The Pack by Tom Pow Read Free Book Online Page B

lieutenant had talked of the fierceness of this dog, and the boy observing now from the street corner had thought he was exaggerating to save face —“An old woman and a dog!” Red Dog had bellowed at him—but now he could see for himself the seriousness of the beast’s intent. He left his post and ran off to report.
    â€œAll right, all right…” one of the men was whining. “Only trying to be friendly.”
    Hunger sank his nose into the snow and carried on, but he stopped more frequently now and glanced back at Bradley. Bradley nodded at him. Both of them knew they had been crossing and re-crossing the same territory: somewhere in the territory of Red Dog, they would find Victor and Floris.
    But not today. Hunger had come to an old gutter running beneath the snow. The trail had gone cold and it was rapidly getting dark. At street level the only light guiding them now was coming from the snow, though the sky was lit by the constellations of the Invisible City.
    I can go on. I can go on as long as my anger lasts.
    â€œTomorrow, Hunger,” said Bradley. “Tomorrow we’ll find them.”
    They found a derelict building and settled down for the night. Bradley covered himself with an old pile of newspapers and Hunger pressed against him. Bradley opened his backpack and broke some of the bread between them and pulled some ham off the bone.
    He spread his hand deep in Hunger’s silver chest and soon was fast asleep.
    *   *   *
    â€œBradley, good heavens, look at the time! If you’re not careful you’ll miss breakfast.”
    Margaret opens the curtains and Bradley turns from the sunlight filling the room. He lies under the blankets—the blankets upon blankets—oh, the luxurious weight of them, the dog-warmth of them.
    He gets up and stretches. He looks out of the window. The house is almost surrounded by trees. It is May and they are tall and full through the glen. A couple of wood pigeons burst from their tops in short frenetic flights.
    Bradley’s clothes are laid out for him—even in May, there is a soft, warm jersey for him, should he want it. He dresses quickly—a white shirt, with not a spot of dirt on it, and a pair of black woolen trousers—and goes along the corridor and down the winding staircase.
    In the breakfast room, a fire burns low in the grate. There is hot porridge waiting and a plate of bacon and hot slices of toast.
    â€œGood morning, Bradley,” says his mother. She wears a blue dress the color of a summer sky. She has a complexion like cream, with almond eyes, blue as cut glass.
    â€œGood morning, Mother,” says Bradley.
    â€œSome porridge?” his mother suggests. But for a minute or so, Bradley just wants to look at her, to take in her softly tumbling hair, her kind face, her gentle hands, so that he will have them with him always; until she gives a trill of laughter and plants a kiss on his forehead.
    â€œOh, Bradley,” she says.
    The table is set for another—Bradley’s sister—and when she arrives, her face is troubled. She bites on her lower lip as she greets Bradley and their mother.
    â€œOh, Mother,” she says, and there is a heaviness in the way she says it.
    â€œNow, Chloe,” says their mother, “you’ve not to worry about me—or about Bradley.”
    Bradley notices then how alike mother and daughter are. They could almost be twins—the same blue eyes, the same elegant hands.
    â€œWhat is there to worry about?” Bradley asks. “Whatever it is, can’t Father take care of it?”
    They both turn on him their sad eyes. “Bradley,” they say together, “don’t you realize yet, Father is dead…”
    â€œHow did he die?” It seems odd to Bradley how calm he is, asking the question, while seeing so clearly his father’s face—the determined set of his jaw, his blind white eyes.
    â€œDid no