Dog Boy (12 page)

The cat stood still, back arched, tail bristling as thick as Romochka’s arm. It bared its puny teeth and spat twice. Romochka giggled and yipped. Yes, that’s what he’d do too, spit and think, spit and think. Grey Brother quivered at each sound it made but held back with uncharacteristic humility, letting Romochka lead. Romochka threw pebbles at the cat to make it choose, but it moved only slightly and kept focus. His heart leapt in delight, his belly jumping. They had a cat cornered, and what a cat!

Then the cat bolted, choosing to go for Romochka, as they always did. He was ready, and, as luck would have it, he felt his club connect. The cat roiled back across the open space before the wall and whipped itself upright in the far corner. There it waited, hooped and spiky, tempting them, daring them to close in so as to shorten their reaction time when it made a run for it. Romochka could see it all, and he held Grey Brother back, making the cat choose again.

It chose Grey Brother. It dashed under him, seemingly straight into his great, downward swinging jaws and descending trap of a body. Then, at the last second, it twisted upwards and wrapped itself, snarling, claws outspread, over Grey Brother’s face.

Grey Brother yelped and staggered up, shaking his head from side to side, blind-staring into ginger belly fur while the cat sank its teeth into his brow. Romochka dropped his club and raced up. He grabbed the cat with both hands and wrenched as hard as he could, pulling five parts of Grey Brother’s face up with the cat.

The cat let go just as suddenly as it had attached itself, twisted, and swiped Romochka across the face. He dropped it and kicked viciously, his rage bubbling up with the blood from the stinging gashes. Grey Brother had lost all reason now and was scrabbling for the cat in the corner. Then he had it in his paws, trying to bring his jaws through its flailing weapons as it yowled, raked him and wriggled free. But it was still trapped and by now Romochka was ready. He kept Grey Brother in check with fierce growls. The cat was his.

It fought with such feistiness, even when exhausted, that Romochka wished it hadn’t died. He would have liked to carry it alive back to the lair, but in the end he killed it almost by accident with a blow to the skull. He was still very proud of himself to be bringing home cat for dinner. It was a brave cat, and good to chew. He decided he liked eating brave and beautiful things best. He kept its ginger tail in his collection of rat skulls, feathers, beaks, claws, iron nails, metal spikes and coins.

Romochka and Grey Brother had brought home the first healthy cat the pack had ever caught, and with that kill Romochka’s place as hunter was finally established.

At the back of the Roma Restaurant, Romochka made friends with the cook. Mamochka apparently knew her. Romochka, watching from the shadows, could see his mother’s fear and pleasure. His heart melted as the wary Mamochka bolted a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. The cook, big arms crossed over big breasts, talked softly all the while, and Mamochka’s ears stayed flattened and her eyes soft and even half trusting as she ate.

The next time they went together with Golden Bitch and Black Dog, who both hung back in the alley while Romochka waited with Mamochka in the pool of light at the Roma’s back door. Mamochka gave one small bark and sat down, expectant, her tail waving. The cook came out and stopped short at the sight of Romochka.

‘Good dog Little Mother bring me here.’ Romochka said quickly. Mamochka looked up in surprise at the sound of his voice, then licked his hand and continued to wag her tail.

‘I thought she was a stray,’ the cook said, frowning.

‘Yes,’ said Romochka. ‘Me too.’ He held up four fingers. ‘Four dogs.’ He called Golden Bitch and Black Dog from the shadows. They stood well back, reluctant, unconvinced. He pointed to Mamochka, to Golden Bitch, to Black Dog, then to himself. ‘Four dogs, please.’

The big cook laughed. She had a gurgly, juicy laugh. Black Dog and Golden Bitch would have fled, but he and Mamochka held them there with their assurance.

‘OK—dinner for four, Laurentia’s best,’ the cook said, still laughing, and turned back inside. She came back out with four bowls of steaming ravioli. This, thought Romochka happily, is the dog’s dinner. She handed him the bowls, and he carried them one by one to the three dogs, then took the last one for himself.

‘Nice manners, young man. Want a fork?’ she asked. He shook his head, blushing with pleasure as he shovelled the wonderful hot food into his maw.

Romochka, Mamochka, Black Dog and Golden Bitch trotted the long and dangerous trail home at peace with the world, their bellies warm and full. They saw a cat hissing and spluttering in a narrow lane and didn’t even chase it. They howled at a military siren. They chased each other around in the vacant lot before their lair.

The Roma was open late. It was a long trail through hostile territories, human and dog, to get there. Skirmishes as they traversed closed paths, judicious retreats, all-out routs, lurking, waiting and slinking through the cold alleys; these were normal. They could get there quickly if they were lucky, but it sometimes took them half the night. Laurentia fed them all the leftovers after midnight in eight bowls. They would get home again sometimes just before dawn, still full-bellied and ready to sleep.

She blinked hard when Romochka first arrived with everyone.

‘How many in the family, young man?’

‘That’s it,’ he said.

She would watch, humming and murmuring, as he handed out the plates to the shy dogs, and then praise his manners when he served himself last. He collected the bowls for her at the end and occasionally felt her warm hand touch his as he handed them back. It was a delicious jolt.

He adored Laurentia. In time he took it as his due that his bowl was special—hot and fresh, not scraps.

 

‘Where you living, then, wildchild?’ Laurentia asked, pausing in the middle of a song in a strange language. Romochka looked up. He almost answered, then stopped, worried. Mamochka, could she speak, would never tell anybody. Not even the slightly foolish Black Dog would tell. A mental picture flashed of how assiduously Black Dog posted warnings. He wanted to tell Laurentia everything about himself. He stared at her, big-eyed.

‘No place,’ he said slowly.

‘You warm enough in winter in No Place?’

‘Yes, snug as a bug.’ He put his head down, thinking furiously. He had tricked her with a lie. Would she be cross? He couldn’t bear to look. Mamochka was whining softly now, worried. Time to get going. But he had to give Laurentia something special, just to say sorry. He looked up.

‘My name is Romochka,’ he said.

Laurentia beamed at him and held out her huge hand for his. ‘Come!’ she said.

Mamochka growled first, then all the others rumbled low, lifting their heads from their food and moving in as a pack.

‘Shush shush,’ Laurentia said, flapping her other hand at them. ‘Good dogs—I’m not going to hurt your precious prince.’ She kept her outstretched hand waggling in a demanding way at Romochka.

Romochka smiled his rare, sweet smile and put his hand in hers. She swallowed it in her huge palm, and he blushed deep red. She led him inside. They didn’t go into the restaurant, which, from the smell, was down a long dark passage. He followed Laurentia as she ducked through a small padded door. She flicked a switch and a single globe lit up a narrow, jumbled room. On one side there was a low sagging bed that smelled strongly of Laurentia; a bench with an electric hotplate on one side and a three half-empty preserve jars on the other. A loaf of bread lay in the middle, one end sliced off, and a delicate dusting of crumbs spread over the bench. He could smell the dried end of the bread, and its soft freshness underneath. Everything was cosy and lovely. He couldn’t believe Laurentia had invited him in. He guessed her quilt and bed were dry. Everything was so well set up, with little bits of food here and there, handy for any time you needed them.

He stared at a faded picture of a blue sky over a sunny city. Laurentia sighed and murmured, ‘I’ll go back as soon as I pay off those filthy scoundrels.’

She reached for a large jar of biscuits perched on a high crooked shelf, took out three and put them in his hand. Then she led him outside again.

‘Scram, caro,’ she said, ‘before I get caught.’

Romochka drifted off in a haze of happiness. Mamochka sniffed him all over, concerned and impressed. He smelled his own hands. He could smell the sweet oil of the biscuits on one. On the other, he could smell Laurentia. Grease and cooked food, sweat and a woman smell, and, underneath that, a faint burnt smell, as if her old sweat had turned to ash.

Out of respect for Laurentia and Mamochka, Romochka all but gave up robbery with violence. Through the summer he did well with various forms of pilfering and begging, for which he used only White Sister and Grey Brother. He thought of Brown Brother occasionally: so slow to anger and happy to hang out with him for hours on end. Brown Brother would have been perfect. Grey Brother didn’t mind begging from people but was fidgety and liable to vanish when Romochka wasn’t looking. Black Sister was aggressive and bad for business. He could never get the snarl off her face.

Despite his extraordinary appearance and smell, the people of the city barely noticed Romochka. People moved with practised blindness through public spaces, silent and unsmiling, their eyes never seeming to focus, their thoughts turned inwards or dimmed. In the city, children who were pretty, clean and well dressed sometimes caught an eye or a smile, but unkempt children, or children who stank, were erased. There were too many, and the lost children of the city too overwhelming, for any one person to be able to cope with an awareness of them.

Some people did give food or money to children, but without conversation, fiercely incurious. It seemed they built this into their routine, just as they would going to the theatre. Romochka was drawn to the area around the metro entrance, placing himself to intercept these routines, seeking out his regulars with glances, reminding them that he was there. Even White Sister and Grey Brother knew some of their people. They waved their tails lightly when they scented the skinny lady who wore pretty clothes or the dvornik from the war museum who smelled of vodka and toffee. White Sister and Grey Brother were large dogs, similar in form with their twin curled tails and long legs. They both had large dark almond shaped eyes with black rims set wide on their handsome faces. They had very red tongues and very white teeth and pointed, wolf-like ears. To be recognised and deferred to by these beautiful beasts charmed many people.

Romochka both encouraged and restrained the dogs: he didn’t like them getting close to people, but their courtesy was a great asset in the hunt. His role was the boy-owner. He never dropped to all fours, or licked or sniffed the dogs. He didn’t snarl unless he had to. He was known now as the boy asking for dog food, and some people from the apartment blocks sought him out to give him old cakes, bread, meat and bones. He collected so much good food that his family were shining and sleek—better looking than most strays or ferals. He didn’t like seeing them eat rubbish off the mountain any more, and it was a long time now since he had hovered at the back of a garbage truck.

They were fairly safe around the metro. The uniformed men were nearly all crippled veterans with their caps in their outstretched hands. The skinhead gangs and the other street kids frequented slightly less populated places. When Romochka saw forest people in the city begging at the entrances to metro stations, or in the underpasses, in front of churches or hotels, he felt a pull. A feeling that they, alone among all others passing by, were of his kind. They knew him too. Recognition flickered between them, loaded with mistrust, unwilling; unable to flare up without incinerating the tenuous bond they both felt tying them to each other through their shared land. He treasured that thin glimmer. He actively sought mountain people for the sake of it. Yet only in the city was this thread palpable. On the mountain or in the forest he was, as always, their enemy.