SEVEN

      The Dog Warden (whom Beede had phoned from work with Dina’s express permission – ‘Just stare into my eyes – deep into my eyes. Good. Now does it look like I give a shit?’) was actually so familiar with the Broads and their lurchers that he didn’t even require an excuse, an explanation or a return address, he simply turned up – within the hour – clutching an unwieldy pole with a wire loop on the end of it to facilitate their subjugation.

      Kane had seen this Draconian implement before – on one of the countless tv vet programmes – and was extremely keen to witness it in action. But as soon as the front door was opened, the dogs had leapt up and bolted (making a bee-line first for the warden, then his van), both their tails wagging, ten to the dozen.

      ‘If this were Turkey,’ Gaffar muttered, resentfully (as he and Kane stood listlessly on the front step together), ‘I’d’ve blasted off the big one’s bollocks for what he did to me earlier.’

      He took imaginary aim at the now fast-retreating van: ‘BANG!’ (his competence with a firearm apparently uncompromised by his recent mauling), and then congratulated himself (in Kurdish) for the accuracy of his shot.

      They trooped back inside again. ‘D’ya hear what that uptight, little turd said to me out there?’ Kane asked, indignantly, as he gave Beede’s sitting-room a final once over.

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘The warden. He wanted to know if I’d given the dogs water – water, yeah? To drink? – and when I said that I hadn’t – that I forgot – he completely went off on one. Said in high summer that’d constitute “a deliberate act of cruelty”. Can you believe that crap?’

      ‘Fascist!’ Gaffar exclaimed.

      Kane grabbed his jacket from the sofa and pulled it on. He idly adjusted the collar. ‘Well they certainly won’t be giving him his own cuddly, animal-welfare-based tv show…’

      ‘Rolf Harris? Fuck off!’ Gaffar snorted.

      ‘Bingo!’ Kane snapped his fingers. ‘You like Rolf, huh?’

      ‘I love,’ Gaffar confirmed, emphatically.

      ‘You love Rolf?’ Kane smirked, suggestively.

      ‘Oh yes,’ Gaffar deadpanned, performing a painstaking mime in which he repeatedly violated Rolf Harris from the rear, ‘I love Rolf.’

      Kane gazed at him for a moment, in mute alarm.

      ‘I PISS YOU! HA!’ Gaffar burst out laughing.

      Kane managed a weak smile as Gaffar jogged an exuberant lap around Beede’s sofa, lifting up his knees and clapping his hands, Zulu-warrior-style.

      As if prompted by the Kurd’s sudden, thunderous show of good humour, Beede’s phone began to ring. It was an old-fashioned, heavy-set, dial-tone phone c.1976, in bright, brick orange, and it lived – as befitted its lowly status – under his desk, behind a musty pile of old Private Eyes which he collected – or so he claimed – to donate to his dentist.

      Kane ignored the phone completely. Gaffar completed his lap and ground to a halt, still grinning.

      ‘So they featured this sweet, old girl on Animal Hospital once, yeah…?’

      Kane took out his cigarette packet (refusing – point-blank – to compromise his cool by responding directly to Gaffar’s wanton display) and carefully removed a pre-rolled joint from inside of it. ‘She had a Jack Russell. D’ya know that breed at all?’

      Gaffar shook his head, slightly out of breath.

      ‘A little, white dog – a terrier – a digger.’

      Kane mimed ‘dig’.

      Gaffar nodded, his eyes drifting – every couple of seconds – towards the source of the ringing.

      ‘Anyhow, there was something wrong with the animal – I don’t remember what, exactly – so this old dear took it along to the surgery, and they filmed her for the programme, and Rolf asked her what its name was…blah blah…You’re pretty familiar with the form, I guess?’

      Gaffar nodded again. He was very well acquainted with Animal Hospital protocol.

      ‘Yeah…’ Kane carefully moistened the side of the joint, ‘so this old girl says, “He’s called Bonus.” And Rolf thinks the name’s kind of cute – Bonus…It means to get something for free…Gratis.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘So he asks her why the dog’s called Bonus, and she says something like, “I was walking home from work one day and I saw this little dog running around. And it was obviously a stray. It was very dirty. Very thin…”’

      Kane mimed ‘dirty’, then ‘thin’.

      ‘Okay.’

      ‘So she decided to take the dog home with her and to care for it. I mean she saved its life, effectively. And she called it Bonus because she got it for nothing. Like a gift from God.’

      ‘Sure.’

      ‘So then Rolf says, “Will you lift Bonus up on to the table so that the vet can take a look at him?” And the old woman goes, “Would you mind doing it for me?” And she’s looking kind of anxious. So Rolf says, “Why? What’s the problem?” And the old woman says, “Even though I took him home that day and looked after him and loved him and have always cared for him the best way I possibly could, he absolutely despises me. But only me. With everyone else, he’s fine…”’

      ‘Ah,’ Gaffar looked impressed.

      ‘Yeah. The dog hated her. And it was all just pride, see? It resented the fact that she had come to its aid in its time of need, when it was truly vulnerable. It simply wouldn’t forgive her for helping it, for saving it, yeah? But it loved everybody else, was very gregarious, very friendly. So Rolf could stroke it and pick it up and put it on the table, and the vet could give it a painful injection, but if this kind, old dear so much as went anywhere near it, it’d snarl and take a quick snap…’

      ‘What?!’

      ‘Because it was fucked up.’

      The phone stopped ringing.

      Gaffar shook his head, slowly.

      ‘Yeah,’ Kane shrugged, ‘sometimes life can be a bitch like that.’

      He finally located his matches, opened the box, took one out, struck it and lit up his joint. Gaffar continued to stare at him, expectantly, as if awaiting some kind of punch-line. But none was forthcoming.

      About five seconds into this perplexing hiatus, Beede’s phone began ringing again. Kane glanced over at it, then back at the Kurd,