ONCE A WEEK, JOHN WENT out before dawn. On Thursdays, his mother shared a stall at the Rag Market in town with other single-mom entrepreneurs, and she was excited about market day, often regaling him with tales of banter and errant customers, and the characters she encountered.
She always asked him to go to the newsagent’s and buy her assorted magazines to read during rare quiet moments between customers. This small errand was the reason John loved Thursdays so much – because he got to walk along empty streets like he was the last human on earth.
He wasn’t the first human – the milkman beat him to that accolade, whistling cheerfully as he passed alongside John in his humming float, which chimed with glass bottles. A few night-shift workers were returning home, too, but John was the only kid.
His joy was tainted, however, because of Bryan Shelton’s disappearance. He didn’t personally know the Shelton family but Ava did, and anyway, you didn’t have to know someone to feel empathy for their distress. Before he started to worry and think too much about it, he took a deep breath and walked faster.
In the distance, traffic grew louder along the Flyover. Leach Heath Lane forked left and right to Leach Green Lane and was divided by a grass holm Ava called Three Tree Island.
But as John walked opposite the junior school, he was no longer the only kid around. He kept walking uphill, shooting surreptitious glances at a tall, rangy youth on Three Tree Island. The boy faced away from him, and was crouched on his haunches, looking at something out of sight. When John recognised the big bike on the ground not far away, he knew who the boy was.
Nathaniel Marlowe.
John, not wanting to disturb, remained quiet and, he hoped, invisible. He was just thinking he’d successfully retained the last of his dawn solitude when Marlowe turned and looked straight at him. He stood upright. John kept his eyes averted but to avail.
‘Oy! John!’ Marlowe called out. ‘Oy, mate! Can you help me out a sec?’
John stopped, as if his own free will was momentarily short-circuited. He saw what had held Marlowe’s attention – a small, dead dog was lying at his feet. John wanted to say no, but instead he crossed the road as if compelled, his inherent politeness driving him like a heavy goods vehicle. He stopped a few metres from Marlowe.
John hadn’t spoken or been this physically close to Marlowe since Marlowe had chucked Brett Arbello across the ground for attacking Ava outside the school. He saw Nathaniel and his fellow delivery boy, Karl, zoom around on their bikes, but that was the limit of his acquaintance. Marlowe’s odd eyes were distinctive in the morning light, and, at full height, he carried his weight across both feet like a boxer. On his scarred forehead rested the coolest pair of sunglasses John had ever seen – like goggles explorers wore from the 1920s.
John looked down at the dead dog: a little fluffy thing of indeterminate breed, with no collar, and yellowish fluid and blood sticky about its ears. Fractured skull, thought John, a long-time pupil of Ava’s. There was no fly activity – probably because the dog was freshly dead. He looked up to find Nathaniel watching him with his head cocked to one side.
‘Poor dog,’ said John. ‘Is he yours then?’
‘No,’ said Marlowe. ‘I found him.’
‘Maybe he escaped.’ John looked to the road. ‘Hit by a car most likely.’
‘Yeah,’ said Marlowe. ‘I just want to move him into the bushes. Will you help me carry him over?’
Marlowe looked strong enough to carry a Shetland pony all on his own, and certainly this dog. But maybe he didn’t want to be seen carrying a dead animal alone.
‘We don’t have gloves so . . . ’
‘Hold on,’ said John and, recalling Ava’s trick, he scoured the area and found several empty crisp packets which had been blown into a corner by the wind. He handed a couple to Marlowe, who watched as John slipped his hands into them then did likewise with his own.
‘Good plan, Batman,’ said Marlowe.
Between them, they carried the dog to the gorse bushes across the road then laid it on the ground behind them. Marlowe stroked its ears as if it was still alive, with a gentleness reminiscent of Ava and the dead cat all those weeks ago. With the same sadness and reverence. Quickly, and out of habit, John mouthed The Rabbit’s Prayer.
John stepped back as Marlowe straightened.
‘Ta for this,’ said Marlowe, removing his makeshift gloves.
‘That’s all right,’ said John, and turned to go.
‘I’m Nathaniel.’
‘Yes,’ John said. ‘I know. We met when Ava . . . ’
‘ . . . was attacked by that wanker outside school,’ said Nathaniel. ‘How is Lady A?’
‘Lady A?’ John frowned. He’d forgotten Marlowe’s nickname for Ava. He didn’t like it much.
‘Ava Bonney,’ said Marlowe.
‘Oh, yes.’ John took another step away. ‘She’s fine.’
‘Good,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Take care of her, yeah?’ He picked up War Horse without effort then cycled away on it. John thought it would be so easy to like Marlowe, but he didn’t want to. He supposed it was because Marlowe was too good-looking, and because he called Ava ‘Lady A’.