ther wounds in the dog and I do not think you would stick a garden fork into a dog

after it had died for some other reason, like cancer for example, or a road accident.
But I could not be certain about this.

I went through Mrs Shears’ gate, closing it behind me. I walked onto her lawn and
knelt beside the dog. I put my hand on the muzzle of the dog. It was still warm.

The dog was called Wellington. It belonged to Mrs Shears who was our friend. She
lived on the opposite side of the road, two houses to the left.

Wellington was a poodle. Not one of the small poodles that have hairstyles but a big
poodle. It had curly black fur, but when you got close you could see that the skin
underneath the fur was a very pale yellow, like chicken.

I stroked Wellington and wondered who had killed him, and why.

My name is Christopher John Francis Boone. I know all the countries of the world and
their capital cities and every prime number up to 7,057.

Eight years ago, when I first met Siobhan, she showed me this picture

[sad face]

and I knew that it meant ‘sad,’ which is what I felt when I found the dead dog.

Then she showed me this picture

[smiley face]

and I knew that it meant ‘happy’, like when I’m reading about the Apollo space
missions, or when I am still awake at 3 am or 4 am in the morning and I can walk up
and down the street and pretend that I am the only person in the whole world.

Then she drew some other pictures

[various happy, sad, confused, surprised faces]

but I was unable to say what these meant.

I got Siobhan to draw lots of these faces and then write down next to them exactly
what they meant. I kept the piece the piece of paper in my pocket and took it out
when I didn’t understand what someone was saying. But it was very difficult to
decide which of the diagrams was most like the face they were making because
people’s faces move very quickly.
When I told Siobhan that I was doing this, she got out a pencil and another piece of
paper and said it probably made people feel very

[confused face]

and then she laughed. So I tore the original piece of paper up and threw it away.
And Siobhan apologised. And now if I don’t know what someone is saying I ask them
what they mean or I walk away.

I pulled the fork out of the dog and lifted him into my arms and hugged him. He was
leaking blood from the fork-holes.

I like dogs. You always know what a dog is thinking. It has four moods. Happy, sad,
cross and concentrating. Also, dogs are faithful and they do not tell lies because
they cannot talk.

I had been hugging the dog for 4 minutes when I heard screaming. I looked up and
saw Mrs Shears running towards me from the patio. She was wearing pyjamas and a
housecoat. Her toenails were painted bright pink and she had no shoes on.

She was shouting, ‘What in fuck’s name have you done to my dog?’.

I do not like people shouting at me. It makes me scared that they are going to hit
me or touch me and I do not know what is going to happen.

‘Let go of the dog,’ she shouted. ‘Let go of the fucking dog for Christ’s sake.’

I put the dog down on the lawn and moved back 2 metres.

She bent down. I thought she was going to pick the dog up herself, but she didn’t.
Perhaps she noticed how much blood there was and didn’t want to get dirty. Instead,
she started screaming again.

I put my hands over my ears and closed my eyes and rolled forward till I was
hunched up with my forehead pressed onto the grass. The grass was wet and cold.
It was nice.

This is a murder mystery novel.

Siobhan said that I should write something I would want to read myself. Mostly I
read books about science and maths. I do not like proper novels. In proper novels
people say things like, ‘I am veined with iron, with silver and with streaks of
common mud. I cannot contract into the firm fist which those clench who do not
depend on stimulus’ . What does this mean? I do not know. Nor does Father. Nor do
Siobhan or Mr Jeavons. I have asked them.

Siobhan has long blonde hair and wears glasses which are made of green plastic.
And Mr Jeavons smells of soap and wears brown shoes that have approximately 60
tiny circular holes in each of them.

But I do like murder mystery novels. So I am writing a murder mystery novel.

In a murder mystery novel someone has to work out who the murderer is and then
catch them. It is a puzzle. If it is a good puzzle you can sometimes work out the
answer before the end of the book.

Siobhan said that the book should begin with something to grab people’s attention.
That is why I started with the dog. I also started with the dog because it happened
to me and I find it hard to imagine things which did not happen to me.

Siobhan read the first page and said that it was different. She put this word into
inverted commas by making the wiggly quotation sign with her first and second
fingers. She said that it was usually people who were killed in murder mystery
novels. I said that two dogs were killed in The Hound of the Baskervilles, the
hound itself and James Mortimer’s spaniel, but Siobhan said they weren’t the
victims of the murder, Sir Charles Baskerville was. She said that this was because
readers cared more about people than dogs, so if a person was killed in the book
readers would want to carry on reading.

I said that I wanted to write about something real and I knew people who had died
but I did not know any people who had been killed, except Edward’s father from
school, Mr Paulson, and that was a gliding accident, not murder, and I didn’t really
know him. I also said that I cared about dogs because they were faithful and honest,
and some dogs were cleverer and more interesting than some people. Steve, for
example, who comes to centre on Thursdays, needs help to eat his food and could
not even fetch a stick. Siobhan asked me not to say this to Steve’s mother.

11

Then the police arrived. I like the police. They have uniforms and numbers and you
know what they are meant to be doing. There was a policewoman