Grk Undercover (21 page)

“Come here, doggie,” said Shane, clapping his hands to attract the dog’s attention. “Doggie! Nice doggie! Over here!”

The dog took no notice. It whizzed past Shane without a second glance, heading for the other end of the hangar.

“No worries,” said Shane, shrugging his shoulders. He wasn’t offended. He was just about to turn his back and head for his helicopter when the dog suddenly skidded to a standstill.

Shane wondered what it was doing.

The dog turned round, its nose in the air, its nostrils twitching.

And trotted back to Shane, its tail wagging excitedly as if it had suddenly recognized the scent of an old friend.

Shane said, “Hello, little doggie.”

The dog darted back and forth at Shane’s feet as if he wanted to play a game.

“You want to be mates, do you? What’s your name?”

The dog glanced at Shane for a second as if to say,
That’s a really stupid question
. And then continued darting back and forth at his feet.

“I don’t know what you want,” said Shane. “What are you trying to tell me? You’re hungry? You’re thirsty? You’re lost? Hey, there’s a thought. Let’s see who you are.”

He reached for the dog’s collar.

The dog jumped backward as if he’d suddenly decided that Shane wasn’t such a nice bloke after all.

“Don’t worry,” said Shane. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just wondering who you are. I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before. Do you belong to one of the pilots?”

The dog wagged his tail. That might have meant yes. But, just as easily, it might have meant no.

Shane folded his arms over his chest and took a long look at the dog. Then he shook his head. “No, I’d have remembered a nice little dog like yourself. It must have been somewhere else. Where was it? You’re not Tony’s, I know that much. He has a Labrador. Kevin has that horrible poodle his ex-wife left behind. So where do I know you from? You don’t live in a pub, do you?”

The dog didn’t answer. He just kept wagging his tail.

“Which one?” asked Shane. “The Rocket? The Acropolis? The Rubber Chicken?”

The dog sat down, his tongue hanging out, his tail thumping on the tarmac.

Something about the way that the dog was sitting must have triggered a distant memory, because Shane suddenly remembered where he had seen this dog before. Or, rather, where he had seen a dog that looked just like this one, because there was no way that the two of them were the same animal.

“Oh, yes,” said Shane. “That’s right. You look like that little dog in the jungle. If I remember correctly, I saved his life. Now, what was he called? He had a strange name, I can remember that much. What was it? Geoff? No, no. Greg? No, something much stranger than that. Chuck? Muck? Brooke? Hook? Oh, that’s it! I’ve got it! That dog was called Grk!”

Hearing his name, Grk sprang to his feet and wagged his tail with wild enthusiasm.

Shane stared at the little white dog in astonishment. “You’re not Grk, are you?”

Grk’s little tail wagged so fast that he looked as if he might take off and fly around the airport.

Shane shook his head. “Oh, come on, mate! Be serious! That’s just not possible. I met Grk in Brazil and you’re in Sydney. How could you have got from there to here? No, no, you’re not Grk. You’re just some other mutt who looks like him.”

Grk didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. Dogs can’t talk. But he gazed desperately into Shane’s eyes, asking for his help.

You see Grk didn’t recognize people by their faces, or their clothes, or their voices.

No, the only thing that mattered to Grk was
smell
.

And he was quite sure that he had smelled Shane before.

He was right, of course. He had met Shane in a small plane that crashed in the middle of a Brazilian jungle. There, Shane had saved his life, and Tim’s too. If you want to know exactly what happened, you’d better read
Grk and the Pelotti Gang
.

Shane didn’t have a very good sense of smell, so he couldn’t tell that this little white dog was the same little white dog that he’d met in Brazil. In fact, he couldn’t believe that it could possibly be the same animal. But then why would the dog answer to the name Grk?

Shane looked around the hangar. When he’d met Grk in Brazil, the little dog had been accompanied by two boys, one
British and the other Brazilian. Could he remember their names? Oh, yes. That’s right. They had been called Tim and Zito.

There was no sign of them.

Then that was that, thought Shane. This couldn’t be the same dog. It just wasn’t possible. Dogs don’t travel between continents without their owners.

Pity.

He’d like to see those kids again. He left them without saying goodbye.

At the time, he didn’t have any choice. He knew that the police were on their way and he didn’t want to stick around to say hello.

For some reason, the police didn’t like Shane. They never said, “Good afternoon, my old friend,” or, “How lovely to see you!”

No, they always greeted him with words like “Put your hands in the air” or “Don’t you know this is private property?”

Shane preferred to keep his distance from the police. Over the years, they’d caused him a whole heap of bother. He couldn’t understand why. He wasn’t a criminal. Sure, he might have broken a few laws. But he wasn’t a thief or a killer. He was just an ordinary man who needed to earn a living.

Right now, he was earning an honest wage, flying private helicopters for Botany Bay Air Taxis. The work wasn’t exactly exciting, but it was a good way to earn some money. And legal too.

Work, thought Shane. That’s right. That’s what I’m meant to be doing. Preparing the chopper for Mrs. Patricia White. Not standing around, dreaming about Brazil.

He looked at the dog. “Still here, are you?”

The dog wagged his tail.

“You’re welcome to stick around. But if we’re going to be buddies, I’d like to know your name. Can I have a look at your collar?”

Without waiting for an answer, Shane leaned down and took hold of the dog’s red collar.

This time, the dog didn’t flinch. In fact, he licked Shane’s hand.

“Stop it,” said Shane. “That tickles.”

The dog licked him again.

“Don’t do that, mate! Let me see your collar.”

The dog wriggled and squirmed, then licked him again.

“Hold still, mate. Stop moving. Please!” Shane grasped the red collar strapped around the dog’s neck. There was a small silver tag attached to the collar. It was engraved with a string of numerals.

It didn’t look like an Australian number. Nor Brazilian. Perhaps it was British.

Only one way to find out.

Shane pulled out his phone and dialed the number.

It rang four times. After the fourth ring, a voice said, “Hello, this is the answering machine for Terence and Melanie
Malt. Please leave a message after the tone and we’ll call you back as soon as we can. If you’d like to leave a message for Tim, Max or Natascha, you can do that too. Thank you.”

Tim, thought Shane.

That was the kid’s name.

It
is
his dog!

He spoke into the phone. “G’day,” he said. “This is a message for Tim. It’s Shane here. We met in Brazil. I’m in Sydney right now and … Well, this probably sounds really strange, but have you lost your dog? Because I think I’ve found him.”

He left his number and asked Tim to call him.

Then he looked at the dog. “What am I going to do with you, eh?”

The dog didn’t answer. He just wagged his tail.

In the morning, Tim was the first to get up.

The house was quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Malt were still asleep.

Tim tiptoed down the stairs, padding past his parents’ closed door, taking great care to avoid the creaky floorboards. He glanced sadly at Grk’s empty basket and went into the kitchen.

On an ordinary Monday morning, Tim would fix the leash to Grk’s collar and take him for a walk around the block for fifteen minutes. Grk always seemed to find a new hedge to sniff or a fresh tree to pee on.

Today, there wouldn’t be any walks. The local curbs and lampposts held no interest for Tim. Instead, he fetched himself a glass of orange juice and sat at the computer. He found a good photo of Grk and attached it to a blank document. Then he typed slowly and quietly, not wanting to wake anyone else:

At the bottom of the sheet, Tim put his mum and dad’s mobile-phone numbers and their home number. He printed a single copy to make sure it looked good, then did ninety-nine more.

The printer was still spitting out sheets of paper when Mrs. Malt came into the kitchen, rubbing her wet hair with a towel. She said, “Good morning, Tim. You’re up early. Are you finishing your homework?”

“I didn’t have any.”

“Then what’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Let me see.”

“It’s nothing,” said Tim, pulling the papers from the printer and folding them in half, hiding what was written on the front.

“It’s obviously not nothing.” His mother held out her hand. “Let me see.”

Tim reluctantly handed over the stack of sheets. Mrs. Malt read the top copy, then flicked through the others to make sure they were the same. She fixed her son with a stern expression. “What are you planning to do with these?”

“Nothing.”

“Tim, do you think I’m a complete fool?”

“No, Mum.”

“Then don’t ‘nothing’ me. I don’t want to be ‘nothinged’ ever again. Just tell me the truth. What were you planning to do with them?”

Tim thought for a moment about lying, then realized that there was no point. She’d know he was fibbing. “I’m going to go back to Cuddles Kennel and fix them to every tree and every lamppost. Someone must have seen Grk. If they bring him back, I’m going to give them all my pocket money as a reward.”

Mrs. Malt sighed. “I’m sorry, Tim. It’s a sweet idea, but we can’t go back there today.”

“Why not?”

“It’s Monday.”

“So?”

“I have to go to work. Your father does too. And you have to go to school.”

“School?” cried Tim, shocked that his mother could even mention such a word. “I can’t go to school! Don’t you understand what’s happened? Grk is missing!”

“I know he is,” said Mrs. Malt. “We can look for him later. Right now, it’s time for school.”

Tim couldn’t believe it.

If this was a normal Monday, he’d go to school. He wouldn’t want to, of course. But he’d go anyway. There are some things you just have to do. Life is like that.

But today was not a normal Monday. Today, Grk was lost. Today, Grk might be wandering through the fields and woods
near Cuddles Kennel, hungry and thirsty, howling and whining, confused and desperate, trying to get home. Or he might have been kidnapped. Or he might have been injured. He might be lying in a ditch, his leg broken, crying and moaning, waiting for someone to help him.

Were they just going to abandon him?

Yes, they were. That was what Mrs. Malt had decided, anyway. She insisted that Tim had to get ready for school as if nothing unusual had happened.

“Why can’t I take day off?” said Tim.

“Because you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I say so.”

“Don’t you care about Grk?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why can’t I take the day off?”

“Because I say so,” said Mrs. Malt. “Now, have you had breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Actually, that wasn’t true. He was starving. He sat down at the kitchen table and ate a bowl of cereal and two pieces of toast with strawberry jam. When his father came downstairs, Tim tried to talk to him about Grk, but Mr. Malt said, “Let’s talk about it later. I’ve got a breakfast meeting and I mustn’t be late.”

“But, Dad—”

“Not now,” said Mr. Malt. He grabbed his briefcase, kissed his wife, waved to his son and rushed out of the house.

Fifteen minutes later, Tim and his mother left the house too. Mrs. Malt was just closing the front door when she heard the sound of the phone ringing inside the house. She paused for a moment, then slammed the door.

Tim said, “Don’t you want to answer that?”

Mrs. Malt shook her head. “It won’t be important.”

“How do you know?”

“If it’s important, they’ll ring my mobile. Come on, let’s go. You don’t want to be late for school, do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

Mrs. Malt just smiled and ushered him toward the car.

Shane liked having a dog around. Flying a helicopter can be a lonely business. You have passengers, of course. But they don’t usually like to chat. They’re flying by helicopter because they’re exceedingly busy and astonishingly rich, so they prefer to spend any spare moments on the phone to their lawyer or their stockbroker, checking on the progress of their deals. They don’t want to waste time talking to someone as unimportant as their pilot.

Grk didn’t talk much either. But he was a good listener. As Shane checked the helicopter, making sure that the engineers had cleaned the engine and filled the tank to the brim, he chatted to Grk as if they were old friends. He explained that he had been traveling around the world for the past few years, but his experiences in South America had convinced him to come home again. He still wasn’t sure if he’d made the right decision. Every time he came to work, he thought about jumping on a plane and flying to a different continent. He’d miss his mum and dad, of
course. He saw more of them now. He described their small house in Wagga Wagga and their quiet, ordinary existence. He talked about his own little flat in Surry Hills and the lonely life that he had been leading since he returned to Sydney. He wondered if he was ever going to find a place where he really wanted to live or a woman who would be willing to share it with him.