by M. P. Wright
The open wrought-iron gates that greeted me when I reached the gravel driveway that the Jaguar had turned into were flanked by two stone pillars and a large retaining wall that followed the perimeter of the property. Behind the wall, as far as I could tell from the light of my torch, was a lengthy, expansive lawn with the drive leading directly up to the property, which was elevated on top of a grassy bank. On the ground floor of the house, which resembled the old slave traders’ mansions back home, were three large floor-to-ceiling French windows. Their drawn curtains prevented the light from escaping through them, but there was still a dull illumination that seeped through the fabric and it was just enough to let me to see where I was going.
I walked on the snow-sodden grass rather than the gravel to mask my footsteps as I neared the property. I moved to my left and made my way along the side of the enormous building, which had the same style large windows, all with their drapes thankfully pulled to, allowing me fairly easy access to the rear of the building. I could hear the faint sound of classical music playing inside as I darted across to some out buildings; a single outside light shone, which gave me a clearer view of the back of the house. To the right of the building an open courtyard area was being used as a makeshift car park. Whatever was going on inside had dragged in quite a crowd for the night, judging by the number of flash motors that were hauled up at the rear of the building.
I turned off my torch and decided to make my way over towards what I believed was the kitchen and sneak a peek into the only windows in the whole building that hadn’t been shrouded from the world outside by thick curtaining. I knew that there was no way I could get inside without being caught. The last time a black dude had been anywhere near the house he would probably have been dragged through the main gates on the end of a chain and collar. The place had me spooked, but I’d come this far and I needed something to show for my efforts. Whoever was holding the shindig inside certainly wanted to keep the get-together private.
The place was buttoned down like a prison. There wasn’t a chance in hell that I was going to any further than the back door, but I would’ve liked to have taken a look at what was going on inside to find out why a woman had been brought from one party in St Pauls and driven nearly sixty miles to another in the middle of nowhere. I moved quietly between the parked vehicles and edged further towards the back of the house to get a look at what was going on in there. It was as I neared the rear entrance that I became aware of something behind me. I stopped dead in my tracks as I heard the low mumbling growl of a dog.
I turned slowly and watched as a large Alsatian came out of the darkness to face me head-on, its black and tan body lit up from the low-watt glow of the outdoor light. The dog’s stance told me everything I needed to know and kept me firmly glued to the spot I was standing on. The flews around the top of his mouth were raised, showing a fearful array of sharp white teeth; its ears were raised forward; the big beast’s dark, unblinking eyes penetrated deep into me, sensing my fear, awaiting my next move, its hardened gaze willing me to flee so that it could fullfil its natural instinct to protect and guard. I was now standing between the wing mirrors of two cars, with a further three vehicles parked parallel either side of me. If I ran to my right I had no idea where I was going to end up; my only realistic way out was the way I had come in. I knew there was no chance that I could outrun the dog back to my car, but at the same time I didn’t want to be caught prying around in the dark at the back of the house by the staff if the damn mutt started to bark its head off.
With my head held low, keeping my eyes away from the Alsatian’s angry stare and trying not to aggravate it further, I knew I had little choice other than to take off at a sprint and hope for the best. I took a deep breath and shot to my left, planting my foot onto the car tyre beneath the wheel arch, grabbing hold of the base of the rooftop aerial to pull myself up and onto the bonnet, and jumping across onto the second car as I heard the massive dog bolt forward while I leapt across the engine of the third and final vehicle in the row. I hit the icy gravel hard, running for all I was worth. Maybe it was fear that had messed up my hearing, either that or wishful thinking, but at first I thought the dog wasn’t chasing after me.
I was about fifteen yards across the lawn heading full pelt for the wall, which was partially hidden by a row of trees, when I heard the heavy pounding of the dog’s feet running at great speed behind me. I had no choice but to turn, face it and fight for all I was worth. I turned to face the dog, which was hurtling towards me and only a couple of feet away. I pulled my body in tight, clenching my fists in the leather gloves as it leapt towards my left arm. I instinctively swung away from its snapping jaw, its mouth snapping at my coat sleeve. I brought my left fist in hard into the side of its right ear as it luckily bit down into thin air. My blow made little impact on the animal but threw it off balance slightly and gave me enough time to kick into its guts savagely with my foot.
Raw adrenaline now racing through my veins had given me a second wind and I burst across the remainder of the open ground with the dog now barking as it came in behind me. I was only a few feet away from the line of trees and the wall when I felt it tear down at the hem of my overcoat, dragging me on to the slush-coated grass. I rolled over onto my back, my legs lashing out in every direction, my feet making contact with the Alsatian’s muzzle a couple of times, provoking its aggression even further. It darted around to my side as I attempted to get to my knees, biting into my lower left arm. I yelled out in agony as it sunk its teeth into me. Taking a firm grip of my wrist, the dog began to shake its head viscously from side to side, my arm being thrown about like a rag doll in its mouth. I knew if I stayed on my knees I’d have no chance against its savage attack.
Going against all my instincts, I gripped hold of the Alsatian’s ear, pulling its head towards me, pushing my arm further inside its mouth, so that it began to gag rather than continue to bite down on me. It gave me the briefest of chances to pull the dog towards the ground. I bore all the weight of my body down onto the bulky animal, and as I did, I beat at its ribcage with my fist repeatedly before bringing my right hand between its front legs, grabbing hold of the leather collar around its neck and twisting it tightly, choking the air from its throat. I felt it loosen its grip on me and I yanked my arm out of its mouth, then, with all the strength I possessed, I dragged myself and the dog up and in the same motion spun myself and the dog around, lifting it off of its feet and slamming it at waist height into the trunk of a tree. Rather than drop the beast and run, I let a blind rage enter my heart.
I continued with the bodily momentum I’d generated from the first spin and again tore the dog around for a second time, smashing it again into the side of the tree with a far crueller ferocity than the dog had previously inflicted upon me. I heard the crack of its spine snapping as it smacked against the dense bark. Releasing my grip on the animal, I watched it fall with a heavy thud limply at my feet, its legs giving short involuntary spasms as the last of its life left it.
I could hear the shouts of men behind me in the dark as I clambered breathlessly over the wall, dropping down into the ditch below. I scrambled up the other side of the waterlogged gully, running down the lane towards my car. I did not turn back to see if anyone was giving chase. I felt blood trickle down my arm, its sticky flow dripping around my cuff and over the back of my glove onto the snowy road as I ran, my heart pounding with such force I thought it was about to burst out of my chest.
18
I could feel the warm wetness of blood around my left hand and fingers as it began to seep into the lining of my glove, my arm throbbing from the dog bite. I fumbled for the Cortina’s keys in my jacket pocket and eventually pulled them out and rested my head on the roof of the car to get myself together and slow my breathing down a little. Whoever it was that had been running after me across the lawn appeared to have given up scaling the wall as I’d done, and the lane behind me looked pretty quiet.
I was soaked through to the skin and sh
aking from head to foot. A small light hung from outside the entrance to the village church gates opposite to where I had parked, and its orange shade glowed behind me but offered little assistance as I struggled to fit the key into the lock to open up the car and get myself the hell out of there. When I finally managed to get the key where it needed to be, I turned it quickly and yanked open the door, then sat in the driver’s seat with my legs still hanging out in the street, my head dropping and chin resting on my chest, exhausted. I pulled off my sodden leather glove, dropped it onto the footwell of the car and watched as the blood continued to run down my hand and dripped onto the snowy ground at my feet.
“You all right there, sonny . . . ?”
Startled, I looked up to find an elderly man standing in front of me. His silver hair and bulky frame were covered by a thick black overcoat and his collar was turned up, which the man held around his throat to keep the night chill out. I could just make out his flushed, ruddy cheeks and bulbous nose from the glow of the gentle beam of the lamp behind him. He smiled at me, then looked down to where my blood was staining the white snow crystals.
“I’ve had better nights, if I’m honest.” I looked back down at my feet.
“Well, it’s not going to get any better with you bleeding all over the place like that, is it? From the look of you, you’re in no fit state to drive anywhere at the minute.”
The old man was right. The last thing I needed was a long drive back to Bristol wet, cold and leaking blood all over the inside of Carnell’s car, but I’d no interest in hanging around any longer than I had to either.
I didn’t fancy coming face to face with whoever had chased me from the grounds of the house and ending up in another fist fight. I decided to get moving, so I turned in my seat, pulled my legs into the car and fired up the engine. I was about to pull the door to when the old guy grabbed at the handle, his strength surprising me for a man of such advanced years.
“Please . . . don’t be such a bloody fool, man. Look at you: you’ll barely make it out of the village in that state. Turn off that damn engine and come with me, let’s get you warm and cleaned up at least, shall we?”
Like a berated school child, I did as I was told and turned off the motor. I’d never been a man who trusted easily, especially white strangers, and that faithful instinct should have been no different tonight, but there was something about the old fellow, his smile, the placid look in his gentle eyes, that swayed me, and in truth I was in no position to argue. As I sat staring weakly back up at him, I could feel my exhausted body closing down with the cold and pain. I switched off the ignition and pulled myself out of the driver’s seat, holding onto the door frame to haul myself back up into a standing position.
“Come along with me, it’s not far to walk, just up by the church there.”
He pointed up towards a thin unlit path that ran between two high privet hedges. I had no idea where the dense gravel walkway would lead me and at that moment in time I didn’t really care; I just wanted to get myself dry and take a look at what kind of mess my arm was in.
I followed the old boy up the path cradling my throbbing arm in my hand, and put my head down to prevent the wayward, untrimmed hedging from slapping me in the face as it bounced off the back of the stranger’s shoulders in front of me. He stopped abruptly, and I lifted my head and was greeted by the subtle glimmering of lights that shone dimly behind small panes of glass from the two slim bay windows of the cottage that was set back at the top of the path. The stranger opened up a waist-high wooden gate, not bothering to look behind him to see if I was following, lifted a black metal latch on the front door and walked into the cottage, turning to face me and drawing me into the hallway with a single wave of his hand.
“Right, let’s make you a little more comfortable shall we, Mr . . . ?”
The old man turned away from me as he spoke, unbuttoning his coat, pulling it from his shoulders and hanging it onto a single brass hook nailed into the hall wall, which was covered in yellowing, faded paisley wallpaper before turning back to me.
“The name’s Ellington, Jose—”
I stopped mid sentence, staring in surprise as I watched the aging stranger as he pulled the clerical collar from his neck with nimble, long, bony fingers and undid the top button of his black shirt.
“That’s better; I’ve had the thing on since six o’clock this morning. It normally begins to feel like a bloody noose around my throat by teatime.”
He laughed to himself before raising his hand to greet me in a formal manner before realising I wasn’t in any fit state to reciprocate.
“Oh, I am sorry . . . I can be an old fool sometimes. I’m Reverend Southerington, I’m the parish vicar here at St Mary Magdalene . . . but please, call me Philip; it’s a little late in the day for the kind of strict formality that is calling each other by our surnames, don’t you think? So did I hear you nearly say that you name was Joseph?”
“Yeah that’s right . . . The dog collar t’rew me fo’ a moment.”
“Oh, you’re not the first, my good man, happens all the time. People see the thing strapped to my neck and immediately become intimidated, I’m sure they think it gives me special powers over them or some other silly bloody mumbo jumbo . . . Now let’s get you out of that wet coat and I’ll take a look at what’s going on with that arm of yours. Come on through into the kitchen and sit yourself down.”
I followed the Reverend Southerington into his small kitchen, pulled off my drenched overcoat and jacket, dropped them on the floor, then sank down onto the wooden dining chair he’d pulled out in front of me and unbuttoned the cuff on my shirt. I rolled up the sleeve, revealing a nasty pair of puncture wounds from the dog’s bite that were still oozing out a steady flow of blood from them.
“Been playing ball with a dog have you, Joseph . . . and quite a big one from the looks of that bite?”
“Oh yeah . . . It was sizable, that’s fo’ sure.”
The reverend leaned to open a drawer by the side of him and pulled out a clean tea towel, then knelt down in front of me and placed it over my arm, applying pressure and making me wince in pain as he gently squeezed to stem the flow of blood.
“Only dog I know round about here that could inflict that kind if damage is back up on the Blanchard estate. It’s kept up there for a reason and that’s generally to keep people out . . . especially in the wee small hours.”
“I wouldn’t know where it came from. Damn ting jumped out at me back up the lane as I was taking a pee in the hedgerow,” I lied.
“Taking a pee, you say, then it’s a bloody good job it was only your arm he bit, don’t you think?”
The old vicar looked into my eyes, hoping for a reaction, then, seeing none, laughed again to himself at his witty remark to me.
“Here, put your hand over this cloth and hold it up while I go and get something to clean and bandage that arm with.”
I did as I was told and watched him walk out of the kitchen and open a cupboard door by the entrance to the kitchen and listened to him mumbling to himself as he rummaged around inside. The kitchen was plain, clean and homely with a wood-burning fire that was kicking out a fair amount of heat. He returned carrying in his hands a tin box rusting at its edges with Camp Coffee printed on its sides and lid. He placed it on the kitchen table, then went over to a Welsh dresser that stood on the back wall and opened the small right-hand hatch door and reached inside, pulling out a large bottle of Bell’s whisky.
“We’ll have a nip of this in a minute.”
He unscrewed the cap, placed it onto the kitchen table next to the tin box, then knelt down next to me again, lifted the cloth from my arm and poured the Scotch over it.
“Son of a bitch . . . !”
“Smarts a little, doesn’t it?” The reverend winked at me as he put the bottle back onto the table and lifted the tin box onto the floor, opening it to reveal neatly wrapped white bandages and other medical supplies.
“Smarts . . . Shit, that’s on
e word fo’ it.” I grimaced more from the fact that I had sworn in front of a man of the cloth than the stinging pain in my arm caused by the alcohol.
“Best thing to clear out infection, especially a dirty dog bite. Now let’s have a closer look.”
The old man took a swab of lint dressing, reached for the bottle and soaked it in Scotch, and dabbed in around the puncture holes.
“You’re a lucky chappie, these bites have just punctured the flesh. Dog like the one the Blanchard estate owns would have done its best at taking your whole arm right off if it had wanted to; this is just a flesh wound . . . I’ve seen a lot worse.”
“Oh yeah, so how come you’re a dog-bite specialist as well as a man of God?” I remarked, still feeling the burn from the neat alcohol he’d doused me with.
“I’ve seen what damage a big dog can really do, though not in this country . . . somewhere else, a long time ago.”
“Yeah . . . ? Where’d that be then?”
“Changi jail . . . I was held prisoner there after the fall of Singapore in 1942. The Japanese guards had a fondness for loosing the dogs off into the billets at night. Keep us on our toes, make us think twice in case we were thinking of escaping. Not that there was much chance of that. They starved the dogs nearly as much as they did us. I’ve seen them tear away the back of a man’s calf from his leg as he tried to run from them before now.”
The old man stopped cleaning at my arm for a moment and his stare remained locked momentarily upon my wound before returning to his story.
“The guards eventually stopped using their dogs to keep us in check. No need for them. Most of us were too weak to run anyway. The Japanese had a simple formula at Changi: if you worked you ate, if you didn’t you starved. By 1945, when food became almost non-existent, to keep us working they fed us the dogs. By the time we were liberated we were just skin and bones.”