14
The kennels were located behind a group of outhouses-once stables, perhaps-two hundred yards to the back of the main house. A sprawling collection of breeze-block sheds and wire-mesh enclosures, they had been built simply to fulfill their function, with no thought for architectural felicities; they were an eyesore.
It was chilly out in the open air, and crossing the crusty grass toward the kennels Marty had rapidly regretted his shirtsleeves. But there’d been an urgency in Pearl’s voice as she sent him on his way, and he didn’t want to leave Whitehead-no, he must learn to think of the man as Mr. Whitehead-waiting longer than he already had. As it was, the great man seemed unruffled by his late arrival.
“I thought we’d take a look at the dogs this morning. Then maybe we’ll make a tour of the grounds, yes?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He was dressed in a heavy black coat, the thick fur collar of which cradled his head.
“You like dogs?”
“You asking me honestly, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Not much.”
“Was your mother bitten, or were you?” There was a twitch of a smile in the bloodshot eyes.
“Neither of us that I can remember, sir.”
Whitehead grunted. “Well you’re about to meet the tribe, Strauss, whether you like them or not. It’s important they get to recognize you. They’re trained to tear intruders apart. We don’t want them making any mistakes.”
A figure had emerged from one of the larger sheds, carrying a choke chain. It took two glances for Marty to work out whether the newcomer was male or female. The cropped hair, the shabby anorak and the boots all suggested masculinity; but there was something in the molding of the face that betrayed the illusion.
“This is Lillian. She looks after the dogs.”
The woman nodded a greeting without even glancing at Marty.
At her appearance several dogs-large, shaggy Alsatians-had emerged from the kennels into the concrete run, and were sniffing at her through the wire, whining a welcome. She shushed them unsuccessfully; the welcome escalated into barks, and now one or two were standing on their hind legs, man-height against the mesh, their tails wagging furiously. The din worsened.
“Be quiet,” she snapped across to them, and almost all were chastened into silence. One male, however, larger than the rest, still stood against the wire, demanding attention, until Lillian drew off her leather glove and put her fingers through the mesh to scratch his deep-furred throat.
“Martin here has taken over in Nick’s stead,” said Whitehead. “He’ll be here all the time from now on. I thought he should meet the dogs, and have the dogs meet him.”
“Makes sense,” Lillian replied, without enthusiasm.
“How many are there?” Marty inquired.
“Fully grown? Nine. Five males, four females. This is Saul,” she said, speaking of the dog she was still stroking. “He’s the oldest, and the biggest. The male over in the corner is Job. He’s one of Saul’s sons. He’s not too well at the moment.”
Job had half-lain down in the corner of the enclosure and was licking his testicles with some enthusiasm. He seemed to know he had become the center of conversation, because he looked up from his toilet for a moment. In the look he gave them there was everything Marty hated about the species: the threat, the shiftiness, the barely subdued resentment of its masters.
“The bitches are over there-”
There were two dogs trotting up and down the length of the enclosure.
“-the lighter one’s Dido, and the darker’s Zoe.”
It was odd to hear these brutes called by such names; it seemed wholly inappropriate. And surely they resented the woman’s christenings; mocked her, probably, behind her back.
“Come over here,” Lillian said, summoning Marty as she might one of her pack. Like them, he came.
“Said,” she said to the animal behind the wire, “this is a friend. Come closer,” she told Marty, “he can’t smell you from over there.”
The dog had dropped down onto all fours. Marty approached the wire cautiously.
“Don’t be afraid. Go right up to him. Let him get a good sniff of you.”
“They don’t like fear,” said Whitehead. “Isn’t that right, Lillian?”