“I doubt that very much,” said Angus. “I can’t see why anybody would want to read it. I certainly won’t.”
Domenica bristled with anger. “In that case,” she said. “I’m taking it back. The gift is cancelled.”
She reached across to snatch the off-print from Angus. She felt the cover in her fingers and she tugged; but he resisted, and with a ripping sound “Past Definite; Future Uncertain” was torn into two roughly equal parts. Domenica let go of her part, and it fluttered slowly to the ground.
“Oh,” said Angus, looking down. “I’m very sorry. I know you started it by writing that cruel thing about me, but I didn’t mean to do that. I’m so sorry . . .”
What upset him was the destruction of another artist’s work.
An anthropologist was not really an artist, but this was creative work – even if a rather dull sort of creative work – and he had destroyed it. Angus felt very guilty. “I’m so sorry,” he said again.
“I would never have torn up your work intentionally. You do know that, don’t you? It’s just that I feel very out of sorts today.”
He hesitated, as if wondering whether to entrust Domenica with a confidence. Had he forgiven her? Yes, he thought, I have. He lowered his voice. “Something really awful has happened. It’s made me very tetchy.”
Domenica’s expression of irritation was replaced with one of concern. “Awful? One of your paintings . . .”
Angus shook his head. “No, it’s nothing to do with my work.
It’s Cyril.”
Domenica looked past Angus into the flat. There had been no sign of the dog, who usually greeted any visitor with a courteous wagging of the tail and a pressing of the nose against whatever hand was extended to him. This had not happened.
“He’s ill?” she asked. As she spoke, she realised it could be worse: Cyril could be dead. Dogs were run over in cities.
There were other dangers too.
“No,” said Angus. “Not ill. He’s been removed.”
Domenica looked puzzled.
“Accused of biting,” said Angus morosely. “Removed by the police.”
Domenica gasped. “But whom did he bite?”
“He bit nobody,” said Angus firmly. “Cyril is innocent.
Completely innocent.”
“I think you should invite me in,” said Domenica, from the hallway of Angus Lordie’s flat. “Let me make us a pot of coffee.
Then you can tell me about it.”
Angus Lordie’s earlier – and most uncharacteristic – churlish-ness evaporated. “Of course,” he said. “How rude of me. It’s just that . . . well, it’s just that this business over Cyril has left me feeling so raw.”
Domenica understood. She had not had a dog since childhood, but she remembered the sense of utter desolation she had experienced after the loss of the scruffy Cairn terrier, which her mother had taken in from a cousin. The terrier had disappeared down a rabbit hole in the Pentlands when they had been taking it for a walk, and had never reappeared. A farmer had helped with the search and had dug away the top part of the burrow, but all that this had revealed was a complex set of tunnels leading in every direction. They had called and called, but to no avail, and as dusk descended they had gone home, feeling every bit as bad as mountaineers leaving behind an injured fellow climber.
They had returned the next day, but there had been no sign of the terrier, and it was presumed lost. The dog had not been replaced.
“I know how you must feel,” said Domenica, as she went into Angus Lordie’s kitchen. “I lost a dog as a child. I felt bereft, quite bereft.”
Angus stared at her. “Cyril is still with us,” he said.
“Of course,” said Domenica quickly. “And I’m sure that it will all work out perfectly well in the end.”
Angus sighed. “I wish I thought the same,” he said. “The problem is that once a dog is deemed to be dangerous, then they have the power to order . . .” He did not complete his sentence, but left it hanging there. He had been told by the police that there was a possibility that Cyril would be destroyed if it were established that he was responsible for the rash of bitings that had been reported in the area.
“But it won’t come to that,” said Domenica briskly. “They need evidence before they can order a dog to be put down. They can’t do that unless they’re certain that Cyril is dangerous.
He’s your property, for heaven’s sake! They can’t destroy your property on the basis of rumour, or wild allegations.” She paused, ladling spoons of coffee into the cafetiere. “You’d better start at the beginning, Angus. How did this all start?”
Angus sat down at the scrubbed pine table which dominated his kitchen. “Maybe you hadn’t heard about it,” he said, “but there have been a number of incidents in this part of town over the last few weeks. A child was bitten by a dog on the way to school about ten days ago – nothing serious, just a nip, but enough to break the skin. The child gave a rather vague account of what happened, apparently. You know how children are – they don’t make very good witnesses. But he did say that the dog came bounding out of a lower basement in Dundonald Street, gave him a nip on the ankles, and then ran off into the Drummond Square Gardens.”
