Love Your Life(112)

“Are you kidding?” He stares at me, his face working with emotion. “Ava, I love your life. I love your flat. I love your rescue books. And your stupid hot baths. And your vegetarian food. And your…I don’t know, your shit everywhere. And your friends. And—”

    “Well, I love your friends,” I cut in, my voice shaking. “And your ugly building. And your Internet countdown. And I love your art,” I say with passion. “I love the hairless wolf and the freaky hands and all of it…because it’s you. It’s you, Matt. And I love you.”

“Even when you smashed up my art, I still loved you,” says Matt, his gaze resolute. “I loved you even more.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

Tears have started streaming down my face, and I wrap my arms around Matt, suddenly feeling as though I could hold on to him forever.

“Let’s never split up again,” I say against his chest, my voice a little shuddery.

“Never.”

“Ever.”

“Do you…really love Harold?” I can’t help adding as we finally draw apart a little, and Matt gives me a wry smile.

“I really love Harold. Don’t ask me why, but I do. I love when he steals my food, I love when he shreds my shirts….”

“No you don’t,” I say with a gurgle of laughter.

“I do,” says Matt adamantly. “I love that dog more than I thought I could ever love a dog. Speaking of which, where is he?” Matt’s head swivels around. “We need to go and find him. I assumed he would run back.”

“What if the burglar’s kidnapped him?” I say in fright, and Matt gives me one of his looks.

“Unlikely,” he says. “Can you imagine kidnapping Harold? But we should track him down.”

We head down to the garden and check that first, but there’s no sign. Then we go out to the street and walk along, hand in hand, calling out at intervals through the dark night air.

    “Harold? Harold!”

“Where are you, stupid dog? HAROLD!”

“What if he’s lost?” I say anxiously as we reach the corner of a cross street.

“He won’t be lost. He’s probably showing off to the street dogs. He’s probably got a gang by now. Harold!” Matt raises his voice. “Harold, you idiot! Come HOME!” Then he freezes. “Wait. Hear that?”

We stand motionless, and I suddenly hear it, too: the sound of distant, familiar barking.

“Harold!” I say in relief. “There he is! Except…where?” I turn around on the spot bewilderedly, trying to work out which direction the noise is coming from. We’re in a warren of residential streets, with paths and gates and gardens. He could be anywhere.

“There.” Matt points. “No, wait. There. Harold. HAROLD!”

The barking is getting louder, and now it’s clearer where it’s coming from. I start running along the road toward the sound, calling out at top volume till my lungs are burning.

“Harold? HAROLD!”

I reach another corner and skitter to a halt, breathing hard, still confused. The barking seems to be in a different place now. Where the hell is he? Is he in someone’s garden?

“He’s coming toward us,” says Matt, arriving at my side. “Listen.”

Sure enough, the barking is really loud now. He must be nearby, he must be…

    “Is he behind us?” I say in confusion, and I turn around to look. And that’s when I hear it. A screech of tires. An unearthly howl.

Harold.

No. Harold.

“Fuck,” Matt mutters, breaking into a sprint. I match him, pace for pace, my brain hollow with dread, and as we round the next corner, we see him lying on the road. He’s only just visible in the glow from a streetlamp, but I can already see the pool of blood.

I can’t— I can’t even—

I move faster than I ever have in my life, but still Matt gets there first and cradles Harold on his lap, his own face white.

Harold’s breathing is hoarse. There’s blood everywhere. There’s mangled fur…I can see bone…Oh, Harold, Harold, my world…I crash down onto the road beside Matt, who tenderly transfers Harold’s head onto my lap and gets out his phone.

“Fucking hit-and-run,” he says, his voice taut as he dials. “Monsters.”

Harold gives a little whine, and blood seeps from his mouth. I look at Matt and he looks at me. And it’s all there. We don’t have to say anything. It’s all there.





Twenty-Seven




Six months later

Nihal wants to build Harold a new robotic leg. I keep telling him Harold doesn’t need a new robotic leg. He already has a state-of-the-art prosthetic leg, which works really well. But every time Nihal sees Harold, he surveys the prosthetic leg and then his eyes go all pensive, and I know he wants to turn Harold into the bionic dog.

Me, I’m just grateful. I still wake up every morning and remember in a sickening rush and tremble with the dread of what could have been.

After we realized Harold was going to live (I nearly fainted with relief—not my finest hour), my biggest worry was that his spirit wouldn’t survive. That the weeks of treatment and surgery and rehab he needed would somehow crush him. But I should have realized. This is Harold.