When Mr Dog Bites (Young Adult)

© Orla Cunningham

was born in 1971. He wa s raised in the Scottish town of Coatbridge but now lives and work s as a teacher in Dublin. He is the author of The Boy Who Made It Rain and has a Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the Unive rsity of Glasgow. Over the year s Brian has made his dosh as a painter and decorator, a barm an, a DJ, an actor, a teacher and no w a writer.

He currently lives in Du blin with two beauties who hinder his writing: his wife, Or la, and daughter, Rosie.

Number one: with a girl Have real sexual intercourse y and definitely NOT on ( preferably Michelle Mallo transport). a train or any other mode of Number two: th and nail, dungeons Fight Heaven and earth, too stop slagging my mate Amir. and dragons for people to st bud.

And help him find a new be Number three: r before Get Dad back from the wa you-know-what happens.

t. ise-ing Dylan Min na on ay m ae th t Mee ’s. he’s got Tourette d an n ee xt si s e’ H nt fight to keep His life is a consta the words that the bad stuff in – , s mouth, the tics hi of t ou e od pl ex s ling dog that trie w ho g, lin ow gr e th ed. ver he gets stress ne he w pe ca es to m um, who buys hi m s hi s e’ er th s lu P om Primark and cheapo clothes fr his dad, who’s keeps crying. And and could get away in the army iper any minute. wiped out by a sn s the hospital turn A routine visit to s y. Dylan discover his life topsy-turv die next March. that he’s going to but still – he has It’s only August, t– So he makes a lis THINGS TO DO. o Before I Cack It Cool Things To D make his wishes – and sets out to come true . . .

ISBN 978-1-4088-4253-9

90100

9 781408 842539

www.bloomsbury.com WARNING: CONTAINS VERY STRONG LANGUAGE. NOT FOR YOUNGER READERS

#MrDogBites

CMYK

£12.99

9781408842539 When Mr Dog Bites (755h).indd iii

19/09/2013 14:43:49

Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and Sydney First published in Great Britain in January 2014 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP Text copyright Š Brian Conaghan 2014 The moral right of the author has been asserted All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Young adult hardback ISBN 978 1 4088 4253 9 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Young adult export paperback ISBN 978 1 4088 5158 6 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Adult hardback ISBN 978 1 4088 3833 4 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Adult export paperback ISBN 978 1 4088 3834 1 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY www.bloomsbury.com

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1 Lists

When I found out, the first thing I did was type 100 things to do before you die into Google.

The internet is, like, wow! How do those Google people make their thingy whizz about the world in mega-swoosh style before sending ME, Dylan Mint, all this big-eye info?

No one could answer that question – I know this for a fact because I’ve Googled it myself, six times, and there is nada on it. Nothing that I understand anyway. Frustrating or what?

But here’s the thing, which is capital letters FRUSTRATING: I was super disappointed with the info Google swooshed me because there were too many things on the list that I didn’t want to do.

Ever.

Who wants to write the story of your life?

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Or ride a camel in the desert?

Or go to the shops in your pyjamas?

I mean, who wants to do that?

Not me, that’s who.

The three most bonkers things on the list were: 1. Skydive naked with a video camera strapped to your head.

2. Dive into a swimming pool full of beans.

3. Have sex with your boyfriend or girlfriend on a train.

All of them meant taking your clobber off and there was No Way, José I’d take my kit off so everyone could gawk at my willy. Number three was the one I really didn’t get: surely a bed would be a comfier place to do the dirty. And there would be millions of people on a train – going to work or going on a shopping spree – so it wouldn’t be a private moment.

I think whoever made up the list didn’t have the foggiest idea about cacking it. The info Google sent me was too Dire Straits so I used my initiative and decided to do my own list. Special just to me. Not 100 things though – that was far too many and there was no way on this earth I’d get through them all. Not in my state – are you mental? No, I’d settle for 3: the magic number and my number on the Drumhill Special School football team. For boys. (The team, not the school.)

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Oh shizenhowzen!

I lied. Not a biggie but a lie is a lie is a lie. * When I found out, the real first thing I did was cling to Mum and wipe her tears from my face. She left my cheek all salty and yuckety. I’ve never understood why mums do that. Amir told me that his mum does that too when people shout ‘Paki’ or ‘nig-nog’ at them in the street. But Paki and nig-nog are opposites so there’s No Way, José Amir and his mum can be both. I told him that, so I did. I also told him people who scream evil words like that have some brain-cell malnutrition and will probably end up living off benefits or working in the garden section of B&Q or collecting trolleys at Lidl.

Amir is my best bud. He knows all about me. I know all about him too. He goes to Drumhill for his mental problems, which are too many to mention, but let’s just say he does a lot of staring into blank spaces and making bonkers noises.

He also has a wee bit of a stut-stut-stutter. He’s a nut-nutnutter though, in a good way. We have a secret pact not to call each other any of those evil names other people call us.

Especially the ones we hate. The ones that make our throats have lumps in them the size of a gobstopper. We sort of look after each other because that’s what best buds do, isn’t it?

We’re each other’s homeboy even though Amir’s real home

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is, like, on the other side of the world. But even if he had to go back there we would still be best buds because we have a telepathic brain thing going on.

We haven’t had any man chat about who will be his new best bud when I’m away. Some things we don’t chat about.

Whose mum cries the most? We do talk about that. It used to be his.

Oh shizenhowzen again! * When I found out, one of the first real things I did was feel for my wee stone and rub it through my thumb and fingers.

It’s more like a green piece of glass really. But it’s dead smooth and soooooooooo green that from a distance people might think it’s a precious emerald gem. But people never get to lay their peepers on my green stone because it always stays in my left pocket. To me it is a precious emerald gem. Green is sort of like my best bud number two. I know it doesn’t chat but it keeps me safe and soothes the old napper when things get hairy canary. But Amir is my best human bud.

I thought I might let Amir do some of the things on my list.

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2 School

When Back To School Day came on 12th August I knew it would be a mighty problemo for me. A paradox even, which is a bit like a contradiction. When I was having one of my normal days during the school holidays, Mum said things like, ‘Dylan, go out and play for a while. You’re getting under my feet.’ This drove me round the Oliver Twist because I was sixteen years old now and everyone knows that sixteen-year-old geezers don’t play – we hang out or chillax. Also, and this is also a capital letter ALSO, if I really was ‘under Mum’s feet’ that would make me a carpet, floorboards or some sticky linoleum. So Mum’s down a point for that one. But the morning of my return to school Mum lost some major pointage for seriously twisting my melon, man.

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‘Just what have you done with yourself over these past seven weeks, Dylan?’ she said.

I stared at her like a true teenage rebel rooster, not really knowing how to respond.

‘Eh?’ she said. ‘Eh?’ Ah, I got it! It was an actual question.

‘Well . . . I . . .’

‘That’s right. Nothing.’

Not true! I did mountains of brain-gym exercises, and on Championship Manager I got Albion Rovers all the way to the Champions League final, which took flippin’ donkey’s weeks to do. We lost 3–1 to Hertha Berlin. We had a mare in that final.

‘You’ve not done a thing, Dylan.’

‘I’ve –’ ‘Sat up in that room most of the time. You’ve hardly been over the door.’

‘Not exactly correct, Mum.’ ‘You’ll become obese sitting in front of a computer day in, day out.’

‘No I won’t.’

‘Yes you will.’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘You will, Dylan.’

‘WON’T.’ I didn’t mean to shout, but I don’t enjoy the feeling I have in my tummy when I’m made out to be an eejit. What Mum didn’t know was that I had a Strictly No

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Munching Policy when sitting at my keyboard so the obese thingy was a fat red duck. Then I put my chin down on my chest and whispered to myself, ‘I won’t become obese.’

‘And you know who they’ll blame. Eh?’ ‘Who?’ ‘Me, that’s who, and your father . . . if he was here.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘Your teachers for a start. The folk at the clinic and the neighbours.’

‘Mum, I’m eight stone. I have to do the crucifix position when I’m walking over drains.’

Mum looked up at the ceiling. ‘Jesus! And now blasphemy.’

Blah-blah blasphemy. Mum lobbed in big mad words when she was losing the argument and wanted to teach me the lesson that old people know the score. But I knew what that word meant.

‘Mum, I’m not going to become obese.’

‘That’s what Tim Thompson’s mum thought.’

‘Tim Thompson’s not obese.’

‘No? You tell that to his trousers.’ Tee-hee-hee. Mum cracked a funny. I love when Mum goes all stand-up.

‘He’s just got a bit of a pudgy belly.’

Tim Thompson, aka Doughnut. Not because he shoves doughnuts in his gobby gob, but because his pouch looks like a massive round sugar-plum doughnut. Doughnut is the most horriblest person at Drumhill: he’s one of the baddies who

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love using the words nig-nog, Paki, mongo and spazzie. This was another paradox (I think) because here I was doing a mad defending job on him when, really, I couldn’t stand him.

If Doughnut went to school in America he’d be known as the school dork or douche bag. At Drumhill he was just Doughnut the dick.

‘Well, all I’m saying, Dylan, is that I don’t want you sat up in that room all the time. It’s not good for you. It’s not healthy.’

‘It’s not as if I’m hurting anyone.’

‘You’re fading away.’

‘Make up your mind! One minute I’m Blubber Boy and the next I’m Sammy the Stick.’ Sometimes mums are realdeal barmy; no wonder someone invented the padded cell.

‘I mean your mind is fading away, Dylan. Oh, you know what I mean.’

‘Look, Mum, I wish I could stay here all day and do some chatting, but I have to boost or I’m going to be late.’

‘So why are you still standing here talking? You don’t want to be late on your first day back. Good God in Heaven, I don’t know!’

I made a grab for my brand-new bag.

Grey rucker.

No name.

No logo.

Jaggy diggy-in straps.

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Stiff zip.

Rough as an old tattie sack.

A killer on the back.

Everyone would know it was out of Matalan, Primark or some other nasty cheapo shop. Mum didn’t tell me where it came from. I didn’t ask.

See, I was one of those cats who began a new school year decked head to toe in new gear. I never understood why though, because I liked the last set of clothes I had. I think it was just to show that we weren’t really really poor and didn’t have leather carpets or empty kitchen cupboards. But it was bottom-of-the-barrel cheapo clobber whichever way you looked at it. My new clothes told me that we were a teenyweeny bit poor. Not as poor as the mega-poor kids though, the ones with a pong off them, the borderline mingers – they’ve got zilch. Their pot to piss in has a hole in it. They never have new bags or shirts or shoes or anything. It’s a sin.

I feel heart sorry for them.

Mum helped me put the bag on my back.

‘Have you written to Dad lately?’ I said.

Mum said nada.

‘Mum?’ ‘I heard you, Dylan.’

‘Dad needs his letters, you know.’

‘I’ll do it tonight.’

‘Maybe we can do one together?’

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‘We’ll see,’ Mum said, which I knew meant No bleedin’ chance. ‘Right, young man. You’re going to be late.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Try to be good, OK, Dylan?’

‘Sì, signora.’ That’s Italian. Mum likes hearing me speak new languages.

‘Right, come here.’ She reached out her arms, a move I’d seen tons of times before. I knew what was coming. I was used to it. ‘Look at you – you’re so handsome.’ Mum’s ‘so’ sounded more like ‘Sooooooooooooooooooooooooo’.

SMACK-A-ROONY! Flush on the face. Hitting lips, nose and chin at the same time. Dis-gust-ing or what?

Salt.

Salt.

Salt.

I can’t wait until I’m too old for Mum’s slobbers. But thinking things like that made me sad in the dumps, and I’m not allowed to be sad in the dumps. So I didn’t think about it. Dad had told me that I was the man of the house now, and in my mind men of the house aren’t supposed to be sad; they’re meant to be like Hercules or Samson ( before he got his hair chopped).

‘Try to be good, Dylan,’ Mum said again.

‘I always do.’

‘Love you,’ Mum shouted after me.

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I tucked my ear into my head and went Mmmmmmmmmmmmm in my mind, pretending not to hear her. Then the door shut and I knew that in two minutes she’d be Bambi blubbering. But I tried not to think of that, which is Hard Rock Cafe so I tried to see if I could get all my fingers to touch Green at the same time without touching each other.

That took my mind off it and made me think of sugar and spice and all things nice.

I couldn’t fit all my fingers on Green though.

Bloody pinkie fingers!

Why do we need them?

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3 Letter

Dec Hi Champ Youll probibly wake up and wondur were Ive gone two. Thats the thing about being in the army, you have to be ready to go at the drop of a hat and as my troop are part of a secret mishon this time we couldnt tell a sinnir when and were we were going. I hope you undurstand this kiddo. I cant say two much about our mishon or the opirations were going to do as it is far two dangerus. Not for me but for YOU!!! But the crappy thing is that they wont tell us wen were two get home.

Im hoping in the nixt year. Supose it depends on how many arabs and suicide bommers we get. So your the man of the house now wich means youv 12

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got to keep it safe and look after your mum, dont let her burst your arse two much. Keep working hard at that school of yours and dont let anyone take the piss. Remember what I told you, always look out for number one. Mum said shed send letturs on to me if you want to write.‘ So if you do give the letturs to Mum coz she s the only one who knows the address here at base camp, this is for securety reesons.

See you soon.

Love Dad

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4 Babe

Would you Adam and Eve it?

That’s cockney rhyming slang, which is strange coming from me, as I’m not cockney. It didn’t actually leave my mouth in words; I just thought it. But I thought it in cockney because we don’t really have Glaswegian rhyming slang for the word believe. I don’t think many people at my school know anything about cockney rhyming slang. If they did, they’d be using it constantly, which they don’t, and all the thick kids would be saying the word cockney all the time and laughing their tits off because it has the word cock in it. It’s my slang and no one else’s.

Would you Adam and Eve it? On the way to school I eyeballed Doughnut with some of his cronies. It was the first time I’d seen him since the end of last year. I didn’t miss him.

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His belly jelly wobbled; he had extra blubber on him. Maybe Mum was right. He’d probably been inhaling ice cream and lard over the summer. She’s some super-sleuth cookie, my mum. He didn’t clock me. I kept a safe distance, all ninja-like. I tailed him, eyeballing his every move. Eavesdropping his every laugh, his nasty comments about anyone and everyone. About my best bud, Amir. Amir says that Doughnut is just like a hole that’s looking for a doughnut. Amir should be on the stage.

Doughnut’s comments about Amir started the rumblings.

SMALL VOLCANO ALERT! It starts with Mr Right Eye and quickly moves to Mr Jaw, then the red-hot lava flows and Mr Head shakes at superrapid speed.

Whoosh!

Whoosh!

Whoosh!

Mr Head is dizzy Miss Lizzy. That’s the worst bit.

Mr Sweaty arrives with Mr Pong and Mr Panic.

Mr and Mrs Eyes start to pee themselves.

Mr Throat doesn’t miss the boat.

Here he comes: Mr Bloody Twitch.

This is how life’s a bitch for Dylan Mint.

Not far behind is Mr Tic. Can’t stand that prick.

It’s the docs who like to call them tics.

I prefer volcanoes myself, because they’re like mega eruptions in my head.

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The main reason I’ve no street cred.

I don’t suppress it – the docs with the big brains told me not to. ‘Always allow it to escape, Dylan, always allow it to escape,’ one bright spark doc said.

I want to shout out.

I want to scream.

I want to bellow, holler and yell.

Soooooo badly it hurts like Hell.

Dylan, don’t shout out, scream, bellow, holler or yell!

Don’t bawl, ‘DOUGHNUT, YOU UGLY FAT WANKBUCKET FUCK-HEAD SOCK-FACE BELLEND.’ Don’t shout that!

Whatever you do, don’t shout that.

The last thing I wanted was for Doughnut to march right over and rattle the ears off me, maybe even plonk his head on the bridge of my nose. I wanted my nose to be in one piece so I did the opposite of what the super brains have told me. I suppressed the volcano. I kept it in. Instead I brought Mr Growl on as my substitution. Mr Growl is not Mr Dog’s little brother though. He’s more like a gentle bear. Or a car engine that’s on its last wheels. I was terrified for a split second that Mr Dog was going to be released. But he wasn’t. A phew moment.

Bloody Nora. It meant I had to walk the long way to school.

Away from Doughnut and his chums. I had to find a spot on my own, rub Green like a speed polisher and get it all out.

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Mount Etna or even Edinburgh Castle, which is also a volcano – not many people know that fact . . . I guess you need to have some sort of brainpower to know stuff like that. I’d been OK that morning and my anxiety about returning to school was getting better; I was only teensy-weensy anxious.

Now I had balmy clammy hands and I kept swallowing saliva.

But it was OK. I would be OK. Mum also said I was the man of the house while Dad was away being a hero and I had to start acting like a proper grown-up. I’d been doing some of that over the summer.

Mainly in my room. It made me feel different to this time last year. More confident. Ready to take part in some of those conversations that terrified me last year. Ready to take no shit. It made me feel much better, knowing I was a man. Even though I was a sixteen-year-old man. I had biceps and triceps. I felt better, better, better. Eye of the Tiger better.

Would you Adam and Eve it again? Michelle Malloy was in the distance. A new bag slung over her shoulder. A Converse one. She was soooooooooooo sex on legs. It was unbelievable how sex on legs she was. She oozed sex on legs, even though one leg was longer than the other. She wore one shoe bigger than the other. I think she got them specially made by a special big-shoe-wee-shoe-maker because I’d never seen them in the shops. I couldn’t give a Friar Tuck, as this dame was nothing but sex on wonky donkey legs.

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I wanted to run up and say, ‘Hiya, Michelle. How was your summer, babe?’ But I was afraid it might come out as: ‘YOU’RE A

SLUT

NEW-BAG WHORE

PEG-LEG,

MICHELLE MALLOY.’ With this in mind I kept a supersecure distance for both our safety. Apart from mangled legs, Michelle Malloy had ODD, which means Oppositional Defiant Disorder, which really meant she was a mad-hatter cheeky mare of a chick who always kicked off at the teachers or pupils and called them pure mad sweary names. Another good reason for keeping my distance. She was ODD all right.

But sex on wonky donkey legs ODD. Wowee zowee plus twelve! She had new Adidas high-tops on. Wizard of Oz red ones. How cool was that? Bought for the first day back, no doubt. I dug her black tights and wee black skirt combo too. Michelle Malloy knew her onions when it came to clobber. I bet she’d have given that Gok Wan a run for his loolaa. She looked like one of those girls off E4.

I peered down at my new trainers.

Half shoe, half trainer.

Plastic numbers.

No logo.

No stripes.

No name.

Mum to blame.

No swoosh.

No class.

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Pure vile.

Shite style.

Painful to the eye.

Painful to the smile.

I looked like I had a club foot with these concrete clumpers on. I’d best be careful in case someone tried to tee off with me. That was what they said about Michelle Malloy. If you called her Pitching Wedge she’d boot you a cracking sore one with her big shoe.

Michelle Malloy walked dead, dead, dead slow but I cased her until she disappeared into the school building, just under the battered sign that said Drumhill School. I took a huge deep breath and went the same way. Check me out saying things like dig and sex on legs and E4. Mr Confident. Amir would kill himself laughing when he heard me saying this stuff. He got a lift to school because his oldies believed that all those people who think Asians are in the wrong country will do something disgusting to him on the special bus the school laid on, which meant I always walked to school on my tod. I walked because there was no danger of me getting on that bus. Dad was embarrassed by the bus. I knew this because he always said I would be a pure redneck if I took it. The only time my neck was red was when I got burnt to a cinder when we went to Torremolinos, which is in Spain, on a fun-packed family holiday.

Oh, sweet Mary Jane! If I’d reached out I could’ve stroked Michelle Malloy’s hair I was so close to her. She’d probably

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have punched me full force in the throat or something if I’d dared try, but this was the first day back. A new year. What happened last year stayed last year. We were all more adult people now so what harm could a good old-fashioned ‘Hi, Chello. I’m diggin’ the new high-tops’ do?

She stopped suddenly.

Schweppes!

I was beside her.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

My eyes wide like I’d seen a ghost.

Hers slitty like she wanted to eat a ghost’s spleen.

Holy squeak bum!

‘Hi, Michelle. How –’ ‘Don’t even bother, Mint.’

‘OK. BIG SHITE SHOE.’ I bolted and went in search of Amir.

I sensed that this year at school was going to be different.

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Brian Conaghan

Brian Conaghan was born in 1971. He was raised in the Scottish town of Coatbridge but now lives and works as a teacher in Dublin. He is the author of The Boy Who Made It Rain and has a Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow. Over the years Brian has made his dosh as a painter and decorator, a barman, a DJ, an actor, a teacher and now a writer. He currently lives in Dublin with two beauties who hinder his writing: his wife, Orla, and daughter, Rosie.

9781408842539 When Mr Dog Bites (755h).indd 377

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© Orla Cunningham

was born in 1971. He wa s raised in the Scottish town of Coatbridge but now lives and work s as a teacher in Dublin. He is the author of The Boy Who Made It Rain and has a Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the Unive rsity of Glasgow. Over the year s Brian has made his dosh as a painter and decorator, a barm an, a DJ, an actor, a teacher and no w a writer.

He currently lives in Du blin with two beauties who hinder his writing: his wife, Or la, and daughter, Rosie.

Number one: with a girl Have real sexual intercourse y and definitely NOT on ( preferably Michelle Mallo transport). a train or any other mode of Number two: th and nail, dungeons Fight Heaven and earth, too stop slagging my mate Amir. and dragons for people to st bud.

And help him find a new be Number three: r before Get Dad back from the wa you-know-what happens.

t. ise-ing Dylan Min na on ay m ae th t Mee ’s. he’s got Tourette d an n ee xt si s e’ H nt fight to keep His life is a consta the words that the bad stuff in – , s mouth, the tics hi of t ou e od pl ex s ling dog that trie w ho g, lin ow gr e th ed. ver he gets stress ne he w pe ca es to m um, who buys hi m s hi s e’ er th s lu P om Primark and cheapo clothes fr his dad, who’s keeps crying. And and could get away in the army iper any minute. wiped out by a sn s the hospital turn A routine visit to s y. Dylan discover his life topsy-turv die next March. that he’s going to but still – he has It’s only August, t– So he makes a lis THINGS TO DO. o Before I Cack It Cool Things To D make his wishes – and sets out to come true . . .

ISBN 978-1-4088-4253-9

90100

9 781408 842539

www.bloomsbury.com WARNING: CONTAINS VERY STRONG LANGUAGE. NOT FOR YOUNGER READERS

#MrDogBites

CMYK

£12.99