Alpha and omega, p.26
Alpha and Omega, page 26
'Oh Richard, it's Melanie, the poor, poor child, such a bright bubbly little thing', she sobbed into my arms, 'And Mary is quite inconsolable. Devastated. Totally devastated.'
Freddie took one look at us, crying in each other’s arms. He ran over to peer out though the windows by the side of the front door, as if looking for Melanie, then he slouched over to the patio windows by the side gate where Melanie would come for come him when she was walking him. Flopped down with a huge sigh, laid his head on his paws and quivered, as though in pain. Oh yes, Freddie knew all right.
We tried to shield Sophie from the pain.
Later that night, in bed, Suzie said to me. 'We're going home, Richard. Today. Tomorrow.' Her voice was quiet, without the hysterics of our earlier shouting matches. 'This place is finished, for all I know the entire world is finished. You know what Mum's been saying, about how bad they say it is here, I don't know...'
'Suzie.. I.'
'Let me finish', she said quietly, but with such deep resolution I knew she was hanging on to the edge of self-control by her fingernails. 'I don't know what's going to happen. I doubt anyone does. I think everyone is running around like headless chickens. Not just people like us, ordinary people trying to make a life together - trying to make a life for their kids - but politicians, people who say they know what to do, I don't think they've got a clue.'
'Suzie, you're tired, overwrought, what with poor Melanie and....'
'Let me finish, I said. God knows I've a hard enough job getting you to say anything at all to me lately, but now I just want you to be quiet.'
'Not a word. Promise.'
'I don't know what going to happen. But I do think that things are very much worse than anybody is saying. I think the world has finally done it. I think we are all going to die.'
'Of course we're all going to die, Suze, it's like rain at Wimbledon and warm beer in an English pub. Inevitable.'
'For Christ's sake,' she exploded, 'Everything's a fucking joke with you, with isn't it?', her voice now on the raw verge of hysteria. She hardly ever swore. 'This is not a fucking joke.'
'No. No, of course not.' But she caught something in my voice.
'And don't fucking patronise me.'
'No' I answer, chastened. 'Sorry'
'I don't want to die here. I don't want Sophie to die here like poor Melanie. I don't want us to BE here. If we are to die, I want to die at home. I want us all to ... live.. in England. For how long, I don't know. But I don't want us to die in this place. Can you understand that, Richard? I don't want us to die here, in this shit-hole. And if we stay here any longer we are going to.'
'You've thought about this a great deal, haven't you?'
'I've not thought of anything else.'
'It's not just.. just because of poor Melanie?'
'No. Yes, yes, obviously Melanie has brought it all home. But don't you see, it could have been Sophie.'
She burst into sudden tears, sobbing into my chest, her tears trickling down my chest, rolling around my kidneys, sending a shiver down my spine. 'It could have been Sophie. It .. could ... have ... been ....Sophie.' I stroked her head, gentled her to me, wiped her tears.
'You do see, don't you? Why we have to leave. Now. Tomorrow.'
'This means a lot to you, doesn't it?'
'Imagine how we'd feel if it had been Sophie. I don't want us to die here, Richard. We should be with our own people; I want to see Mum and Dad again. I want them to see Sophie. I want to see England again and see the green-ness of England, not all this dust and shit and sand, I want to smell green grass that doesn't stink of sewage from the effluent plant, stupid things I know - I know we go on about England all the time, but it's still our home. Our home, Richard, it's where we should be and I want us to be there. Together. As a family.'
I thought for long minutes as she sobbed in my arms. Just what the bloody hell was I doing? She was right, I knew that, had known it all along. I took a deep breath, not of resentment or resignation - of resolution. The only way to get through this was together.
'I'll phone Jack in the morning, as soon as he gets in the office.'
'What?'
'I said, I'll phone Jack, first thing, tell him we coming home.'
'You mean it?'
'Yes. I said.'
'You can't'
'What?'
'Phone him. Jack.'
'Why, why not, I thought it's what you wanted?'
'It's Sunday'
'Sunday?'
'Tomorrow. It's Sunday, he won't be in the office.'
Don't ask me why, but we found that incredibly funny, the relief of tension, I suppose, we giggled and wriggled, choking with our laughter, tickled with the total absurdity of the situation, having made the decision and then being unable to implement it.
Then we made love. The first time for a while, the first time since the really bad arguments started.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
The worst thing about leaving Bahrain was having Freddie put down. Sounds cruel when you read it in hard print like that, but really there was no other choice.
He was a desert dog, born of a wild dog, with a wide untameable streak running through him like the hard core of biscuit in a caramel bar. He was a bush dog by instinct and even though he was domesticated and loved us all to distraction, within his inner being he yearned to be wild and free, running with the pack, roving across the desert, tracking down wild hares and chasing birds. He was a canine Jekyll and Hyde.
He came to us on Christmas Eve.
A little bundle of white fluff, fitting into our cupped hands as though made for them.
It was Suzie who found him. She had driven down to the supermarket to get some more sage and onion stuffing for the turkey and saw 4 or 5 Arab boys from the nearby village kicking this little white puppy, using him for football practice. They were Muslims, the boys, and like many Muslims considered dogs to be unclean and therefore of no consequence.
Suzie tried to stop them hurting the puppy, but the little bastards know that the Inglese are soft about animals and they demanded money. 'Give us money, four Dinar, four Dinar, (about £6), ' and kicked the poor little thing again to emphasise the price.
She couldn't bear to see the cruelty and handed over the money straight away. She was so upset she didn't even try and haggle. She picked up the tiny ball of fluff and cradled him to her breast. 'There, there, darling, it's alright sweetie, those nasty boys have gone now, they can't hurt you anymore. Safe now. Safe now,' comforting and soothing.
The boys ran across the road and came back with a cardboard box, standing in front of Suzie as she held the shaking pup. The boy holding the box rattled it violently and Suzie could hear terrified yips and yelps from inside. The little sods had taken the whole litter. Desert dogs, even the ones living in urban areas, dig burrows in the sand (graveyards are common sites for desert dog lairs) and whelp their pups inside. It's an easy matter for a mob of boys to drive the mother away for long enough to snatch the litter and sell the pups to stupid soft hearted ferenghi.
The boy grinned evilly at her. 'More dog. More dog. Ahtni faloos, ahtni Dinar, Give Dinar,' shaking the box again, but Suzie was too upset and ran to her car, fumbling with her key to open the door. The boys pursued her, hemming her in, rattling the box as hard as they could.
'Faloos. Faloos, ahtni faloos. More dog. Give money. Dinar. Dinar,' they cried.
'You boys are evil,' she said angrily, 'And if I see you mistreating or selling dogs again I'll call the police, boliis,' but they only jeered and whistled, knowing that the police would do nothing. She carefully laid the trembling dog onto the front seat and climbed in the car. The boys crowded round, shaking the box, laughing, holding their hands out for money.
As she drove away they hammered on the boot, jeering at her tears. Bastards!. She was still crying when she carried the puppy into the house, sage and onion stuffing forgotten, angry tears sparkling her bright eyes like jewels .
'Look at the poor thing, he's terrified, if only I could have got my hands on them.'
I held the tiny bundle of fluff whilst Suzie gently wiped down his cuts, he didn't look too badly hurt, but I took him down to Pita Kerrigan, the Irish vet, just for a check-up. She examined him and wormed him, said he was not badly injured, one of his ears was a bit torn and she stitched that, but otherwise didn't think his ribs were damaged, or that there was internal bleeding, which was her main concern. 'Keep an eye on him over the next few days, any worries or problems, just give me a call.'
'Fine', I said, 'But he's not going to be with us that long. We're not keeping him, we only rescued him stop him being hurt.'
'Of course', Pita said, with a knowing smile on her face. She'd seen it all before.
Of course.
'We're not keeping it,' I said firmly when I got him home again and carefully explained to Sophie, who was nearly two at the time, that he was only with us for a day or two because his Mummy was sick and couldn't look after him, but as soon as his Mummy was better, we would take him back to her, because everybody should be with their Mummy and Daddy, shouldn't they?
'We're not keeping him,' I said firmly to Suzie. 'As soon as the BSPCA Sanctuary opens, he's going down there. They'll take care of him.'
'Yes, Richard, of course.' Suzie said, with a smile. I knew that smile, it said yes, I agree with everything you say but I have absolutely no intention of taking the slightest bit of notice.
'I mean it, Suzie. It's for the best. They'll find a good home for him.'
'Yes, you're right. Absolutely. The best thing.'
'I mean it. Anyway, it's not hygienic for Sophie to have a puppy around, what with all the wee and poo and stuff, you know how she's always putting things in her mouth.'
'You're right. I agree.' Still that smile
'He's not stopping. You agree with me?.'
'Of course I do, darling.'
Of Course!
Four years later he's still with us, the white fluff of his raggy ears sticking out in soft flared butterfly wings, an outrageous tail curled across his back like a viceroys plumed hat, he didn't walk, he bounced, as if the pads of his paws were high tensile springs, daft grin spread all over his idiot face. That was Freddie, a big daft lollop of a dog, yet so quick he could chase down and catch a cat. He loved to be with us, to lay his chin upon a thigh and look up at us with soft brown eyes. He took over our home and hearts in a way no other animal has ever before or since.
But he loved to be wild as well, for us to take him up on the jebels, and off he would go, away for hours, we could never coach him back into the car, he'd come close, stop, edge a bit closer. And then run away again. Stopping about fifty yards away. As if saying goodbye, the wild half of him listening to his instincts. And as the years passed, the wild half began to take precedence. The yearnings to be free got greater.
He would get manic and depressed, taking out his frustrations by attacking the garden hose, ripping and savaging it as though it were some giant snake he were attacking or he would leap repeatedly at the garden fence, bouncing as high as he could as if trying to see a glimpse of the freedom that lay beyond, a prisoner staring out through the bars of his cell. He was not a domestic dog, ever, but he was not a truly wild dog either, he had never been raised to hunt or forage and had only ever eaten tinned food from out of his bowl.
He was a desert dog, wild and feral at heart, but unable to take care of himself in a wild environment. Part domesticated, part still wild, neither fish nor fowl and we'd known all along that we could never take him home.
Hardest thing I had ever had to do in my life, having Freddie put down, but once the decision had been taken to leave Bahrain there was no other choice. Telling myself that over and over doesn't make it any easier, but just to abandon him would have been cruel and he could not have survived in England. The frustrations of quarantine confinement would have killed him.
Telling Sophie was going to be hard. In the end, I weaselled out and told her we were only leaving him in the kennels whilst we went on holiday. But the look in her eyes told me she did not believe me, there was hurt and accusation gleaming out from within the tears, she knew I had betrayed her and she turned her head away from me.
I lifted Freddie up onto the table at Pita Kerrigan's surgery and scratched his ears for the last time. He licked my hand and wagged his tail, looking at me with love, with his whole heart, trusting me completely. I knew how Judas felt.
Pita had gone, had left a while ago and it was her Indian assistant George who gently clipped away the fur from Freddie's forepaw and gave him the injection of anaesthetic that would stop his heart. He stood there, tail still going like the clappers, grinning that daft Fred grin, and then his back legs just gave away, folding beneath him like a collapsing deckchair. Then his eyes glazed over and he slumped down onto his chest, a thin dribble from his mouth and he was gone. I could hardly see for my tears. 'Sorry Freddie', I whispered, stroking him for the last time, he was still warm, 'Bye Freddie, we loved you.'
Drove home in a daze, still wiping the tears from my face. Sophie took one look at my face and ran to her bedroom. 'He went quickly', I told Suzie, 'He felt no pain.' I wish I could say the same.
Bye Freddie, we loved you. I hope you found your freedom in doggie heaven.
Two days later we flew out. My last impression of Bahrain was how quiet the streets of Manama were. The airport carpark was empty. We parked up on the ramp by Departures and abandoned the Volvo. I knew there would be no coming back. There were no porters. Normally you have to fight them off. I found a trolley and trundled our luggage into the echoing terminal.
Chapter Eighty
LONDON ENGLAND.
12TH AUGUST 1999
We drove into London from Heathrow Airport. It was a strange, strange feeling, surreal. It would be easy to say that London was a ghost town, but that's not right, it's too simple an description, too trite. It was more as though we were the ghosts, invisible disembodied beings viewing an alien city through a fish-eye lens. From within a sealed capsule where sound and vision are warped and the straight edges of reality and belief are distorted, like the twisted images you see in the House of Mirrors of a fun fair, sometimes short and fat and crushed, sometimes tall and thin and stretched - but no matter how contorted and distorted your reflection is, you can still recognise yourself. London was like that. In fact the entire world seemed to be like that.
The world was there, within our vision, seemingly carrying on as if normal, but at half pace, it was as though the planet had become encased in thick glycerine, slowing everything down.
At the airport, planes were landing and taking off as usual, but not as many and those that were flying were less than half full. The concourse at Terminal Four was almost deserted, but the arrivals desk were still manned, passport control was there, the customs officers still made me feel guilty as I passed through the Green Nothing To Declare channel, but it was like watching a video of it on a giant screen, we weren't really a part of it. It was there but we were invisible participants in a scene from an avant-garde play, slow moving, soundless, cocooning, a play no doubt deeply significant to the authors and actors but meaningless to the audience. Uninvolving.
I don't know what I expected to find, I mean, we knew that Sargon had reached London, had hit hard and caused many deaths but somehow, I expected that it would not be as effective or deadly. More civilised. That something would have been done about it. Strange thinking in retrospect, but it was all part of the blinker mentality. The refusal to accept that Sargon had got out of hand and had already caused the deaths of several million people.
As we drove through London it could have been an early Sunday morning instead of a rush hour Friday. Eerie feeling. Mounds of rubbish in black plastic bin bags seemed to have piled up at every street corner, reminiscent of the worst days of strikes during the winter of discontent in 1979.
We came off the M4, through Hammersmith, passing by Ralph Erskine's incredibly hideous rotten egg of a building, the Hammersmith Ark, my prize for the ugliest building of the decade. Unfortunately, the lack of traffic on the road gives me more time to look at it.
Carry on past the Natural History Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum, and still we had hardly seen a soul. Brompton Road was deserted, Harrods window all but empty, dull and lifeless, as if there had been a sale and they couldn't be bothered to re-stock the displays. Up to Hyde Park Corner and round the Wellington Arch. Normally it's like a racetrack with taxis and buses and cars coming at you from all directions, hesitate and you're dead, but it was disconcertingly traffic free. It was like arriving for a dinner party only to be told you've come on the wrong day. I never ever thought I would long for there to be traffic at Hyde Park Corner.
Past Aspley House and up Park Lane, the open green spaces of Hyde Park to our left.
Autumn sunlight dappled through the high stand of trees at the edge of the park, pale yellow patterns flickering through the shadows like memories of better days.
Then thin blue smoke wreathed across the road, writhing through the trees like a morning mist, but no mist ever smelled that vile, a sickly pungent smell, like overcooked rotten meat. Sophie wrinkled up her nose, 'Urggh, what's that pong?,' and buried her face into her jumper. Suzie and I glanced at each other, and nodded, saying nothing but we both knew what the stench must be, had smelled it in Bahrain, it was the reek of funeral pyres and burning flesh and we guessed that the Army must be incinerating bodies of the Sargon dead.
