Dark Peak

by Adam J. Wright

  She frowns, weighing up the risk of getting into a stranger’s car against the discomfort of walking four or five more miles in this weather. I lied to her about the distance. The Little Nook B&B is two miles back. I passed it a couple of minutes ago.

  The answer to her dilemma seems to come easily to her. “If you’re sure you don’t mind,” she says.

  “Of course not. Jump in.”

  She takes off the rucksack and climbs into the passenger seat, putting the rucksack on the floor and holding it steady between her legs. “Thanks.”

  I put the car into gear and set off up the hill. “Don’t mention it. I couldn’t leave you back there in this weather, it wouldn’t be right. What are you doing out here on your own anyway?”

  She sighs. “I was hiking with my boyfriend, Mike, but we got into an argument so I went one way and he went the other.”

  “Oh dear, that doesn’t sound very good. Do you argue a lot?”

  “No, not really.” She glances at the side mirror as if expecting to see her boyfriend on the road behind us. “To be honest, when I went storming off, I thought he’d follow me and try to smooth things over.” She takes her eyes from the mirror and looks straight ahead. “But he didn’t.”

  I don’t say anything but shake my head in disapproval of her boyfriend’s actions. Now she’s in the warm car, out of the rain and confiding in someone, and I can tell she’ll keep talking without any prompting.

  “It isn’t like I even enjoy walking,” she says. “This holiday was all Mike’s idea.” She pauses and then folds her arms. “He’s probably sitting in a pub somewhere with a pint in his hand.”

  “He doesn’t sound like a very good boyfriend,” I tell her.

  She shrugs. “I seem to attract the wrong type of men.” A horrified look crosses her face and she adds, “Oh, God, I shouldn’t be telling you my problems. Forget I said that.”

  We pass the brow of the hill and begin the descent down the other side. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s easy to confide in someone you don’t know. You can tell me whatever you like.” I take my eyes off the road for a second and look at her. “I get the feeling Mike is just one in a long line of bad boys.”

  A slight smile curls the edge of her mouth but her eyes drop in shame. “Yeah, I guess I’m attracted to the wrong type of men. Mike’s problem is that he’s too hot-headed, you know? The slightest thing makes him fly off the handle. Then he goes and does something stupid, like leaving me alone out here.”

  I nod slowly in understanding. “What else does he do? People who have a short fuse like that are capable of a lot of things.”

  She shrugs again and looks out of the window, dismissing the question.

  “A friend of mine was like that,” I say softly. “When he lost his temper, he sometimes lashed out. Physically, I mean. His wife ended up with a few bruises.”

  “Oh no, Mike isn’t anything like that,” she says, clearly mortified that I might think he might be. “He’s never laid a finger on me. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  She isn’t making this easy for me. In my head, I’ve already picked a flower for her, a field poppy based on the red jacket. It’s a snap decision based on physical appearance, which I already berated myself about in regard to the redhead at Edge House. But I don’t have time to get to know this girl and choose a more appropriate flower. This isn’t how I choose my girls. I don’t pick them up randomly at the side of the road. My resolve begins to falter.

  “Are you all right?” she asks. She sees something in my face, something which brings the first tinge of fear into her eyes.

  “Yes, I’m fine. What did you say your name was?” I direct the conversation onto herself and away from me.

  “I didn’t. It’s Penny Meadows.”

  Penny Meadows. It’s almost too perfect. But at the same time, it isn’t. I should never have picked her up. I can’t just kill a random girl; it isn’t right. The others were chosen so carefully.

  A memory comes to me. I’m fifteen years old and standing outside our house in the village, waiting for my dad to come home. Before he left for work on the farm this morning, he told me the puppies that the farmer’s dog had are old enough to go to new homes. He’s promised he’ll bring one home. I told him I want a girl and that I’m going to call her Jenny.

  Mum is in the kitchen making liver and onions. The smell drifts out of the open windows and onto the street, making my mouth water. I want to go into the kitchen where the delicious smell is stronger and I can watch Mum getting everything ready for Dad’s return, but I can’t move from this spot until I see my new dog.

  After what seems like an eternity of waiting, I see him coming up the street with a small cardboard box under his arm and I go running towards him, my heart lifted by the sight of the box. “You got her,” I say when I reach him.

  He smiles and crouches, opening the box just a little to let me see the black-and-white bundle of fur inside. The dog lets out a yap that sounds both frightened and happy at the same time.

  When we get into the house, Mum comes from the kitchen to see the newest family member. Jenny springs out of the box and goes from Dad to Mum and then me, wagging her tail and sniffing us. I stroke the soft fur between her ears.

  “You like her?’ Dad asks.

  “She’s the best dog ever!” I say.

  The memory skips ahead two years. Jenny and I have been inseparable ever since she arrived at our house. I take her out on her lead every evening. We walk through the village and into the countryside, roaming along Blackden Edge. There’s a brook there and Jenny likes to play in the water while I saunter alongside and let my thoughts drift. I like it out on the Edge, away from the village and our house. I feel free, wandering beneath the open sky on a wild landscape that seems to stretch into the distance forever.

  On this particular evening, there’s a January chill in the air and snow clouds in the sky. Jenny and I are wandering along the Edge when I see two girls in the distance. They’re throwing sticks into the water. As we get closer, I recognise them as Evie and Mary Hatton. I see them around the village, usually with their heads down as they walk to and from school. They don’t speak much and seem to only be friends with each other, which is sad.

  “Evening,” I say when I get close enough for them to hear me.

  Evie, the oldest, looks at me and waves. Her eyes brighten when she sees Jenny frolicking in the water. “Can we stroke her?”

  “Sure,” I say. I call Jenny over and she obediently runs over to us, tail wagging, water dripping from the fur on her belly and legs.

  “Look, Mary,” Evie says to her younger sister, “you can touch her. She won’t bite.” She pets Jenny on the head.

  Mary looks over and I see tears on her cheeks and in her eyes. Her lips are trembling.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “She’ll be all right,” Evie says. “She’s just a cry-baby.”

  “No, I’m not,” Mary protests. “You’d cry as well if it happened to you.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. And it does happen to me. I don’t cry over it like you. You need to grow up, Mary.”

  “Cry about what?” I ask. “What happened?”

  “It’s our dad,” Mary says through her tears. “He—”

  “Sshhh!” Evie hisses. She looks at me and says, “It’s nothing.”

  I’ve heard rumours about the Hatton family. In a little village like ours, they spread like wildfire. From what I’ve heard, the girls’ father is a pervert. That’s what I heard at school a couple of years ago, anyway. Tess Goodall told me in the playground that she’d heard her dad telling her mum that John Hatton molested his girls. Since then, I’d heard the same thing again a couple of times just by eavesdropping on hushed conversations in the village. The rumours were spoken in whispers but you could hear them if you listened hard enough.

  “You can tell me,” I say. “I won’t tell anybody. And Jenny won’t either.”

  “I want to stroke t
he doggy,” Evie says, moving to Jenny and stroking her back.

  “Are you going to tell me why you’re crying?” I ask softly. I’m not really sure why I want to know. In fact, I’m not even sure that I want to know at all. The thought of John Hatton molesting his daughters disgusts me. There’s a chance the rumours could be wrong, but if one of the Hatton girls tells me about it, then it must be true. That would mean I’d have to do something about it. You can’t have that kind of knowledge in your head and not do something about it.

  Evie looks at me closely, her fingers still running through the fur on top of Jenny’s head. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I promise.”

  She hesitates, then says, “You’ve probably heard about our dad.” She says the words with a heaviness in her voice.

  I nod.

  She shrugs as if trying to make light of the situation. “Well, whatever you heard is probably true.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  Mary’s tears begin anew as she continues stroking Jenny.

  “He drinks,” Mary says, as if that explains everything. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t explain anything at all. The two girls in front of me are broken. Nothing can explain that and nothing can fix it.

  “You promised not to tell,” Evie reminds me.

  I nod solemnly. “Yes, I did. And I won’t tell.”

  But later, after I leave the girls and I’m walking home, I realise that I now know something that can’t just be ignored. I have to do something for those girls. I just don’t know yet what that is.

  When we reach the road that leads to the village, I bend down to put Jenny’s lead back on but she sees something moving in the hedgerow and scampers away after it.

  “Jenny,” I call after her, “come back!”

  She runs across the road as a bright red car comes speeding around the corner. The driver sees her and I hear the squeal of the tyres on the road. Then there’s a heavy thud as the car strikes Jenny. The impact throws her at least ten feet before she lands in a heap in the road.

  “Jenny!” I race over to her, tears already stinging my face. She isn’t moving and there’s blood seeping out of her. It surrounds her like a dark red puddle.

  I crouch next to her. She’s alive, her eyes staring at the hedge at the side of the road. I try to pick her up. If I can get her home, Mum and Dad will know what to do. But as I begin to lift her, she whimpers and then squeals.

  The driver of the car is saying something but I can’t hear his voice. It sounds jumbled in my ears. I stroke Jenny’s head and her eyes roll up to look at me. She whines softly.

  “You’re going to be all right,” I tell her. “It’s going to be okay.”

  The next thing I know, my dad is there. He’s holding a large cardboard box. It reminds me of the box he brought Jenny home in two years ago, but this one is much larger.

  “Let’s get her into this,” he says gently, crouching down next to me. “Then we can get her home.”

  I’m still sobbing but I help him slide Jenny into the box. She cries out in pain when we move her but once she’s in the box, she’s quiet again. Dad picks her up and we walk back home. But instead of going inside, he takes the box around the side of the house to the back garden.

  I follow, still crying. Jenny and I had been so happy, enjoying the crisp winter evening as we roamed over Blackden Edge. How could it all change in an instant? I feel wretched. If I’d put the lead on her when we were still in the fields, none of this would have happened.

  Dad places the box down on the ground gently. I can hear faint whimpers from inside.

  “Is she going to be all right?” I ask. I already know the answer. I know it because of the way Jenny had lain in the road and the amount of blood that had pooled around her. But I still hope and pray that Dad will say, “Yes, of course she will.”

  He doesn’t say that. He looks at me with pity and sadness. “I’m afraid not. We can’t let her suffer like this.”

  I feel like I’m going to be sick. My hand flies to my mouth and my stomach convulses but nothing comes out of my mouth except a whimper that echoes Jenny’s.

  Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. “Jenny is hurting. The suffering will just get worse. The kindest thing we can do for her is to end it.”

  I shake my head, tears blurring my vision.

  “You stroke her and talk to her. I’m sure she’ll like that. Say goodbye to her. I’ll be back in a minute.” He goes inside the house and I hear him telling Mum what has happened. Her face appears at the kitchen window, shock in her eyes.

  I sit on the cold ground next to Jenny and stroke her head. She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are fixed on the side of the cardboard box.

  “I don’t want to say goodbye,” I say.

  Dad comes outside again, carrying his shotgun beneath his arm. “You go inside with your mum,” he says. “You don’t want to see this.”

  I get up off the ground and look at Jenny one last time. I can’t bring myself to say goodbye to her. Mum comes out of the back door and takes my hand, leading me inside, into the kitchen where there’s a smell of bacon in the air.

  She pulls me to her. There’s bacon grease on her apron.

  A sudden bang outside makes me jump. It isn’t loud but it carries a heavy note of finality.

  A couple of minutes later, Dad comes inside and puts a hand on my shoulder again. “Come on, we’ll bury her in the garden. You can choose the place. And you can choose the flower.”

  “The flower?” I ask, sniffing.

  “Of course. You choose a flower and we’ll plant it where we bury Jenny. We’ll have to wait until spring to do that, though. And then, when you go to that part of the garden and look at the flowers, it will remind you of Jenny and all the nice times you had with her.”

  “But we didn’t have enough nice times,” I bawl. “There should have been more.”

  “I know,” he says, “but sometimes bad things happen. A bad thing happened to Jenny but we did right by her by making sure she didn’t suffer. If she could have thanked us for that, she would have. You were a good friend to her.”

  He takes me outside into the cold night. The cardboard box is closed now and I don’t want to open it. “Where do you think is a nice spot for her?” he asks.

  I think about it and then point at the apple tree. It’s bare and spindly now but in summer, it produces so many apples we have to give some to our neighbours because we can’t eat them all.

  “That’s a good place,” Dad says. “I’ll go and get my spade from the shed. While I do that, you go inside where it’s warm. There’s a botanical book on the bookshelf. Have a look through it and choose a flower for Jenny. Then, in spring, we’ll get some seeds and plant them.”

  I nod and go inside. In the living room, I find the book, a large hardcover with colour plates, and take it to Dad’s armchair by the gas fire. As I begin leafing through the pages, the colours of the various flowers grab my attention. Concentrating on their shapes and names takes away a little of the pain I feel. I want to choose the best flower for her and watch it grow beneath the apple tree.

  It’s warm in front of the fire and I curl up in the chair, discovering new flowers with each turn of the page. When I’ve been through the entire book twice, I settle on sweet violets for Jenny. They are named for their sweet scent but I choose them for Jenny’s sweet nature.

  A week later, I’m walking along Blackden Edge for the first time since Jenny died. I haven’t been able to face coming here without her until now and walking along the brook is bittersweet. I close my eyes and imagine I can hear splashes as Jenny frolics in the water.

  After walking for half an hour, I decide to turn around and head home. This place just isn’t the same without Jenny, and I make a decision to never take my evening walks here again. The Edge feels lonely.

  Just as I’m about to turn around, I hear a splash farther along the brook. I squint against the darkness and
see two figures throwing sticks into the water. I wonder if it’s the Hatton sisters. I’ve been thinking about them a lot since the night we buried Jenny.

  I trudge along the brook towards them. As I get closer, I can see that it is Evie and Mary. And just like the last time I saw them here, they’re alone.

  “Evening,” I say, waving at them.

  They both look up, startled. They were so busy in their game of stick-throwing that they didn’t hear me approach. This time, it’s Evie who has tears rolling down her cheeks. Mary isn’t crying but she has a sad look on her face.

  “Hello,” Evie says, wiping at her face. She looks along the brook behind me. “Where’s your dog?”

  “She died,” I say flatly. “She was hit by a car.”

  Now Mary begins to cry. Evie puts a comforting arm around her sister’s shoulder and that gesture breaks my heart.

  “It’s all right,” I say. “She isn’t suffering anymore. And in the spring, we’re going to plant sweet violets where she’s buried.”

  “That sounds nice,” Evie says, “but I don’t know what they are.”

  “They’re beautiful flowers that have a sweet smell. I chose them because Jenny was a sweet dog. If you know about flowers, you can choose the right one for any person.”

  “Really?” Mary looks astonished. “Could you even choose one for me?”

  “Of course. I think you two are like a pair of bluebells.”

  “I know what those are,” Evie says.

  “Yes, they grow in the woods,” I tell her. “And they’re very pretty. And they look down at the ground beneath where they grow, like you and Mary are always looking down at your feet when I see you in the village.”

  Evie shrugs. “People say mean things about us and about our dad. They don’t think we know what they’re saying but we do.”

  I frown. “But you told me those things are true.”

  She shrugs and looks down at her feet.

  “Are they true?” I ask.

  “Yes, but people don’t have to be mean about it.”

  “I’m sure they’re not being mean,” I say.

  “They are. They wouldn’t like it if it was happening to them. It’s horrible.” She begins to sob. Mary is crying as well and I’m not sure if it’s still because of Jenny or because of what their dad does to them. These girls are broken. They’re suffering.