Moving Pictures

nose. Walkin’ on me ’ind legs. Jumpin’ through a ’oop. Carried the hat around in my mouf afterward. You know. Show business. Then this woman pats me on me ’ead, says ‘Eow, wot a dear little doggy, he looks like he understands every word we say,’ and I thinks, ‘Ho, ho, I don’t even bother to make the effort anymore, missus,’ and then I realizes I can hear the words, and they’re coming out of me own mouf. So I grabbed the ’at and had it away on my paws pretty damn quick, while they were still starin’.”
    “Why?” said Victor.
    Gaspode rolled his eyes. “Exactly wot life do you fink a genuine talking dog is going to have?” he said. “Shouldn’t have opened my stupid mouth.”
    “But you’re talking to me ,” said Victor.
    Gaspode gave him a sly look.
    “Yeah, but jus’ you try tellin’ anyone,” he said. “Anyway, you’re all right. You’ve got the look. I could tell it a mile orf.”
    “What on earth do you mean?” said Victor.
    “You don’t fink you really belong to yourself, right?” said the dog. “You’ve ’ad the feeling that something else is doin’ your thinking for you?”
    “Good grief.”
    “Give you a kind of hunted look,” said Gaspode. He picked up the cap in his mouth. “Tuppence,” he said indistinctly. “I mean, it’s not as if I’ve got any way of spending it, but…tuppence.” He gave a canine shrug.
    “What do you mean by a hunted look?” said Victor.
    “You’ve all got the look. Many are called and few are chosen, style of fing.”
    “What look?”
    “Like you’ve been called here and you don’t know why.” Gaspode tried to scratch his ear again. “Saw you acting Cohen the Barbarian,” he said.
    “Er…what did you think of it?” said Victor.
    “I reckon, so long as ole Cohen never gets to hear about it, you should be OK.”

    “I said , how long ago was he in here?” shouted Dibbler. On the tiny stage, Ruby was crooning something in a voice like a ship in thick fog and bad trouble.
    “GrooOOowwonnogghrhhooOOo—” 6
    “He only just went out!” bellowed Rock. “I’m trying to listen to this song, all right?”
    “—OowoowgrhhffrghooOOo—” 7
    Cut-me-own-Throat nudged Detritus, who was taking the weight off his knuckles and watching the floor show with his mouth open.
    The old troll’s life had, up to now, been very straightforward; people paid you money, and you hit other people.
    Now it was beginning to get complicated. Ruby had winked at him.
    Strange and unfamiliar emotions were rampaging through Detritus’ battered heart.
    “—groooOOOooohoofooOOoo—” 8
    “Come on ,” snapped Throat.
    Detritus lumbered to his feet and took one last longing look at the stage.
    “—ooOOOgooOOmoo. OOhhhooo.” 9
    Ruby blew him a kiss. Detritus blushed the color of fresh-cut garnet.

    Gaspode led the way out of the alley and through the dark hinterland of scrubby bushes and sandgrass behind the town.
    “There’s definitely something wrong with this place,” he muttered.
    “It’s different ,” said Victor. “What do you mean, wrong?”
    Gaspode looked as though he was going to spit.
    “Now, take me,” he said, ignoring the interruption. “A dog. Never dreamed in my life except about chasing fings. And sex, of course. Suddenly I’m dreaming these dreams. In color . Frightened the bloody life out of me. Never seen color before, right? Dogs see in black-an’-white, as I expect you knows, you bein’ a great reader. Red comes as a nasty shock, I can tell you. You fink your dinner is just this white bone with shades of gray on it, suddenly it turns out for years you bin eatin’ this gharsteley red and purple stuff.”
    “What kind of dreams?” said Victor.
    “It’s bloody embarrassing,” said Gaspode. “Like, in one there’s this bridge that’s been washed away and I have to run and bark a warning, right? And there’s another where this house is on fire and I drag these kids out. And there’s one where some kids are lost in these caves and I find ’em and go and lead the search party to them…and I hates kids. Seems I can’t get me ’ead down these days without rescuin’ people or savin’ people or foilin’ robbers or sunnink. I mean, I’m seven years old, I got hardpad, I got scurf, I got fleas somethin’ dreadful, I don’t need to be a ’ero every time I go to sleep.”
    “Gosh. Isn’t life interesting,” said Victor, “when you see it from someone else’s perspective…?”
    Gaspode