The ball bobbed away from Bowie each time he tried to grab it in his mouth. His eyes sparkled as he looked between Jig and the ball, his pink tongue sticking out and his short legs kicking in the waters.
‘Go on, Bowie, ya have it, ya have it,’ Jig encouraged, crouching down at the canal’s edge.
The Luas thundered over the bridge above him. A gust whipped down the waters, under a second, curved bridge and around the gentle bend of the canal where Jig was, near graffiti of a girl fishing. As he watched Bowie splutter and scramble in the waters, he remembered the day he became his owner.
‘Ya think ya be able to look after Bowie for me?’
Jig was delighted, but confused.
‘Ya mean it?’
His granda nodded.
‘Yeah.’
He took Bowie out of his granda’s lap. The pup gave him loads of licks on his cheek and ears. Jig burst out laughing.
‘Ah Bowie, Jaysus. Bowie.’
Jig patted the dog on his hard little head.
‘Is it a present, Granda?’
His granda stared into the waters. He had his pork-pie hat in his hands and rubbed his fingers around the edges of it. Bowie licked Jig on his cheek, but he didn’t react.
‘Granda?’
His granda sighed and faced him.
‘Jig, I have to . . . go.’
Jig shook his head to make the sentence go away.
‘I have to get out of here, Jig. I have no choice. If I had one, I’d stay.’
Jig couldn’t open his mouth. It was stuck dry. He could hear his breath through his nose.
‘And, I won’t be coming back. I can’t help it, Jig. Sorry.’
What about all the things he did with his granda, Jig thought, things he wouldn’t be doing any more. He’d be left with his da and his ma.
He could feel his granda’s strong hands on his shoulders.
‘Bowie will look after ya now, Jig.’
A big bark roused him.
He never found out why his granda left. His parents would never talk about it.
Jig watched Bowie pull himself out of the canal, the water slick against his muscular body. He dropped the ball on the grass and gave himself a shake. He padded over to Jig and nudged against him.
Jig grabbed him with both arms, not caring he was all wet.
There was a deep growl from nearby.
Jig knew the noise.
It was weird, but as soon as the shape of Ghost and Cracko emerged into view and took the path down to him, things kind of went silent, as if people and sounds had slipped into the waters.
Jig clasped his chain onto Bowie’s collar.
‘How’s the Jigster?’ asked Ghost, looking around him, but not at Jig.
‘Alright.’
Jig glanced at Cracko. He was biting on his lip, his arms hanging loosely beside him. He twitched at an image of him lifting that kettle and pouring boiling water onto that woman’s head.
‘Show us Bowie there,’ Ghost said, sticking his arm out like a rake.
Jig pulled Bowie in, then relaxed when Ghost gave him the eye.
Ghost clasped the chain and gave Bowie a firm tap on his head. The dog looked over at Jig. Ghost kicked the ball into the canal. Bowie jumped in after it, but Ghost dug his feet in to take the pull on the chain.
‘Woo, easy there, Bowie,’ Ghost said.
‘Hey, fucking watch Bowie,’ Jig roared, moving towards him.
He got about a foot. It felt like his right shoulder got jammed in a door. Twisting, he saw Cracko’s thick, scarred fingers clamped over his shoulder and felt it would snap if he moved.
Ghost pulled on the chain and dragged the dog along the edge of the waters towards a concrete ledge.
The bridge overhead clanked loudly with the passage of a Luas. Jig saw the top of Bowie’s head. He was trying to climb the ledge, but it was too high for him to grab.
‘Leave Bowie alone,’ Jig shouted.
Ghost wrapped more of the chain around his hand. He pulled hard and rose his hand up, his wiry arm tightening. The collar dug into Bowie’s neck as he was hauled inches out of the water.
‘Yer going to fucking choke him,’ Jig shouted.
Cracko laughed behind him and pressed his fingers deeper into his shoulder. Jig let out a roar.
Turning his head around, Cracko made a sssh sound with a finger. Jig knew not to roar again. Unless someone else came down the path, no one could see him.
He was sweating all over.
What the fuck is going on? Why they doing this?
Ghost lifted Bowie again. The dog struggled for air.
‘Tell me, Jig,’ Ghost said, clenching his teeth with the strain, before dropping the dog, ‘ya know what this filthy canal is full of?’
Jig shook his head.
‘Big diseased rats,’ Ghost said, the bridge vibrating again with a Luas. ‘Some of them are like fucking cats, the size of them.’
It dawned on Jig what this was about.
‘I’m not a rat.’
Cracko’s grip tightened a notch. Jig was forced to kneel down on one leg with the crunch. Loose stones dug into his knee.
‘I’m telling youse!’ Jig roared through his teeth.
Ghost pulled Bowie up again, higher this time. Jig could see Bowie’s hind legs now dangling. He was desperate for air.
‘Ya know, Cracko here,’ Ghost said, ‘carries a nasty-looking blade, more like a fucking hunting knife. He could slit Bowie’s belly and drop him into the waters. Be feeding time for all them filthy rats.’
Jig tried to push forward, but Cracko crunched down on his shoulder hard enough to snap bone. He nearly passed out from the pain, his face wet with sweat and snot.
‘I’m . . . no . . . rat.’
Suddenly, Cracko let him go and he fell face down on the path. He heard a splash and a bark. Looking up, Ghost was leaning down towards him, his cheekbones jabbing against his yellow skin.
‘Good. But we have a hunt on for one. Be at yer gaff at eight, Halloween night. Not a second fucking later.’
Jig’s shoulder splintered with pain as he tried to get up. He watched Bowie drag himself onto the bank. The dog ran towards him, the chain scraping on the path, and landed big licks on his cheeks.