A Place of Hiding

They talked over Paul’s head as he bent to the dog, easing back the blanket to see Taboo with his eyes half-closed, lightly panting, a needle inserted into a shaved strip along his leg. Paul lowered his face to the dog’s. He breathed into Taboo’s licorice nose. The dog whimpered, and his eyes fluttered wearily. His tongue came out—so weak the movement was—and he touched it to Paul’s cheek in a faint hello.

Who could know what they shared, what they were, and what they knew together? No one. Because what they had, were, and knew was between them alone. When people thought of a dog, they thought of an animal. But Paul had never thought of Taboo like that. Dog, he knew, was God spelled backwards. Being with a doG was being with love and hope. Stupid, stupid, stupid, his brother would have said. Stupid, stupid, stupid, the whole world would have said. But that made no difference to Paul and Taboo. They shared a soul together. They were part of one being.

“. . . surgical procedures,” the vet was saying. Paul couldn’t tell if he spoke to his dad or to someone else. “. . . spleen, but that doesn’t have to be fatal...the biggest challenge...those back legs...could be a fruitless endeavour at the end of it all...difficult to know...i t’s a very tough call.”

“Out of the question, ’m afraid,” Ol Fielder said regretfully. “The cost...Don’t mean to put too fine a point on it.”

“. . . understand...of course.”

“I mean, this today...what you’ve done...” He sighed gustily.

“This’ll take some...”

“Yes. I see...Of course...Long shot anyway, what with the hips crushed...extensive orthopoedic...”

Paul looked up from Taboo as he realised what they were talking about, his father and the vet. From his position, bent to the dog, both of them looked like giants: the vet in his long white coat and Ol Fielder in his dusty work clothes. But they were giants of sudden promise to Paul. They held out hope, and that was all he needed.

He straightened and took his father’s arm. Ol Fielder looked at him, then shook his head. “It’s more than we can pay, my boy, more than your mum and me can afford. And even if they did all of it to him, poor Taboo’d likely never be the same.”

Paul turned his anxious gaze upon the vet. He wore a plastic tag that called him Alistair Knight, D.V.M., MRCVS. The vet said, “He’d be slower, that’s the truth of it. Over time, he’d be arthritic as well. And as I said, there’s a chance none of it would keep him alive in the first place. Even if it did, his convalescence would take months on end.”

“Too much,” Ol Fielder said. “You see that, don’t you, Paulie? Me and your mum...We can’t manage it, lad...A fortune, we’re talking about. We haven’t got...I’m that sorry, Paul.”

Mr. Knight squatted and ran his hand along Taboo’s tousled fur. He said, “He’s a good dog, though. Aren’t you, boy?” And as if he understood, Taboo sent his pale tongue forth again. He shivered and wheezed. His front paws twitched. “We’ll need to put him down, then,” Mr. Knight said, rising. “I’ll fetch the jab.” And to Paul, “It’ll be a comfort to both of you if you hold him.”

Paul bent to the dog again, but he didn’t lift Taboo in his arms as he otherwise might have done. Lifting him would do him more damage, and Paul meant no more damage to be done.

Ol Fielder shuffled on his feet as they waited for the vet to return. Paul gently drew the cover up over his hurt Taboo. He reached out and moved the electric fire closer, and when the vet rejoined them with two hypodermics in his hand, Paul was finally ready. Ol Fielder squatted. So did the vet. Paul reached out and stayed the doctor’s hand. “I got the money,” he said to Mr. Knight so clearly, he might have been speaking the first words ever spoken between two people. “I don’t care what it costs me. Save my dog.”

Deborah and her husband were just tucking into their first course at dinner when the ma?tre d’ approached them deferentially and spoke to Simon. There was a gentleman, he said—he seemed to be using the word loosely—who wanted to speak to Mr. St. James. He was waiting just outside the restaurant door. Did Mr. St. James wish to send him a message? To speak with him now?

Simon turned in his chair to look in the direction the ma?tre d’ had come from. Deborah did the same and saw a lumpy man in a dark green anorak lurking beyond the doorway, watching them, watching her, it seemed. When her eyes met his, he shifted them to Simon. Simon said, “It’s DCI Le Gallez. Excuse me, my love,” and he went to speak to the man.

Both of them turned their backs to the doorway. They spoke for less than a minute and Deborah watched, trying to interpret the unexpected appearance of the police at their hotel as she also tried to gauge the intensity—or lack thereof—of their conversation. In short order, Simon returned to her, but he did not sit.

“I’ve got to leave you.” His face looked grave. He picked up the napkin he’d left on the chair and folded it precisely, as was his habit.

“Why?” she asked.

“It seems I was right. Le Gallez has new evidence. He’d like me to have a look at it.”

“That can’t wait? Till after...?”

“He’s champing at the bit. Apparently he wants to make an arrest tonight.”