At the front of the shed, two eyes held onto hers. A huge Alsatian dog lay on the floor too cold to even shiver. Despair had long ago reached her eyes and yet they watched Cora with something that might once have been hope. God knew the poor creature needed it because her thin legs seemed too brittle to support her still magnificent wolf-like head. The man had provided her with only one blanket, and her matted coat had violent strawberry-coloured bald patches.
Cora blinked back her tears. Stalemate.
The man folded his arms. ‘How old are you, lovely?’ His voice was soft and insinuating.
Cora didn’t respond. More alone than ever. She wished she’d left a note for Gloria. Too late now.
Across the yard, the poor dog lifted her head, scenting danger; determined to offer allegiance, yet too weary to stand.‘She doesn’t bark much now, does she? Not much of a guard dog if I am honest. It’s her age.’ The man cleared his throat. Spat. ‘Might have to get rid of her soon. Plenty of bricks about. Canals. I might get a puppy.’
‘Bastard,’ said Cora.
‘Sorry?’
‘You heard. Unmitigated bastard.’
‘Oh, temper, temper. Posh bitch. Such BIG WORDS! ‘The yardman paused to wipe his mouth, then sighed. ‘Didn’t I warn you?’ He gestured around him. ‘My world. My rules.’ He curled a long-nailed forefinger and beckoned to Cora. ‘Come on custard. Show me what you got. ‘Then he took a step forward. Did his funny pirouette thing again.
Cora clenched her hands in her empty pockets. There was no need to show him anything because she had nothing. Nothing except her certainty that she was right, and he was a monster.
‘Show me.’ He approached her again, beckoning with yellowed fingers, still dancing.
‘I’ve come for your dog.’ said Cora, ‘I’m taking her home.’
‘Fuck you! You mouthy snob!’
His insults echoed around the yard as if in cahoots with the monstrous man. ‘Mouthy snob, mouthy snob.’ He was right, wasn’t he? Cora was trapped in his world. Bile reached her throat. It burned. There were no options left to her. The man knew she was defeated.
But not for the first or last time in her young life Cora was mistaken. It was not his world. And in a moment ( a miraculous moment as she would claim years later), his venomous words grew sick of his bullying and began to turn their poison on him, mocking him back, tampering with their original cruelty which became transformed. The new words were set to a hymn that emboldened the fearful, even the trapped.
‘And did those feet, in ancient times!’ The yard erupted into loud song as if an enthusiastic choir was just out of sight. ‘Bring me my spear! My chariot of fire!’ The voices soared.
For once, the yardman was lost for words. He swivelled about trying to locate the source of the noise, failing, stumbling, then clutched his head as if in pain, bewildered by the Ghostly visitation of Jerusalem.
‘I have friends,’ said Cora spontaneously, ‘In high places.’ She had no idea what she was saying or even what she meant, yet she was compelled to speak.
‘Those dark satanic mills! ’ Someone close by had a point to make.
More bewildered than ever, the yardman lurched about in a circle like some rabid creature, then vomited on the ground before collapsing into it. He started to twitch, a contorted excuse for a man.
From out of the shadows a group of errant Carol Singers emerged, led by a hooded figure, someone whose face remained averted. ‘One devil less I suppose.’ The voice was throaty and fuelled by menthol. ‘Cora, can you take that poor dog home? Gloria, I think we need an ambulance and a hose. No rush.’
