and tugged on it. Your dog tried to plant her feet in the pavement but when I pulled harder, she came.
You know how when teachers say they’ve got eyes in the back of their heads? Well, I had eyes in the back of my head then – eyes that could see you coming out of the shop, looking up and down the High Street and clocking me . . .
‘Stop it,’ I whispered, walking as fast as I could.
I took the first turn off, down Market Street and realised then where I could go. Without even knowing it, I’d gone the perfect way. I went left into the alley that’s dingy and always smells of pee, then across the outside car park towards the common land where the gypsies keep their horses.
Your dog was going so fast, her little legs were a gingery blur and I was wheezing, but I kept on because I could still see you with those eyes in the back of my head, striding after me, coming out of the alley, your hands open at your sides ready to clamp round my neck.
Then I was through the gate and into Lower Field.
I stopped by the first tree with a big enough trunk to hide behind. I pulled the lead short to keep your dog close. It was a few minutes before I dared to even peep round it, back across the car park. Nothing. Just a woman tipping the front wheels of a buggy up onto the kerb.
I took my bag off, had about five puffs on my inhaler, then sat on one of the tree roots. Your dog looked like she could use some of my inhaler, too. She was panting like mad, looking round everywhere – out across the fields towards the gypsies’ horses, behind her towards the train station, back across the car park.
‘It’s OK,’ I told her. I felt bad that she was worried. I pulled her closer, stroking her soft, straggly fur.
She made little whimpering noises, licked my hand, then sort of dumped her chin on my leg and looked up at me with her big brown eyes. ‘Awwww!’ I said, stroking the silky soft fur between her ears. ‘It’s not for long, I promise. I’m gonna take you back.’
Then I had a go at her barrel again. It came apart easily this time and a tiny scrolled-up bit of paper fell out onto the grass.
No address.
I turned it over.
No address. No number, even. Just: ‘I am micro-chipped.’
Brilliant, I thought. Fan-bloody-tastic. Apparently people don’t put their address or phone number on animal tags anymore. Everything’s computerised instead. I got brain-freeze then, thinking that, because I realised that I’d probably been computerised too – on CCTV. God, I thought, why didn’t I think about that? I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been. I’ve seen Crimewatch and CSI enough times to know that everything’s on CCTV. Especially on a bloody high street!
I thought you were probably at the police station right that second, watching a replay of me untying your dog and pulling her off down the street, the policeman next to you smirking as he slurps on his tea and tells you, Well, it shouldn’t be too tough to find that kid. There are a lot (at least a million) of not-so-brilliant things about being ninety-nine and a half kilos. Being highly conspicuous is one of them.
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