Paula Hillman, author

More rubbish news about my writing last week, and I had a few wobbly days. When I left teaching, I felt like every door I’d ever worked hard to open had been slammed in my face… this is how I felt last week, too. Then I remembered how those slammed doors forced me to search for others that I could open, so that’s what I’m doing…metaphorical rant over… here’s the next chapter of my currently unpublished children’s novel…

Chapter two.
When I creep downstairs and into the kitchen, everything is silent. Grandpappy has damped down the fire, so that even the hiss and spit of dying flames is missing. I lift my coat from the line of wooden pegs by the back door and zip myself in. It fits tightly over the extra layers and squeezes at my breath. Once I have slipped on my boots, I shuffle carefully across the room, hoping not to cause a squeak of rubber on the floor tiles. This is something I do most nights, but I’m always careful. If Grandpappy ever caught me sneaking about, he would surely put a stop to it.
Outside, the air is icy cold. I can smell the sea; it is no more than a minutes’ walk away. The garden is full of grainy shadows, and frost is beginning to form in the darkest places. I click the gate behind me as I leave, then head out into the park. There are no roads up to the house. If we owned a car or truck, it would have to be left outside Greenheart.
When I was younger, Grandpappy would take me on his rounds; that meant traipsing along the paths, so my ankles ached, and the flat part of my feet went numb. But I learned so much from him: that it was better to let faded summer flowers shed their seeds into the earth, than to hack them away and save the pods; that feeding birds with crumbly shop-bought food didn’t help them; that the creatures who lurked in the brushwood waiting for moonrise, were anything but dark and ugly.
‘Good evening, Miss Belinda.’
I spin around on my breath, as a figure lumbers from the shadows. Dacs. Unusual that he is wandering the paths without company. The ground tilts just a little, as it always does with the first of my moonlight encounters. The creature is suddenly nose-to-snout with me and speaking smoothly as soft-spread butter.
‘Sorry if I frightened you.’
‘Hello, Dacs.’ I ruffle his broad grey back. His fur is tipped with ice. ‘I wasn’t frightened. Is everything alright?’
‘I am not sure that it is.’
‘Oh?’ I follow his pace as we walk together. Grandpappy was right. Something doesn’t smell good this evening.
‘Ren has found a—’ Dacs pauses, and I feel a fizz of fear. It hits me first in the belly, then rises. I say nothing. Wait.
‘Only to say that she’s found a body, you see. It’s a dog, we think. Only it’s dead.’
‘Show me.’ I gulp down my fear. I’ve never seen anything dead before.
Together, we lope through the deserted park, following a scent that is at first sweetly rotten and then meaty in the back of the throat. Beech trees line the paths, their black twiggy branches breaking the moonlight into shining white fragments. All is quiet. Where there should have been nocturnal scratchings, I hear nothing.
‘Where is everyone?’ I whisper, above Dacs’ panting. A simple shake of his head tells me what I want to know. If he is frightened, the others will be, too.
At the edge of the park, towards the sea, Dacs veers from the path. I follow as he ducks under the branches of a holly tree, its leaves glistening and black and lethal. I must crawl on my knees to go where he goes; there is privacy once inside; safety. The holly grove is somewhere even Grandpappy will not venture. Best leave that place to itself, is what he says. And that is in daylight.
The smell is stronger now, and there is a murmuring, a hum of voices. Ren’s is among them. It stands above the rest, with its shrill note and its sweetness. I smile to myself.
Where the hollies fall away and the glade opens out, a clamour of creatures stand together. Even Soul is here, perched on the thick bough of an oak tree, though in the scant moonlight, she is hardly visible. But her black eyes catch just enough silver that I can see she is distressed. So many of the night-creatures together in one tight-made place, is a worry in itself.
They are gathered in an untidy bunch, nudging and jostling and focussed on a bulky shadow, stretched and still. Dacs pushes his way into the circle.
‘I have fetched Miss Belinda, like you said.’
The group becomes silent. Time stretches. I wonder if I should ask a question, break into the quiet, but I’m not sure. I am a guest in this night-time world, though I’m always welcomed.
Ren lifts her pointed snout. Eyes glittering, she begins to speak.
‘This is a creature from your sunlit world, Miss Belinda.’ She nods towards the motionless bulk. ‘Can you bear to look?’
The circle opens and lets me in. The smell makes me wretch. A flash of memory comes with it; a tiny shark corpse that once washed up on the beach not far from here; craning my neck to see whilst Grandpappy pulled at my hand. I step towards the crumple of darkness. See the texture of fur. There is bone, too. Poking from what looks like a hind leg. It is hard to make out a face, hard to see where clotted fur ends and muzzle begins. Dogs do not die in the park. Someone must have put it here. Crawling into the middle of the holly grove is almost impossible unless you know it well, its weaves and wefts, twists, and turns. Someone made an effort and they had something to hide.
‘The poor thing,’ I breathe. ‘We cannot just leave it here. Rats will begin to chew at it.’
‘They already have.’ These words come with a hiss, and from the brushwood comes a cat darker than the midnight sky. Another is just behind, brawny and holding its head at a hostile angle.
‘The mutt deserved everything he got, in my opinion.’
I glare at them both. ‘Now is not the time for cruel comments. We need to think of a way to move the body.’
I scan the circle of creatures. None speak. Only their eyes are focussed on me. Gid, Ren’s twin, snaps his sharp muzzle twice, as though this will stop words from escaping. Ren hushes him.
‘Us little ones can do nothing.’ Thorn’s dainty voice cuts across the thick atmosphere. Here is a creature whose prickly body isn’t a match for its character. ‘This one time, none of you can blame us for opting out, can they, Spike?’
Spike nods in agreement but says nothing.
Gid splutters out his anger. ‘You cannot expect Ren and I to move the creature by ourselves.’ He turns his glare on Thorn and bares his teeth. ‘But I see that you do. Why am I not surprised?’
‘Gid. Stop.’ Ren nudges at his shoulder.
Dacs lifts his black-and-white head, and his brother moves to stand beside him.
‘Blair and I will do what we can,’ he snarls. ‘None of us want the rot of a dead thing in our place, do we?’
Soul stretches her wings and glides to the ground next to the dog.
‘We do not,’ she cries. ‘But even rolling this -thing- away will require a certain strength. I can see what needs doing but fear I cannot help.’ A hop takes her away from Gid and his snapping jaws. Ghost comes to land beside her, his flat white face catching the moonlight.
‘Leave the creature alone,’ he says sharply. ‘I see foam around its muzzle. That could mean disease.’
There is a moment of alarm. The cats arch their backs and spit, and the other creatures seem to melt into each other, seeking comfort.
‘Now I have thought about it,’ I shout above the fuss, ‘I can see we must leave the dog alone. Grandpappy will find it eventually. His nose has already caught the scent. For now, you will need to keep away and not—’
From the other side of the wall comes the sound of voices. Human voices. Deep and growly.
‘Scatter,’ whispers Ren. ‘Quickly.’ Fear gives a clarity to her command and the other creatures obey instantly. I find myself alone in the glade. But I do not scatter, only slide myself into the shadow of the old oak’s thick trunk. There are never people around the park at this time. Unless they intend trouble.
From my hiding place, I watch as two figures, clad head-to-foot in white, pick their way through the holly hedge.
‘Stinks,’ one says loudly, untangling from the catch of prickly leaves.
‘That’s what the caller said, too.’ The other voice is softer, cautious.
‘Get the bag open. I’ll have a better look.’
They are standing close to the body now, and one of them has a heavy dark container. It looks like a fishing net.
‘Bring the bag right up to it,’ says Loud-voice. ‘Let’s get the head in first.’
There is a huffing sound, then the two are standing back and the shadowy dog is gone. I move away.
‘Let’s get this poor guy back to the depot,’ says Soft-Voice. ‘Then we can open him up and have a shufty.’
Open him up?
That phrase shakes me to my core. There is a lot about the world of grown-ups that I don’t understand. But I know one thing: if the dog is to be opened-up, someone is worried.
Without waiting for my moonlight-companions to appear again, I push my way out of the holly grove, turn my face towards Greenheart House, and run as fast as I can.