2

Tom was in the back garden.

The flower beds were thick with weeds, and the grass hadn’t been cut for several weeks. The whole area was turning into a wilderness, in fact. Tom sat surrounded by sockets and spanners. An old engine lay in pieces around him: the components were on newspaper, ready to be cleaned.

The back door opened, and he saw his father.

“You’re needed,” he said.

“Who by?”

“There’s something for you. Can you wipe your hands? It’s a special delivery, I think—just arrived.”

Tom stood up. There was a rag to the side, so he cleaned his fingers. He could see Phil in the kitchen, and he still had his helmet on. As he came closer to the window he saw a bag on the table, and he noticed that his father’s face was expressionless.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“What have you got for me? What’s in there?”

His dad had moved back inside, so Tom followed.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It was on the doorstep. I was going to send it back, but then I saw it had your name on it.”

“If it’s from Mum, I’m not opening it.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“Where’s it come from, then?”

“I don’t know. What is it, Phil? You carried it in.”

“No idea. It’s heavy, though, and there’s something moving about.”

Tom stood in the doorway, and felt his stomach contract.

Phil had taken his helmet off now, and was looking at him with a curious smile.

His dad had moved to the cooker, and his face was still blank.

The radio was off, and the only sound was a sudden scratching from inside the bag, which caused it to expand and contract. The zip was fastened, and Tom heard a soft, plaintive whine.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Maybe it’s a football,” said Phil.

“It’s something for school, I expect,” said his dad. “A nice new blazer.”

“I’ve got one already.”

“A spare?”

Tom found that he couldn’t breathe. He shook his head, and for a moment he thought he was going to choke. Swallowing, he realized that something funny had happened to his hands: they were clasped together, just under his nose, and for some reason he had tears in his eyes.

“You haven’t…” he said quietly. “Have you?”

“Haven’t what?”

“I’d given up asking. Dad, you haven’t…”

“What’s he talking about, Phil?”

“I’ve no idea. He’s looking a bit shaky, though. Are you ill, Tom? Do you want to lie down?”

“I think we’d better get help—he’s gone all pink.”

Tom walked to the table. The bag had moved again: he had seen it jump, and whatever was inside was very definitely alive. He wiped the tears from his eyes, but his fingers wouldn’t work properly—he couldn’t get the zip open, and he was aware that Phil had started filming it all on his phone. The thing inside was now whining continuously, and he distinctly heard a yap. At last, he got the zip to work. Even as it split open, a pair of paws pushed their way out, followed by a furry head. There was a tangle of ears, which separated to reveal shining eyes and then a nose that rose to meet Tom’s with a howl of delight.

The dog launched itself upwards like a spring, twisting in midair. How had it been confined in so small a space? It exploded upwards and outwards, and Tom just managed to catch it under the forelegs and lift it clear, even as it squirmed round into his arms and licked his face.

The boy staggered backwards with the dog pressed against his chest.

“No way!” he said. “This can’t be real…”

Phil was laughing, and so was his father.

Tom clutched the dog to himself, open-mouthed.

“I don’t believe it!” he cried. “I absolutely don’t believe it! Is this really for me?”

His father was nodding.

“But you said we couldn’t… I don’t believe it! No!”

“He’s yours, Tom. Hard work pays off, and he really is yours.”

“He can’t be…”

“Yours for ever. So come on, put him down.”

“I don’t believe this… Look at him. Oh, just look at him!”

Tom sank to his knees, and let his dog down on to the kitchen floor. There was a scrabble of claws and a quick somersault of fur as the dog launched himself upwards again. He leapt under the table and over to Phil, and then seemed to bounce off the wall towards Tom, who scooped him up again as the dog clambered on to his shoulder.

“I’m dreaming!” cried Tom. “You said a cat, if I was lucky. You said a cat, maybe, and look at this!”

“You don’t want him?”

“Oh, I do! He’s… incredible. What shall I call him, though? He’s got to have a name! Can I call him what I want?”

“Of course,” said his dad. “Now put him down a second.”

“Thank you, Dad. He’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Just look at his legs—he’s like a great big spider. That’s what I’m going to call him! That’s his name, all right? Oh, wow—this is the best day of my life…”

“It’s only what I said, Tom—listen. You worked for that scholar ship, and what with everything that’s happened—”

“Oh, he’s gorgeous…”

“You’ll train him, and look after him. You’re going to be responsible for him, OK? In every way.”

The dog twisted again, and Tom held him tight against his ribcage. He could feel a heart beating, fast and furious.

“Look at his coat,” he said softly. “Is he a sheepdog, do you think?”

Phil laughed. “I don’t think he’s that. He’s got a bit of terrier in him, maybe.”

“A bit of hyena,” said his dad. “I can see crocodile, too—look at that tooth.”

Tom didn’t hear them.

“He’s so stretchy,” he cried. “Look at his tail, and his legs—they’re tangled up. It’s like he’s got too many!”

His eyes were still running with tears, and the dog felt one bounce off his nose. He squirmed, and managed to get a good lick at the boy’s face. He could smell Tom’s hair because it was long and clean—there was soap mixed in with a cocktail of oil and garden. The boy was thin, and it occurred to the dog that in some ways they looked rather similar. Tom was grinning now, and his smile was absolutely joyful.

“I’m going to call him Spider,” said Tom. “Is that OK?”

“Put him down, Tom. Let’s get him a drink.”

“Oh, Dad, thank you so much! Thank you, Phil—thank you. Come on, Spider—let’s show you round, and get you some food.”

“Be careful, mate,” said Phil. “He’s still only a puppy.”

“I’ll show him the house! This is your home now, Spider. This is where you live, so you better get to know it and guard it.”

The boy put the dog gently down on to his four paws, and the dog was still for a moment. He stared around the room, taking in his new family and his surroundings. Within seconds, he’d bolted for the door and found himself in the open air, racing through the grass. Tom followed, shouting, so Spider swung round and instinctively dodged to the side, then he tore back the way he’d come. Moments later, he was jumping high, dashing between the boy’s legs and turning tight circles. He snarled in ecstasy, playbiting and rolling on to his back.

“Spider!” cried Tom. “Come on, sir! Sit!”

The dog dived at his new master, barking madly.

“No, Spider! Down!”

 

Spider writhed again, and waved his legs in the air. He felt hands on his ribs, and right around his neck. Tom was wrestling him now, and as Spider fought he yelped in wonder. For a split second he thought of Thread, and yelped again, for the nasty little creature had got everything so totally, utterly wrong.

He had a home. He had a name. Best of all, he had an owner who needed him—and that was simply too good to be true.