Another story in the Nasty Little Things collection.

Albert was the personification, the exemplification, the ultimate stereotype of the cranky old loner. His clothes expressed it, declared it, celebrated it. His face, his stubble, the curve of his back, the ground-out whisper of his voice – all of it told his history of disappointment and loss.

Albert had lived in his raised-ground floor in Turnpike Lane for thirty years and the contents made a point about each one of those years. This bought then, this found in a skip then, this given then and then and then, until the givers died or forgot. These kept in case they might be useful one day: tools, miscellaneous cutlery, pieces of wood, old bills, travel books, tattered copies of National Geographic, photographs in grubby frames containing grainy images of dead people.

Was Albert happy? Stupid question.

On the day he retired from his job with the Crannery Partnership (a legal firm for which he fulfilled the role of clerk) he said at his poorly attended retirement party “Thank you for the watch and for sentencing me to death. Retirement, dear colleagues, is a death sentence, no remission. I have hated working here and you are a bunch of wasters and sharks. See you on the other side.” Which was one way of ensuring no birthday cards from that lot.

It was a cheap gold-plated watch. They hadn’t even bothered to inscribe it, so he took it to the local jewelers on the High Street on his way home and had the message “To Albert with thanks and admiration for thirty years of service” engraved on the back.

Back at his flat Albert sat on the tattered grimy sofa surrounded by clutter in indecision. Now what. Everybody said when you retire you must have something to do. Really? Albert wasn’t interested in anything on the Something to do for Retirees list. University of the Third Age? The Green Party? Work in a charity shop? Visit museums? The National Trust? Go on a cruise? Really? None of it appealed.

Cup of tea. When in doubt, make tea.

From his window he looked down at the ragged garden below. It was attached to the basement flat, and never failed to depress and annoy him. None of the many tenants who had come and gone, come and gone had ever cared for the garden. Why, he wondered, as the kettle began its agonizing climb to a frantic boil, why would anyone rent a garden flat and not care for the garden?

Voices wafted up from the flat below. The new tenants. Two men in their twenties, both what he would have called “Duskies”, that is, of some dark-skinned origin that he was not interested in defining. In his ignorance Albert regarded all non-whites as being of the same ilk, and kept his distance.

He reached out to close the double-glazed kitchen window. He had no desire whatsoever to hear anything at all. He had no curiosity about these men; his main concern was to keep himself to himself.

But then, suddenly, they both emerged from the downstairs flat onto the patio area. Albert froze, realizing that closing the window would make a noise which would make them look up, and he had no desire for conversation. The kettle had reached its crescendo, and fulfilled its function once more. So Albert reached for his mug, a tea bag and poured the steaming liquid slowly into the cup.

And then there was another noise from downstairs which made his hand go very still.

It was a bark.

“Oh no!” he thought. “They’ve got a dog! They’ve got a bloody dog!” And thoughts tumbled around in his gnarled and bitter mind.

Oh no. A barking dog could disturb, intrude on sleep, annoy, shit all over the place. A bloody dog.

But then other thoughts.

Albert was not a Londoner. He had grown up in a small house in Guildford, Surrey, which he shared with his mother. She was a very dedicated shop-assistant, who had worked for Holland and Barrett in the town for many years. His father had died or disappeared or run away when he was two. Mother wouldn’t speak about him. In fact, she wouldn’t speak about much at all. She did all her motherly duties as conscientiously as she did her duties in the shop. He was well fed, sent to a local school, dressed well enough not to be picked on by classmates or picked out by teachers.

Then one day when he was twelve, mother brought a dog home. “He was tied up outside the shop,” she said, “abandoned. He’s only young. Do you want him?” She may have been telling the truth. Or she may have bought the creature, thinking, my lonely son needs a companion.

Albert had no experience with dogs, and no interest in them either.

Dog and boy stared at each-other, appraising.

The boy saw a young Springer Spaniel, ears cocked, head slightly to the side. Black and white, so very vulnerable, and in his eyes a desperate yearning loneliness.

The dog saw a pasty fat boy, dressed in his school clothes, the crumbs of  tea-cake lingering around his mouth, so very vulnerable, and in his eyes a desperate yearning loneliness.

The dog made the first move. He went up to Albert, continuing to look him straight in the eye, and gently prodded him with a paw.

“He wants to shake hands,” Mother said.

The boy was nonplussed. He extended a hand.

Then the dog went up on his hind legs and sniffed, evaluating. Albert froze. Then, very carefully with his tongue, he removed the tea-cake crumbs from the boy’s lower lip. It was a caring gesture.

Albert hadn’t experienced affection any time in his life up to now. Inside him, something broke. He felt as if at last, here was someone who understood him. Crying, he hugged the dog.

“What should we call him?” Mother asked.

“Mr Magoo,” the boy said, remembering the cartoon character who had made him so laugh.

The two became constant companions, only separated when Albert was at school. The dog always accompanied him to the gates; the first day or two, he was desperately sad when Albert would not let him in, and shooed him home, but came to realize that this was one place he could not go. Eventually he learned to go back home, as the wait outside was really far too long for a young dog full of energy, who really needed to spend a lot of time chasing things and exploring. He did, strangely, seem to know when school finished for the day. He was always there, alert, full of expectation and delight.

Outside of school hours boy and dog walked miles; explored rivers; argued over balls or quite large branches of trees, which Magoo enjoyed carrying and worrying, for hour after hour. Albert had no need of friends, and other students had no need of him.

For five years boy and dog were the perfect pair. Until the day Magoo wasn’t waiting for him outside the school gates.

Albert running through the streets, searching. Albert in rising panic. Fear, for the first time in his life.

And horror and inconsolable grief when the corpse of his friend was deposited on the doorstep by an anonymous person that evening, who no doubt had seen the address on the tab on Magoo’s collar, brought the body, rang the bell, ran away.

Probably the driver whose wheels had crushed the life out of Mr Magoo.

Albert looked out of the window when he heard the men go inside, leaving the dog tied up in the garden. A Springer Spaniel, black and white.

Leaning out of the window as far as he could safely lean, Albert stared at the dog which, when he heard sounds from above, looked up and stared back at him.

Silently, four eyes locked.

The dog cocked his head, ears raised. He sniffed the air.

Albert felt tears in his eyes, on his cheeks. “Magoo?” He whispered.

The dog gave a whispered whine.

Obsessions came easily to Albert. A belief once held took root and the roots became entangled and entwined. And this obsession certainly seemed to be mutual. Albert would find tearing himself away from the window a virtual impossibility, made essential however when his human neighbours came out into the garden. When that happened, Albert would shrink into the kitchen, a shadow amongst the dust grime and dirt, with his ears cocked for every word or sound.

All that evening he was to and fro from that window like a ghost possessed by a ghost. Whenever the dog’s owners were about, Albert withdrew. And then, when they went in his head would instantly pop out of the window.

It was a relatively warm evening and the two men were enjoying it. From their conversation Albert realised that they were planning on doing something with the garden. This would have pleased him – it would be good to have a pleasant view, growing things, a bit of green. But Albert’s mind had been thrown into disorder. As if someone with a big stick had reached into his brain and stirred it about. The word “Magoo” was the stick. Swirling about in there, memories of sunny afternoons and boats made of corrugated iron sinking in the stream at the bottom of the road, boy and dog swimming to the bank. Of running across fields feet tangling with paws, struggling for possession of a ball, with the almost demented joyful barks of the dog punctuating his laughter. Of lying on his bed with a book, the dog asleep across his legs, as close as his heart.

Eventually, the men took the dog inside for the night.

Albert did not sleep. Memories, emotions, decisions made and abandoned, but above all, memories. And the growing conviction that the dog downstairs was Magoo himself.

There was no logic to this. Perhaps he thought that the dog had been reincarnated. Or maybe, hadn’t died fifty years ago. And was somehow back, looking for him.

And this could have been the conviction that led him to the decision that he would take the animal back. So that boy and dog could be where they belonged.

It took three weeks for someone to realize that the smell coming from Albert’s flat was worrying. The two tenants downstairs raised the alarm. A balmy few days of summer had condensed the air around the patio into an unmoving miasma, which became utterly stench-laden, until finally Jeff and Josh called the Council who called the police who broke the door down. As it yielded to the sledgehammer, a small and frantic Springer Spaniel shot out into the corridor. The men, suffused with relief and incredulity, cradled the dog.

Albert lay on his bed, his face a picture of abject horror. His throat had been ripped out and his naked body was a mess of blood.

Image: dogtime.com