Never Again

Never Again

He ran through the woods. Cool silky beech leaves brushed his cheek, making him start, he stumbled on dry sticks and fell into the dead leaves at his feet. He rubbed his face, his hand came away wet with tears and smeared with mud. He couldn’t let it happen again. Not to Saff. He sat up and hugged his knees close, the tears washing the mud off his face. He wasn’t going to lose another dog. Not to that man.

He got up wiping his face and shaking the leaves off himself. Like Saff after a swim, he thought and took in a long breath. His throat hurt but he couldn’t cry again. He looked around, unsure quite where he was. It was near the edge of the man’s land, he thought. He walked to where he’d decided the fence line would be. He’d often walked here with Saff, playing daft games. She would leap around him while he imagined caves, dragons, burglars and robots. Saff was his faithful companion in real life as well as in the games. She was a good dog, he thought. Is a good dog. Is.

He found the field that surrounded the man’s house. He could just see the chimney. The house was hidden in a dip below him. He stood for a moment, thinking. There would be no use raging in and demanding Saff back. That hadn’t worked with Keller. But he wouldn’t think of Keller. Not now.

His hands tightened into fists as he planned. He knew where the dogs were caged. The bottom barn. It would be locked, but the top window was broken. He could climb the rusty tractor by the wall and pull himself onto the roof. Then it would be easy. He watched till dusk. The man would go out then. To the pub, just for one drink. Enough time, if he was fast, to let the dogs free. All of them. And Saff.

He crept closer to the house, hiding in the edge of the woods. He’d smeared more mud on his face and arms so he blended into the tree’s shadows. The shining black pickup roared down the track bringing the boy to his feet. He ran out of the trees, into the farmyard, leapt up the tractor and reached for the overhang of the roof. He pulled himself up and scrambled onto the corrugated iron roof. The dogs were barking, even howling, as he clanged over the roof. He could hardly hear his footsteps through the noise they made. He climbed up to the broken window, took off his shoe and shattered the remaining glass with it. Peering into the dark he saw the floor was covered in straw. Good. He jumped down, jammed his foot back in his shoe and made for the ladder to the barn floor. The dogs were as frantic as him. He jumped to the floor and saw the rows and rows of wire cages.

He found Saff, hardly needing to look or listen for her. He made straight for her cage, undid the bolt and she knocked into him, licking for all she was worth. He let her for a moment, clasping her head. But there wasn’t time. He knocked the barn windows out with a spade then undid the cages. Pulling latches open two at a time. Dogs spilled out and were through the windows and away. He reached the last row when he heard the rumble of the pickup. He shot the last two latches then hurled himself through the nearest window, not waiting to see if the dogs followed him. He fell to the flagstones outside with Saff. The pickup sounded louder. He got up, almost running before his feet hit the ground. He saw the pickup, it stopped.

The man got out, his gun ready. The boy turned, running to the trees, following Saff. He heard a shot, an agonised squeal from a dog on the driveway. He ran faster and was at the edge of the woods when the next shot came. Saff screamed like a human baby and fell. He caught her up in his arms and ran on. Her blood was on his hands but her breath was panting over his shoulder. She’d been hit in the tail. He didn’t slow until he was through the garden gate. He fell with Saff onto his lawn.

He’d done it, the dogs were free. Saff was hurt, but home.

Winding Down

An extra story this week from my writing group prompt for April. The first line was given to me.

I’ll post a children’s story tomorrow but for now have this little one:

Winding Down

She floated on the raft, one hand trailing in the cool water, the other clasping a crystal glass. What a bloody awful day! She’d had bad days before, that’s for sure, but nothing like this one.

Even the quest for the fabled gold sword of Athalmoor hadn’t been as bad as today. The trek through the jungle with its leeches dropping all over her. The cliff faces she’d had to scramble down and the cave full of poisonous spiders hadn’t exactly been a bundle of laughs, but still not as bad as today had been. She looked up at the peaceful blue sky and clutched the glass.

The search for the Holy Pentacle had been tricky, now that she thought of it. The twelve covens of witches determined to stop her taking it. Fighting the dragon, and the traps and curses in the temple had been awful. Still, not as stressful as today had been, she thought, splashing the water a little.

The Amethyst wand fiasco had been one of her worst adventures. Being followed by deadly assassins determined to stop her getting to the volcano wasn’t a great day out. The volcano itself made her shudder, the roiling lava a mistaken step below her. Racing for the aerodrome ahead of the assassins and the tribe she’d stolen the wand from hadn’t been her idea of fun either.

But nothing could match today. She shuddered at the sheer horror of what had happened. The noise, the mess, the terror! Never again would she throw a party for her toddler twins. She sat up, drained the glass and paddled to the side of the pool; she needed more wine.

Closed Book

I saw this house in the rain on a dog walk while away for Easter and for some reason thought ‘what if someone were sitting there crying in the rain?’ Then I found out it was an air force respite home. So here’s a story about it- totally fictional of course, I didn’t see anyone in the garden the whole time I stayed there!

Closed Book

‘Come on, Bee!’ The dog took no notice and ran on into the drizzle. Sue sighed and followed, hoping she would decide to come back soon, it was so grey, so cold and so wet. The garden of a big house came down to the path just ahead of her and sitting on a bench behind the railings was an old man with his head in his hands. Sue stared at him, it was not the weather for sitting in gardens. She heard him sob, but unwilling to disturb him she turned round and walked back, hoping Bee would follow soon.

The next day Sue was walking the river path again, the weather was even wetter, she was startled to see the man crying in the rain again on the same bench. She couldn’t ignore him this time, he must need help to be sitting crying in this weather. She stood below the railing looking up at the bench. The man carried on crying, oblivious to her.

‘Excuse me? Are you all right?’ The man looked up and wiped his wet face on his wetter jacket sleeve.

‘Sorry, stupid question.’ Sue said. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ The man nodded and took a large leather bound notebook from beside him. He stood carefully and walked to the railings a wooden walking stick tapping next to him. His sodden beige trousers were clinging to him and his jacket hung wetly over his thin frame. He held the book out to Sue through the fence. She took it and looked at him.

‘Throw it in the river.’ he said and turned away before she could answer him.

She clutched the notebook and stared after him as he made his way slowly up the stone steps to the house, step and tap, step and tap. The notebook was plain and unmarked. Sue thought about opening it but the man’s presence stopped her, even though he didn’t turn once. She hurled the book into the middle of the river, hoping Bee wouldn’t swim after it. It splashed loudly. The man paused for a fraction of a second, then carried on up the steps.

Sue shrugged and walked home to dry out. She wondered about the man occasionally over the next week but didn’t see him again. On her last dog walk of the week she read the local paper at a picnic table, it was dull as ever but she skimmed through it while Bee chased her ball. She stopped flicking through the pages when she saw a familiar face. It was the crying man.

Memorial for Local Airman

Squadron Leader Robert Poynter passed away at Marbury House after a long illness in March last year. His family held a memorial service for him at St. Cedric’s church on Tuesday. Many of his surviving colleagues from his service during world war two were present, as well as fellow residents of Marbury House. He had a distinguished career over twenty years and retired to Marbury to tend his garden.

His daughter recalled him working on his memoirs and expressed the regret that they could not be found.

‘He had at least one very full notebook, but refused to show us until he had finished. Now we will never be able to read them.’ she said.

Sue looked up from the paper and stared towards Marbury house in the distance. Whatever had distressed the man so much would never be known now. Maybe it was just as well Sue thought, and shivered, remembering him crying in the rain on Tuesday.