Every dog has its day

When I first laid eyes on Stephen, he was stood beneath the wintry overbite of a naked oak, playing 'piggy-in-the-middle' with his left testicle through the thick grey fabric of his jogging bottoms. Something in his gait put me in mind of a Silverback gazing absent-mindedly into the middle distance, half aware of potential threats and ready to strike if the need should arise. But mostly he didn't need to strike.

I knew immediately that he was more of a man than I would ever be. Testosterone oozed from his every pore. Women hated themselves for wanting him, and men wanted to be his mate in the hopes of being caught in estrogen crossfire.

In one moment of pocket billiards, Stephen had told me more about himself than words ever could, and I liked what I saw in spite of myself.

In the six months that followed our first encounter, the two of us dined with Royalty, drank with vagabonds, dragged filthy language from a nun (great story) and convinced a violent criminal to turn from his destructive path. The criminal in question is now working with homeless people, and the time I spent with him moved me in a way that I couldn't even begin to describe.

I could write knee-high volumes about the time I spent with Stephen. About how we met and became unlikely friends; about the turn of events that led to a football-loving ladies' man and a neurotic introvert deciding to jump on a ferry together to meet a man in Calais who had restored an old DeLorean - a car that had captured both our hearts as children - and about how this had led (as I think we'd both hoped it would) to an unforgettable trip across large parts of the planet, doing things we'd only dreamed of til then.

I could go on forever. But as incredible as that 6 month period was, it's probably not as interesting to you as it is to me. And anyway, it's not what we're here to talk about.

What's happening right now is much more interesting.

You see, Stephen and I circled like vultures, picking at the flesh of a good story wherever we could find one, for six solid months wherever we went. We would hear talk of somebody who believed he could turn milk into whiskey, and just know that sooner or later the locals would start to poke him with a stick because he was stark-raving mad, and they were bored and stupid. This is when we would ride in on our noble steed and teach the small-minded villagers tolerance and understanding.

There was no selfless motive behind what we were doing; we were completely addicted to good deeds. We were humble and noble, and totally intoxicated by the smell of our own farts.

And then eventually fatigue set in and we had to come home to Blighty. But after a taste of Messiah Juice, we could no longer be satiated by the bitter taste of Everyday Chap Cola, and the clock was always ticking.

2 years passed, and then came the call. I didn't say anything. His name hadn't appeared on my phone in a year and a half, and I knew he wasn't calling to ask if I wanted to go for a pint.

His voice was loaded with intrigue and I was instantly sold.

"Paul. There's something really strange happening in my village and I need someone's help finding out what the fuck's going on. You know I wouldn't call if it wasn't serious mate. You know where I live right?"

"Yeah. Give me three hours."

And then this all started happening.

After an uneventful drive down to Cambridgeshire, I pulled up in Stephen's driveway thoroughly underwhelmed by the lack of anything 'really strange', and wondered briefly if he'd been driven mad by mediocrity. I knocked on the door and he greeted me properly, with a warm smile and a hearty handshake.

We walked through to his living room and he handed me a beer - I would have liked a whiskey, but that was never his style - and I asked him what was so important for him to call me out of the blue like that. A dark look passed across his face.

"Bloody hell mate, I was hoping for more of a catch-up. Straight to it, eh? Right. Well, three weeks ago, my dog was run over. Now, you know I don't believe in all ghosts and that shit. I live in the real world, but this is gonna be a bit out there, so just stick with me mate. I haven't gone nuts. So, my dog was run over by this guy down the road.

"He's just moved in and he's a bit weird. Sort of looks through you a bit, and takes a bit too long to answer when you say 'hi' to him. Just a bit 'off'. So he runs over my dog and doesn't say a thing. Tracey next door saw it happen and she said the guy just kept reversing out of his drive, no reaction, then looked down at the dog for a moment but didn't even change his expression, then drove off. She said it sent shivers down her spine. Weird.

"I loved that dog, and I weren't happy. Gave him a little funeral, and I kept waiting for the guy to say sorry, or anything, but he didn't. He just kept on doing the same thing everyday, like he was on autopilot. Nothing behind the eyes.

"You know what I'm like, though. I just thought 'he's just one of those people. You can't expect everyone to know how to behave. Some people just don't and you just leave them to it.' But then one day I saw him go over to the spot where he ran over Stevie Jr and stare down at where it happened. There was a little fleck of dried blood left there, and he looked at it and he pulled this face. Like a full-blown sneer. I saw him do this, sneer at the spot where he'd killed my best friend, and I lost it. It was proper embarrassing, I ran out my house and started shouting "you're not even sorry are you?" and all sorts, and he just looked at me like he didn't know who I was or what I was doing in his street. I stared back at him and just waited for him to talk.

"This is where it gets weird mate, bear with me. So he doesn't say anything and I don't say anything. We're just staring at each other. and I'm determined to get a rise so I just keep staring. Then the car in his drive starts lifting up at the front. Just a little bit, not enough for me to even be sure, but I'm glancing over at it and it seems like it's lifting. Can't believe my eyes. He's not moved and I'm getting pretty freaked out. I go back into my house and look out the window. He's still standing there, not moving, then he goes inside after a bit and I don't know what to do with myself. Twilight Zone shit.

"So a couple more days pass and I'm trying to forget about it altogether. Watching 'Match of the Day', and suddenly the screen goes blank. Bright green letters appear on the screen, one by one, all in capitals. "EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY". I look out the window, and there he is. The Blank Man. Just staring at me through his window on the other side of the street. I'm losing my fucking mind at this point. Totally skitzo, don't know what to do, what's going on, if I'm insane or what. So I just sit there and the TV comes back on. I can't engage with this so I shut it out, pretend nothing's happened, but I can't sleep. can't eat. This was three days ago and I haven't taken the rubbish out since then. I've just been sat on my arse too scared to move."

It sounded like he'd finished, so I felt like I should talk. I just didn't have a clue what to say.

Moments passed in silence, and I cleared my throat.

"Well that's unexpected."

At that moment, an almighty CRASH shook the room, and I looked out the window to see the car in the driveway opposite alive with flames half as high as the house. The car was a DeLorean, and it seemed strange that Stephen hadn't mentioned that earlier. But right now it was on fire, and somehow that seemed like the more pressing matter.

At a loss, I looked more closely. Seared on the bonnet in brilliant black were the ominous words "EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY", and I froze.

There was no 'I told you so' in Stephen's expression, just fear. And the strangest thing was that no-one was reacting. No frantic neighbours swarming the street; no hysterical owner on his knees yelling at God. Just silence, but for the flickering of the other-worldy flames.

Then it stopped. The car looked untouched, and the moment had passed as suddenly as it had began.

I looked at Stephen and we both felt that old flame flicker. Adventure was calling, and we'd got our Mojo back.

We strode with purpose toward the car and found nothing peculiar, other than the complete lack of anything peculiar. Intrigued and disturbed, I knocked on the Blank Man's front door, and waited for an answer that didn't come.

Silently, Stephen nodded towards the garage door, which was wide open, with the light on, and we crept inside to investigate.

No sooner had we stepped in than the garage door slammed shut with unnatural speed and the light turned off.

We waited.

................

That pretty much brings us to the present moment. I imagine that's thoroughly unsatisfying, as I've really not explained anything, but I'm afraid I can't. We've been in this garage for two days now, the only light coming from my laptop and the only sustenance provided by a multipack of crisps and a big bottle of scrumpy cider we found in the garage, and the overwhelming feeling is that of boredom.

Stephen is frustrated by my constant typing, but chronicling these events is all that's keeping me sane.

Stephen and I are very different people. Whereas he has spent the last two years working different jobs, keeping busy, I've been trapped in my study, writing. Contemplating. The money is good, working from home as a journalist, and there's no need for me to engage with a world that doesn't seem as interesting as it once did. I've already explored it, and now I'm tired. But I do miss those days.

And now I'm trying to think of things to tell you, dearest reader. I've tried to be honest, and tell you what's happened as far as my limited understanding goes. I'm sure my account of dialogue is not entirely accurate, but the gist is there, and I've tried to give you a real sense of Stephen's bustling, manly way of talking. But it's not word-for-word. For now, I'll wait. Hopefully my next entry will shed some light on what's occurred in this God-forsaken sleepy Cambridgeshire village.

---------------

[A letter that was found in Paul's home, shortly after he disappeared]

Dear Paul,

I haven't heard from you in well over a year, and I miss your academic ways. You were always the thinker, I was the guy who got things done - we made a great team! I still can't believe some of the adventures we had, and honestly sometimes I get a bit bored these days.

But life is great. I'm married now, and our first child is on the way - a baby girl! So happy, and I hope you're doing well mate. I'm sure you are. Hopefully you haven't just locked yourself up in your room at that damn computer! Only joking mate. But seriously, hope you're not missing the old days too much. We had some great times, but I guess every dog has its day. We're getting on a bit now, and honestly I'm happy to be a bit more settled down now.

Would be great to hear from you, I've tried calling and e-mailing but I guess you changed your number, and maybe you're not picking up e-mails from that old account. So I thought I would write - old fashioned style, you always liked things like that. Hopefully you haven't changed address.

Let me know how life is treating you, hopefully we can meet up for a beer at some point!

Your old pal,

Stephen

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The last person to see Paul before he disappeared was his neighbour Tracey. Her account of Paul is worlds apart from the intellectual adventurer Stephen remembers. She speaks of a quiet and unengaging man, and tells an unsettling story of cold detachment. Shortly before his disappearance, she recalls, Paul killed a dog with his car. Though she is sure it was unintentional, Tracy remembers being disturbed by the blank expression on his face as he looked down at the dead dog.