We crouch lower, our noses about a millimeter away from the poo.
The flashlight beam passes slowly over our heads. I’m holding my breath because of the smell, but I haven’t got long left.
Then the beam comes back, even slower, and stops.
“Stand up, with your hands in the air.”
I’ve heard it said that, at times of great stress, your thinking becomes clearer. At this moment, I know for certain that if we are caught, and arrested, or whatever it is that police do with kids, then Mr. Mash will be returned to St. Woof’s and he’ll die.
I am not going to let that happen.
I’m also very aware that the whole dogs thing is my obsession. Ramzy is coming along for the ride, but it’s me who’s driving the whole thing.
So it’s not really a choice, is it? Yet it’s Ramzy who makes the decision.
Out of the side of his mouth, he murmurs, “I’m gonna make a run for it, Georgie. He can’t grab both of us, and that way you’ll get away with Mashie.”
At this exact moment—knee-deep in dog poo, a flashlight dazzling our eyes—I know that Ramzy is the most loyal friend I could ever have. In the darkness, he reaches toward me and squeezes my hand. It should have been a lovely moment, a real bonding, only something squishes between our palms as he does so.
The policeman says, “All right, climb out, very slowly. And no funny business.”
We both stand up and start to clamber out of the pit.
“Oh my good God,” says the policeman. The light is shining right at us, so I can’t really see him, but he’s standing about three yards away, aiming the flashlight beam first at Ramzy, then at me. Mr. Mash manages to jump out of the pit as well. The policeman’s radio crackles and he talks into it.
“Two suspects, Sarge. Minors. And a dog. Round the back…and they’re covered in, well…I hate to think, Sarge. Bring gloves.”
I recognize his voice. It’s the same policeman who told me to clear off from St. Woof’s earlier. I’m scared that he’ll recognize me.
He takes a couple of steps toward us. “Right,” he says. “Who have we got here?” Without warning, Ramzy darts to the side and makes a run for it across the church lawn.
“Hey! You little…come back!” But he’s too late, and realizes that if he chases Ramzy, then I’ll run off and he might lose both of us. So instead—and completely against our expectations—he turns back to me and grabs me by both shoulders before I’ve even taken a step.
“Euch. What the…?”
I am—as I think I’ve mentioned—absolutely covered in dog mess, and his grip slips at exactly the moment that Mr. Mash growls menacingly and advances toward him, showing his teeth. The policeman backs away.
“Call your dog off, love. That’s an offense, that is.”
“Mr. Mash,” I start to say, but Mr. Mash isn’t listening. Instead, he takes another step toward the policeman, his neck straining forward to the full length of the leash, and lets loose a volley of growls and barks.
I can see what’s going to happen as the policeman backs away farther, and it takes just one final snarl from Mr. Mash for the policeman to stumble backward on the edge of the composting pit.
“Ah…ahhh…noooo!”
With flailing arms, he falls backward into the pit, landing awkwardly on his side, one hand plunged into the mire, his other scrabbling at the side of the pit.
It’s our only chance. I turn and run as the policeman begins to climb out, but he’s sliding around and toppling over. Mr. Mash is way ahead of me. “Stop!” echoes behind me.
I run and run, Ramzy joining us at the churchyard gate, and we keep running, through the new estate, down back lanes. All thought of the smell and the filth is banished by the single goal in my mind, which is to get as far away as possible.
And then we go down an alley between two houses and emerge at the top field by Mum’s tree, and we can follow the hedge that runs down the side of the field with the cows. Eventually, I see our barn, and it’s only when we’re down there and have undone the padlock with the key that’s hidden under a plant pot and are safely inside, drawing rasping breaths, that we speak our first words since we started running.
“Georgie…,” wheezes Ramzy.
“What?”
“You stink!”
We both start laughing, and carry on laughing like maniacs, even though it’s two in the morning. I turn on the hose outside the dark barn and start the long process of getting us both, and Mr. Mash, clean.
I keep thinking of Mr. Mash snarling at the policeman and my bedroom wall poster:
Mr. Mash thinks the hosing down is great fun, and bites at the jet of water. I think, sadly, that it’s the last fun he’ll be having for a little while. He’s going to have to stay very well hidden.
It’s only then that I realize that he might, in fact, be sick. I was so focused on saving him from being put down, I didn’t think about it. I say nothing to Ramzy, but just because Mashie wasn’t in the quarantine section doesn’t mean he hasn’t already got the disease.
Well.
I’ll just have to hope, won’t I?