The Reservoir Tapes

This particular evening, he’d been down at the Gladstone for a quick pint with Frank, who used to work at the quarry. Frank had been going on for a while about some trip to the doctor’s. Martin was nodding a lot, but not really listening.

Anyway, he said, when Frank stopped talking. I’ve been thinking about getting the wife a dog. For her birthday.

When’s the birthday? Frank asked.

Tomorrow, Martin said.

Problem, Frank said.

Martin agreed. It was a problem.

Leave it to me, Frank said, and went off to the bar.

*

When they got outside the evening was still warm. It was the type of evening Martin could have done with just sitting out in the garden, watching the sprinkler. But Frank had talked to Tony, and Tony had made some calls, and now they were heading over to Cardwell, to talk to a man about a dog. Someone knew someone who was breeding. Had some spares to get shot of.

Martin could tell it was going to be a long night. The last time they’d got involved in a mission like this they’d come close to getting arrested. They’d been trying to get rid of some scrap. It hadn’t gone to plan.

Frank drove. He always drove fast, although his car didn’t seem built for it. The lanes were narrow and the verges overgrown, and the weeds whipped against the side of the car. The sun was starting to lower, and it flickered through the high hedges.

Frank was telling a long story about getting his appointments mixed up at the doctor’s, or being sent to the wrong department, or something. Martin couldn’t really hear above the noise of the engine and the air whistling through the gaps around the door. Well, that’s doctors for you, he said, when it seemed like the story was finished.

They parked up in Cardwell and went to a pub called the Grapes. Martin felt on edge already. Folk didn’t go over to Cardwell much. There was history. While he was getting the round in, Frank told the barman they were looking for a man by the name of Rake.

That was standard.

It was usually clear which way things were headed when there were folk involved with names like Rake.

The barman said he knew no one with that name.

Frank stood his ground.

Said he’d been told to meet Rake there. Said he was happy to wait.

The barman said he could wait all he liked, he still wouldn’t know anyone called Rake.

They sat in the corner, and waited. The place was basically empty, but there was some kind of fuss going on in the pool room. Two women arguing, it sounded like. Martin wasn’t sure, but he thought one of them sounded like Will Jackson’s girlfriend. That would be a turn-up. He was just about to mention it to Frank when a young lad came over to their table, nodded, and sat down. He dropped a pouch of tobacco and some papers on the table, and started rolling a cigarette.

You’re looking for Rake? he said, talking in a low mutter.

Correct, they told him.

This one’s after a dog for his wife, Frank said, nodding towards Martin.

The lad thought that was hilarious for some reason. Told them he could get a puppy within the hour. Your man Rake’s desperate to get shot of them, he said. It was surprising what you could come by, round here, if you found the right person to ask.

So then it was back in the car, following this lad, hurling down the narrow lanes, trying to hear what Frank was saying about X-rays and waiting times while also trying to work out where they were headed. The sun was nearly down and when they came through the woods the road was suddenly dark.

*

They were somewhere on the far side of the reservoirs when they got out of the car.

It wasn’t much of a place. Looked like a scrapyard of sorts. Corrugated-iron fencing. Lots of chains and padlocks, warning signs. Inside, there were sheds and kennels, a lot of mud, and three dogs roaming around on long chains, barking. The lad from the pub went and knocked on a caravan at the far end.

Martin gave Frank a look. He didn’t like the way this was going.

The lad came back and said Rake was all out of puppies but Woods might be able to help.