Page 11 of The Good Boy

“Oh, you are so right, why hadn’t I thought of that,” I say, oozing sarcasm. “If only the fact that he has identical mismatched eyes to Rory’s, supreme fitness, and a mane of golden locks could be considered useful indicators.”

“Point taken,” Miles says. “Anyway, I’ll guess you’ll be wanting your nan, so...”

“No, uh-uh, nope,” I say, shaking my head furiously.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“You can’t leave me here alone stuck inFreaky Friday, the canine version. Miles! It’s my birthday! And you are Miles. Good old dependable Miles. One of the few people in my life I can really rely on. Please don’t leave me, Miles. I need you.”

Miles nods.

“Of course, I’m not going to leave you. I’m sorry. I was just caught off guard for a minute.”

“I know, it’s a lot.”

“And then some, but you’re right. Friends stick together.”

“Genie!” Rory calls through the door. “Are these earholes in this neck thing?”

I think for a moment, my eyes fixed on Miles. “I think they are armholes in a T-shirt—like, you put your front paws through them. Your head through the small hole, got it?”

“Stupid clothes,” Rory mumbles.

Please?I mouth to Miles, pressing my hands together in prayer.

“Fine,” Miles says. “Fine. I’ll go in there and show him how to put on trousers.”

“Thank you.” I sigh, leaning against the wall in relief. If Matilda turned into a human, I think I’d probably hide, legally change my identity, go into witness protection or something. But that’s Miles for you, much nicer than me.

A few chaotic moments later Miles comes out again.

“Well?” I ask him.

“If we were in an episode ofScooby-DooI would say that that guy is Rory. But as a man of science I would say it is simply not possible that the human in your bathroom is your dog,” he says. “Except, I think that he might be.”

“Here I am!” Rory appears, grinning, more or less dressed.

Miles’s joggers come to just above his ankles and his T-shirt is very tight. It’s like a Hemsworth brother went through the wash wearing his clothes and only the clothes shrank.

“I’ve got an idea that may resolve this once and for all,” Miles says, somehow still here.

“Time machine?” I ask him. It doesn’t seem outside the realm of possibility for Miles.

“Your garden?” Miles goes to the back door. I nod and stand aside as Rory scrambles past us both at speed in a bid to get outside first. Once we are there he runs to the end of my short and narrow garden and starts sniffing the perimeter excitedly.

“If this is method acting he needs an Oscar,” I say.

Miles goes to the fence that divides our gardens and peers over it. Underneath it is the very conspicuous hole my single blue shoe is sticking out of.

“Psp-psp-psp-psp,” Miles goes.

“What are you doing?” I ask him. “Are you calling your cat? Are you mad? Rory hates Matilda and she hates him, and now he can climb! There will be violence! And Rory will come off worst!”

“Act like it’s the Ice Age and chill,” Miles says.

“Are you being serious?” I ask him. He winks at me and I decide to forgive him for being Lord Lame of Lamesville, Arizona, because, well, he’s here and he has a plan. Or at least he says he has.

“What we need to remember is that Matilda is like Moriarty to Rory’s Watson. No real threat to her.”

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