The pub was dark and full of the smell of wood smoke and beer. It was a comfortable and comforting place, a haven against the wind  and rain that battered relentlessly against the windows. It was dusk, that time of gathering gloom and impending night. One of my favourite times, the time of weird light and strange shadows, a typically British late November evening.

            I had just finished work and fancied a warming whisky before the drive home and the microwave dinner in front of  a film. I fancied an easy watch that night, something I could just stick on and turn my brain off, my way to wind down after a stressful day. I’m a journalist – not a glamorous occupation or a well paid one. I write “local interest” stories for a provincial newspaper. Mostly uninspiring, turgid prose; you know the sort of story – pensioners, pets, talented teens and local tea dancers. I’ve sold the odd article to the big boys, I’ve even written a few film reviews, but I am cursed to mediocrity, struggling in the mire of local news, local news and small minded uncreative types who wouldn’t know what a witty turn of phrase was if it poked them in the eye with a quill. But it’s ok, it’s a living and it pays the bills. But I’m secretly hoping that this little story will make people take notice and help drag me out of the mire on to firmer ground. I realise it will be difficult to believe, and you’ll probably think me a lire or fantasist, but I promise I’m not; everything in this story is true , apart from the names, the journalist never reveals his sources.

            I sat in my favourite chair in my favourite firelit corner. I liked this position because it commanded  a view of the door and the bar which meant I could observe people coming in and out. I would watch people come into the pub and try to guess their poison by their clothes and general demeanour – it sounds pretty dull but it occupies my feeble mind. I’ve spent hours sitting in that pub playing that game; guessing the  drink and then just watching people sitting. People who are alone interest me the most because you can weave whole stories around them, write biographies in your head based only on where they sit, what they wear, what they drink and the expression on their face. This night was much the same, me in my cosy corner nursing my whisky and pretending to be a serious writer.

            I was  about to drain my glass and put on my coat when the door swung open. I sat back down and cradled my glass. A man entered the pub, a man who  staggered to the bar and waited his turn, shifting impatiently from foot to foot, his hands thrust into his jacket pocket. I thought he needed something strong like brandy, and I was right. He looked around, a brandy balloon in his hand and settled his eyes on my corner. I didn’t make eye contact, I didn’t want to encourage him, I didn’t like to share my cosy warm corner.

            He walked towards me, he shambled towards me really, his legs seemed like jelly. He took his jacket off and threw it on the back of the chair opposite me. He sat down unsteadily and fastened his eyes on me. Behind his glassed they looked big and scared, bright points of reflected light in his lenses that made him look a little mad. He sipped his drink and gripped my wrist. I couldn’t believe it, I tried to pull away but I couldn’t without spilling the last of my whisky.

            “Hello,” he said, his voice uneven and crackling with something that approached fear. For a moment he seemed to be the ancient mariner from the poem and I felt like the wedding guest as his eyes blazed into my head. He wore a white shirt and a badly tied tie, his trousers and shoes were muddy and his tweed suit jacket looked dishevelled. Everything about him look dishevelled and untidy like he had ran a long way or been in some kind of a fight. 

            The man leaned closer to me, his breath sickly sweet with the brandy. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” I couldn’t believe my ears. He shook my wrist as if to wring the answer out of me. I shrugged my shoulders and he leant back, the lamplight spilling on to his white shirt and showing  me small dark speckles.

            “Is that blood?” I asked, the journalist inside me yawning, stretching, and waking up.  The man nodded.

            “It’s her blood,” he said, as if this explained everything.

            “Look I have to go.”  I wrestled my wrist away and looked at my watch. “Its getting late.”

            “I haven’t long,” he whispered. “They’ll be coming for me.” I looked at him, looked at his blood spattered shirt and his eyes behind his glasses, eyes that had tears squeezing out of their corners. I took a deep breath.

            “Brandy?” he drained his glass and I went to the bar to order a large whisky and another brandy. I returned to  my chair and looked at the man who sat opposite me, his hair grey, his face gaunt, but once handsome I guessed. I sat that  evening, that evening that was born for ghost stories, and listened to his tale.

            “Tell me Mr,” he inclined his head,

            “Smith,” I replied unimaginatively.

            “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

            “I’ve never given it any thought,” I said shrugging again.

            “I didn’t, that is until I saw proof with my own two eyes. Eyes that have read and studied, learned and shone with wonder at a strand of D.N.A. or base pair sequence. Eyes that have strained into a microscope and yearned for answers to all our questions. Eyes that have seen suffering and sickness and death.” He tried a smile, but it was weak and watery. “Now Mr Smith, as I said before I don’t have any time, so please do not interrupt, just listen. You are a journalist I take it?” I nodded. “I have seen your picture in the local rag. In exchange for your ear I will give you the best story of your life. Only do not interrupt, because my courage may give out, and…”

            “You haven’t any time?”

            “Yes.” He sipped his brandy and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his tie. “You will find it  hard to believe, but it is the truth.” Despite myself I felt interested and leaned towards him, trying to ignore the blood on his shirt.

            “The mice ran, the dogs sat, dejected and desperate. Some were healthy, some were sick, some were going to be sick, and some were going to be dead. The laboratory was a place of white light and filtered air, a place of sterility and medicine, research and hope. For the men and women who worked there were trying to save mankind from their deadliest enemy, progressive and adaptive viruses. The doctors and technicians in Med lab Axon were dedicated and professional individuals. They enjoyed inflicting pain and discomfort no more than you would; they did it because they believed in it, because it was their job. OF course the anti-vivisexion, sandal wearing, tofu knitting hippies had tried to scupper their work, had fire bombed the premises, had even threatened the lives of members of staff. I have had  more than my fair share of grief, hate mail, graffiti, damage to my car. I have even been beaten up and  threatened on more than one occasion but I manfully continued my work because I believe in it, I believe in the preservation of the human race. Of course there is some data that can be gleaned from computer models, but vivisexion offers a unique opportunity to learn how cells really react to antibodies, and how nervous systems  shut down under certain circumstances.

            My position, my area of expertise was the beagle. This breed of dog offers us the best results – they are hardy, strong and easily treated and experimented upon. I shall not go into the details, suffice it to say, what I did was sometimes unpleasant, but always necessary, and sometimes resulted in death. For this reason I never named my subjects, preferring to call them by their number, K-9A13 for example. Anyway, I did my work, conducted my research and tried always to remain emotionally aloof, tried always to distance myself from the subject and concentrate on the science. I managed to do this for years and years, until that is we received two new dogs, a dog and bitch. At first I called the dog K-9C16 and the bitch K-9D16.  I worked with the  animals for a period of time, conducting the relevant tests, always professional, always detached. But very soon I found myself becoming very fond of these dogs, for they were strong and lasted longer than any other subject had or has ever lasted. Against my better judgment I found myself warming to their sweet natures and very soon I named them Alf and Gwen.

            When they were between sessions or recovering from surgeries I would bring them treats, dog chocs, bones, you know the sort of things. I did this as often as the schedule would allow and the dogs liked me even more, even managing a tired tale wag when I walked past despite the level of pain and discomfort they were experiencing.

            It was soon clear to me that I was becoming soft, that my professional standards were slipping. I lectured every young  scientist and  technician never to befriend a subject, and I was doing exactly that. I withdrew my friendship, I no longer patted or stroked them, I stopped bringing them treats and I started doing things I am ashamed of. I started to use them more often than necessary, using them for the most ethically challenging works. I did  some good research with those dogs, got some good results. However, the dogs soon died, they could no longer take the treatment I was dishing out. I would like to stress at this point that I was never deliberately cruel, I always operated within governmental guidelines, but I always found a way to flirt with legality and push the limits of research to its maximum.

            I forgot about the dogs, the dog and bitch who I found out later were brother and sister. They spend four whole years in the lab, a testament to my staff’s professionalism and care. That was twenty years ago, and now the research is very different, the guidelines impossible to push, the level of care far greater than when  K-9C16  and K-9D16 were guests of our facility. I am not ashamed to admit that for a few weeks after their death I dreamed of them. I would wake up in the middle of the night, the bed sheets wet with my sweat, my pulse racing. It was then I started drinking – only a little at first, but soon I began to use it as a crutch. That was until six months ago when I met someone. She was younger than me, only twenty-five, but I found her instantly captivating. We met at a conference. She was a vet, a very good one. I seemed to remember we met over a tray of salmon and cucumber sandwiches. I was inexperienced, having been single for a long time, but she was the one who asked me to go to a concert with her. Blushing I accepted and from there we began to  see each other.”

            He sipped his brandy and breathed in the fumes, leaning back on his chair, for a moment his expression vague and distant. Then he gathered himself and fastening his sparkly eyes on me, took a deep breath and continued what seemed to be a confession. In that pub in that night in November I felt like a priest, and like a priest I knew I had to hear this man out, how ever strange and fantastic the story became.

            “You said you met her at a conference. Did she know what job you did?” the man shook his head.

            “My profession never inspires respect or affection. From the moment we met I told her I was an industrial chemist. She believed me.” I nodded my head and for the first time noticed scratches on the man’s hands and cheek. I tried to ignore them, as well as the blotches of dried blood on his creased shirt.

            “Tell me,” I cleared my throat. “Are you still working in… you know, animal stuff?”

            “As of today I am retired.” His tone was like a slamming door, telling me not to ask any more questions.

            “So everything seemed to be going swimmingly. After a few months she moved in, and, for the first time in my life I fell in love.” For a moment he looked distant, not looking at me but looking at his memories. He smiled weakly then continued. “Then three years into the relationship it started to go wrong. She stopped being kind to me, buying me gifts and showing me affection, and she became aggressive towards me. We would argue regularly about the smallest non-consequential thing, often resulting in her being physically aggressive. She told me things, strange things that lead me to believe she was mentally ill. Or at least unstable. She told me of dreams, dreams that made me shiver. Dreams of  bright white  lights and pain, white clad people and discomfort. I shrugged my shoulders and put it down to imagination or too many American films. Then one night she asked me what I did between 1981 and 1986. Of course I was caught off balance by this question, I didn’t expect it. I told her that during that time I was engaged in research. I told her that for many years I was a research scientist at an animal testing facility. She screamed at me and called me a liar. She went mad, biting and scratching, hitting and kicking, I didn’t know how to react or what to do.” He paused again.

            “What did you do?” I asked,

            “I wept, I wept out of frustration, pain and shame. I begged her to stay with me. You see she had very high moral standards, a vegan you know. After  a lot of grovelling she seemed to calm down, and although frosty our relationship continued. But her tactics changed, she replaced aggression with something far worse.” I glanced outside and noticed it was  dark. I could barely make out the skeletal trees swaying in the wind and the leaves blowing and drifting, skittering across the grass of the deserted pub garden.

            “She started to do things. Over salt my food, put shampoo in my whisky, over-the-counter medication in my food and drink. She was very clever, did it gradually until I realised I was always exhausted and sick for a reason, and the reason was her. I found out quite by accident. I came home early because I forgot some notes and caught her adding  parasetimol and timazipan into a batch of minced beef she was preparing for bolognaise. I confronted her, she denied it, I told her she needed help and she burst into tears and told me I had ruined two lives, both  belonging to her. I didn’t understand this so I let it lie, choosing to eat out daily and sleep in the spare room. We maintained an uneasy truce until it all came to a head this morning.”

            “Did you get help for your illness?” I asked, not knowing what to call it – poisoning sounded too dramatic. He nodded and mumbled something about a G.P. he knew.

            “I had depression,” he whispered. “I still do – because of her, because of me.” I let the silence comfort him before I spoke again.

            “Can you tell me the rest?” I asked, genuinely interested. He nodded.

            “This morning she told me she couldn’t stand me, that she hated me and wanted me dead. She asked me if I remembered K-9D16. My heart stopped and I broke out in a cold sweat. I nodded feebly. There was no way she could access that information, no way in the world. I remember you, she muttered. I remember what you did to us, I dream it every night. No amount of therapy will change anything. You must be insane I said, trying to sound convincing. She sat down heavily on the sofa, her voice was calm and almost gentle. I was born on the 11th of June 1981. When did K-9D16 die? I shook my head. 11th of June 1986 I murmured. Gwen was a lovely dog so was her brother Alf. I don’t know why I said that, something seemed to snap inside her and she flew at me. I managed to evade her, only suffering minor scratches and bites. It’s impossible! I shouted, but I knew it was not.” I gulped my drink and blinked in disbelief.

            “So you are telling me that your girlfriend is the reincarnation of a dog you once experimented on?” he nodded his head, shaking as if in a fever. “How? I mean, she must have got the information from somewhere.”

            “No, there is no way. In the fight this morning she raved about experiments an vaccines, everything she said was true . I begged her forgiveness, but it was no good.”

            “You killed her?” I said with disbelief. He shook his head.

            “I had to protect myself, I had to stop her, , there was no other way, it was self defence and she had information that was compromising to our reputation.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “This blood,” he fingered his shirt,  “Is her’s.”

            “Ok,” I said, sweating. “Ok, but could she not have been a member of an animal liberation group?” the man shook his head.

            “No, she told me things, things that happened in the lab, things I did to her.” I let the silence hang about us for a moment as I sipped my drink and wondered what to say.

            “Did you hurt her badly? ?”

“Yes. The emergency services will find her soon, and then me.”

At this point I sat back on my chair in thought. I hadn’t a clue what to do – here I was confronted with a man who had  probably murdered his partner, a  man with far-fetched and  seemingly crazy claims. “Look Mr…”

            “Professor,” he whispered.

            “Ok, professor. None of this is my business, to be honest I don’t know what you want me to do, if you really think you’ve killed your girlfriend maybe you should hand yourself in.”

            “It is possible that she isn’t dead, there was so much blood and that can be misleading in itself.” He toyed with a beer mat, tearing it into tiny pieces and putting them in his glass. They floated on the golden liquid, suspended in light. “I need a clear head,” he explained as he got up and ordered a mineral water. Now at that point  I should have got up and left, putting the professor and his story behind me, but something kept me there; maybe it was the promise of an exclusive or at least a story worth the telling.

            “Mr Smith,” the trembling professor returned. “Come with me, I want an observer, tonight I will show you proof of   both my sanity and reincarnation.”

            “I don’t know,” I said looking at my watch.

            “Please, I need an objective pair of eyes, and, to be frank I’m a little shaky.” A little, I thought. The  glass was moving so much the water was spilling over the rim. Oblivious to his soaking sleeve the professor got to his feet and looked at me imploringly. “Please Mr Smith, I am giving you a once in a lifetime opportunity, don’t waste it, don’t waste your life like I’ve wasted mine. Against my better judgment I got to my feet.

            We drove, at first down A roads and then obscure country lanes and through small villages. It started to rain again – the night was filthy. Eventually we reached our destination, a tall chain-link fence and a sign that proclaimed, AXON RESEARCH.”

            “Here we are,” the professor sighed driving his car up to a yellow barrier  that accepted his card and raised helpfully. The building was squat, ugly, clinical and  uninviting. “We haven’t any  guests at the moment,” he explained, “That’s why we only have a night watchman. Mike, Mike are you here?” he called as we reached the entrance, soaked to the ankles because of the puddles in the car park.

            “Doesn’t seem as though he’s here,” I offered, wishing I hadn’t given up  smoking.

            “But he should be, we have 24/7 security. Then from the shadows a burly man appeared.

            “Evening Prof, how’s tricks?”

            “Is everything Ok Mike?”

            “Yeah course. Just been sharing a cupper with a lovely young lady. Says she’s your Mrs. Says your expecting her. She was in a right mess, said she’d  been to hospital because she managed to stick herself badly. I don’t believe a word of it, I think she was attacked. She’s in your office waiting for you.” The professor turned a grim shade of green, and I felt very sick and scared.

            “You Ok Prof?” Mike asked.

            “Me? Oh yes I’m fine Mike.” He tried a smile but it looked more like a sickly sneer.

            “What do we do?” I asked when Mike  ambled away.

            “Talk to her, try to get a blood sample/ If we can’t there’s more than enough  of her blood on my shirt for analyses.”

            “I’m surprised she was strong enough to get here.” I mused. “By the way, how long have you known the security guard?”

            “Ages, years, he’s been here for years. Nice man.”

            “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that he let somebody into your office without clearance?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Has he seen  her before, your girlfriend I mean?”

            “Of course not, haven’t you been listening, all this was a secret.” I shook my head and we entered the building.

            She sat, clothes tattered, head proud, a startlingly beautiful compact woman. I said hello, and she said nothing, her  hazel eyes  bored into the professor like icicles. “Looks like you need medical help,” I croaked. “Didn’t Mike offer to call a doctor?” the woman shook her head. It was impossible to read her expression, the only emotions I got from her were pain and rage. The professor approached her slowly, as if stalking a lion.

            “Listen,” he said, “We can forget all this. I won’t press charges, all I want is a blood sample, just a little prick.”

            “That’s exactly what you are,”  she spat. “You’ve had more than enough of my blood. Two lifetimes worth.” Her eyes were hooded, dark lashes , dark brows.

            “Why are you here, what do you want?” the professor asked nervously, sweat dripping from his face.

            “An answer.”

            “Revenge?” he seemed not to hear her.

            “Just an answer to a question.”

            “Money?”

            “Why?”

            “What?”

            “Why did you hurt us so much?” he shook as if freezing cold and tears welled from his eyes.

            “Job, just a job.”

            “I hope you learned a lot.” She got to her feet and walked towards the professor; there was something glinting in her hand. I stepped between them,.

            “Come on, there’s no need to do this, we can talk about it.” She smiled at me, white teeth, red lips.

            “Don’t get in my way, I have no quarrel with you.. Professor, give Gwen your paw,” trembling the professor obediently gave her his hand. “Good boy, you’ll get a treat. What a good boy you are,” she crooned and stroked his head gently. She pulled him down to the floor and sat next to him,  clutching his arm between her knees to steady it, holding his hand tight in hers. In the other hand the scalpel glinted and I felt sick. Slowly the scalpel touched the tender flesh of his hand and the blood welled. “Don’t make a  fuss now,” she said as she carved the letter “K” in his hand. He screamed in pain, he trembled and cried. I shouted for help,  calling  Mike. “He won’t come,” Gwen said, taking the professor’s other hand and carving the figure “9” in his hand. I went for the door, but it was locked  from the outside.

            “Mike’s in this too,” I stated. She nodded, and the blood flowed.

            I realized any intervention was pointless because this woman was clearly mad. So I sat and observed, feeling disgusted and sick. “Now for the D16” she said. Take off your shirt, it’s filthy anyway.” Obediently the professor took off his shirt. “Good boy, what a good boy! You’ll get a  treat, maybe I’ll let you rest an extra day before I make you sick again.”

            “Come on, you’ve made your point,” I said, “He’ll be permanently scarred.”

            “Like me you mean?” she tapped her forehead and her scalpel cut deep  causing puddles of blood to coagulate on the floor.

            He lay, dazed and moaning with pain, eyes glazed with shock,  hands and bare chest testament to the scalpel’s work. She stood, the woman called Gwen, arms crossed over her chest, rocking gently and whispering, “K-9D16,” over and over again. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. I had a feeling of unreality as I considered  that just forty minutes earlier I was in a comfortable, warm  pub, and now I  found myself in an office off a research laboratory watching as blood welled from letters and numbers carved into a man’s living flesh. “What now?” I asked the woman. She smiled at me weakly,

            “The bleeding has stopped, he’ll be fine, but the scars will remain.”

            “So, can we go?”

            “You can do what you like, but we’re not finished with him yet.”

            “We?” I asked,  sensing further torture. She nodded her head, and  I heard the jangle of keys as the door opened.

            Mike stood in the doorway, a peculiar expression on his face. The professor sat up and looked at him imploringly. “Get help,” the professor gasped. Mike stepped into the room and embraced Gwen.

            “You’re in on this too,” the professor whispered.

            “Hello professor, its been a while since we had quality tine together. I am Mike, aka Alf. Remember me?” the professor looked as though he was going to be sick. “Let me remind you. You’ll be a good boy won’t you,  you won’t struggle or make a fuss like a naughty dog. It won’t take long, I’ll give you a biscuit afterwards if you don’t struggle.” Revolted I looked on as into the professor’s forehead, the man who was once a dog called Alf carved the legend, “K-9C16.”

            What happened next is a blur. As I sit in my comfortable office and write this it seems like a distant dream; part of me still can’t believe it, but  most of me  does believe it, because now I have the proof I needed. The professor lay on the floor whimpering, blood everywhere, in his eyes, on his face, in his hair on the floor and covering his chest. “So, you’re her brother?” I finally asked.

            “Not this time around no, I’m just a friend with a long memory.”

            “You do know you’ll be arrested for this,”

            “We won’t,” Gwen said calmly. “We can’t be locked away a second time, it just isn’t fair, we’ve suffered enough, we won’t be locked up for him.”

            “So what are you going to do?” they looked at each other for what seemed a long time.

            “The only thing, the thing I wished we could have done a lifetime ago.” Mike muttered.

            “After three?” Gwen asked. Mike nodded his head, kissed her on the forehead and stood tall next to her, a scalpel in his rock-steady hand.

            “Be brave love, it’ll be fine; don’t be scared”

            “I’m terrified of dieing.” a tear glistened in the corner of Gwen’s eye.

            “Don’t be, you’ve done it a hundred times before. The only difference is that this time around you’re deciding when and how; this time we’re in control of what happens to us.” It was only then I  realized what they meant to do. Before I had a  chance to react they had slit their wrists with the razor-sharp blades. Fountains of blood gushed into the air, and this time I was physically sick.

            The professor cried, I felt numb with shock, revulsion and disbelief. “We must take samples,” the professor whispered. I shook my head; science was the last thing on my mind. “We must have proof,” he said, “That way their deaths won’t have been in vain.”

            So, that’s what happened. He took his samples, swabbing up blood and placing it in two separate tubes. I watched him work, every movement agony. I told him that I should keep the samples and have them independently verified. After a lot of fuss he agreed and I pocketed the tubes.  I walked out with them, leaving the professor behind with the bodies. That was the last I saw of him, he’s either in prison or in a psychiatric ward.

            I divided the samples in half so there were two blood samples from Gwen and two from Mike, or Alf. In this game you get to know a lot of people, favours are exchanged for copy, favourable copies for favours. I took two samples to a doctor and two to a vet. I  gave   them a cock and bull story, but they seemed to buy it. After a couple of weeks I got the results. To my horror and fascination the vet said that the blood was from two healthy dogs, one bitch, one dog; and the doctor, when I came for the results scowled at me. “Are you having a laugh?” he asked. “This isn’t human blood, at a guess I would say it is from a dog.”

            Well dear reader, you can draw your own conclusions, but I for one was knocked off my feet by the results. To me they proved the claims of the professor and his former charges. I feel a deep sense of sadness for the little tragedy that played out in that office. I feel sad because two lives were ruined, not just once but twice, once in one incarnation, once in another. I feel sad for the professor, he is clearly a man with a conscience who was doing his job. I feel deeply sad for all three of them, for they are all victims of fate and circumstance. I do hope that in their next lives Gwen and Alf will find happiness and fulfilment, they certainly deserve it. And I hope that the professor, wherever he is, is safe and well – as well as a man can be with such scars. I suppose it  teaches us a lesson; it tells us to be careful  how  we treat animals, especially man’s best friend because we never know when they’ll turn around and bite.  After all Every dog has it’s day.

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