“Come on then, Rusty,” muttered Walter, adjusting the homemade lead made from old rope.
He zipped his jacket right up to his chin and shivered. February that year had turned especially nasty – sleet and rain, with a wind that cut right through you.
Rusty – a mongrel with faded ginger fur and one blind eye – had come into his life a year ago. Walter had been coming back from the night shift at the factory when he spotted him by the bins. The dog had been beaten, starving, and the left eye was clouded over.
“Oi, granddad! Where you off to with that mutt?”
The voice grated on his nerves. Walter recognised the speaker – Sid Booker, the local hard man, about twenty-five. With him were three lads, his little crew.
“Just walking him,” Walter replied shortly, not looking up.
“You pay your licence fee for that mangy thing, mate?” one of the lads laughed. “Look at him – one eye wonky!”
A stone flew. It hit Rusty in the side. The dog whimpered and pressed against his owner’s leg.
“Piss off,” Walter said quietly, but there was steel in his voice.
“Ooh! Old man Kulibin speaks!” Sid stepped closer. “You forgetting this is my patch? Dogs walk around here only with my say-so.”
Walter tensed. In the army they’d taught him to deal with problems fast and hard. But that was thirty years ago. Now he was just a tired, retired mechanic who didn’t want any bother.
“Come on, Rusty,” he said, turning towards home.
“That’s right!” Sid shouted after him. “Next time I’ll finish your little pal off!”
Back home, Walter couldn’t sleep all night, replaying the scene in his head.
The next day it was sleeting. Walter put off the walk for a long time, but Rusty sat by the door with such a loyal look that he gave in.
“Alright, alright. Just a quick one.”
They walked carefully, avoiding the usual hang-out spots. But Sid’s gang was nowhere to be seen – probably hiding from the weather.
Walter had relaxed when Rusty stopped dead by an old disused boiler house. He pricked his one good ear, sniffing.
“What’s up, old boy?”
The dog whined and pulled towards the ruins. Strange sounds came from inside – a cry, maybe a moan.
“Hey! Anyone there?” Walter called.
No answer. Only silence, broken by the wind howling.
Rusty pulled insistently at the lead. In his one eye was a look of worry.
“What is it?” Walter bent down to the dog. “What’s in there?”
Then he heard it clearly – a child’s voice:
“Help!”
His heart jumped. Walter unclipped the lead and followed Rusty into the ruins.
Inside the half-collapsed boiler house, behind a heap of bricks, lay a boy of about twelve. His face was beaten, lip split, clothes torn.
“God!” Walter knelt beside him. “What happened to you?”
“Uncle Walter?” The boy opened his eyes with difficulty. “Is that you?”
Walter looked closer and recognised him – Andy Mason, son of the woman from number five. A quiet, shy lad.
“Andy! What happened?”
“Sid and his gang,” the boy sobbed. “They were demanding money from Mum. I said I’d tell the bobby. They caught me…”
“How long have you been lying here?”
“Since morning. It’s freezing.”
Walter took off his jacket and covered the boy. Rusty came close and lay beside him, warming him with his own body heat.
“Andy, can you stand?”
“My leg hurts. Think it’s broken.”
Walter gently felt the leg. Yes – a break. And heaven knows what internal injuries from the beating.
“Have you got a phone?”
“They took it.”
Walter 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 Sid finds out I’m alive?” Andy’s voice was terrified. “He said he’d finish me.”
“He won’t,” Walter said firmly. “He’ll never touch you again.”
The boy looked at him in surprise:
“Uncle Walter, you ran away from them yesterday.”
“That was different. That was just me and Rusty. But this…”
He didn’t finish. What was there to say? That thirty years ago he’d sworn an oath to protect the weak? That in the Falklands he’d learned a real man never leaves a child in trouble?
The ambulance arrived quicker than promised. Andy was taken to hospital. Walter stood by the boiler house with Rusty, thinking.
That evening Andy’s mother, Susan Peters, came to his door. She was crying, thanking him, swearing she’d never forget.
“Walter,” she said through her tears, “the doctors said if he’d lain out there another hour in the cold… You saved his life!”
“It wasn’t me,” Walter said, stroking Rusty. “He found your son.”
“But what now?” Susan looked nervously at the door. “Sid won’t stop. The local bobby says there’s no evidence – just a child’s word.”
“It’ll be alright,” Walter promised, though he didn’t know how.
That night he couldn’t sleep. Thoughts churned – what to do? How to protect the boy? And not just him – how many other kids in the neighbourhood were suffering from that gang?
In the morning the decision came by itself.
Walter put on his old army uniform – the dress one, with medals. He looked in the mirror – a soldier, still. Even if getting on.
“Come on, Rusty. We’ve got business.”
Sid’s gang was, as usual, hanging around the shop. When they saw Walter approaching, they sniggered.
“Ooh! Granddad’s on parade!” one of the lads yelled. “Look at the war hero!”
Sid got up from the bench, grinning:
“Right then, ex-army, shift yourself. Your time’s over.”
“My time’s only just beginning,” Walter replied calmly, stepping closer.
“What you after, dressed like that?”
“Serving my country. Protecting the weak from the likes of you.”
Sid burst out laughing:
“You gone bonkers, old man? What country? What weak?”
“Andy Mason – remember him?”
The smirk dropped off Sid’s face.
“Why should I remember every loser?”
“Because he’s the last kid in this neighbourhood to suffer at your hands.”
“You threatening me, granddad?”
“I’m warning you.”
Sid stepped forward. A blade glinted in his hand.
“I’ll show you who’s boss around here!”
Walter didn’t move back a single inch. The years had passed, but his army training hadn’t left him.
“The law’s the boss here.”
“What law?” Sid waved the blade. “Who appointed you?”
“My conscience.”
Then something happened nobody expected.
Rusty, who had been sitting quietly beside him, got up. The fur on his neck bristled. A deep growl came from his throat.
“And your mutt,” Sid began.
“My dog saw action,” Walter cut in. “The Falklands. Mine detection unit. He can smell a thug a mile off.”
It wasn’t true – Rusty was just a stray. But Walter spoke so convincingly that everyone believed him. Even Rusty seemed to believe it – he stood tall, bared his teeth.
“He found twenty enemy fighters. Took them all alive,” Walter went on. “You think he can handle one little drug pusher?”
Sid backed off. The lads behind him froze.
“Listen carefully,” Walter said, taking a step forward. “From today, this neighbourhood is safe. Every day I’ll walk the streets. And my dog will sniff out troublemakers. And then…”
He left the rest unsaid. But everyone understood.
“You think you can scare me?” Sid tried to bring back his old swagger. “One phone call and I’ll…”
“Call away,” Walter nodded. “But remember – I’ve got contacts you couldn’t dream of. I know plenty inside. Plenty owe me favours.”
That was also a lie. But he said it with such conviction that Sid believed him.
“They call me Walter the Falklands,” Walter 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. Sid and his crew were hardly seen around the estate.
And Walter really did start walking the streets every day. Rusty went with him – important, serious.
Andy came out of hospital a week later. His leg still hurt, but he could walk. That same day he visited Walter.
“Uncle Walter,” he said, “can I help you? With the patrols?”
“You can, but only after we talk to your mum first.”
Susan didn’t mind. In fact, she was glad her son had such a good role model.
So every evening you could see an odd group – an elderly man in military uniform, a boy, and an old ginger dog.
Everyone liked Rusty. Even mothers let their children stroke him, though they knew he was just a mongrel. But there was something special about him – dignity, perhaps.
And Walter told the kids about the army, about true friendship. They listened, spellbound.
One evening, as he and Andy came back from another patrol, the boy asked:
“Uncle Walter, were you ever scared?”
“Yes,” Walter admitted. “I still am, sometimes.”
“Of what?”
“That I won’t be in time. That I won’t have the strength.”
Andy patted the dog:
“When I grow up, I’ll help you. And I’ll have a dog too. Just as clever.”
“You will,” Walter smiled. “Of course you will.”
Rusty wagged his tail.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knew him by then. They said: “That’s the dog of Walter the Falklands. He can tell heroes from scumbags.”
And Rusty carried out his duty with pride, knowing he was no longer just a stray. He was a protector.