9

I was calmer by the time I got to Salford.

My problem now was disposal. The area was in a state of arrested development, which meant that there were a load of half-finished yuppie flats all around me, surrounded by wire fence and signs telling me that Big Brother was watching. I wondered what people were likely to nick from a building site that'd been cleared of all its machinery ages ago, but then they'd steal the steam off your piss round here. So I ended up staring through the windscreen wipers and wire mesh at wasteland, trying to work out where to dump the dog. It couldn't stay in the boot. The longer it stayed back there, the deeper the smell would go. It couldn't go over the fence, either. I wasn't strong enough to toss a dead dog over an eight-foot fence on my best day, never mind now.

In the corner of the dash, my mobile rang. I snatched it up.

Cath. I thought about turning off the phone. But then I'd have to answer more questions, and I had nothing to hide.

"Cath, I told you I'd be late, alright?"

"Where are you?"

I couldn't think of a lie. "Salford."

"Why?"

"Long story. Look, I've had a bit of an accident, okay? I'll be home when I can."

There was a hint of worry in her voice, but only a hint. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. See you when I see you."

She started to say something, but I hung up and sat looking at the mobile. I scrolled through to Lucy's number. My thumb hovered over the little green telephone.

Come on, Alan. How much more shit do you need? Leave it for now.

I turned off the phone and started the engine. First things first. I had to get rid of the dog.

One of these days, Manchester would be flooded right off the face of the planet, and the only things left would be the council blocks, standing above the waves in a twin tower flicking Vs to the rest of the country. Maybe tonight if this rain kept up – it was relentless, coming down in sheets as I looked for a suitably dark and quiet spot along the canal. I found it just behind a row of terraced houses. A steep concrete slope led down to the water's edge and I pulled up as close as I could.

I popped the boot and sat with it open for a minute, letting the fresh air and water get to it. I was in no hurry to get back out there. I'd been drenched enough and I was starting to stink worse than the dog. Cold sweat had crusted in the small of my back. The rest of me was covered in what smelled and felt like a thick crust of hair, blood and mildew.

Looking this bedraggled might help my case with Cath, but I liked the suit and I wished I'd brought a coat.

A sudden gust of rain lashed across the windscreen so loud it sounded like hail. I snapped awake. My stomach twitched, and I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.

The weather was a shotgun blast to the face. I squinted against an ice-cream headache and groped my way along the side of the car. My hands were numb by the time I reached the boot and ducked my head under. Rain dripped off my nose, and when I sniffed it back, I caught a whiff of the dog into the bargain. It hadn't got any fresher.

This was going to be tricky. I didn't need to test the path to know it was slippery, so I didn't fancy risking it with the dog.

Needs must, Alan.

I slid my hands under the dog and hauled it out of the boot. Swear to God, it had turned into a fucking sponge on the way over here. Either I was a lot weaker than I'd been a half hour ago, or else Fido here had soaked up enough water to keep an African village going for a week. I buckled at the knees as I brought it out, scraping against the back of the car. I struggled to keep upright, didn't feel the dog slipping out of my hands until its head was almost touching the ground. I went off-balance trying to catch the bugger, ended up with one knee in a puddle. As I felt the water soak through what was left of a pretty nice suit, I let the dog fall to the ground. Rain beat down on the back of my neck. I must've looked like I was about to propose.

"Fuck it. Fuck it."

I staggered up and back a few steps, soaked to the bone.

Something gnawed at the inside of my stomach. I kept my lips pressed tight together to hold in the scream that was building in my chest.

This ... fucking ... just ...

Counting to ten didn't work. The tide was already on the way back to crash against the rocks.

I looked down at the dog. It looked back up at me with one glassy eye.

"What the fuck are you looking at, eh?"

I kicked it once. Felt as if I'd stubbed my toe so I kicked it again, harder this time. And before I knew it I'd kicked six out of twenty-five ribs to splinters and I'd staggered back a few steps. I leaned on my knees, my breath a rasp in my throat. I wiped my nose and coughed up a lump of something that tasted more like bile than phlegm. I spat it at the dog.

I needed a drink.

So I left the dog where it lay, slumped back behind the wheel of the Rover and drove home. Cath opened the front door before I got a chance to put key to lock.

"Oh my God, what happened to you?"

"I told you." I kicked off my shoes and went past her into the flat. "I had an accident."

"In the rain?"

I peeled off my sopping jacket and looked for somewhere to throw it. "It's raining, yes."

She took the jacket from me and held it at arm's length. "You need a shower."

"Thank you, yes."

And that was the last we spoke for a while. I stood under the shower until I was pink and raw from head to foot, and Cath tossed me a fresh towel to dry myself off. When I came out of the bathroom, she'd poured me a brandy.

"How you feeling?" she asked.

"I've been better." I sat down on the sofa next to her and reached for the drink.

"So what happened?"

"I hit a dog."

"With the car?"

I looked at her. She was serious. For someone on her pay grade, she could be dense sometimes. "Yes, with the car. It came darting out in front of me. It was raining, I couldn't swerve."

She frowned. "Did you kill it?"

"Not like it was premeditated, Cath."

"I know."

"Not like I went out tonight looking for something to run over." I said. "I mean, Jesus, you should see what the bloody thing did to the front of the car."

"You been drinking?"

I glared at her. "It was dark. It was raining—"

"Okay."

"That wasn't the reason. You could've been out there, you would've hit the bastard thing, too." I sipped my brandy. It didn't help. "Fuck's sake, Cath."

"Alright, I'm sorry I asked. So where is it now?"

"You what?"

"Did you take it in to a vet or something?"

"It was dead."

"So?"

"So I dumped it down by the canal."

She blinked at me, a smile and a frown battling it out on her face. "You're kidding."

"What would you do?"

"You're not kidding."

"What was I supposed to do? Go knocking? Excuse me, is this your dog I hit?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"You don't know." I finished the brandy, got up to pour myself another. "That's right."

She made a sniffing noise. I didn't turn. Maybe she was crying, maybe she wasn't. If she was, she sure as hell wasn't crying about me.

"I'm going to have a shower," she said.

"You do that."

I poured another drink, then went to the whisky to kill the sweetness in my mouth. It worked. I drank two more until the fatigue hit me and I sat on the sofa staring at the clock. I heard Cath come back into the room, smelled the perfumed steam that wafted in her wake.

"You coming to bed?"

"Yeah." I finished my drink and left the glass on the coffee table. I didn't brush my teeth.

I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Just as I was about to drop off, the mattress started to shake and I knew she was crying. I waited for her to stop. I wasn't good with emotion. Beale, I could handle. If he wasn't set to detonate, it was a moan or a growl, and most of that was a bluff. With the salesmen and the punters, it was a front – nobody'd ever hit a truly bad run, and luck was always on the turn, just you wait. With everyone else, it was a series of masks, the kind people wear when there's a stranger in the house – we're always this tidy, this hospitable, this honest-to-goodness nice.

We are happily married.

She wasn't going to stop, and I wasn't going to get any sleep unless I did something about it. I put an arm out to her and she pressed up against me. I heard the back end of a sob and put the other arm around her because it seemed like the thing to do. Her hair was still damp from the shower. It stuck to my neck like wet dog hair.

"I love you, Alan," she said.

I didn't reply. Nothing came to mind.