Spider jumped off the bed, his ears flapping.
The feet came slowly up the stairs, treading heavily. They paused on the landing below, and Spider remembered the goldfish. He had a vision of the broken bowl and the water as it flooded the carpet. He heard Tom’s voice, then, but it was quieter than usual.
“Oh, no,” said the boy.
Spider padded to the door, and was in time to see Tom as he reached the bottom of the staircase. The two friends looked at each other.
“Spider,” said Tom, “what have you done?”
“Why are you in the house?” the boy asked, and he started up the stairs.
Spider wagged his tail once and lifted a paw. He could sense a terrible fatigue in his master, and he knew that things were about to go horribly wrong again.
The boy was close now, and he had a bewildered look. His tie was twisted, and there was mud on his blazer. When he put his hand out to touch Spider’s head, the back was grazed and bloody. Spider whined and licked at it, but Tom was moving past him, into his bedroom. He stopped and stood motionless, as if some magic wand had touched his shoulder and turned him to stone.
“No,” he said softly. “Oh no, Spider. What the hell have you done?”
The dog watched in alarm as Tom gazed around his bedroom, shocked and upset. The boy sat down suddenly on the carpet—it was as if his legs had given way. He put his face in his hands, so Spider did the obvious thing and bounded into his arms, nuzzling hard. He was pushed away, so he pushed back harder, more frightened than ever. He squirmed between the boy’s elbows, whimpering, and tried to get a good lick at the troubled face—and he saw, with horror, that the face was bruised, and the right eye swollen. Tom turned his back and rolled over on his side.
“No!” he said—and he said it again and again. “No. No. No.”
Spider whined, hunting for a solution. He thought of the stick game—could that make things better? The closest thing to hand was a wooden ruler, which he’d tested his teeth on earlier and rejected because it splintered so quickly. He found its remains in a mess of feathers and brought them over to his master, pushing at the boy’s chest.
Tom looked at the gift and got unsteadily to his feet.
“Spider,” he said, “you’re a bad dog. Do you understand me?”
Spider didn’t.
“Look at this mess. Look at what you’ve done… This is…”
Tom was lost for words. He stared at the wreckage around him, and picked his way through the debris, to what was left of the felt penguin. It had been decapitated, so he looked harder and soon he found the head. The beak was missing.
Spider got ready, still wondering if things really were as bad as they seemed. Was Tom tricking him? Maybe he would throw the penguin and everything would be all right.
Tom didn’t. He looked at it and said, “Why? Why today? As if I haven’t had enough. Oh…”
The boy gulped and closed his eyes.
“Do you know how long I’ve had this?” He held the remains of the toy in both hands. “Spider, this is Penny. But you don’t know that, do you? This was the first thing I was ever given, but you don’t understand that, do you?”
Tom’s voice was doing strange things, and Spider whined again.
“This was the first thing I ever had, as a baby. Mum made me this. She made it, and said… She said…”
Tom paused and shook his head. Spider saw the tears running down his face. His whine was constant now, for he realized things were even more out of control than he’d thought. It felt like the world was ending.
“You can whine all you want,” whispered Tom. “Whine away…”
Spider yelped.
“Just look at that—that’s my English book… That was my English book, and that was my French dictionary! Jesus, Spider—you’ve ruined them all. This is a disaster… It’s over.”
He put his hands over his head, and moaned.
“Dad’s going to kill you. And me. We might as well run away together because we’re dead, both of us. You’re a bad dog! D’you hear me, Spider? You’re a bad dog. You’ve learnt nothing. You’re… you’re a monster.”
With that, Tom turned away and left the room.
“Nice one,” said Thread.
Spider didn’t answer. He stood there, unable to comprehend the tide of misery that had rolled through the bedroom. He hadn’t understood Tom’s long sentences, of course, but he’d heard the words “kill” and “bad dog”. Worst of all was the total rejection of every lick and nuzzle: he’d been pushed away not once or twice—and not as in a game—but every single time. Every effort he’d made had failed, as if Tom had become a stranger. The relationship was over, just as Moonlight had predicted.
“What do I do?” he said faintly.
“Don’t ask me,” said the spider. “All I know is that you’ve blown it. For ever.”
“Don’t say that, Thread. I need advice!”
“You need to face facts. The kid’s a worse mess than we thought. You just saw it yourself. He’s hot, then he’s cold. He has no stability, does he? He’s emotionally wrecked. That’s the problem here: one minute he’s all over you, and the next he’s blubbing over a toy penguin his mummy gave him. He called you names, dog.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Of course it’s not!”
“I mean, what you said isn’t fair. I’ve let him down again!”
“What I said is true, dog. And, no, life isn’t fair. What do you want, you stupid mutt? He insulted you and he threatened you.”
“I need to say sorry.”
“What for? For being what you are?”
“No! For spoiling things!”
“How’s that going to work? ‘Sorry, master, I’ve been behaving like a dog, because that’s what I am.’ He’s psychotic, that kid—and violent, too. Did you see the blood on his hands?”
“He was hurt.”
“He’s a bully!”
‘No! I think he’s in trouble, and I’ve made it worse—”
“Oh, Spider, come on! He’s got friends at that crazy school, and they’ve been fooling about together, fighting. The one thing he doesn’t need now is a pet like you. He’s tired of you, didn’t you see that? And it’s so, so typical. This is how relationships go, every time—and it proves what I’ve always said. Stay single—if you have any guts you’ll get out now. Listen… Shh! Wait.”
Thread and Spider felt the vibrations together.
“Someone’s coming, dog—and it doesn’t sound good.”
“What do I do?”
“Attack.”
“Attack who?”
“Everyone. It’s the best option, buddy—always is.”
The feet were heavy on the stairs—heavier than Tom’s. Spider whined and moved backwards. When he saw who it was, he started to shake. It was Tom’s dad, and it looked as if he’d just got out of bed. He came into the room and surveyed the wreckage in silence. Then he picked up the plastic sole of a wrecked sandal. He slapped it against his palm.
“My God,” he said. “You’ve ruined us.”
Spider was silent.
“They told me you had a bit of retriever in you. Retrievers don’t do this, do they? What the hell’s going on? What are you? Come here—come on…”
Spider tried to retreat, but he was trapped between the bed and the wall.
“Bite him!” hissed Thread.
Spider shook his head.
“Go on, get him!” cried the spider. “Go for the throat!”
But things happened way too fast for that. Tom’s dad lunged forward and caught Spider by the collar. He was yanked off his feet, and though he twisted like an eel he couldn’t resist the man’s strength and determination. Half strangled, he was dragged out of the room and down the stairs, bumping on his back. He yelped and barked, but the collar was twisted harder, and all he could do was screech. Then he heard Tom. The boy was screaming too, and his dad was yelling at him.
As they crossed the landing, Spider did his best to howl. Tom ran at his father, but was pushed back. He came again, grabbing at his dad’s arm—and that was when Spider’s instincts kicked in. He bit hard at the fingers that held him, but he couldn’t get purchase, and he was lifted off his feet again. He struggled and snarled, but suddenly he was in the kitchen, the door shut and locked behind him. Tom was hammering at it, and Spider felt a rush of cold air as he was hauled into the garden. His windpipe was completely blocked now, and he knew he’d pass out if he didn’t get free. He twisted wildly, slashing with the claws of his back feet. Then he saw the shed, upside down, and he found himself flying into the furthest corner.
“I’ve had enough!” cried the man.
The door slammed, and Spider lay in the darkness. He heard footsteps retreating, as Tom’s voice cried out from the house. It was silenced abruptly, and there was a terrible stillness.
“Ouch,” said someone.
Spider blinked. He couldn’t even whimper, for he was concentrating on breathing. He didn’t think anything was broken, but he wasn’t sure he could stand. He licked his muzzle and shook his head slowly, trying to clear it. Then he rolled over and managed to look around him. He could just make out a window, but it was nailed shut, and the whole place felt small and claustrophobic. There was no way out.