by Jamie Drew
“And is that it?” I asked, fearing that there was very little of a mystery to solve without more information.
“Not quite,” Kale said. “As I lay watching TV last night, I got a text message from her.”
“What did it say?” I said, almost springing out of my chair.
“That she was scared of making an official report to the police but would like my help,” Kale said. “I sent a text back explaining that I had a friend who could help, too.”
“Me?” I asked.
“Yes,” Kale nodded. “I told her to come here this morning at…”
Before Kale had a chance to finish, my doorbell rang for the second time that morning.
“Sounds like your mystery woman has arrived,” I said, looking at him.
Kale lingered at the top of the staircase, as I headed down to the front door. A bedraggled-looking woman stood in the street outside. She held in her hand a small overnight case. The hood of her coat was up and the face staring from beneath it at me was tired looking, yet pretty as Kale had described it to be.
“November Lake?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. I detected a faint tremor in it. Kale had been right about the fear in her eyes, too. “Your friend said it would be okay for me to call by this morning. It is okay, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” I smiled. How could I turn someone away who looked so fearful, back out into the rain? “Please come in. My friend Kale is waiting upstairs.”
“Thank you,” the woman said meekly. She stepped into the hall and I closed the front door. I led her upstairs and into my room, where Kale was now waiting for us.
“Hello again,” he smiled at her, holding out his hand.
She closed her long, slender fingers around his, and then let her hand fall away.
“Please take a seat,” I said, gesturing to the remaining chair. She glanced around the piles of newspapers, then sat in the chair.
“Tea?” I asked her.
“That would be nice,” she smiled, pulling back her hood to reveal a mop of long blonde curly hair. I doubted that her apparent sadness was the only thing that had attracted Kale’s eye the night before.
I went to the kitchen where I made a fresh pot of tea. Placing three cups, a small jug of milk and a bowl of sugar onto a tray, I carried the tea back into the living room, where Kale and the young woman sat facing each other in silence. The china teacups clinked in their saucers as I placed the tray down on the table. I poured the tea and added a splash of milk to each cup and handed one to the woman. Kale took one for himself. I went to my chair by the window and sat down. Looking across the room, I watched the woman stir a spoonful of sugar into her tea.
Once she was settled and had taken a sip of the hot tea, I said, “My friend, Kale, has explained that you need some help.”
“Yes,” she nodded, glancing at me then at Kale.
“You said, something last night about a dog,” Kale reminded her.
“Someone cut the dog’s head clean off,” she said. “I had never seen so much blood. It was terrifying.”
Kale and I glanced at each other, then back at the young woman.
“Tell us what has happened from the beginning,” I said. “Then we shall see if we can help you.”
“My name is Wendy Creswell,” she said, placing the teacup onto the table and folding her hands in the lap of her skirt. “I am twenty-five years old and live in the village of Little Choke, which is about twenty miles from here along the coast. I am an orphan. Both of my parents died in a car crash when I was very young. With no immediate family to look after me, I was raised in care and foster homes. It was then, much to my surprise, I discovered I had been left an inheritance by a distant uncle on my mother’s side of the family. The inheritance consisted of £150,000 and a small house in Little Choke. The house is liveable, but parts are in desperate need of repair. Wanting to put my past behind me and wanting to fulfil my dream of becoming a writer, I moved into the house that had been left for me. It had stood empty for many years, but by using some of the money that had been left to me, I paid for some work to be done and it was soon fit for me to move into. Like I said, the house is still in need of repair, and it is my plan to build a small extension at the back of the house which I can use as a place to write. I envisage large windows where I can sit on a summer’s day and look out across the garden. When I thought my life was complete and I couldn’t be happier, a man named Ethan Cole came into my life. He lives on the other side of the village in a small farmhouse. We met while I was out walking in the meadows this Easter. He is five years older than me and very handsome. He is some kind of computer engineer. I don’t even pretend to understand the complexities of his work. But we do have something that binds us, and that is our love for the written word. As much as I love to write he loves to read – plays in particular. He is part of a small amateur dramatic society and they often put on small plays in the village hall. Therefore, it wasn’t long before we became more than just good friends. I would either spend some nights at his farmhouse or he would stay at mine. I would often tell Ethan my dreams and the plans I had to build my own very little writing sanctuary at the rear of the house. Like I said, I couldn’t be happier, I had a house of my own, I had started to sell my stories on the Internet, and had fallen in love,” Wendy explained.
“So what happened to change all of that?” I asked her.
Wendy took another sip of her tea. The sound of the cup clinking in the saucer drew attention to her trembling hands. She placed the cup back onto the table. “It was three days ago that my happiness began to fade. I had been writing at the kitchen table, when I heard a knock at the door. Thinking that it might be Ethan, I jumped up and threw open the door. To my horror, it wasn’t Ethan at all, but a disgusting creature of a man. He was stooped forward, as if he had a lump on his back. He wore the filthiest of clothes and they stank. The long brown coat he wore was covered in mud and dirt. His worn trousers and boots were just as disgusting. On his head he wore a wide-brimmed hat. His eyes were hidden behind a thick pair of dark glasses, and at first I wondered if he were not some kind of blind beggar going from door to door asking for money. He had a big, thick beard that crawled up his cheeks and down over his neck and the front of his coat. He was the most repugnant thing I had ever seen, and the stench wafting from him made me throw a hand to my nose. He wore fingerless mittens on his hands and his fingernails were black with grime and dirt. Although he wore thick, black glasses and I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew he was staring at me.
“I closed the door an inch and cowered behind it. The sight of him scared me. I asked what he wanted.
‘“Have you seen my dog?’ he asked, his voice a gruff whisper behind his matted beard.
“‘Dog?’ I asked, recoiling at the smell of his rancid breath.
‘“It’s got away from me,’ he said. His voice was so quiet, I could barely hear him.
‘‘I haven’t seen any dog…’ I started.
‘“I think he has run into your garden,’ he said. ‘Can I take a look?’
“‘I haven’t seen any dog,’ I tried to assure him, just wanting the stranger to go away.
‘“It won’t take a minute,’ he said, taking a step closer to my front door.
“Fearing that I wouldn’t be rid of this man unless he searched my back garden for his dog, but not wanting him in my house, I closed the front door another inch, telling him through the gap that he could get into my garden via the path at the side of the house and that the back gate could be opened by pressing the latch. The strange man grunted, then shuffled away, his back curved with its grotesque-looking lump.
“Closing the front door behind him, I shut the bolt and went to my kitchen. I watched the trampish-looking man shuffle into my back garden. For what seemed like an eternity, the man plodded up and down the length of my garden, peering into the bushes and flowerbeds. He stopped several times and looked at the ground. He stamped on it with his muddy boots then moved on again
. When I had just started to fear that he was never going to leave, he shuffled back over to the garden gate and left. I went to the front of my house, and from behind the living room curtains, I watched him make his way up the front garden path and along the street and out of my view. No sooner had he gone, then I called Ethan’s mobile.
‘“What’s wrong, Wendy?’ Ethan asked at the sound of my shaking voice. ‘Are you okay?’
“I told Ethan about the odd man, telling him how much he had spooked me.
“‘Give me an hour or so to finish up my work and I’ll be over,’ he tried to comfort me.
“‘Please, hurry,’ I whispered into the phone. ‘I don’t think the man was looking for a dog at all.’
“‘What makes you say that?’ Ethan asked me.
“‘Because all the time he was searching my garden, I never once heard that man call out the dog’s name,’ I said.
“Ethan had arrived in less than an hour and I fell into his arms. Sensing how much the stranger’s visit had scared me, Ethan stayed the night. But even as I lay in his arms, my head resting against his bare chest, all I could see when I closed my eyes was that disgusting man. I must have drifted off to sleep in the early hours of the morning, because when I woke daylight was pouring into my room through the bedroom windows and Ethan had gone. I looked at the bedside clock and could see that it was just after 11 a.m. Climbing out of bed, I went downstairs and into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Through the window I could see Ethan standing out on the lawn, hands on hips as he stared down at something on the grass. Leaving the kettle to boil on the stove, I pushed open the kitchen door and stepped out into the garden. The dew-covered grass oozed between my bare toes. Ethan must have heard the door open, as he spun around and waving one hand at me he said, ‘Go back inside the house, Wendy. Don’t come over here. You don’t need to see this.’
“But it was too late. I had already seen it. With my hands to my face, I stared at the body of the beheaded dog that lay in my garden. Someone or something had cut the Alsatian’s head off at the neck. There was so much blood that it had turned the green grass black. Gasping in fright, I stumbled backwards toward the open door. Seeing the fear in my eyes, Ethan rushed forward and led me back into the house. He helped me down into a chair at the kitchen table.
“‘It’s that man’s dog,’ I panted as if struggling to catch my breath.
‘“Drink this,’ Ethan said, handing me a glass of cold water.
“‘What’s it doing dead in my garden?’ I said, heart racing. ‘And why has its head been cut off?’
‘“I don’t know,’ Ethan said, taking the chair next to mine and taking my hands in his. His face had drained of colour, leaving him looking gaunt and haunted.
“‘Do you think that strange man did it?’ I asked, trying to make sense of what was now lying in my garden.
‘“Why would he cut his own dog’s head off and leave it in your back garden?’ Ethan said, staring at me. He looked as confused as I felt.
“‘You didn’t see him, Ethan,’ I said. ‘He really creeped me out.’
“Ethan took a sip of the water, then said, ‘Perhaps his dog did run off and it was found digging up someone else’s garden. They killed it and dumped it here?’
“I looked at him wide-eyed and said, ‘You’ve lived in this village longer than I have, but do you really think that someone local is really capable of doing such a thing? And why dump the dead dog in my garden?’
‘“I don’t know,’ Ethan said, drawing a deep breath and blowing out his cheeks.
“‘Do you think we should call the police?’ I asked him.
‘“And say what?’ he asked me. ‘That we’ve found a decapitated dog in the garden but we have no idea who did it or how it got there? I think the best thing to do is bury it.’
“‘Not in my garden,’ I said, jumping up. ‘I just want it out of here.’
‘“Okay, okay,’ Ethan hushed, taking me in his arms and holding me tight to him. ‘Why don’t you go and shower while I deal with the dead dog.’
“Slipping from his arms, I went and showered and as I stood beneath the steaming water, I tried to wash thoughts of that man and his dog away. After putting on a fresh set of clothes, I made my way back downstairs. The dog was gone and Ethan was standing in the garden washing away the blood with the water that splashed from the hose. From the open kitchen doorway, I said ‘Where is it? Have you buried it?’
‘“I’ve wrapped it up in some old tarpaulin I found in your shed,’ Ethan explained, looking back over his shoulder at me. ‘I’ve hidden it around the back of the shed so it’s out of sight. There’s not much more I can do for now as I’ve got a job on this afternoon for a client, but I’ll be back later.’
“Ethan turned off the water and came toward me. Although part of me didn’t want to be left alone, I felt better that the dog had at least been moved from where I could see it. I did feel a little creeped out that it was still in my garden, even though it was right out of sight.
“As if sensing that I still felt a little upset by the whole incident, Ethan took me in his arms and kissed me gently on the tip of my nose. ‘I’ll go and sort out this job, then I’ll go home, put on some old clothes, and take the dog up to the pet cemetery, and that will be the end of it. I won’t be more than a few hours. I promise.’
“I held onto him for a few moments longer, feeling safe in his strong arms. At last I let him go. We kissed and he left. I slid the bolt firm in place, locking my front door. I went back to the kitchen where my laptop sat on the table. I had been halfway through writing my next book, but it was hard to find the flow. The words almost seemed to clank and jolt from my brain, down and out of my fingers to the keys and onto the screen, whereas they usually flowed. I don’t know how much time had passed as I sat at the kitchen table when I was startled by a noise from the garden. Springing up out of my chair, I went to the window. With images of a headless dog staggering across the lawn, I peered out into the garden, a sharp gasp tearing up out of my throat. The tramp-like man was now back in my garden. And just as he had on his previous visit, he was once again searching my garden for his dog. He shuffled up and down, stopping every now and then to look down at the ground from behind his thick black glasses. He would then stomp on the grass with his worn-looking boots, then hobble on again, stooped forward. He had come back in search of his dog. But it was dead and now wrapped in tarpaulin and hidden behind my garden shed. Not knowing what to do, I stepped back from the window. But I was too late. Before I had slipped back into the shadows of my kitchen, the hunched-back man with his unkempt beard looked up at me. I froze, my skin becoming tight with gooseflesh. He shuffled forward and peered in at me through the window.
‘“Dog,’ he breathed, the pane of glass clouding over with his vile breath. He smeared it away with his grime-covered hand. The sound it made was like the blade of a dull knife been scrapped over bone. I shuddered.
‘“Dog,’ he whispered again as he stared into the kitchen at me.
“Heart racing, I made my way toward the kitchen door, and turning the key, I opened it just a crack. I stared around the edge of the door at him. His mud-covered coat flapped about the shins of his worn trousers. He shuffled to the door, and I closed it a fraction more.
“With my mouth turning dry, I looked at him and said, ‘“What kind of dog are you looking for?’
“‘Big one,’ he mumbled, his voice low and deep.
‘“Was it an Alsatian?’ I asked, just wanting him to go away.
He nodded his giant head, making a grunting noise in the back of his throat.
“Drawing a deep breath in an attempt to steady my racing heart, I said, ‘“I’m very sorry to tell you that your dog is dead. Me and my husband found it this morning lying on the grass.’ I lied about Ethan being my husband as I wanted this wretched man to believe that there was a man living at the house with me. I didn’t want him to know that I lived alone.
‘“Dead?’ the man
breathed behind his tangled and matted beard.
‘“I’m very sorry,’ I said.
“‘Where?’ the stranger breathed, shuffling around, the lump beneath his coat, rising up like a small hill in the centre of his back.
‘“My husband has wrapped the dog up in some tarpaulin and placed your dog out of the way behind the shed,’ I explained. ‘We couldn’t have just left it lying in the middle of the garden you understand.’
“Without looking back, the man shuffled over toward the shed, disappearing behind it. He seemed to be around there a very long time. I opened the door another inch or two, but could hear nothing. ‘Hello?’ I called out. Nothing. Pushing the door wide, I stepped out into the garden and crept toward the shed. Then just as I reached it, the man loomed up before me from behind the shed. I gasped and staggered backwards. It was only then, as he towered over me in the open, I realised how tall he was. He must have been six-foot-six at least, even when stooped forward. I had never seen such a hulk of a man. Just as I was about to scream for him to leave and get out of my garden, his giant shoulders began to heave up and down as he started to sob.
‘“My dog,’ he cried, making a hitching noise in the back of his throat. ‘My dog is dead.’
“I glanced around the side of the shed and could see that he had unwound the tarpaulin Ethan had wrapped the dog in. I cringed away at the sight of the mound of bristling black fur and the blood that was smeared over it. I looked back at the giant lump of a man as he stood and sobbed before me. And even though the sight of him repulsed and scared me, I suddenly found myself feeling sorry for him. I guessed the dog had been his sole companion in life – his best friend.
‘“I’m sorry,’ I whispered, now feeling suddenly very uncharitable. ‘My husband is going to bury the dog in the pet cemetery for you.’
“‘My dog,’ the man sniffed back his tears. ‘I’ll bury it.’
“A sudden sense of relief washed over me and again I felt suddenly selfish. But if this man wanted to take the dead dog now then he would never need to come back and that would be the last I saw of him.