Remember Why You Fear Me (8 page)

“It’s like the holiday village I once stayed at in Lanzarote,” said Martin. “Hell isn’t so bad.”

But of course it was.

“What are you in here for?” Martin asked his roommate once, as they were getting ready for bed. He wasn’t especially curious. Just making conversation.

It was the first time he’d ever seen Woofie irritated. “That’s not a very polite thing to ask, Martin.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

But a few days later, as they were riding the mall escalator up and down for kicks, he asked him again.

Woofie sighed. “Tell me what
you’re
in for first.”

Martin was more than happy to do so—in fact, he’d just been waiting for the excuse to let it all out. “It’s because I don’t believe in God, apparently. They told me that when I arrived.”

“Uh-hum.”

“The thing is, I thought I
did
. I went to church most weeks, you know. Always thought there was some sort of higher presence or something.”

“Uh-hum.”

“Turns out I only believed I believed. But actually I didn’t.”

“They hate it when you’re wishy-washy,” said the dog. “You’d have been better off not believing in God at all. They’d have respected that.”

“I wouldn’t have gone to Hell?”

“Oh yes. But you’d have been able to sleep in on Sundays.” And then Woofie told Martin the reason why
he
was in Hell.

Martin was surprised and impressed.

“Don’t be impressed,” said Woofie. “It’s nothing to be impressed about.”

“It seems a bit unfair,” suggested Martin gently.

“It
is
unfair. Most dogs go to Hell because they weren’t kind to their masters. They bit them. Or wouldn’t come when they called. Or wouldn’t chase the sticks they’d throw. Dogs not doing what dogs are meant to do.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“And I’m here because I
didn’t
bite him. Frankly, I was damned right from the start. If I’d been lacking in my dogly duties, straight to Hell, no questions asked. But as a good dog, loving and patient to my master, I was serving Adolf Hitler.”

“So, really,” said Martin, “it’s just guilt by association.”

“Yeah,” said Woofie. “When he told me to fetch a stick, I was just following orders.”

“Did you tell them that?”

“Of course I did. They said that’s what
everybody
said. Throughout history, the same feeble excuse. So,” and he gestured with his paws at Hell, “this is where I finish up.” As it turned out, he was gesturing at the time towards a Virgin Megastore, but the point was still made.

“I can see why you’d be bitter about that,” said Martin.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the dog, and he shrugged. “If I’m going to be damned anyway, it might as well be for something impressive. . . . It
is
impressive, isn’t it, really?” he asked shyly.

“It is impressive.”

“I said you looked impressed.”

“You did and I was.”

“You know Strudel the poodle, who won the bowling last night? He’d belonged to Goering. I mean, just think. Bloody
Goering
. How embarrassing.” Woofie allowed himself a proud smile. “If you’re going to be in Hell because you were once the prized pet of a Nazi, better to be Hitler’s than some jumped up SS Kommandant with ideas above his station.”

“I take your point,” said Martin, and for a moment felt embarrassed that the evil which had sentenced him had been so banal in comparison.

“I can’t stop looking back,” said Woofie. “I feel guilty. Of course I do. I think, if only I had been a better dog, maybe I’d have been a more calming influence.”

“No,” said Martin.

“If I’d distracted him for just one more hour with my squeaky toys, that would have been another hour he wasn’t dreaming up death camps . . .”

“You can’t think like that,” said Martin. “What could you have done? Nothing, you could have done nothing.”

“I hope this won’t make a difference between the two of us,” said Woofie. And he reached out for Martin’s hand with his paw.

Without thinking twice, Martin squeezed it. “Of course not,” he said. “It doesn’t. Really, really.”

Martin didn’t bring the matter up again. They bowled together as usual, watched the same movies, took turns to use the washbasin. And, if anything, Woofie seemed more relaxed around his roommate. The polite friendship was replaced by something warmer and more honest; Woofie let down his guard and beneath the affable doggy exterior there was a really sharp sense of humour. His mocking impersonations of the rest of the bowling team, all done behind their backs, used to have Martin in stitches—they were cruel, but so accurate, especially the way he imitated Rudolf’s stutter or Ludwig’s limp. And it all helped single Martin out as his
special
friend, the one he would never laugh at privately, the one that he truly took seriously. Martin felt quite proud of that.

“You may as well get it over with,” said Woofie one night. The lights were out, but Martin couldn’t sleep, and he was pleased to hear the voice of his friend rise from the bunk beneath him. “Ask me what he was like.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? Come on. Everyone always wants to ask. It’s all right.”

“All right. What was Hitler like?”

“He was okay,” said Woofie. “Quite generous with treats. Didn’t like me lying on the bed, but was usually good for the odd lap. Even as I got older and fatter, he never minded me climbing on to the lap for a cuddle. He wasn’t a bad master at all. Of course,” he added reflectively, “he had his bad days. When he got things on his mind, and he did a lot, actually, as time went on. Then sometimes he wouldn’t find the time for walkies. But, you know. He did his best.”

There was silence.

“And at this point everyone asks whether I knew I was being fed and petted by an evil man. Go on, ask it.”

“I don’t want . . .”

“It’s all right, really.”

So Martin asked the obvious.

“I was his first dog, his childhood pet. So you’ve got to bear in mind that when I came on the scene he hadn’t done anything yet. Well, anything that was particularly
evil
. He’d done a few things that were
naughty
, but really, refusing to eat your greens, or reading under the bed covers after lights out, or graffitiing over pictures of Otto von Bismarck . . . I mean, you wouldn’t say that was especially untoward. I know what you’re going to say. That surely I could have seen
something
there. The seeds of the man to come. Say it, you might as well.”

“Did you see the seeds of the man to come?”

Woofie paused. “Do you know, Martin, no one’s ever asked me that before?”

“Really?”

“I’ll have to think about that.” And so he did. And then, at last, the voice gentle in the darkness:

“It’s not as if he ever had the chance to discuss matters of state with me. But I don’t think he’d have been ashamed. I dare say he’d have explained the need to burn the Reichstag, or invade Czechoslovakia, he’d have explained the concentration camps. I’d have only had to ask. I honestly think he was just doing his best. Muddling through, like the rest of us. Trying to be a good person. I’m not saying all his decisions were
good
ones. And that he didn’t get carried away. Who wouldn’t, you or I in the same position, who wouldn’t? But people think of him as a demon. And he wasn’t. Well, we know what demons look like. And he was just a man, you know. Just a man with his dog. Like you and me. Well, like you, anyway. Yes,” Woofie said softly, as he thought about it, “Adolf Hitler was a lot like you.”

“Thanks,” said Martin, and meant it.

“Why didn’t you want to ask? No one else has left it for so long.”

“I just supposed,” said Martin, “that it must get a bit irritating. Always being in his shadow. People never asking you about
you
, only the famous person you hung out with.”

There was silence for a while.

“But I was in his shadow,” said Woofie. “I was his dog.”

More silence. For a while Martin thought Woofie had fallen asleep. And then:

“Thanks, though. That’s really thoughtful of you. Thanks.”

“That’s okay.”

“You’re my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend too, actually.”

“We can cuddle if you like,” said Woofie. “I don’t mean anything funny,” he added hastily, “just cuddling. If you like. I mean, there’s nothing funny about a man and his dog sleeping together, is there? If you like.”

“I’m not sure there’s room,” said Martin slowly.

But there was room, if Martin leant into the wall a bit. And Woofie wasn’t very big, he curled into the spaces left by Martin’s body as if they’d always been designed to fit together like this. If Martin laid against Woofie sideways he was rubbing against his soul, but face on he could feel his fur, and the warmth of it was more comforting than he could have believed.

“Good night, Martin,” said Woofie softly.

“Night.” And within minutes Martin heard the snoring that told him his new best friend was asleep. And he had only a few moments to realize how reassuring that snoring was, how much gentler than Moira’s, how much more
right
, before he was fast asleep too.

“Good news,” boomed the demon. “You’re being transferred tomorrow morning.”

Martin tried to work out how he should respond. “Oh,” he said eventually.

“Well, don’t look too bloody grateful,” muttered the demon as he stomped off. He was having a rotten day already. Since he couldn’t shave the tufts of fur round his horns, he’d set about plucking them out with a pair of tweezers. This only succeeded in drawing attention to them still further, and the overall effect made him look a bit camp. He rather suspected—accurately, in fact—that behind his back in the staff room the piss was being ripped out of him quite mercilessly.

Martin wondered how he should break the news to Woofie. But that was the one thing he needn’t have worried about. He was waiting for him when he got back, the body unnaturally tense. Martin thought he might have been crying.

“Hello,” said Martin, for want of anything better to say. Then, “I’m sorry.”

“Was it something I’ve done?”

“No. No, that’s not it.”

“What is it? Just tell me what I ever did that was wrong.”

“It’s not you, Woofie. I’m sorry. It’s me. It’s my fault, it’s
me
, I’m sorry.”

Woofie looked so sad, with his big dog watery eyes boring into him. Martin wished he’d be angry—bark at him, nip at his ankles,
anything
. Anything other than this quiet and this hurt.

At last Woofie said, “Is it because of the whole Hitler thing?”

“No,” Martin hastened to reassure him. “It’s because you’re a dog.”

Silence.

“It’s nothing personal.”

Silence. For the first time since he’d met him, the dog made Martin itch.

“So it’s not because of what I’ve done. It’s because of who I am.”

“Well. Yes. Sort of.”

Woofie stared at him. “That’s sick.”

“Yes,” said Martin. “It is. I’m sorry. Is there . . . is there anything you’d like? Anything I can do, or . . .”

“No,” said Woofie. And then he changed his mind. “Yes,” he said gently. “I’d like my bunk back. The top bunk. My favourite bunk. And all to myself. Please.”

So that night Martin slept on the bottom bunk. Woofie hadn’t spoken again all evening, and he stared up at the little sagging mound from the bed above him, and he wanted to touch it,
prod
it, just to get some sort of reaction, even to have an argument, just so there could be an ending to this. But he didn’t dare. In the morning, Woofie seemed kinder, even to have forgiven him.

“Best of luck, Martin,” he said, and offered him his paw.

“And best of luck to you too,” said Martin warmly. “And thank you for everything.” He made to give him a little pat on the head, but Woofie stepped backwards instinctively. He’d gone too far.

Martin’s new roommate was a human called Steve. Steve was very polite and almost friendly. He didn’t give Martin the top bunk, but really, why should he have? It turned out that Steve was a rapist. But, as he told Martin, it had only been the once, and it was a long time ago, and he felt very sorry about it. And besides, Martin didn’t know the child in question, so he decided not to be bothered about it.

And Steve let Martin hang out with his friends. At the shopping malls, at the cinema, at the bowling alley. It had been a long time since Martin had spent time in the company of humans, but he soon adjusted. Inevitably there were occasions when he’d almost run into Woofie: the first time was a bit awkward, and he could see that Strudel would happily have jumped at his throat. But Woofie barked something in his ear, and with bad grace Strudel turned his back on the fair weather human and got back to his ten pin bowling. And that was the worst of it. After that, whenever Woofie or Martin realized the other was near, they’d simply not make eye contact as discreetly as possible. It was never not embarrassing—but it was an embarrassment that Martin could handle with increasing ease as the years went by.

It may have been on his third or fourth Christmas in Hell that Martin received a card. “Something addressed just to you,” said Steve with a sniff, as he handed it to him. Most of the cards would say “Steve and Martin,” and one or two might be for “Martin and Steve.” Never Martin on his own.