Waiting for Doggo Read Free

enormous 4X4 illegally parked nearby, two wheels on the kerb, its hazard lights flashing. The woman zaps it with her key fob. ‘Hector, come along now.’
    Hector’s a beautiful boy, like the young Christian Bale in
Empire of the Sun
– all floppy hair and large green eyes. ‘Hey, Doggo,’ he coos warmly, dropping to his haunches.
    Doggo doesn’t just tilt his head at Hector, he allows the boy to stroke him, to rub his ears and scratch beneath his chin.
    ‘Aren’t you the best dog? Yes you are, Doggo. You’re the best dog ever.’
    ‘Hector!’ comes his mother’s indignant cry.
    The boy glances up at me and rolls his eyes. ‘Got to go.’
    ‘It gets better – life, I mean.’
    ‘Let’s hope so,’ he says. ‘See you around, Doggo.’
    The two of us stand and stare as Hector clambers into the back of the big Mercedes. He gives a wave as the car pulls away.
    Let’s hope so? And delivered with the weary forbearance of a biblical sage. He can’t have been more than twelve years old. Where did this child come from? Not from his mother, that much is certain.
    I follow Hector’s lead and drop to my haunches. ‘Hey, Doggo, you just made a friend.’
    As I reach out a hand, I wonder at first if it’s the sound of the passing traffic I can hear, but it’s the low rumble of a warning growl telling me to keep my distance.

Chapter Three
     
    ‘C AN I SAY it?’
    ‘I don’t know, J, can you?’
    ‘I’m going to anyway.’
    I spread my hands. ‘Sock it to me.’
    We’re in a bar on the Portobello Road, and J throws back a slug of his third (or is it his fourth?) mojito before coming out with it. ‘You’re well rid of her, mate.’
    ‘Clara?’
    ‘Who else? I never liked her.’
    I’m shocked. ‘I’ve been with her almost four years. You don’t think you could have told me before now?’
    ‘Grow the fuck up, Dan. I’m seriously going to tell you the love of your life is loopy as a box of frogs? Jesus, I’m not that stupid. What, have that one come back and bite me in the arse when you tie the knot with the loon?’
    ‘She’s not a loon.’
    ‘She’s certifiable, mate, always was. Hey, don’t get me wrong. It was fine when we were younger, but this is life now, the real deal. We’re looking at the long game. I mean, take Jethro, for example.’
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘His time is over.’
    ‘Jethro?’
    Jethro is the coolest guy we know. Tall and artfully dishevelled, he divides his time between dossing on other people’s floors, smoking huge quantities of weed and playing his guitar (rather well). He’s like some latter-day troubadour, always on the move, forever searching out a new patron to house and feed him.
    ‘I’m telling you, that guy’s currency is in serious freefall. All women like a bad boy when they’re younger, but let’s face it, Jethro isn’t the bloke you want bouncing your firstborn on his knee. He’d probably drop the bloody thing on its head.’
    ‘I like Jethro.’ I really do. He’s got a great sense of humour and he can tell stories like no one else I know.
    ‘Hey, me too,’ soothes J. ‘But he’s had his day. Women our age don’t want a layabout, however charming, not when the old biological clock starts ticking.’
    He’s right. It’s the reason Jethro’s girlfriends are getting younger. Poor Jethro.
    ‘Clara’s nothing like Jethro.’
    ‘All I’m saying is I can see why you went for her. She’s hot, hot as hell, and a bit crazy, which is okay when you’re young, but we’re not any more … sorry to break it to you. You really want a wife who’s into crystals and auras and fuck knows what else?’
    ‘Angels.’
    ‘Angels!?’
    ‘She met a bloke called Brendon who persuaded her she’s got a guardian angel.’
    ‘You’re having me on!’
    ‘His name’s Kamael.’
    A look of vacant incredulity falls across J’s face. ‘I rest my case.’
     
    J and I met at Warwick University, where we both studied English. It’s one of those rare