Bog Man

by M T McGuire

  ****

  The sun shone bright and crisp on the fen as the Director took his dog for its early morning run. The birds were singing and despite the wateriness of the sun the air held the promise of spring. It was seven a.m. and there was nobody else about, his wife was still in bed – not surprising after forty minutes of listening to Sally blubbing at one o’clock in the morning. Never mind, she had made some headway, apparently, he looked forward to chatting to her about it over the breakfast table... or, if she wasn’t up by the time he returned, he would make her breakfast in bed. Toast and jam, because cooking much else wasn’t his forte, with lots of fresh filter coffee.

  The Director liked these early sessions, they gave him time to clear his mind before the day started in earnest. As he walked he took his coat off and slung it over one shoulder, the dog trotting ahead of him. After he had come about half a mile, just past the place where they had found Bog, he stopped and sat down on his usual bench where, as was his habit, he opened his newspaper. It was still warm but the sun had acquired a hazy quality, as if there was mist coming down. At first he was too busy reading, and occasionally glancing up to check on the whereabouts of his dog, to notice anything unusual. Then he saw it. Rolling across the fields towards him was a wall of thick white fog. It was so dense that nothing could be seen through it at all and it was moving at speed like a pyroclastic cloud.

  Eerie. The Director was seized with an irrational desire to run for his life. He stood up and called the dog who came at once, her tail between her legs. She was no more impressed by the fog than he was. The wall of billowing whiteness was about a hundred yards away now and as it engulfed a small tree the Director made up his mind. With fumbling fingers he connected his pet to the lead and they proceeded, as fast as they could, in the opposite direction.

  The Director and his dog were both reasonably fit but they had gone no more than twenty yards when the fog reached them, icy wisps of white flowing round them. The Director cried out and panted for breath, he felt as if he was drowning as the stifling blanket of moisture enveloped him. It wrapped itself about him like frozen fingers and seemed to hold him there as he coughed and struggled. He battled forwards with all the strength and energy he could muster, his only aim to be free of his rising claustrophobia and that was when he left the path. Or did the path leave him? One step he felt the ground under his feet the next he was flailing through reeds, waist-deep in brackish water.

  The fog parted enough for him to be able to see the figure of a man. He was small and squat, dressed in clothes of sacking and in his raised hand he held a flint-tipped spear. Despite the panic which had taken hold of him the Director had time to notice that the figure was left handed and wearing a gold ring.

  “Oh very droll,” this had to be a joke, except that the Director wasn’t finding it funny. “Hello Bog.”

  As the stranger’s expressionless gaze met the Director’s he spoke in some unintelligible tongue. No doubt one of the keepers at the Museum would have been able to translate, but unfortunately the Director was none the wiser. Perhaps it was one of the Museum’s younger, more exuberant employees. No. It didn’t look like it. The Director reacted in the manner of most frightened people, with anger.

  “Well, Bog, or whoever you are, if this is some kind of sick joke, I should warn you that I am unamused and now, not only am I unamused but I am very much in the mood for firing people,” the figure stared at him blankly. “I will also sue you,” continued the Director. “I will sue you for every penny you possess, no I will sue you for such enormous amounts that you will have to sell your soul to the devil to pay me. Do you understand?”

  The figure continued to stare.

  “Well DO YOU!” shouted the Director. “Because now’s the time to own up, before I really lose my temper.”

  The figure yelled, waving its arms, and lunged at him. Screaming, he blundered away. Something caught him a glancing blow on the back of the head and he felt himself falling into unconsciousness. No. He would drown in the water, but the surface he landed on was hard.

  When he awoke, he was lying face down on the grass, the sun was a little higher in the sky and the birds were singing. His clothes and body were covered in slime as if he had been wading through some deep, stagnant quagmire and smelled like it, to boot. But the Director gave it little thought as he searched, distraught, for his dog.

  Sometime later, he had no idea how long, he realised he was panicking. He stopped, took some deep breaths and tried to calm down. He’d had a bang on the head and he didn’t really know what had happened to him, he did know where he lived and worked, though, and he realised he should go back there.

  By the time he reached the Museum gate he had almost successfully convinced himself that the morning’s experience was nothing more than a dream he’s had while he was out cold. He checked the facts in his head, one, he had obviously been in the river – the state of his clothes bore witness to that – but it must have happened before he’d knocked himself out because, in the manner of the concussed, he had forgotten. Perhaps he had slipped, too… Wolf was gone. Her absence was more difficult to explain, she often disappeared on her own but she always returned to him.

  He looked at his watch and immediately wondered why he had bothered, the glass was full of brown pond water and it had stopped. He wondered how long he had searched for Wolf, an hour? More? Maybe?

  He hoped his recalcitrant pet would be the first thing he saw but when he arrived home but he found the place significantly free of domesticated animals.

  He rubbed the back of his head, it was tender and aching and all he wanted was a hot bath. As he mounted the stairs his secretary appeared from her office.

  “Doctor Bond, they found something else on the fen yesterday.”

  He turned and she took in the state of his clothes,

  “Oh… What happened? Are you alright?”

  He shrugged, spread his hands and shook his head in the hope it would clear his confusion.

  “I’m fine, I had a bit of an accident that’s all, I lost the dog,” he shook his head again, “she got frightened, fell in the river I think. I don’t really know, I don’t remember much, my head, maybe I’m concussed?” He shrugged again. “I think I’d better go and change.”

  “I’ll cancel your meetings and call a doctor. There wasn’t much on this morning, only Sally.”

  “Terry’s wife?”

  “Yes.”

  He swallowed. He imagined the slight form of forty-a-day Terry thrashing about in the marshes, trying to escape from hessian-clad hunters with stone tipped spears. He wouldn’t have stood a chance. The Director was taller, thicker-set and certainly fitter than Terry. There but for the grace of God…

  “I gather she’s upset,” he said.

  “Yes,” said his secretary.

  He glanced down at the soggy remains of the second Saville Row suit ruined in as many days.

  “Aren’t we all.” he muttered. “Alright, I’ll see her. But I’ll see a doctor, first, if I may.”

  “Henderson, from the medical school, was in the Friends Room a few minutes ago. If he’s still there do you want me to borrow him for a moment to come and look you over.”

  The Director gave her a grateful smile.

  “Yes, thank you, right away if you please. When is Sally due in?”

  “In just over an hour.”

  “Ah. How bad is she?”

  The secretary leaned towards him and adopted a confidential air.

  “I think she’s totally lost it,” she whispered tapping her head with her finger.

  “Don’t tell me, she thinks Bog’s Terry.”

  She stared at him.

  “Yes.”

  He shivered. So did he.

  “That report from Antiquities?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell them I’ve read it. I want them to get that thing X-rayed as soon as possible and ask if the police have been informed and whatever the answer, please tell the Keeper to
double check they don’t want to examine its teeth for dental records.”

  “It’s obviously not a modern body.” Her brow furrowed in a perplexed frown.

  “I agree it’s unlikely but until we are absolutely certain we must do this by the book.”

  “If you insist–”

  “Yes, I do insist, I was talking to old Grierson at the Museum of Archaeology and he said the first thing you must do with a,” he waved on hand in the general direction of the kitchen, “thing, like this, whatever the evidence to the contrary, is to check it’s not a murder victim.”

  “But it’s thousands of years old.”

  “Yes. Allegedly.”

  “Surely the Department of Antiquities–”

  “Could have made a mistake? Yes, it’s perfectly possible,” said the Director firmly, “Oh and is there anything more on the ring?”

  “Not yet, Dr Bond.”

  “Yesterday on the fen, they’d found something else, you said, was it a black and white mongrel dog? You know, a bit like mine.”

  She was very pale.

  “Yes. I’m so sorry, today of all days, when you’ve lost–”

  “Indeed.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I heard some people talking about it yesterday evening,” he lied and went upstairs. He would be committed after this, he thought grimly, or imprisoned for the murder of Terry: one or the other.