What Big Eyes You Have
When you are recovering from something that very nearly killed you, life becomes full of little milestones as you move from one end of the spectrum to the other, lots of small victories to fill the huge long drift of space between the wildly different states of Shit, I Can't Move and Never Been Better. Over the last few months, Danny had celebrated everything from No-More-IV Monday to Successful-Shoelace-Tying Saturday, but this one was the biggie. This one was off the charts.
Two days ago, with the simple act of screwing up the final white-and-blue chemist's bag and dropping it in the bin, he had marked End-of-Sodding-Pain-Pills Sunday. Which meant that today, even by the most careful, the most conservative estimate, was…
He shut the locker door with a claanng, pulled his t-shirt over his head, and said the single sentence he had been looking forwards to saying for the best part of three months.
“Fancy a pint tonight, Nicholas?”
Nicholas paused in the middle of undoing his tie, fingers fumbling, and for some reason seemed to glance worriedly up at the small, translucently-paned window up behind his locker. Nicholas always left last, but sometimes, like right now, he seemed in a hurry, and the look at the darkened pane only served to make him speed up faster. "Oh… Sorry, Danny. I can't, I really can't. Not tonight.”
“Nick, I don't mean 'let's go down the Crown and sit there drinkin' fruit juice half the night 'cause you never want to get drunk if I'm not,'” said Danny, patiently. “I mean, like, let's go an' get a few pints in, maybe go for a Chinese after, watch somefin' at mine… we haven't done that since Kung Fu Hustle, an' that was ages ago.” He paused. “And I was on bloody shandy.”
Nicholas shrugged off his uniform and into his civvies so fast you'd think he was embarrassed to be shirtless in front of his subordinates. "No, I mean I can't. Friday, maybe."
Danny shrugged, but it was easy to see that he was disappointed, mostly from the way he spoke to his kit bag instead of his friend. “Got another peace lily?”
"Er, yes," said Nicholas, who happened to be a fantastically horrible liar. "Need to make sure it's settling in all right." He patted Danny on the shoulder and smiled, briefly, while the edges of his eyes crumpled a bit. "Don't go overdoing it, now."
So go on, then, who is she? said the Danny that lived in Danny's head and could get away with saying things like that, the lucky bastard. Or, is she a she? Or is it somefin' too awful to even talk about that you're hurrying off to, like a Baywatch marathon?
“Yeah,” he said, instead, managing a grin and neglecting the usual bit about the number of times various people had said things like that to him over the last few months. “You neither.”
*
Home, thought Nicholas, Home home home home. Please God keep the cloud cover up while I'm on this thing. He'd taken to riding a bicycle for transportation lately, and wearing reflector cuffs around his ankles. He'd been fortunate the new station had been reasonably close to his cottage, but this could go very, very badly if he wasn't home about- he glanced at his watch- three minutes ago. Shit.
Danny'd looked quite broken up over his flat refusal. He'd spent such a long time in recovery, with physical therapy, that it made sense for him to want to celebrate when he was finally well. I'll make it up to him, promised Nicholas, firmly. On Friday. But for now, home.
*
The problem, Danny reflected, a few hours and a not inconsiderable number of pints that he hadn't had to pay for later, was that everyone had been very pleased to see him. As much as Nicholas was what his dad would have called persona grata with the others these days, having him along did make for a bit of a… different pub-going experience. Combine a presence of sober Nicholas and an absence of beered-up Danny, and you tended to end up with the sort of atmosphere where nobody really wanted to get drunk, because they were all a bit edgy about the possibility of being the one that ended up looking like a dickhead in front of their acting-inspector.
He'd even got a Harveys Old out of both Andes, which was possibly one of the signs of the Apocalypse. But it hadn't been the same without Nicholas, and he hadn't felt very chatty somehow, which was very unlike him and also unfortunate, because it meant he hadn't spent much time doing anything much other than drinking.
Now he was engaged in that most infallibly interesting of after-pub pastimes, Walking Home in the Dark. He'd been very chuffed that he'd been able to get over the stile in one go, without falling over hardly at all. Then he had remembered that there wasn't any stile on his way home.
Spotting a sign, white-painted and glowing in the full moonlight against the black cloud of a neatly-trimmed hedge, he stopped to read it. There was a moment of struggle in which the words decided they were going to get clever and run away from his eyes, but he managed to herd the little sods back into line.
“Spenser'ill,” he said, out loud. “Wrongblurry house, you nob.”
Danny struggled down a garden path- who plants stupid rose bushes right by their front gate?- and tacked up against a blue-painted front door that looked in ashy grey in the dark. Ghostly fingers of clematis trailed over his face, against his cheek.
He thumped the door, hitting it on the second try. “Nic'las? You there?”
The door, in spite of Nicholas's usual insistence of locking both doors and windows even when he was at home, even in Sandford, swung open at the thump. Up the dark stairs, you could just about make out a trail of clothing- shirt, left shoe, trousers with the Y-fronts still nesting in the seat.
In the front garden, Nicholas's bicycle lay on its side, wheel squeaking.
A few months ago, Danny would probably have barged right in, cheerfully ignoring the clothes-stewn stairs. He'd learned a thing or two since then, though, and even with the alcohol fizzing merrily through his system, something now started to ding faintly on what for want of a better phrase he thought of as his weird-shit-o-meter.
“Nicholas?” he called, again, a bit louder, standing uncertainly in the pitch-dark downstairs hallway. It looked like Nicholas had been in such a hurry to get his kit off that he hadn't even stopped to put any lights on. He tried the switch, and had to clamp a hand hard over his eyes when the hallway and stairwell flooded with light.
“Aah, shit-” By degrees, he lowered his hand and unsquinched his eyelids until he could see again. Not quite drunk enough not to know that this was probably a really bad idea, he started up the stairs, gripping the rail heavily for balance.
Around halfway, he stopped, paused for a moment, climbed unsteadily down again, and disappeared into the small downstairs bathroom.
Three minutes- and the sound of running water- later, he was ready to try again, and this time, he made it to the top.
Danny'd never been to the upper floor of Nicholas's cottage, which consisted of a small landing between the rooms, another bathroom, and directly across from that-
The door to Nicholas's bedroom was wide open, the inside clearly visible from the slant of moonlight from the uncurtained window falling across rumpled sheets. And standing bolt upright on top of the sheets-
Dog. Big dog. Nearly a meter high at the shoulder, actually. Funny ears. Big glowing eyes. Staring at him.
“Wha…”
Danny stared back, one hand on the wall to keep it from sliding gently horizontal and tipping him off. He was positive that he wasn't that pissed, quite enough to be unable to drive, yes, but definitely not enough to start seeing great big dogs where great big dogs weren't.
So… Nicholas had a dog. Okay. Except that Danny had never seen him walking this dog- and a dog that size would need serious walking, Danny guessed, blurrily, before or after work every day, not like Saxon who got walked nearly all day anyway, as part of the job- or picking up dog food in Somerfields, or talking about vets or other dog-related subjects, or even mentioning anything about having a dog at all. Danny had never seen this dog, or any signs of it, on previous visits to the cottage, which either meant that it was a magically invisible dog that didn't bark or whine when it was shut up somewhere and didn't shed or chew or anything, or that Nicholas had just got it in the last week or so. Without saying anything about it.
It had the most intelligent eyes Danny had ever seen on an animal.
Where was Nicholas? Danny wasn't at all afraid of dogs, but that intense stare made him start to think that it was a good idea to locate its owner before it decided its duty lay in removing the intruder, with or without goolies still attached.
“There, boy,” he said, vaguely, swaying a bit. “Nic'las! You've go' a dog.”
The dog's ears twitched back at this inanity and pressed flat against its skull. It would have growled at him, except that its idea of a growl was not a growl at all, but a low, hideous vibration that caught at the neck-hairs on Danny's nape, like someone of pure evil breathing in through a phlegmy mouth to expel something like, oh, a drug-resistant Black Plague.
And then it leapt off the bed in his direction, still making the noise.
Danny had read once, in a really good Ultimate Survival Guide that was probably still at the bottom of a box in his flat somewhere, that the best way to deal with a large attacking dog is to stand still, folding your arms over your chest and not making eye contact, and keep saying 'NO' and so forth in a loud, stern voice. Which was all very well and good, but giving advice like that is one thing, and following it when the Hound of the Baskervilles is coming at you like Jenson Button is quite another.
He threw himself clumsily backwards to avoid the initial charge, then gasped at the warning twangs from the various muscles in his chest and stomach which weren't entirely convinced they were supposed to be pulling as a team again yet, stumbling back towards the stairs.
This wasn't fair. He was better. The universe wasn't supposed to be chucking mad dogs at him.
The dog's teeth sank into the soft leather of Danny's belt, dragging him towards the stairs, and not letting go once it got there.
Christ, the dog was strong. Danny was dragged down the first couple of stairs before he could even get hold of the banisters, losing his footing and sitting down hard on the third step from the top, but he was buggered if he was going to let himself get dragged down the whole flight on his arse by Fido. Danny swatted, hard, at the top of the pointed nose bobbing at his waist, struggling to get upright before the situation ended in a twisted ankle, or possibly, a broken neck.
It let go for a second, sneezing and startled, then reattached itself to the belt just behind Danny's hip, alternately shoving him forward down the stairs- through the mess of clothes- and pulling him back upright.
"Fuck off!"
Despite his protestations, and another hefty smack to the muzzle, Danny eventually found himself, ruffled and smarting around the waist, halfway through Nicholas's front door. He no longer had any clear idea if it was dangerous or not, except that it seemed to be trained as some kind of bizarre canine bouncer, and he would have been a lot happier if he hadn't heard it make that sepulchral growling noise.
It twisted its head, throwing Danny into the soft grass in Nicholas's front garden next to the bicycle. Except, maybe not quite so soft, if a sodding great dog-thing is throwing you onto it and the hardpacked old quarry dirt underneath.
He landed badly, curled on his stomach and swore a blue streak into the moonlit lawn. He was definitely going to feel this in the morning, which would have been a fair trade-off if he hadn't been already feeling it quite so much right now.
All in all, it hadn't been a brilliant evening. Even the pub bit hadn't been all that fantastic, and now he had just been kicked out of his friend's house by a dog. Danny had definitely had better days.
The dog stood in the doorway, watching him for maybe a minute, then went back into the house. It returned, dragging a blanket in its teeth, which it spat out across the threshold, and nosed the door shut.
Danny waited until he thought it was a safe bet that he could get up without the London Philharmonic launching into an all-percussive version of the 1812 behind his eyes, although he conceded that this particular symptom was probably more a result of the booze than the injury. He made it to the gate and stood leaning on it for a while, looking up at the darkened windows of the cottage.
Then he got out his Nokia, and called Nicholas's mobile.
Inside, the phone rang. Danny could hear it from where he stood, swaying, in the front garden.
Nicholas didn't pick up.
It was at times like this that Danny sometimes found himself wishing he could do what any other concerned member of the public would be able to do: call the police. It wasn't as if he really thought that the dog had managed to drag Nicholas up his own stairs and maul him to death in one of the upstairs rooms, that sort of thing belonged to poorly-budgeted late night teleplays on Channel Five or Zone Horror. It was just…
…weird.
Nicholas wouldn't have left it alone. But Nicholas wouldn't have been half-drunk and aching all down one side, and Nicholas would have had some better plan than ringing his mobile twice more, trying the landline, and trying to peer in the downstairs windows. When he finally gave up, perhaps ten minutes later, the best he could do was to leave with a strong resolution not to let this go, or at least not until it started making a bit more sense.
*
Nicholas was out jogging the next morning, very much alive and unmauled, although he had a funny sort of sniff when he signed in at Turner's post, and did not seem to be very rested, or in a very good mood, when Doris and the Andes started joking again about the Chief's neverending 'time of the month'. He'd also had to have several cups of caffeinated tea in the break room before he'd settled down.
Danny showed up a little while after Nicholas did, moving a little stiffly, going through the motions of his own morning rituals, which mainly consisted of shovelling papers into piles on his own desk area, and trying to get through a Yakult without throwing up into the nearest morale-boosting pot plant. All the time they were both in the company of the others, he also kept giving Nicholas small sneaking looks, or possibly Looks.
Nicholas chose to ignore him, which was very unNicholas in itself, because everyone knew Danny was Nicholas's best friend, and when Nicholas had finally sent everyone off to do small tasks while waiting for someone to call in, he'd just given Danny a blank Look in return.
"You overdid it last night, didn't you."
Danny shrugged. “Looks like you did an' all.”
Nicholas scowled, dropping any façade he'd been holding up of good will towards anyone. "Excuse me?"
“You look like shit, Nick,” said Danny, dropping his own façade of disinterest. “An' where were you last night? You left your front door wide open, I nipped in t'use your loo, and I nearly got myself savaged by flamin' Cujo! An' since when did you have a dog, anyway?”
"Danny," said Nicholas, visibly forcing himself under control, "You must have been drunk. Very, very drunk. I don't own a dog." He sniffed, turning away towards his office. "And since when is it acceptable for you to trespass when you know I'm not available, under the influence or not?"
Danny barely heard the last part, although on some level the rebuke registered, and stung. “Shit. Nicholas, listen, if it weren't yours, we've got to find it. It's not a pit or a Tosa or anyfin', but it's bigger than Saxon, an' it might be vicious.” He thought for a moment, then grabbed his hat. “Shit. Your place en't far from the primary, either. C'mon.”
"That's- that's really not necessary," stammered his superior, going a funny shade of white- but it was too late, Danny was already dragging him out the door.
*
"This is pointless," sulked Nicholas, in the patrol car. "There haven't been any reports of rabid animals in this area since the nineteenth century, you realize? You're just going to cause hysteria among the parents."
“I din't say it was rabid,” Danny pointed out, pulling up in the lane not far from Nicholas's cottage. “It's not like it bit me or frothed up or anyfin'. But it's a bloody huge dog, it growls like somefin' out of The Exorcist, and it pulled me down your stairs.” He turned to face him, looking a bit hurt, now. “I told you I wasn't that drunk. D'you believe me or not?”
"It was just me at home, last night," said Nicholas, framing his words carefully. "Don't you think I'd know if there were something else there?"
“Well, obviously not,” said Danny, shortly. “Cause I was there, wasn't I? I'm sorry I was,” he added, sincerely, because he was sorry that it had upset Nicholas like that, “but I still was.”
He turned the keys in the ignition and sat there in silence while the Subaru quivered into stillness around them. Trespass. Jesus. He couldn't understand it, any of it. Nicholas was usually all too happy to chase off after something like this, intriguing, simple, no particular grey areas, just find the poor animal that was probably confused off its nut anyway, had probably been dumped by some chav who thought a big dog was a dick extension, and try and catch it to get it to the proper authorities, probably the big RSPCA centre over in Toller Down. Instead it was like something had knocked him- them- right back to square one again, with Nicholas sulking and moaning in the passenger seat, clearly of the opinion that Danny was being insufferably stupid.
He couldn't really be that angry about the intrusion, could he? Danny loved having Nicholas over to his flat, despite knowing his friend didn't like the mess, despite the fact that the couch was probably more comfortable than most of the rest of his unpacked furniture put together. He really looked forward to them, their comfortable evenings just watching whatever they fancied and talking- and the times he'd been over to the cottage, invited, since getting out of hospital, Nicholas had acted like he'd felt pretty much the same way. Hadn't he?
“You haven't even written anything down in your notebook,” he said. This was a damning accusation on its own, and he knew it.
Nicholas pulled that particular mouth expression that looked like Danny was forcefeeding him frogs, but yanked it out of his front pocket and braced it against his knee. "Sorry."
After a second of scribbling down details, he paused, sniffed, glanced sideways. "Was it vicious-looking?"
Danny thought for a moment, remembering those piercing, luminous eyes, and shook his head. “Nah. Just… really smart-lookin'. Like… my Auntie Jackie used to have this old Airedale that could open the fridge, right? Well, this one looked like it could prob'ly fix one.”
Nicholas laughed, a stifled pleased snuffley sound into his hand. "Well-" he started, and stopped in confusion.
For a second, it had looked like he'd been about to brush off a compliment.
He coughed, instead. "So, you don't really think it'd attack any of the children nearby, would you?"
Danny blinked. “No… well, I dunno. It did jump at me. I mean, if it did that to a kid, even if it was just playing, it'd really cause hysteria among the parents.”
Nicholas tapped his upper lip with his pen. "Maybe you frightened it," he said, eventually.
His partner didn't say anything for a while. He looked down into his lap, fingers tapping on the wheel, huffed a breath that could have been either laughter or exasperation through his nose, then looked back up through the windscreen to make sure he wasn't about to flatten any small members of the Junior Cycling Proficiency Club, and got out of the car.
“Right. Maybe.”
Nicholas got out his side, looked up at his house, and sighed.
*
He'd been so careful, too. Get home at a decent hour, lights off, quick and rigorously healthy meal beforehand, quiet time. Sleep as much as possible, wake up to normality. And now it was all going to be ruined, because he'd run out of time to lock the bloody door.
*
"Right," said Nicholas, standing in his orderly cottage, notebook out and ready. "Your investigation, Danny. What you reckon? Unless," and his lip quirked, "You think the Andes could do better?"
Danny didn't rise to the bait. He was leaning against the bottom of the hall bannisters, looking at the staircase, which no longer looked like someone had slipped while carrying a load of laundry down it.
“And you didn't hear anythin' last night, yeah?” he said, somewhat blankly.
"I usually go to bed early," said Nicholas. "If I can help it. C'mon, Danny. S'posed to be studying for your Police Sergeant's exam, aren't you?"
Danny's jaw set. He knew that Nicholas was lying. What he couldn't believe, couldn't fucking believe, was that he was lying, cheerfully trying to open-faced lie to him over something as bloody stupid as a pet. Nicholas. Who knew better than anybody how much Danny valued truth from the people he trusted.
It didn't matter, though. If it was that important to Nicholas, Danny would keep his stupid secret. Even if it meant this bad-tasting new barrier between them stayed unprotested.
“Maybe we should just get back to the station,” he said.
Something had soured. Nicholas could practically smell it in the air, it was that strong, getting back into the car. And it was his fault, he knew. It was always his fault. It just wasn't something he could stop doing in any forseeable future. Certainly couldn't tell Danny about it. Couldn't tell anyone about it. Ever.
"Friday," he found himself saying, getting his aviators out of the glovebox. "Want to go to Buford Abbey and catch the midnight opening of Crank? Guy Ritchie, my treat."
Danny smiled, sort of, letting the blatant mix-up pass. “Not this week, 'ey? Got a lot of studying to do.”
"..Right," said Nicholas, buckling himself in. Danny, politely turning down the offer of an action film was the closest you could ever really get to a genuine 'Fuck off and die' from him. Even the straight words of 'Fuck off and die' wouldn't equal the gesture.
Fuck me.
What Big Ears You Have