Bag of Weasels. Chapter 17

I held up the last page. It had been folded and screwed up so many times it was turning to tissue. The words across its surface were hardly legible, but unlike all the others they were typed.
"What's this?
"It's ... a note, struggled Doinky, "It's a sort of note, from a proper bloke, special.
He tried again: "He's like a doctor, but not for colds and burns and broken bones, he's like a ¦
"Doctor for broken heads? I suggested.
"Erm¦
"It's a letter of reference, explained Didgy, "from his shrink, ain't it Doinky? He sort of treasures it. The shrink helped him out once somehow, don't know how he did it.
"Made me alright, said Doinky.
"Really he did, said Didgy, "he was a lot worse than what you see before you now, you know. Couldn't speak a word of sense. Big old beard. Could hardly feed himself. He's a real upright citizen now, ain't you?
"He helped me. He made me alright.
"Apparently so, and that note's an explanation, one doctor to another. A note of introduction if you like. Don't think he's ever used it, but he likes to keep it close.
I couldn't make out much, the odd word was clear: voices..pathology..spoken..coaxed¦removed¦entity. It meant nothing to me.
But I looked at the signature, and read the name printed underneath. I knew that name.
"He took away my bad stuff, said Doinky.
Didgy and Doinky now sat squeezed down between us so we sat in a row, knees under our chins, chewing our newfound thoughts, adding them up to see what we got. I flicked a glance at Ralph and he flicked it back, the other two saw it and we all looked at each other, chewing away and turning it over. The fire spat back at the drizzle and we all stared into it. Nice and quiet.
Ralph got his feet out, flung the shredded plastic bags onto the flames and we all got the whiff of wispy black noxious foot tainted bag smoke. We all snapped back to the moment - I kicked clear of the wisps and Didgy and Doinky were coughing and cursing, grateful to be making a drama again. Ralph looked a twat as he tried to look sorry, a hangdog look on a brooding bulk. He couldn't do sheepish.
Doinky was up, bending away from the flames, and spat a solidified wisp behind him.
We're off, declared Didgy and jumped up too, and the pair of them departed coughing and spluttering.
"Sorry, said Ralph still with that soppy look, eyes all big and dopey, "I have to dry my feet out.
I just shrugged, too preoccupied, lost in the spreading maze of words, trails, comings and goings, angels and dogs, stories in stories. The dots wouldn't join in a way I could sense, but something was there. It was just too dark, too dirty, too smoky. Maybe it was just too big. Two tiny words called Sunny and Ralph in a story so big, read only by giants at bedtime.
Ralph tapped me on the arm for attention. "I have something to say, he announced.
"Go on then.
"I seen dogs too. I saw black dogs, he said.
"What?
"Black dogs used to hound me, said Ralph, and he laughed at that, but I was only half here, half in the patternless swirl.
"Help me out Ralph, clear it up. Tell me.
"Black dogs used to come at me, turn on me in numbers. Any time. Anywhere, but especially when no-one was there. They were clever. I heard them growling on the other side of doors, scratching and sniffing, pawing at the door, pushing paws through gaps to get at me, sticking their black snouts through, panting and frothing with their tongues hanging out. They drove me on til I was worn out and lost, I couldn't think where to go. Too many to fight too, but I made a stand, when I was cornered in a rat-filled schoolhouse, waiting for their teeth. And that was the first time London woke, and spoke to me. The dogs heard it, they cowed down, tails tucked in, then turned and left. They had purposely pushed me to my meeting place, to my first connection. They never came again. Their work was done.
Go on Ralph.
"You never talked about dogs before.
No need. That's a long time ago,
Then he added: "But it's bad to talk about dogs.
"Bad?
Ralph looked down, there was a sad thing coming.
"Before then, and before more than that, when I was smaller, I had a dog. Had him a while, and then I got ill. Then he spoke to me. In my head. Told me not to tell, though. But I told, they took him away, and I was in trouble. Drugs and Doctors, it was never ok again. Because my dog spoke to me, and I told.
"So, you never mentioned this dog experience of yours because, the last time you spoke of such a thing, like your pet dog sending psychic messages to you, you got nutted off?
"Yes, if you like.
"Anything else you'd care to mention? Anything you might wish you'd mentioned later? Any other revelations I should know about?
"I don't think so. But, don't get sarky Sunny. Strange things always happen to me.
I bet they did, but I couldn't be arsed. I had enough to chew on, and dropped the matter.