When Mr. Dog Bites (21 page)

“I really need to get home,” I said.

“Show us your pubes first and then you can go home,” Gaz said.

“Yeah, get them out,” Fritz said.

And he came toward me, pushing hard on my left shoulder and forcing his hands on the belt of my jeans, tugging

and tugging

and tugging

at my belt

and yanking

and yanking

and yanking

the belt up toward my belly so that the lining of my jeans hurt my willy, ball-sack, and bum-hole. I let out a high-pitched yelp. Gaz egged him on. Both eejits howled with laughter. I couldn’t make out what they were saying exactly, but I knew it was weird and not the right thing to do. Only people who are not right in the bloody head would do something like this. Gaz soon arrived to join in the fun. He came from behind, his hands on the back of my belt. Now they were both heaving me off the ground.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

A blooming human booming trampoline!

My willy, bum-hole, and ball-sack hurt like a mofo. This game could have been mega fun if it was played properly, but these maniacs were way too rough. The pain in my willy, bum-hole, and ball-sack began to make my eyes water. A tricky situation.

The tugging and yanking then took second fiddle, because all I could feel were little rabbit digs into my kidneys and hard squeezes on my willy and ball-sack. They were so sore that I wanted to scream like a wee hungry bambino.

I wanted Mom.

I wanted Dad.

I wanted my best bud.

My ears hurt.

My eyes hurt.

My heart hurt.

I gritted my teeth tight so I wouldn’t cry.
Don’t let them see you cry, Dylan. Don’t let them see you cry, me old mucker
, I kept saying to myself. Then, for one billionth of a nanosecond, I thought that THIS was it, this was how it would end, with me having my willy and ball-sack ripped to shreds, getting my eyelids glued together, and being left to wander around the park before collapsing in a heap near the penalty spot. Surely this wasn’t the terrible end of Dylan Mint? It was still only October, and March was donkeys away yet. This was an absolutely No Dice situation. I, Dylan Mint, wasn’t leaving this world without my willy and ball-sack combo. Not tonight, Josephine!

I closed my eyes and felt a tear trickle down my cheek. I clenched my fists and bum.

I didn’t know where he came from because I didn’t feel him coming like I usually did; this time there was no surge. There weren’t any clues at all. He just popped in out of the blue. Thank the lads in the sky that he did, though, because he quickly worked his magic. When the eejit spanner numpties laid eyes on him they let go of me immediately, backed off, stood a few meters away, and watched Mr. Dog, the Tourette’s superhero, do his stuff.

I barked.

Bit out.

Growled.

Howled.

Wuff-woofed.

Snapped.

Snarled.

Gnarled.

Gnawed.

Pawed.

It did work at first, but then Fritz raised his fist. So did Gaz. It was showtime. I put my hands over my head to make a helmet. I waited for it all to come crashing down, like the snowballs in winter. I squeezed my eyes tight again. I waited and waited. I sang a made-up song in my head about not being able to speak in libraries.

I waited.

Nothing happened.

I heard people chatting. Not chatting like pals do after school, or before and after soccer matches.

“You two, get yourselves to fuck before I kick your arses all over this park.”

“You’re not allowed on here with a car, mister.”

“Gary Darcy, I know your dad, so if I were you, son, I’d get up the bloody road and less of the cheek.”

“You don’t know
my
dad,” said Fritz.

“No, Paul Fitzgerald, but I know your mom, and she won’t be too happy when I let her know what you’ve been up to the next time she’s in the back of my car.”

“We haven’t been up to anything.”

“Get moving before I radio the police.”

“But we’re just talking.”

“Is that what you call it? Well, we’ll let the police be the judge of that.”

“No, don’t, mister.”

“We’re going.”

“Piss off then, and if I see either of you messing about down here again I’ll be on to the police right away. This is a public park, not some NEDs hangout.”

That was when I had the courage to peek out from behind my fingers. I opened them slowly, like the Spanish lady’s fan when we went to see this mad stomping dance in Torremolinos.

Holy Moly, pig on a pokey!

It was none other than the car that stole Dad’s parking space. The maroon monstrosity. And Mom’s taxi-driver tea buddy was in the driver’s seat with his window rolled down, staring at me. In the distance Fritz and Gaz were on their way home. They didn’t look back or wave or anything.

“Are you okay, Dylan?” the taxi man asked me.

“What are you doing here?”

“Those boys friends of yours?”

I had to think long and hard about this question; the answer didn’t come to me finger-click fast.

“Erm .
.
. I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

Maybe we could have been friends if they didn’t drink tonic wine and smoke cheap-arse hash so much. Who knows? One thing was for sure: the games we played would have to come with clear rules if we were ever going to be playing them again. However, they wouldn’t have wanted Amir hanging around because he was a Paki, and they hated Pakis, which meant that I could never in a gazillion years be pals with Gaz and Fritz. Anyone who was no friend of Amir was no friend of mine,
and
anyone who hated Pakis was NO friend of mine either. So these two spangles would definitely be totally off the radar as potential new buddies for Amir after I’d taken the big bus north.

“In fact, no. I’m not friends with them. I don’t like them at all. They are a couple of dicks.” And I laughed, ’cause I’d said the word “
dicks”
freely in front of an adult.

“Good. Those boys are bad news, Dylan. You should keep well away from them.”

“I will.”

“Good man.”

“Cars aren’t allowed on here, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you could damage the grass, and then all the games would have to be called off.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, young man . . . Jump in and I’ll take you home.” The taxi driver reached over and swung open the passenger door. “Come on, I’ll drive you back home.”

But I didn’t move in case it was the shady deal of the century. In case he was twisting my melon, man. In case he was being a pure head-wrecker and trying to mess with my napper or psych me out. In case he was the leader of a major pedophile ring who wanted to trick me into getting into his car so he could blindfold me, drive me to the ring’s safe house, and video everything. Then he’d put the video on the Internet and it would become a YouTube sensation, and then all the teachers and students at Drumhill would know that I had pedophile sex with a mega pedophile ring, and they’d all rip the pure pish out of me. Michelle Malloy wouldn’t touch me with a pole vault after that incident, I could tell you that.

“I don’t really know you,” I said.

“We met twice at your house.”

“I know, but this is the park.”

“I was having tea in your kitchen, remember?”

“Yes, I do.”

“We watched
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
together, remember?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I parked in your dad’s parking space, remember?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I said you could borrow my book on Friedrich Nietzsche, remember?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’m a friend of your mom’s, remember?”

“My mom and dad told me to never on your nelly get into a car with a stranger, no matter how friendly they are.”

The taxi driver smiled. “Well, that is very good advice, Dylan. Maybe you should stick to it.”

“I think I will.”

“If you want to walk, that’s all right with me.”

“I think I will.”

“What if you bump into those two clowns again?”

Aaaarrrrgggg! The taxi driver had me by the short and curlies. I had no answer. I 127 percent didn’t want to bump into any more clowns on my way home.

“.
.
. Erm .
.
.”

“Look, your mom phoned me to ask if I could keep an eye out for you, try to find you.”

“She did?”

“She was worried sick about you, Dylan.”

“She was?”

“Worried sick,” the taxi driver said again.

This made me feel sad and happy; sad because I didn’t like the thought of Mom being sick as a parrot because of me, and happy because she loved the bones of me no matter what. And you know what? I loved the bones of her as well. I guess I’d have been sick as a parrot if Mom were down at the park hanging out with tonic drinkers and cheap-arse hash smokers. I could see where she was coming from. All I wanted now was one of Mom’s hug specials. I vowed to squeeze her so tight that the blood flow would stop circling around her belly region.

“But I wasn’t out for long.”

“She likes to know where you are, I suppose.”

“So Mom asked you to look for me?”

“She phoned me.”

“Why didn’t she come and look for me hersel
f
?”

“Maybe she thought it would be quicker in a car.”

“Suppose .
.
.”

“And I was out and about, so it was easier.”

“Suppose.”

“So what do you say, buddy?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what do you say about a lift home?”

The taxi driver had done a convincing job, so I decided to go with him. If it turned out to be one huge hoax and I was whisked off to some shady pedophile shack, I’d curse my bloody luck and have no one to blame but myself for making such crap choices in life. Miss Flynn said that I had to get better at making the right choices in life.
Here goes
, I thought as I approached the taxi driver’s maroon car.

I looked for signs of criminal activity and paranormal behavior in the taxi driver’s car; it was so hard for me not to pop the glove compartment open to see if he had a hammer in there. He’d also have needed a rope—just enough to go around the neck, a few black garbage bags, and perhaps, most important of all, some chloroform. Next week’s Halloween disco was now appealing to me.

“You shouldn’t have run off like that, Dylan,” the taxi driver said.

“Well .
.
.”

“Your mom’s at her wits’ end.”

“How do you know?”

“I told you, she phoned me to—”

“No, how do you know when Mom’s at her wits’ end?”

“I could hear it in her voice.”

“But how do you know what her wits’ end voice sounds like?”

“Well, I was just trying to gauge her emotions.”

“I’m the only one who knows what her wits’ end voice sounds like, and Dad as well.”

“Okay. Well, kiddo, I know that she was really annoyed when you ran off like that.”

“She shouldn’t have read my letter, then.”

“What letter?”

“My letter to Dad.”

“Oh.”

“Mom read it.”

“Did she now?”

“And that’s what made me run out in a bonkers mood.”

“I see.”

“She shouldn’t have messed with my privacy.”

“I agree.”

“What?”

“I agree that she shouldn’t have messed with your privacy or read your letter.”

“You do?”

“Of course. What’s written between two people in a letter should be sacrosanct.”

“Try telling Mom that.”

“I’ll have a word with her.” Then the taxi driver pressed his stereo button, and on came some sounds.

I looked at him.

“Don’t you like music?”

“Yes. I’m not weird, you know.”

He laughed, but in a different way from the two bell ends earlier. “I know that. What I mean is, do you like this music?”

I put my ear closer to the stereo and listened intently for thirty-three seconds. The singer had a dreamy steamy creamy voice, a bit like eating a chocolate bar.

“Erm .
.
.”

“I can change it if it bothers you.”

“No, it’s okay. I think I like it.”