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 ââAn old woman and a dog!â Red Dog had bellowed at himâbut now he could see for himself the seriousness of the beastâs intent. He left his post and ran off to report.
âAll right, all rightâ¦â one of the men was whining. âOnly trying to be friendly.â
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.
âTomorrow, Hunger,â said Bradley. âTomorrow weâll find them.â
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 Hungerâs silver chest and soon was fast asleep.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âBradley, good heavens, look at the time! If youâre not careful youâll miss breakfast.â
Margaret opens the curtains and Bradley turns from the sunlight filling the room. He lies under the blanketsâthe blankets upon blanketsâoh, 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.
Bradleyâs clothes are laid out for himâeven in May, there is a soft, warm jersey for him, should he want it. He dresses quicklyâa white shirt, with not a spot of dirt on it, and a pair of black woolen trousersâand 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.
âGood morning, Bradley,â 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.
âGood morning, Mother,â says Bradley.
âSome porridge?â 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.
âOh, Bradley,â she says.
The table is set for anotherâBradleyâs sisterâand when she arrives, her face is troubled. She bites on her lower lip as she greets Bradley and their mother.
âOh, Mother,â she says, and there is a heaviness in the way she says it.
âNow, Chloe,â says their mother, âyouâve not to worry about meâor about Bradley.â
Bradley notices then how alike mother and daughter are. They could almost be twinsâthe same blue eyes, the same elegant hands.
âWhat is there to worry about?â Bradley asks. âWhatever it is, canât Father take care of it?â
They both turn on him their sad eyes. âBradley,â they say together, âdonât you realize yet, Father is deadâ¦â
âHow did he die?â It seems odd to Bradley how calm he is, asking the question, while seeing so clearly his fatherâs faceâthe determined set of his jaw, his blind white eyes.
âDid no