Echoes. Laura Dockrill

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       Banshel

      I often took late walks, especially whilst house sitting for the Barretts. They had a strange little dog called Mozart, friendly, but oddly curious, and I would walk him along the beach and on top of the cliffs. The seaside, at night, is terrifying. Thinking back, I don’t know why we walked that way.

      Here, in the night light, the pebbles took on the characteristics of beetle’s eyes. The sea was cold and ringing, the air piercing, the wind howling, burying itself into cracks in cliffs, the loose rocks surveying the emptiness like watchmen. The subtle salt residue clung to the cliff face like leftover tears; the grass took a beating and warned the seagulls of the weather. Beacons lit the land, dusted the beach like the crumbs of a Christmas ginger biscuit. Apprehension hung in the playground like a word on a lover’s lip; ghosts swung on swings, slid down steel and round on rubber, shared kisses, and passers-by breathed invisible cigarettes and bad kids smoked real ones.

      Mozart ran to the heath, barking. I threw him a ball but we were both too blind in the darkness to see it. He ran into the night, I watched the end of his tail trail off until I could no longer see him.

      ‘Come on, Mozart,’ I called, searching for him. The blackness was dense and secretive. It hid the world away from me.

      ‘Mozart, here boy…come now, boy.’ I heard his barks but he was nowhere to be seen.

      ‘Mozart!’ I shouted, louder this time. The barks faded. I began to walk towards the heath. My mouth tasted of copper. The wind stirred and I felt pressure behind me, heavy, as though a pair of invisible hands had shoved me forwards.

      The darkness had smothered me like a kitten in a trapped curtain. I scrambled but all I could see was the end or the beginning of a dense search.

      Now I am as mad as the eye of a rabid crow.

      As lost as a missing glove.

      As discomforted as drinking tea from a neighbour’s mug.

      And my heart is anywhere but home.

      At first I thought I was dreaming, as clichéd as it is. I saw her by the sea, a hood over her head, so small and dark that it would have been quite possible to have missed her, if I had wished to. Her elbows were working; I saw her shifting–forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards–as though she were sanding wood.

      I should have let her be.

      By the light of the beacon I made out the woman in some more detail. What was she doing out so late? I made my way over the stones, the air was cold, deathly cold. The sea hushed in and out, sweeping.

      ‘Excuse me,’ I began. ‘Excuse me…’

      The lady clearly couldn’t hear. I went closer; the air was biting my nose, and a tear ran down my face.

      ‘Excuse me…’ I tried again. ‘Sorry to bother you, but you haven’t by any chance seen a dog around have you? My dog has gone wandering.’

      Again, the lady ignored me. Strange.

      I left the lady and walked away from the sea. I would go to the top of the heath and call for Mozart there; I would be at an advantage from the height. I felt oddly obscure without Mozart’s company, wilting, and my panic was slowly translating to tiredness. With each hoof up the heath, I figured I could see him, his little body, wagering, but it was my mind playing tricks, until he howled a scuffed, scruffy moan from the end of the Barretts’ home and he was there, chewing something in between his clawed paws.

      ‘Good boy,’ I ruffled his back. ‘What you got there, boy? Let me see.’ Mozart snarled as I put my hand forward. ‘Come on, boy. What have you got there?’

      The dog growled, angrier this time, his eyes like yellow flames put my hairs on end. I reached in again. ‘Show me, boy, come on, Mo. GAH!’

      The dog bit my hand, not as hard as he could have but a bite all the same. That was unlike him. I felt as though I wanted to cry from sheer shock, it was too unusual, unusual behaviour indeed.