Black Dog

Black Dog

Like slipping on a banana skin or falling off a bike it was an accident waiting to happen. The car clipped the chevron sign, span round, drifted across the road and slipped into the drainage ditch. Sitting still for a moment, she waited for the car to slip further, or some other catastrophe to follow. Stupid really, she knew how dangerous this road was. No end of accidents and fatalities. The car rested, still. Then the engine stalled and cut out. Shocked but considering herself lucky she opened the driver's door to look around. Although the back end of the car was resting in the inky water there was room for her to clamber out of the door and on to the steep bank without getting wet. Coat and bag were on the back seat but reaching over made the car rock and risked sending it further into the drain. Best to leave everything. It wasn't that cold after all. Another car would be along in a moment, someone would stop and help.

Climbing out of the dyke wasn't as easy as she'd hoped. With every step the fenland mud oozed around her feet; the black slub coming above her ankles. Centuries of plants had gently decayed in the layers of murky peat, a composting of grass and leaves, festering dead frogs and newts that all collected as evil muck. With every step the gases from the rotting mess wafted up with a smell of decay, old earth and dead breath that hung around her. Grasping at the clumps of grass helped her get a purchase to climb the side of the dyke but with each handful the roots pulled away from the bank, foiling her attempts. She was stuck half way down this putrid, mouldy excuse of a drainage ditch. Perhaps there was somewhere where the bank was not so steep, maybe a place where a bridge had been built or machinery left that would give a foothold. Maybe the wreck of a car from a previous accident. Looking along the dyke all that could be seen was yards and more yards of straight, steep bank. Then she saw a shadow moving. A shadow that gradually took on the shape of a dog. A dog trotting along on his own, on the top of the bank.

'Here boy,' she called. The dog came to the side of the bank.

'Come here. Good boy.' How to interest him in staying, on coming closer? Nothing around to encourage him.

'Please come here, good boy. Please.'

The dog lowered himself onto his haunches and looked down at her. His soft skin fell down across his brows, as if he was frowning. As if thinking, 'Now what to do?'

'Come here.' She clicked her fingers at him.

The dog crept forwards, still low, down on his stomach, coming closer. She caught hold of his collar with her right hand and as he leapt backwards trying to get away she held tight and used her left hand to push herself up the bank. Scrabbling with one hand, digging feet into the soft side of the bank, pushing knees into the grass and clinging, clambering, to get to the top of the bank.

The winter dusk was turning to night. Looking across the fields she could see no other cars coming, no encouraging beams of light as people travelled home from work. No lifts to be offered or roadside assistance called. Just fields of black ploughed land that stretched for miles. A flat landscape that was only broken by the dark fringes of reeds where the drainage dykes criss-crossed the land. And far off the lights of a town, away on the horizon. She could see the lantern tower of Ely Cathedral, lit up by spotlights that made it look as though floating above the city, protecting the souls of the residents below. Within sight, but out of reach. Miles away out of reach.

She patted the dog. His coat was silky, groomed and well cared for, he had a name disk but by now it was too dark to be able to read. With his soft coat and gentle snuffling muzzle it was clear that this was no stray. This dog was loved and pampered, with a basket waiting by a hearthside. More importantly, this dog's home probably wasn't too far away. That was it, the best thing to do was to go back with the dog, to his home, and call for help from there.