Book One - Spike Island

Chapter One: A Man and His Dog

One bright sunny day, I've no idea how old we were at the time but we were still in short pants, my brother, Mike, and I were standing on our doorstep discussing the problems of the world as kids are wont to do:

"Wonder what's for tea?"
"Dunno."
"Yeah."
"Where's me Dad?"
"In the pub."

As these moving questions and answers passed back and forth, I happened to glance across the canal and to my surprise, I saw a man marching almost in military fashion towards the locks. His back was ramrod-stiff, his head held upright and even from where I was standing I could see that he was staring straight ahead. His manner of walking, however, struck me as odd, even unnatural. He seemed to lift his knee very high, then thrust out his foot before planting it on the ground in front of him. He was also holding a leash, on the end of which was a very reluctant dog, orange in colour, who, in its attempt at applying the brakes was trying to sit on its haunches, but lacking the strength to hold its owner back, was being dragged along the cinder track.
I nudged Mike in the ribs to get his attention and said, "Hey look at that bloody geezer!"
We watched in silence to see what would happen, the urge to laugh at his funny walk strangely being suppressed by the sight of the unfortunate dog. He reached about half way along the lock and turned abruptly to his left, coming to a halt right at the edge.
All at once we guessed what was about to take place. Mike, since he was the eldest, shouted across the two locks at him. I echoed his remarks. The man either did not hear us, or, if he did, ignored us completely. Without preamble the man lifted the leash to shoulder-height, his arm sticking straight out in front of him, with the poor dog now airborne, its little back legs searching for traction which was no longer there.
We continued to shout at him hoping that he would be dissuaded from this heinous act. But no, he just opened his fist and let the dog drop down into the lock. Mike began to dash across the bridges and I followed in his wake. I don't know how Mike felt, but my little heart was beating madly through shock and not a little fear. As we approached the man, Mike shouted at him, "What did you do that for? Yer daft bugger!" But he seemed not to hear.
His eyes had a glassy stare, which for a youngster such as I was pretty damned scary. His red hair, which incidentally matched the dog's, was devoid of sideburns; in fact, they had been shaved up to a couple of inches above the ears, giving his hair the ridiculous appearance of a pie crust. Without ever a glance in our direction he just walked right past us and returned from whence he came.
As soon as he left we ran to the edge of the lock and peered down into the murky depths. As it happened there was no water in the lock at the time, just a carpet of grey-black oozing mud, which could have been two feet or two hundred feet deep for all we knew. We located the dog about three or four feet from the lock wall with half its body from the hindquarters down trapped in the mud. I think it was in shock, that is, if animals go into shock, for it did not bark, just merely whimpered.
After some hurried deliberation, Mike said we should go and get a ladder. I was scared - if we got trapped and died in the mud, me Dad'd kill us!
We found a very long and heavy ladder in the store-shed just in front of our house and proceeded to carry it across the bridges. Mike did most of the work as I was a wee bit too small for the task and kept dropping my end - now that I think about it, Mike must have been hellishly strong.
Eventually, after much grunting and groaning, we managed to lower one end down into the mud. By the time the ladder reached bottom the top rung just barely reached the lip of the lock. Mike ordered me to hold on to the ladder while he clambered down into the nethermost regions.
The dog, now strangely quiet, was about ten or twelve feet away from him. Mike stepped gingerly from the ladder and immediately sank to his waist, the sucking sounds of the mud reaching up to me with sinister implications. For a while he seemed reluctant to leave go of the ladder - and who can blame him? - but eventually, he summoned up the courage and set out to reach the dog. Each step, I felt, was a step closer to doom. The mud closed around his body with each agonisingly slow step forward, the repugnant, loathsome sucking noises following him like some disgusting, belching swamp monster.
After an age, which must have been terror for him, he managed to reach for the dog who, upon seeing Mike, began to panic. It tried to "swim" away from him but its actions, as you can imagine, were in slow-motion. The result of this attempted flight was that the dog had now sunk deeper into the mud until just its head was visible. Each time Mike got closer, the dog would try to get away from him. With a desperate surge of energy, no doubt fortified by fear, Mike lunged at it and grabbed it around the neck. He pulled it free of the mud, accompanied once again by the sound of sucking which ended in a hideous Plop!
Now for the return journey. The mud was so thick and relentlessly grasping, he found to his horror that he could not turn round. He rested for a while to collect his thoughts and also to try to calm down the dog, which was still trying to escape, its back legs scratching furiously at Mike's chest and abdomen. Having gained his breath he resumed the struggle to reach the ladder. He began to walk backwards, the sucking sounds, if anything, becoming louder. Slowly, ever so slowly, he inched his way back to the ladder and then paused for another breather before attempting the climb upwards to safety.
Such a difficult task it was for him to climb up one- handed with slippy, slimy mud all over him and the dog still struggling to escape. But at last his head appeared over the top of the last rung. I reached down, grabbed the dog, and Mike hauled himself over the edge on to dry land. We took the dog to the canal a few yards away and gave him a good wash, a service for which the mongrel was not entirely grateful. Our little friend shook himself wildly, throwing water everywhere, and before we could do anything he ran off up the canal bank, trailing his leash behind him.
We went back to retrieve the ladder, mindful that if Dad were to come home and see it there we would surely suffer his wrath, not to mention his leather belt. But it was too heavy and we could not pull it from the grip of the stinking, putrid, all-clutching mud. Panic set in! Far worse than anything that had passed before. We saw a man coming towards us and, God bless him, when we told him our story, he pulled it out for us.
It was just as well, for me Dad would've killed us!