The Pack (6 page)

“Hey, sonny, where are you going, eh? Come here, come on here.”

Hunger turned. His head was lowered, his hackles up, his teeth bared. Red Dog's lieutenant had talked of the fierceness of this dog, and the boy observing now from the street corner had thought he was exaggerating to save face —“An old woman and a dog!” Red Dog had bellowed at him—but now he could see for himself the seriousness of the beast's intent. He left his post and ran off to report.

“All right, all right…” one of the men was whining. “Only trying to be friendly.”

Hunger sank his nose into the snow and carried on, but he stopped more frequently now and glanced back at Bradley. Bradley nodded at him. Both of them knew they had been crossing and re-crossing the same territory: somewhere in the territory of Red Dog, they would find Victor and Floris.

But not today. Hunger had come to an old gutter running beneath the snow. The trail had gone cold and it was rapidly getting dark. At street level the only light guiding them now was coming from the snow, though the sky was lit by the constellations of the Invisible City.

I can go on. I can go on as long as my anger lasts.

“Tomorrow, Hunger,” said Bradley. “Tomorrow we'll find them.”

They found a derelict building and settled down for the night. Bradley covered himself with an old pile of newspapers and Hunger pressed against him. Bradley opened his backpack and broke some of the bread between them and pulled some ham off the bone.

He spread his hand deep in Hunger's silver chest and soon was fast asleep.

*   *   *

“Bradley, good heavens, look at the time! If you're not careful you'll miss breakfast.”

Margaret opens the curtains and Bradley turns from the sunlight filling the room. He lies under the blankets—the blankets upon blankets—oh, the luxurious weight of them, the dog-warmth of them.

He gets up and stretches. He looks out of the window. The house is almost surrounded by trees. It is May and they are tall and full through the glen. A couple of wood pigeons burst from their tops in short frenetic flights.

Bradley's clothes are laid out for him—even in May, there is a soft, warm jersey for him, should he want it. He dresses quickly—a white shirt, with not a spot of dirt on it, and a pair of black woolen trousers—and goes along the corridor and down the winding staircase.

In the breakfast room, a fire burns low in the grate. There is hot porridge waiting and a plate of bacon and hot slices of toast.

“Good morning, Bradley,” says his mother. She wears a blue dress the color of a summer sky. She has a complexion like cream, with almond eyes, blue as cut glass.

“Good morning, Mother,” says Bradley.

“Some porridge?” his mother suggests. But for a minute or so, Bradley just wants to look at her, to take in her softly tumbling hair, her kind face, her gentle hands, so that he will have them with him always; until she gives a trill of laughter and plants a kiss on his forehead.

“Oh, Bradley,” she says.

The table is set for another—Bradley's sister—and when she arrives, her face is troubled. She bites on her lower lip as she greets Bradley and their mother.

“Oh, Mother,” she says, and there is a heaviness in the way she says it.

“Now, Chloe,” says their mother, “you've not to worry about me—or about Bradley.”

Bradley notices then how alike mother and daughter are. They could almost be twins—the same blue eyes, the same elegant hands.

“What is there to worry about?” Bradley asks. “Whatever it is, can't Father take care of it?”

They both turn on him their sad eyes. “Bradley,” they say together, “don't you realize yet, Father is dead…”

“How did he die?” It seems odd to Bradley how calm he is, asking the question, while seeing so clearly his father's face—the determined set of his jaw, his blind white eyes.

“Did no one tell you, Bradley?” his mother asks.

“No,” Bradley replies. “Tell me.”

“Well, as you know,” his mother begins, “your father was a very rich man. He owned factories throughout the land.”

“What did he make in his factories?”

“He made thick woolen cloth, silly—the warmest of its kind—and it went throughout the world, mostly to children. They loved its softness, because it never chafed them or cut into them. That is why you have never known a winter's cold, my darling.”

“So what happened?”

“He was testing a new fabric, far in the north on the ice floes; he always took a real, personal interest in the business. He wanted to make sure a new fabric did what he would claim for it—
Keeps You Warm, WHEREVER YOU ARE!

“His factory ship looked like a whaling ship, sharp-prowed, broad in the beam. That was where the huge looms were located and the weavers worked, happed up in fingerless gloves and hats and scarves. For weeks they had been weaving and testing, weaving and testing. Your father held each new piece of cloth against his cheek and against the soft inside of his arm to check for softness. It was a test the cloth had to pass before it passed any other. If it failed, he might ask for four more angora threads in the weft, a bit of chinchilla in the woof.

“But the real test came on the ice, the coldest place your father could think to go. How could a blind man walk on frozen floes of ice? Yes, it was a question that was often asked. But what he lost in sight, he more than made up for in his hearing. The tiniest creak of the ice told him its thickness and where there was a weakness. The gentlest slap of water on the broken edge of ice told him the mass and dimensions he must cross.

“As you can imagine, at the testing time, the crew and the weavers all left their posts and leaned over the side of the ship to watch a blind man skipping across a jigsaw of ice. And all the time, remember, he would be calibrating the degree of warmth held in a leg, in a cuff, in each of his ten fingers.

“When he lost his footing on a particularly treacherous block of ice, the weavers and sailors at first took him to be dancing. They applauded his jig. Chaplin had never been funnier—or risked more to be funny. How these men loved your father.

“They cheered when he called out to them, laughed themselves hoarse as, limb by limb, he disappeared over an edge of ice. They waited in the silence for him to reappear on the other side. He was a man in whom one never lost faith.

“But to be brief, dear Bradley, your father fell into the freezing waters and drowned. Of course, he wasn't aware of the waters being freezing—the fabric worked, no doubt about that. Yes, your father drowned in a cold blue light but with a sweet, satisfied smile on his face. And, if you're looking for other comfort, it wasn't long before the weavers and sailors worked out what had happened and began to sing psalms and hymns, whose vibrations were the last sounds your father heard.”

“Dear Father,” says Chloe and begins to cry.

“Now, now, Chloe,” says her mother.

“But what's to happen? What's to happen to Bradley and me?”

“You'll be fine.”

But Bradley notices she doesn't say “both” and he notices the worried glance she gives him.

“But I hate Uncle Vince!” screams Chloe.

Bradley knows it is important that he asks why, but the smell of the bacon is almost overpowering now. He just wants the conversation to end, so that Margaret will come in and serve him the bacon, because suddenly he realizes he has not eaten properly for days.

*   *   *

Hunger had smelled it too, the charcoal smell of burning meat. Bradley was as much animal as he was when hunger pangs struck. He brushed the newspapers from him—with the bones of a story the Old Woman had once told him—and took to the street.

Skewered on sticks thrust into the snow, each a house or so apart, there were three burnt fingers of meat. That things so small could smell so delicious! The street, in the grey early morning light, was deserted.

“Yes!” said Bradley.

Yes!
said Hunger. They would grab the meat and take it back to the building to share.

Bradley's hands were on the third skewer when they fell on them. They poured from basements, from the black mouths of buildings; they seemed to rise from the snow itself. How many of them there were Bradley couldn't tell, but they fairly whooped with delight, their teeth flashing as they threw nets over him and Hunger. Hunger snapped through a few of the cords, till they bit too far into his mouth for even his back molars to reach.

Finally, exhausted with the struggle, Bradley and he lay panting on the ground.

Too late the Old Woman's voice came to him: “Thomas, oh, Thomas, what had he been thinking of?”

Bradley could see clearly now, from his street-level view, that their attackers were all children, no older than he was, grubby and dressed in ragged clothes, though each wore a red badge of identity tied round his head or one of his arms. They were leaning down to him and grinning and howling. One pushed his face into the snow. They slapped each other on the hands and on their backs.

“That's him. That's the one. Got ya! Got ya!”

They fell silent and moved back from the net. Bradley heard boots crunching on the snow. One heavy step and then a lighter—someone with a limp. He looked up to see the weasel man smirking down on him.

“Works every time, that one. We knew you were around here somewhere. Just a case of flushing you out—right, boys?”

The boy soldiers chirruped agreement.

“Yes, well, like I say, we've been expecting you, little friend. We'd better go now; Red Dog's very keen to meet you.”

7

RED DOG

The children threaded poles through the nets and carried Bradley and Hunger through the streets. Those not carrying danced beside them, poking fingers and sticks into their trophies. Two of the coat-fighters Bradley had met earlier, woken by the cold and the commotion from their doorway, showed a bleary-eyed interest. But the children snapped and spat at them, before laughing with each other.

Through the net, Bradley could see that they had been brought to a building with an impressive oak door. Above it was the motto, in chipped stone,
MUTUAL INVESTMENT – FUTURES GUARANTEED.
On either side hung two long banners, each with the profile of a red dog.

Bradley and Hunger were carried up a flight of stairs, their backs bumping on each step because the porters were so small. They were brought into a cavernous space and were dumped in the middle of its hard wooden floor.

The children withdrew to the sides and they were left alone, bruised and wild-eyed.

Helpless,
said Hunger.
Pain.

Bradley didn't know what to say. He pulled a hand from under him and pushed it into Hunger's chest. Their heartbeats knocked into each other.

As his eyes became accustomed to the thin electric light and the clumps of candles, Bradley could see they were in a huge hall that had been made by demolishing the walls dividing half a dozen rooms. He could make out the jagged arches. There was no furniture in the hall, apart from, at the far end, on a raised platform, a large swivel chair.

A door opened. The children began to whoop and bang. Hunger struggled to stand, but the more he struggled, the more he tied himself up. Bradley was terrified he would strangle himself.

“Hunger,” he said. “Hunger.”

It was the first time Bradley had seen him with eyes on the verge of defeat. They were full of wildness, of course, and anger too, but fear was there, the fear of not being able to stand four-square to face whatever was going to happen. His red tongue was like a wound in the half-light.

The man who had entered was huge—and cursed with a grotesquely misshapen head. That much Bradley could see as he watched his back passing through the guard of honor. He seemed to be wearing a kind of frilly red gown. And he liked to play.

The game appeared to involve him breaking off from his stiff procession to his throne to cuff one of the children who had come too close. It was not a friendly cuff, but one which sent the child tumbling over and squealing with pain. The others laughed uproariously. In fact, it seemed to be the viciousness of the slap that added spice to the game. The bravest children went as close as they dared, skipping away with delight when he missed.

One child, though, pushed his luck. He had a shock of red hair and he glided out behind the man like a dancer, before imitating his walk for a few strides. The children tittered and the man swung with lightning speed. The blow caught the boy full on the side of his face. His feet briefly left the floor, as he hurtled sideways. The other children did not catch him, but stepped out of the way to let him fall, clutching his head on the ground. His human crying did no more than amuse the others, who crowded round him making boo-hoo noises.

“You're getting slow, Skreech,” the giant called to him, blowing on his hand, as if it were a smoking gun. He then drew the same hand in a great arc across his chest and out before the company, till he brought it to rest at his side.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen,
mutual investors
all,” he announced, “may I introduce to you Red Dog—
once met, never forgotten; once crossed better you were never begotten.
”

He was the tallest man Bradley had ever seen, with a great barrel chest and a forehead that, when he frowned, seemed to push down on his brows like a helmet. The gravity of the ceremony demanded he frown most of the time. And yes, he was wearing a red frilly gown and a pearl necklace over a metal shirt. He stepped up to his throne and twirled once, sparking light through the hall, before he sat on it. The children cheered. And the helmet lifted briefly and he laughed, a high-pitched laugh that was cold as a draughty tunnel. The children laughed too at the nothing he was laughing at. An ice-storm of sharp little laughs.