'Yes?'
Victor paused. What were you supposed to say in circumstances like this?
'Er . . . ' he said. 'It's nice up here in the evenings, don't you think?'
She glared at Gaspode.
'That's that horrible dog who's been hanging round the studio, isn't it?' she said. 'I can't stand small dogs.'
ooOWooohoofooOOoo-'[8]
'Come on,' snapped Throat.
Detritus lumbered to his feet and took one last longing look at the stage.
'-ooOOOgooOOmoo. OOhhhooo.'[9]
Ruby blew him a kiss. Detritus blushed the colour of fresh-cut garnet.
Gaspode led the way out of the alley and through the dark hinterland of scrubby bushes and sandgrass behind the town.
'There's definitely something wrong with this place,' he muttered.
'It's different,' said Victor. 'What do you mean, wrong?'
Gaspode looked as though he was going to spit.
'Now, take me,' he said, ignoring the interruption. 'A dog. Never dreamed in my life except about chasing fings. And sex, of course. Suddenly I'm dreaming these dreams. In colour. Frightened the bloody life out of me. Never seen colour before, right? Dogs see in black-an'white, as I expect you knows, you bein' a great reader. Red comes as a nasty shock, I can tell you. You fink your dinner is just this white bone with shades of grey on it, suddenly it turns out for years you bin eatin' this gharsteley red and purple stuff.'
'What kind of dreams?' said Victor.
'It's bloody embarrassing,' said Gaspode. 'Like, in one there's this bridge that's been washed away and I have to run and bark a warning, right? And there's another where this house is on fire and I drag these kids out. And there's one where some kids are lost in these caves and I find 'em and go and lead the search party to them . . . and I hates kids. Seems I can't get me 'ead down these days without rescuin' people or savin' people or foilin' robbers or sunnink. I mean, I'm seven years old, I got hardpad, I got scurf, I got fleas somethin' dreadful, I don't need to be a 'ero every time I go to sleep.'
'Gosh. Isn't life interesting,' said Victor, 'when you see it from someone else's perspective . . . ?'
Gaspode rolled a crusted yellow eye skyward.
'Er. Where are we going?' said Victor.
'We're goin' to see a few Holy Wood folk,' said Gaspode. ' 'Cos there's something weird goin' on.'
'Up on the hill? I didn't know there were any people on the hill.'
'They ain't people,' said Gaspode.
A little twig fire burned on the slope of Holy Wood Hill. Victor had lit it because - well, because it was reassuring. Because it was the sort of thing humans did.
He found it necessary to remember he was human, and probably not crazy.
It wasn't that he'd been talking to a dog. People often talked to dogs. The same applied to the cat. And maybe even the rabbit. It was the conversation with the mouse and the duck that might be considered odd.
'You think we wanted to talk?' snapped the rabbit. 'One minute I'm just another rabbit and happy about it, next minute whazaam, I'm thinking. That's a major drawback if you're looking for happiness as a rabbit, let me tell you. You want grass and sex, not thoughts like “What's it all about, when you get right down to it?” '
'Yeah, but at least you eats grass,' Gaspode pointed out. 'At least grass don't talk back at you. The last thing you needs when you're hungry is a bloody ethical conundrum on your plate.'
'You think you've got problems,' said the cat, apparently reading his mind. 'I'm reduched to eating fish. You put a paw on your dinner, it shoutsh “Help!”, you got a major predicament.'
There was silence. They looked at Victor. So did the mouse. And the duck. The duck was looking particularly belligerent. It had probably heard about orange sauce.