Nailed

‘Man found savaged in park,’ said the headline ‘Police baffled.’

“Country’s going to the dogs,” the little tramp agreed, but because page five was missing he was obliged to stuff the article, unfinished, back into the waste bin. As Cindy still hadn’t finished her toilette, he folded his arms and watched while a girl passed, walking her dog. A few minutes later she cam back, the Alsatian prancing alertly at her heels. She sat down on the bench and petted him for a while.

“Miss, would you call the police id I asked you his name?”

She smiled sadly. “No. His name’s Fang.”

“Fang?”

“It’s an ironical little joke between us. I do his steaks medium rare and he promises not to bite my hand off.”

The little tramp indicated his own dog. “Takes madam here all her time just to get comfortable.” The poodle gave him a haughty look, then pawed the last bit of earth over her spot and trotted up. “Cindy, meet Fang.” The dogs greeted one another as dogs will, and the little tramp suppressed a twinge of envy. “Come here often?”

“Every week.”

“I haven’t seen you before.”

“Well, we do a sort of grand tour of the parks each week. Every Sunday we’re here.”

The little tramp indicated the waste bin. “Nasty business in the paper.”

“Fourth in six months,” she agreed. “Still, I’ve got my Fang to protect me.” She smooched withy the pooch for a while. And next Sunday she was back again. This time the little tramp learned that her name was Jennifer, and that she was lonely. “My husband walked out six months ago.”

“My dear, how could any man walk out on you?”

“Oh, it seems quite easy. Several have managed it since.” She went on, half to herself, “Perhaps it’s circumstances, you know. The combination of a Mayfair flat, two rich uncles, my tantrums and a hairy great hound… I can well see it might put a few people off.”

He sympathised, touched by her candour. And the next week, she was waiting for him on the bench, and while the dogs plated doggy games together, he told her vastly exaggerated stories of his not-very-scandalous past. She laughed deliciously at his posturings, and he knew she knew he was a fraud, yet in the cold wind blowing across that bleak Autumn landscape, a spark kindled in his soul such as he had not felt for over forty years.

In his gutted room at the unfashionable end of an old Victorian terrace, he lay shivering in his newspapers, gazing up at the winter stars. He had begun to look forward to those Sunday afternoons far more than was healthy for him. He has started seeing Jennifer’s face everywhere, hearing her laughter in every voice. Every thought he had was for Jennifer, she even invaded his dreams in all her sweet, naked melancholy, and he cursed his age and his scabs and his smell, and hugged Cindy to him in a panic of tears.

When he next saw her, she cried. “But you can’t leave me, not you. You’re the only person I have in the world.”

“But dear sweet Jennifer, that’s the whole point.”

“But I love you.”

“You can’t. You mustn’t.”

It was no good. His last memory of her was her sad little voice, its laugh now drowned in tears, asking to borrow his handkerchief. Her long red-painted nails tore it slightly as she pressed it to her face and ran off down the hill, her Alsatian bounding after.

Cindy looked at him reproachfully, but there was nothing more he could say.

Next Sunday the park was very cold. Cindy yapped at him, and the little tramp, shivering in his turn, laboriously wrapped the dog in his grubby jacket and watched as she trotted smugly into some bushes. He sat alone on the empty bench while the dusk gathered round him. Then an inhuman shriek tore out of the bushes. The little tramp ran stumbling towards the noise – barks, snarls and crashes filled the air – a large hairy creature bolted past him into the night – and he was left staring down at the torn shreds of his jacket and the pitiful lifeless tatters that lay within.

Countless ages later he heard Jennifer’s voice at his shoulder. “What is it, what’s happened?” The she too saw Cindy and groaned. The little tramp looked for the Alsatian. It lay nearby, licking its paws, a piece of the old man’s jacket still gummed to its belly with bright, fresh blood.

“It was you!” he screamed, hurling himself on the brute. “It was you!”. But the girl held him back.

“It wasn’t, I promise. Honestly. Fang had nothing to do with it.”

In the gentleness of that chalk-white face the little tramp could see no lies, only innocence. But the eyes of the dog burned in his dreams that night, deep and green and full of malice. The following Sunday he was in position on the bench, waiting. When Jennifer arrived, they sat awkwardly for a while, then, as if to break the ice, the little tramp produced from his pocket a huge piece of badly cooked meat wrapped in newspaper. He unwrapped it and threw it into the bushes. Fang took off in pursuit.

“I’m glad it wasn’t you,” the girl said after a pause.

“How do you mean?”

“I thought Fang would be able to tell the difference between a dog and a man by now. But he only goes by scent.”

The little tramp went stiff with shock. “You mean it was Fang who – all those murder in the paper?” By way of answer she handed back his handkerchief, and looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Nobody leaves me anymore. Fang makes sure of that.” She noticed his feverish shivering. “I’m sorry about your coat. I hope you’re not too cold?

“But… I poisoned the meat,” he stuttered. Jennifer dashed into the bushes, but it was too late. The dog was lying dead on the pine cones, its legs still jerking in spasm. She turned on him cooly, and the little tramp saw her hands come up, those terrible nails stretching forward to tear out his eyes, and in his final red moment there was a single flash of hope.

‘Man found savaged in park,” said the headline. ‘New clues.’

1978