
“Thank you,” responded the man.
“Thank you.”
Owen stuffed the package in his inside jacket pocket and sped off on the bicycle. He did not stop peddling until he was beyond the end of the street and halfway along the next, whereupon he free-wheeled round into a side-street and felt like he was not being followed. After consulting the map again, he took a slight detour back to the centre and returned the bicycle to the stand where he had hired it.
“You had a good ride?” asked the attendant, in fractured English.
“Thank you. Yes,” replied Owen in equally fractured Dutch.
He walked back to Anton and Kristina’s and decided not to say anything about his purchase. Anton was at work and Kristina was ironing.
“May I take a shower?”
“Of course.”
Owen put the package in his holdall under some clothes and went into the bathroom. When he came out, he got dry and dressed, unwrapped the windmill, stuffed the cannabis inside, re-wrapped it and returned it to his holdall. Unfortunately, there would not be enough room for both Delft tea service and windmill in the holdall, so he would have to carry the windmill in the plastic carrier bag. He went into the sitting room.
“Coffee or beer?”
“Beer please.”
Kristina got a beer from the fridge and removed the top.
“Are you OK. This is the second trip.”
“I can’t say ‘No’ to them. That said, they treat me well.”
“I know, but I wish we could get away from here, especially now the baby is on its way.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Anton is scared. He doesn’t show it, but he is.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. I expect we will see you again, in three months, Owen.”
“Quite possibly.”
Ten minutes later, Anton arrived home. After greeting Kristina with an affectionate kiss, he acknowledged Owen.
“Hello, my friend. Pleasant afternoon?”
“Yes. I hired a bicycle, like you suggested and went for a ride. I don’t cycle much in England because I have a motorcycle.”
“I would love to own a motorcycle. A big, powerful one. Then I would ride far away with Kristina.”
That was the closest Anton had come to admitting he wanted to leave Amsterdam. It felt strange, Anton and Kristina wanting to leave and Owen wanting to move there.
There was a roast chicken and potatoes for the evening meal, and of course, more beer, for Anton and Owen.
“Do you want to play cards again?” asked Anton, after the meal.
“Yes.”
They played until around eleven.
“I really need to go to bed. Early start. Very early.”
“Then, you will need this,” laughed Anton, getting another Delft Tea Service out of the cupboard and passing it to Owen.
“OK. I will see you at breakfast. Seven o’clock.”
“Maybe if I am not feeling sick, I will get up as well. If not, goodbye, be safe, until next time you visit us.”
“Thank you. Goodnight.”
Once the tea service was packed in the holdall, Owen lay in bed, waiting to fall asleep. He felt confident that Anton and Kristina were not on the same side as Nikolai. If he were able to move to Amsterdam, it was likely that he could spend time with them. Or were they playing him? Were the questions to test his loyalty? He’d always been insecure, but now he was caught up in drugs, he found he trusted no one.
In the morning, Anton made him coffee, but Kristina did not appear.
“Kristina had a rough night. She’s sleeping.”
“Say ‘goodbye’ from me.”
“I will, my friend.”
Owen went to shake Anton’s hand, who refused the hand and gave him another bear hug. He grabbed his holdall and plastic bag and left for the train station.
“Thank you, again, bye.”
“Goodbye, my friend.”
Once aboard the train, Owen put the plastic carrier bag between his legs and the holdall on his lap. He removed his jacket, folded it and lay it across the top, leant back into the corner between seat and window and closed his eyes. Just before Antwerp, he heard a voice.
“Passport please.”
He must have drifted off to sleep because he was momentarily disorientated.
“Passport,” repeated the official.
Owen lifted his jacket, took his passport out of the inside pocket and handed it to the guard.
“British?”
“Yes.”
“Is that your bag?”
“Yes.”
“Not left your sight?”
“No.”
The guard handed him back his passport and moved on.
Owen felt fortunate to have been woken and therefore disorientated, because otherwise, he might have come across as nervous.
The train reached Ostend, and Owen boarded the ship. There was still the UK border to pass through at Dover, but he was nearly home. If he slung the strap to the holdall over his shoulder, and carried the plastic bag, it might help him to relax. He was almost wishing he had worn jeans and T-shirt, not his suit, although it was perfectly possible for a returning businessman to buy a model of a windmill for his mother or sister or friend.
As the passengers moved towards customs, Owen swung the bag over his shoulder, narrowly missing the woman behind. He turned to apologize and caught sight of the punk-rocker. Was the punk-rocker doing the same thing as he was? Owen managed to stroll nonchalantly through customs and reached the platform at Dover train station. As the train pulled out of the station, he relaxed, free to anticipate an affectionate reunion with Kochai. Watching the Kent countryside rush past the window, he began to imagine what it might be like to travel on the Orient Express, to take an iconic steam train across Europe, from London, via Paris, through Switzerland, all the way to Istanbul. Which led into an even more ridiculous idea. What if he went from Istanbul to Afghanistan, right to the poppy fields, and bought his own supply, at source?
It was the end of term, and so far, none of the tutors had asked Owen where he had been, when he missed classes. Although he had stopped going to Old Russian Literature lectures, he still went to the fortnightly tutorials and bluffed his way through them. He made the decision to stay on until the end of the year, not so much because of the summer term grant cheque, although that was always welcome, but because he wanted to carry on using the language laboratory, for his Dutch. The problem facing Owen was that although there were no lectures in the summer term, there were exams to take.
He had always been the kind of student who gets away with the minimum study required. Every exam, throughout his school life, he had winged it. It there were three questions in a paper, he would revise five topics, sometimes even four. On his next trip into the university, he went to the library to look at some past exam papers, to find out how many questions there were. The matter may well have been addressed in one of the lectures or tutorials he missed, when he was in Amsterdam. So, even though he fully expected to drop out at the end of his first year, he figured it was sensible to do some revision, and at least sit the exams. And that is what he did.
To his great surprise, he did better than expected. For his two language papers, he gained a two-one and a two-two. For three of his literature modules, he achieved a two-two, but for Old Russian Literature, even though he had revised, and felt he had made reasonable attempts at his exam questions, he was not even awarded a pass. Only then did Owen consider his absence might have been noted, and the lecturer failed him through lack of attendance, not lack of essay content. The bottom line, Owen felt, was that the grant-awarding body were unlikely, now, to ask him to repay any money, and if by some strange quirk of fate, he ever wanted to attempt a Batchelors degree, at some point in the future, he had evidence of his capability. What he did, on receiving his results, was draft a letter to the head of the department, explaining his decision to leave the course, and thanking the lecturers for their excellent input.
Just after receiving his results, Nikolai asked Owen to make a third trip to Amsterdam, which Owen welcomed, largely because he was running short of his own supply of cannabis, again. Besides, it would be great to catch up with Anton and Kristina, and the £100 he received for his troubles, was an added bonus.
And for the next eighteen months, Owen’s life consisted of shifts at The Prince Albert, trafficking drugs, dealing cannabis out of Caterham railway station, and visiting the ‘banya’. The local council still had not noticed he was living rent-free in one of their flats. Kochai was still his loyal companion, enjoying his three-monthly breaks at Wendy’s, who was still pressuring Owen to find out who his imaginary girlfriend was. Anton and Kristina had a gorgeous baby boy, named Ivan, but they insisted Owen still come to stay at their house. Owen’s heroin addiction was being fed weekly, through his regular trips to the ‘banya’, where he had become something of a celebrity, although he only even injected into his legs, now. His own network, in Caterham, had expanded and he was earning a reasonable income. He had increased the amount of cannabis he sourced in Amsterdam. It was all going rather well, given his situation, when he first landed at Francis’ house, at the end of his ‘A’ level exams. That was until personal tragedy struck.
Owen was out walking Kochai, on 12th January 1982. It was bitterly cold, and there had been a frost overnight, with temperatures below zero. As they came out of the park gate, onto Plough Road, a car skidded on some black ice, mounted the pavement, missing Owen, but catching Kochai’s rear end. The dog shrieked in pain, collapsing on the floor, as the driver sped off. Owen cupped Kochai’s face in his hands.
“Hang in there, mate. I’m going to get you to a vet. Good boy.”
Owen took off his jacket and lay it on top of Kochai. He had no idea where the nearest vet practice was, as he had only ever been to the dogs’ home, and he started to panic. A driver, who came along a few minutes after the incident, had seen them on the pavement, pulled in, got out of her car and walked over to them.
“Can I help? Can I take you to a vet?”
“I don’t know where the nearest one is. You couldn’t take us to the dogs’ home, could you? That’s where he came from and where he last saw a vet.”
“No problem at all. Just tell me when and where to turn.”
She helped Owen lift Kochai into the car, but the pain was so great, Kochai yelped, and then fell unconscious. They carried him into the dogs’ home and were ushered straight into a side room, where the duty vet attended them.
“Thank you,” Owen said to the driver. “He would surely have died right there, without your help. Thank you.”
“I hope he’s OK,” replied the woman, leaving Owen and Kochai with the vet.
After an initial examination, the vet turned to Owen.
“I am really sorry, but his pelvis is shattered. I don’t think we can fix it. His heartbeat is weakening. I think there must be some internal bleeding. We need to get him x-rayed, but you must prepare for the worst. Owen went numb. We can take him to the vet practice we use, where they have the technology. Please come with us.”
The vet stuck his head out of the door, and an animal nurse came in. They loaded Kochai into a car and beckoned Owen to sit next to him. Kochai did not make it to the vet practice. He died next to Owen in the back of the car.
“What happens now?” Owen asked the vet.
He did not have a garden to bury Kochai and had no idea what he was meant to do with a dead Afghan Hound.
“We can cremate him, if you wish. Then you can scatter the ashes in a special place. It’s not free, though, but when dogs have been rescued, we usually share the fee with the dogs’ home.”
“Whatever. Just tell me how much and when.”
“We will. Are you still living where you were when you adopted Kochai?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t worry. We’ll contact you through them. They’ll have your address.”
“Wendy. Don’t tell Wendy. I’ll tell her myself.”
“Wendy who volunteers there?”
“Yes. She has looked after Kochai when I have had to go on a business trip. She’ll be devastated. She introduced me to Kochai.”
“Would you like to say your goodbyes?”
Owen cupped Kochai’s lifeless face in his hands, one last time, bent down to kiss his forehead, and whispered in his ear.
“Goodbye, my best ever friend.”
Back at the empty flat, Owen poured himself a large vodka and downed it in one. He sat on the settee, staring at Kochai’s basket. Going into the kitchen he saw the empty food and water bowls, and having held it in for so long, he allowed himself to cry. The hot tears flowed, and his body convulsed with grief. He had never felt so completely and utterly alone.
Telling Wendy was difficult. He left it until the next day, when his tears had stopped flowing, even though he looked like the morning after the night before. She knew something was wrong when Owen rang her doorbell at ten o’clock in the morning.
“What’s wrong, Owen? Do you want to come in?”
He followed her into the house, not saying a word, and sat down on the sofa.
“I think you probably need to sit down too.”
“What is it?”
“Kochai. He got hit by a car yesterday morning. He died from his injuries on the way to the vet.”
“Oh, Owen. I’m so sorry.”
Invading Owen’s personal space with a pinch to the cheek was second nature to Wendy, but now, she sat next to him and held him in her arms. He started crying again.
“It’s OK, Owen. Let it all out. I won’t tell a soul.”
After what felt like an eternity, Owen stopped sobbing, wiped his eyes, and pulled away from Wendy’s matronly embrace.
“Cup of tea or coffee?”
“Thanks. Tea. One sugar.”
Wendy went into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. She had been crying herself, and now took the opportunity to blow her nose, energetically. She carried two mugs of tea into the living room and sat back down on the sofa, leaving a cushion’s width between them.
“What happened?”
“It was bizarre, like in slow motion. We had just come out of the park when a vehicle skidded on some ice and came flying towards us. It missed me but caught Kochai’s back end. The driver drove off. A really nice lady pulled up just afterwards and took us to the dogs’ home, but even though the duty vet checked Kochai over, he said we needed to get x-rays done and to prepare for the worst. It was in the car that he died. The vet said his pelvis was shattered and probably internal bleeding because his heartbeat was getting weaker. He really screamed when the car hit him and yelped when we moved him into the back of the car to go to the vet practice. But he was unconscious when he died. I just feel so empty, Wendy. He was everything to me.”
“I know, I know. He was a lovely dog. He was special. It’s going to ache for ages. And you know where I am if you need anything.”
“I’m getting him cremated. Will you come with me when I scatter his ashes?”
“Of course, I will. When are you next on shift?”
“Not until tomorrow lunchtime.”
“Will you be alright?”
“I hope so.”
“Let me know if you need me to cover for you. Oh, wait a minute. Silly me. I’m already working then. If you need me to do the shift on my own, I’m sure Mr Longstaff will understand.”
“Thanks. If I’m there, you’ll know I’m there.”
Owen went home. The lead and collar were still at the vets, but he parcelled up Kochai’s basket, bowls and toys, in a bin liner. He thought about taking the things to a charity shop, but the bedding was well-used, and the bowls had seen better days, so he put everything in the dustbin. The flat was quiet, too quiet, and Owen grabbed his helmet and keys and went for a motorcycle ride. He knew he would still have to go home and sleep in the empty flat, but he just had to get out for a while. He was in Caterham, before he’d given any thought to direction or destination, but decided not to call in on Francis.
Over the next few weeks, Owen came to the decision that he would leave Battersea and go and live in Amsterdam. He had to let his customers know and he would have to hand in his notice at the pub, but he was not short of money. The most opportune moment to leave would be when he was running out of cannabis. It surely could not be that hard to find a squat in Amsterdam. Like when he arrived in London, he could find temporary work, until he established a network of customers. He also resolved not to tell Nikolai that he was leaving. Maybe, it would be uncomfortably difficult until he could find a Dutch supplier of heroin, and he was certain to experience some withdrawal symptoms, but it seemed like the lesser of two evils.
