To the rhythm of my steps I chanted a mantra: Don’t let him die, please, don’t let him die. He may have been a grade A dickhead but I didn’t want to be his murderer.
The road led to a T-junction. A quaint black and white signpost told me that I was five miles from Northwich and one and a half from Little Leigh. One and a half. Waves of pity nudged me. It wasn’t fair. How could I walk another mile and a half? I was tired and thirsty. So thirsty. I had a sudden vivid memory from childhood, morning walk to school, trailing my fingers through the privet hedges sucking dew from my fingertips.
I stepped up to the hedge. Full of hawthorn and brambles. I felt like throwing a tantrum. There was a little grass growing beneath the hedge. I ran my hands through a clump, washing away the worst of the rusty bloodstains. Then I found a fresh patch and ran my hands through it, licking the droplets of dew from my palms and fingers. There was a large spider’s web in the hedge, strung with silver beads of dew, diamonds. Perfect. I got to my feet shivering. Aware again of how weak I felt, how much I ached. A mile and a half then.
I pushed myself again, tried to establish a rhythm, the air in my windpipe burning with each gasp. Please don’t let him die, please, don’t let him die. I could taste my lungs. Past, the tall tree on the left. Cows to the right, huge Friesians, like cartoons, black and white against the lush grass. Another gate. Please don’t let him die.
Then I saw the man and his dog.
There’s always a man and a dog, isn’t there? While the rest of us luxuriate in the final hour in bed the dog walkers are up and out, rain or shine, discovering the dark deeds the night has spawned. Stumbling over shallow graves, corpses.
He was a small man, middle-aged, glasses and a neat moustache. He wore a waterproof jacket and a woolly hat. He looked shocked when he first saw me, then concerned as we drew closer. You couldn’t blame him. Clad in a T-shirt, smashed-up face, spattered red. The dog was small, brown, nondescript, friendly enough. It tried to lick the blood off my leg.
‘Get an ambulance,’ I said to the man, ‘and the police.’
‘Has there been an accident? Are you all right?’ He pushed the dog away from me gently with his foot. ‘Get down, Shep.’
Shep! I felt a giggle inflate in my belly. ‘Yes, please hurry. Tell them there’s a man with head injuries, up at Malden’s, you know where…’
He nodded. ‘Come on, Shep.’ He began to run, really run, the dog at his heels. I turned back for Malden’s.