‘Kay! Her aunt! Could she be the password?’
‘A bit short for a password, and remember this is your last chance.’
‘Okay then, try Aunt Kay. That’s what she called her.’
My nose is dry so I lick it. I can feel Betty clinging to my leg. Dante taps in AuntKay. And …
We are in! I’m so excited I run around in circles. But I collide with a chair on the turn and skid to a halt. Betty squeaks with delight. Dante ignores us. Colourful short-cut icons appear on the desktop, looking like tasty sweets in tiny jars. This reminds me of food. I peer longingly at the larder door, distracted by the mountain of deliciousness I know is stored within. My stomach rumbles.
‘I’m in The White Pages. Who are you after?’ Dante asks.
I tell him. A moment later we have Larry Nice’s address: Block D, Flat 251, Truscott Estate, Greyfield Common.
Betty rubs her front paws together. ‘I can get us to there.’
‘And what, pray, would a rat know about directions?’ says Dante. ‘I can use Google maps.’
She ignores his sarcasm. ‘I know the railway tracks like the back of my paw. In fact, I ride the trains a lot, just hop on and hop off whenever I want. I happen to know that the Waterloo train stops here at Milford, and two stops later, hey presto, you’re at Greyfield Common. If we take the train, we’ll be outside Larry Nice’s flat before you can say Bob’s-your-uncle, Fanny’s-your-aunt. Then, Mr Brainbox, it’ll be up to you to find this Truscott Estate place. Think you can manage that?’
Dante rears his head up. ‘What you fail to comprehend, madam, is that I have better things to do with my time. Something your tiny little rat brain wouldn’t understand.’
‘Piss off, Dante!’ says Betty, hands on hips. ‘At least I don’t have a poncy name like you.’
‘I am named after The Divine Comedy, I’ll have you know. A masterful poem.’
‘Yeah, I know The Divine bloody Comedy. Ate some pages from it once. Tasted like shit. You like to think you’re all dark and menacing, don’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you! You’re just a grumpy old bird!’
Dante opens his wings and screeches, ‘Harridan!’
‘Stop it! Both of you,’ I say. ‘You’ll wake Rose!’
Instantly silent and still, we listen, like cardboard cut-out silhouettes in the laptop’s brightness. Rose doesn’t stir.
‘I like your idea of the train, Betty,’ I say, quietly, ‘but I’m a big dog. You can hop on and off unnoticed; I can’t.’
‘That’s true,’ says Betty, ‘but the first train of the day is almost always empty and the driver is too sleepy to notice who gets on and off. Milford is a small station with loads of bushes. We hide until the train comes and then, just when the doors are about to close, we jump on.’
‘When’s the first train?’ I ask, feeling uneasy.
‘Five-thirty.’
‘I can’t do this, Betty. I don’t know what time Rose gets up for work. It’s too risky.’
Betty stands between my front paws, looking up into my eyes. I hang my head and our noses almost touch.
‘What if Larry Nice is the killer and gets away with it, all because you didn’t want to leave this house? You want to know the truth, don’t you?’
I pace up and down, wondering what to do. Disobey Rose, or stay put and feel useless? I think of the Queen’s Corgis and their secret night escapades from Windsor Castle. But they know they’ll get a royal pardon. I won’t be so lucky. I think of Rose upstairs who’s been very kind to me and what it might mean to betray her trust. Then I think of the promise I made to find the bastard who took Paddy from me.
‘Well?’ asks Betty, her ball-bearing eyes gleaming with mischief.
‘Let’s do it,’ I say.
‘Rose won’t know a thing,’ Betty promises.
Famous last words.
Dante nods at my dog tag. ‘We made a deal,’ he says.
My tag says I belong to Patrick Salt. It still smells of him. I don’t want to let it go but I am a dog of my word.
‘We’ll need you to guide us to the Truscott Estate tomorrow.’
‘Fine. My tag?’
‘Betty, can you use your teeth to free the tag from my collar?’
‘You sure?’ she asks.
‘I’m sure.’
She scurries up my chest fur and before I know it, the tag clanks to the floor. Dante swoops down, picks it up in his claws and flies out of the kitchen window like a black ghost. I watch my only remaining memory of Paddy disappear into the night. But Betty won’t let me feel down for long. She is squirming with excitement.
‘We’re going on an adventure, we’re going on an adventure!’ she squeaks, as she does The Twist.
‘This could be dangerous. Are you sure you want to come?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Besides, we’re mates and I never abandon a mate.’
It’s five in the morning and it’s dark. I have no idea why big’uns say it’s raining cats and dogs, but it’s pouring down on this particular dog as I squeeze through the garden hedge and follow a bedraggled Betty hopping along the railway track.
‘Keep away from that. It’s the live rail,’ she says.
It doesn’t look remotely alive to me, but I do as she says. Every now and again I look back, worried that the big screeching monster I heard last night will attack from behind. We pass an owl sheltering in a hollow tree, its yellow eyes piercing the blackness. It’s reciting Shakespeare. Owls often do this to confuse their prey. And let’s face it, Hamlet would confuse anybody. There you are going about your business and you look up wondering who’s wittering on about death and dreaming, and then, Bam! You’re skewered by a hooked beak in the back.
‘One may smile and smile and be a te-wit,’ the owl hoots.
‘Does he mean us?’ Betty asks.
‘I hope not,’ I say, starting to doubt our plan.
We reach Milford station, which is little more than two raised platforms, one on either side of the tracks, and a footbridge over the line. The ticket office is closed. I hunker down on sodden shingle, while Betty scampers up the platform ramp.
‘All
