– Come on, Rusty, let’s get going, eh… – Barry muttered, adjusting the homemade lead he’d made from an old bit of rope.
He zipped his jacket right up to his chin and shivered. February this year had been particularly nasty – sleet and rain, wind cutting straight through you.
Rusty – a mongrel with faded ginger fur and one blind eye – had come into his life a year ago. Barry was walking back from his night shift at the factory when he spotted him by the bins. The dog had been beaten, starved, and his left eye was clouded over with a cataract.
– Hey, mate! Where d’you think you’re going with that mutt?
That voice grated on his nerves. Barry recognised the speaker – Serge Cross, a local “big man” about twenty-five. Around him hung three lads – his “crew”.
– Just taking him out, – Barry answered shortly, not meeting his eyes.
– And you, old man, you paying the dog-walking tax, are you? – one of the lads laughed. – Look at that ugly thing – all cross-eyed!
A stone flew. It hit Rusty in the ribs. The dog whimpered and pressed against his owner’s leg.
– Leave it, – Barry said quietly, but there was steel in his voice.
– Whoa! The old geezer’s got a voice! – Serge stepped closer. – You forgetting whose turf this is? Dogs walk here only if I say so.
Barry tensed. In the army he’d been taught to sort problems fast and hard. But that was thirty years ago. Now he was just a worn-out retired fitter who didn’t want any hassle.
– Come on, Rusty, – he turned back towards the house.
– That’s right! – Serge called after him. – Next time I’ll finish your little pal off!
Back home Barry couldn’t sleep all night, replaying the scene in his head.
Next day it was sleeting. Barry kept putting off the walk, but Rusty sat by the door and gazed at him with such loyalty that he had to give in.
– Alright, alright. Just a quick one.
They crept along, steering clear of the usual hangouts. But Serge’s crew were nowhere to be seen – probably holed up out of the weather.
Barry had just relaxed when Rusty stopped dead by an old abandoned boiler house. He pricked his one ear and sniffed the air.
– What’s up, old boy?
The dog whined, pulling towards the ruins. Strange sounds were coming from inside – like crying or moaning.
– Hey! Anyone there? – Barry shouted.
No answer. Just silence broken by the wind howling.
Rusty tugged insistently at the lead. In his one eye there was worry.
– What’s got into you? – Barry bent down to the dog. – What’s in there?
And then he heard it clearly – a child’s voice:
– Help!
His heart skipped. Barry unhooked the lead and followed Rusty into the ruins.
Inside the half-collapsed boiler house, behind a heap of bricks, lay a boy about twelve. His face was battered, lip split, clothes torn.
– God! – Barry crouched beside him. – What happened to you?
– Uncle Barry? – the boy forced his eyes open. – Is that you?
Barry looked closer and recognised him – Andrew Mitchell, the son of the woman from flat 5. A quiet, shy lad.
– Andrew! What’s happened?
– Serge and his gang, – the boy sobbed. – They were demanding money from Mum. I said I’d tell the local bobby. They caught me…
– How long have you been lying here?
– Since this morning. I’m so cold.
Barry pulled off his jacket and covered the boy. Rusty came closer and lay down beside him, warming him with his body.
– Andrew, can you stand?
– My leg hurts. I think it’s broken.
Barry gently felt the leg. Sure enough – a fracture. And who knew what internal damage after a beating like that.
– Have you got a phone?
– They took it.
Barry pulled out his old Nokia and dialled 999. The ambulance said they’d be there in half an hour.
– Hang on, lad. The doctors are coming.
– What if Serge finds out I’m alive? – terror in Andrew’s voice. – He said he’d finish me.
– He won’t, – Barry said firmly. – He’s not touching you again.
The boy looked at him in surprise:
– Uncle Barry, but you ran from them yourself yesterday.
– That was different. Then it was just me and Rusty. But now…
He didn’t finish. What could he say? That thirty years ago he swore an oath to protect the weak? That in Afghanistan they taught him a real man never leaves a child in trouble?
The ambulance came quicker than promised. Andrew was taken to hospital. Barry stood by the boiler house with Rusty, thinking.
That evening Andrew’s mum came round – Sandra Peterson. The woman was crying, thanking him, swearing she’d never forget.
– Barry, – she said through tears, – the doctors said if he’d lain out there another hour in the cold… You saved his life!
– Wasn’t me, – Barry stroked Rusty. – He found your son.
– What happens now? – Sandra glanced nervously at the door. – Serge won’t stop. The bobby says there’s no proof, a kid’s word isn’t enough.
– It’ll be fine, – Barry promised, though he didn’t know how.
That night he couldn’t sleep. Thoughts circled – what to do? How to protect the boy? And not just him – how many other kids in the area were suffering from that gang?
By morning the answer came to him.
Barry put on his old army uniform – the dress one, with medals. He took his campaign ribbons from the wardrobe. Looked in the mirror – a soldier still. Maybe not young, but a soldier.
– Come on, Rusty. We’ve got work to do.
Serge’s crew was, as usual, hanging around the corner shop. When they saw Barry approaching, they sniggered.
– Ooh! Grandad’s off to a parade! – one lad jeered. – Look at the big hero!
Serge got up from the bench, smirking:
– Right then, retired, clear off. Your time’s done.
– My time’s just beginning, – Barry replied calmly, stepping closer.
– What d’you want in that get-up?
– To serve my country. To protect the weak from the likes of you.
Serge burst out laughing:
– You gone senile, old man? What country? What weak?
– Andrew Mitchell – remember him?
The smirk slid off Serge’s face.
– Why should I remember some loser?
– Because he’s the last kid in this area who gets hurt by your hands.
– You threatening me, granddad?
– I’m warning you.
Serge stepped forward. A knife glinted in his hand.
– I’ll show you who’s boss around here!
Barry didn’t budge an inch. Years had passed, but army training stuck.
– The law’s boss here.
– What law? – Serge waved the knife. – Who made you judge?
– My conscience made me.
And then something happened nobody expected.
Rusty, who had been sitting quietly, stood up. The fur on his back bristled. A low growl rumbled from his throat.
– And your mutt, – Serge started.
– My dog served in Afghanistan, – Barry cut him off. – Mine detection unit. He can sniff out scumbags from a mile away.
That wasn’t true – Rusty was just a stray. But Barry said it so convincingly that everyone believed him. Even Rusty seemed to believe it – he straightened up and bared his teeth.
– He found twenty insurgents. Took them all alive, – Barry went on. – You think he can handle one little drug dealer?
Serge stepped back. The lads behind him froze.
– Listen carefully, – Barry took a step forward. – From today, this area is safe. Every day I’ll walk every street. My dog will sniff out thugs. And then…
He didn’t finish. But they all understood.
– You think you can scare me? – Serge tried to muster his old swagger. – One phone call and…
– Make the call, – Barry nodded. – But remember – I’ve got contacts you wouldn’t believe. Knew plenty inside. Owe me favours all over town.
That was also a lie. But he said it with such conviction that Serge believed him.
– They call me Barry the Afghan, – Barry said finally. – Remember that. And leave the kids alone.
He turned and walked away. Rusty trotted beside him, tail held high.
Behind them, silence.
Three days passed. Serge and his crew barely showed their faces in the area.
And Barry did start walking every street. Rusty went with him – important, serious.
Andrew got out of hospital a week later. His leg still hurt, but he could walk. That same day he came to Barry’s flat.
– Uncle Barry, – he said, – can I help you? You know, with the rounds.
– You can. But talk to your parents first.
Sandra didn’t object. She was just glad her son had found a proper role model.
And now every evening you could see an odd group – an old man in army uniform, a boy, and an old ginger dog.
Everyone liked Rusty. Even mums let their kids stroke him, though they knew he was a stray. But there was something special about him – dignity, maybe.
Barry told the children about the army, about real friendship. And they listened, breathless.
One evening, walking back from their “patrol”, Andrew asked:
– Uncle Barry, have you ever been scared?
– Yes, – Barry admitted. – Still am, sometimes.
– Of what?
– That I won’t be in time. That I won’t have the strength.
Andrew stroked the dog:
– When I grow up, I’ll help you. And I’ll get a dog too. As smart as him.
– You will, – Barry smiled. – Of course you will.
Rusty just wagged his tail.
And round the area everyone knew him now. They said: “That’s Barry the Afghan’s dog. He can tell heroes from villains.”
And Rusty proudly carried out his duty, knowing he was no longer just a stray. He was a protector.