Free Remember Why You Fear Me by Robert Shearman Page A

he’d changed, he’d never used to be like this, he didn’t love her anymore since he’d changed.
    And he wanted to say of course he’d bloody
changed
, he’d died, hadn’t he? He’d died and gone to Hell, and she
hadn’t
died, she’d just stayed cosily alive, what had they got in common anymore? He’d gone to Hell and fallen in love with someone else, he’d fallen in love with Hitler’s dog. But he couldn’t say this, even Martin couldn’t be so cruel. It gave him no pleasure to see his widow crying all the time, it just revolted him. “I can’t even shit,” he repeated numbly. And then, as an afterthought, “I want a dog.”
    Moira pointed out he didn’t like dogs. He was allergic. They made him itch.
    “I want a bloody dog,” he said, “that’s all I bloody want. Get me a bloody dog.”

    They called the new dog Wuffles. Martin had wanted to call it Woofie, but couldn’t quite do it, it was all a bit too raw. Maybe in time he’d rename it, he didn’t suppose the dog would mind. Moira had wanted to name him Snoopy, but Martin calmly pointed out that was a bloody stupid name, Snoopy was bloody stupid. Besides, Snoopy was a bloody beagle, wasn’t he, and this wasn’t a bloody beagle, it was a bloody dachshund, you stupid bitch, it was a bloody sodding buggering dachshund. And then he kissed her gently on the forehead and told her she’d done well, it was a lovely dog. And if she could now bloody well leave him alone to play with it.
    The thing was, Wuffles didn’t like Martin. He
loved
Moira—he’d wag even at the sound of her voice, wait outside the bedroom door for her, was never happier than when she was petting him or stroking him or touching him. From Martin he’d just recoil. Martin supposed he could see his soul, the same as everyone else. And he quite respected the dog for it—at least it wasn’t a hypocrite.
    Still, he’d try. He’d take Wuffles out for walks—
drag
Wuffles out for walks, pulling the resistant pet by the leash until it had no choice but to follow. They’d go to the woods. Martin would find a nice fat stick, and throw it.
    “Fetch,” he’d say.
    Wuffles would just stare at him blankly.
    “Fetch,” Martin would repeat. “Fetch the stick.”
    Wuffles would look to where he’d thrown it, look back at him, then lie down. He wasn’t going to chase after a stick. Not for
him
. For his mistress, anything. But for this flattened dead man, the dog refused to follow orders.
    One day Martin dragged the dog to the car instead. They drove far far away. He opened the passenger door. Threw the stick he’d brought with him.
    “Fetch,” he said.
    But Wuffles made it clear that if he wasn’t prepared to chase a stick in the woods, he certainly wasn’t inclined to do so on the hard shoulder of a motorway. So Martin pushed the dog out of the car anyway, and drove home without him.
    Moira was distraught. “It’s all right,” he reassured her. “He’ll be fine. There are lots of rabbits for him to chase out there, probably. And if he
isn’t
fine . . . He was a good dog, he never bit or scratched. He loved his mistress. So at least he can be sure he’s going to a happy place.”
    Martin never saw Wuffles again. But when a few weeks later he opened the door to a dachshund who had rung his doorbell, he thought that his unwanted pet had tracked him down. That he’d have to take him on an even longer journey up the M1.
    “No, no,” said the dog. “It’s Woofie. How are you, Martin?”
    “Woofie,” repeated Martin. “I didn’t recognize you.”
    “Well, it has been a long time. Can I come in?”
    Once inside, Martin asked his old friend whether he wanted anything to eat or drink, wanted to sit down, wanted anything, really. “No, I’m fine,” said Woofie. “Nice place you’ve got here. Very cosy.”
    “It’s not mine, it’s hers,” said Martin. “It’s nothing to do with me. How did you get out of Hell?”
    “Oh, they’re letting all sorts out