Free Remember Why You Fear Me by Robert Shearman Page B

now. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing hasn’t shut down before too long.”
    “And how did you find me?”
    Woofie smiled. “A dog can always find his master. If he wants to hard enough.” He let his words sink in. “You do know you’re my master, don’t you?”
    “Yes,” said Martin.
    “I only think sometimes. That if I’d met you. Right from the start. If I could have given my love to
you
, and not to Hitler . . . I’d never have gone to Hell in the first place. I could have been great. And I think, too, that with me there beside you, you wouldn’t have gone to Hell either.”
    “No,” said Martin.
    “We could have been great, you and I. We could have been great.”
    And Martin kissed him. And he knew that what he was kissing was a dog, and that it was a
dead
dog, but it was all right, it didn’t matter, it was all all right.
    “Let’s get out of here,” said Martin. And he got his coat, locked the front door, and put the keys through the letterbox. He considered leaving a note for Moira—but really, what would he have said?
    And man and dog went out together. They had no money for food, but that was okay, they had each other. They’d sleep when they got tired, on park benches, in shop doorways, wherever they could cuddle up. And people would avoid their gaze on the street as always, and some would still spit at them. But together man and dog had a strength. They would stare down their persecutors. They showed they weren’t ashamed.
    Early one morning they were shaken awake by an angry farmer. They’d decided to spend the night in an empty barn—the straw was scratchy but warm.
    “Get out!” screamed the farmer, with a fury that was mostly fear. “Get off my property!” And he jabbed at them with the handle of his pitchfork.
    “There’s no need for that,” said Martin. “We’re going.”
    “You’re filth!” the farmer shouted after them, as Martin and Woofie walked to the door with as much dignity as they could. “You dead bastards. You dead perverted . . . and on my property! You’re filth!”
    And, quick as a flash, Woofie turned round, leaped up, and tore out his throat.
    Martin looked as surprised as the farmer, who, eyes bulged in shock, reached out for a neck that largely wasn’t there, before pitching forward on to his face. The blood sprayed across the straw.
    “Oh my God,” said Martin, bending down. “He’s dead.”
    “Good,” said Woofie. “Now he knows what it feels like.”
    “Oh God, oh shit,” said Martin.
    “Come on, let’s go,” said Woofie.

    They walked in silence for a while. Martin kept looking at his hands, and every time he did—yes—they were still smeared with blood.
    “Oh God,” he said at last. “It was an accident. It was an accident.”
    “It wasn’t an accident,” said Woofie. “I all but bit his head off.”
    “Oh God.”
    Nothing more was said for a few minutes. A man walked towards the pair down the footpath. He gave them the customary glare of hatred and contempt. And then he saw Martin’s bloody hands, and the way Woofie openly snarled at him, and there was blood there too, right on the jaws—and he hurried on.
    “What’s going to happen to us?” Martin moaned.
    “What are they going to do? Send us to Hell? Been there, done that.”
    “Oh God.”
    “Hitler was like this, you know,” said Woofie. “The first time he had a Jew killed. Well, that’s it, Woofie, he said. If I’m right, then I have made a blow for justice and the common man. But if I’m wrong . . . If I’m wrong, I’m damned forever.
    “And do you know what I said? What I whispered into his ear. Oh, he couldn’t hear me, of course. Dogs can’t talk. But I whispered it anyway.
    “If you’re going to Hell for one Jew, then why not for a hundred? For a hundred thousand. For six million. If you’re going to be damned anyway, at least be damned for something impressive. I’d rather be damned for being Hitler’s dog than Goering’s.