The Saviour
Only a hundred miles remained when the headlights of the car illuminated a red vehicle parked on the shoulder, its bonnet raised. A young man stood beside it, waving his arms frantically. Pulling over on a deserted road at night was reckless, yet the sky ahead had begun to lighten with the promise of dawn, and the journey was nearly done. Edmund pulled over and stepped out. Before he could take two steps, a crushing blow struck the back of his head.
He woke to the sensation of hands rifling through his pockets. He tried to rise, but a heavy weight pinned him down. Likely there were several attackers, for a boot slammed into his ribs, sending white-hot pain through his body. He cried out, and in response, blows rained down upon him—kicks, relentless and brutal. Edmund curled into himself, knees to chest, arms shielding his head. A final kick to his ribs stole his breath, and darkness swallowed him again.
The next time he stirred, a faint whimpering reached his ears. At first, he thought it was his own groans, but the beating had stopped. He shifted, and a wet nose nudged his cheek. Blinking open swollen eyes, he found himself staring into the wary face of a dog. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his side stole his breath. “Broken rib,” he realized. His thoughts moved sluggishly, as though his head were packed with wool. The dog whined again.
When consciousness returned, the rumble of an engine told him he was being driven—his body jostled with every bump in the road.
“You’re awake. Nearly in town now, just hold on,” came a voice, smooth and indistinct, impossible to place as man or woman.
Edmund’s eyelids were too heavy to lift. Nor did he want to. Exhaustion weighed on him, pulling him back into merciful nothingness. A jolt startled him awake again. Now he was being carried. He cracked his eyes open, only to snap them shut as blinding light seared into his skull.
“Coming round, are you?” A woman’s voice, bright and clear.
He forced his eyes open again. The flicker of overhead lights blurred into a face. His head spun, nausea rising. Then, movement ceased. A face leaned over him, sharpening into focus—an elderly man with a white wedge-shaped beard, studying him intently.
“What’s your name, young fellow? Do you recall what happened?” The voice echoed as though from a distance.
“Edmund Whitmore. I was…” His lips, battered and slow to obey, formed the words with difficulty.
“Aye. You’ve taken quite the beating.”
“My car—” Edmund exhaled. Each breath sent a knife twisting into his side.
“There was no car near you. Only the dog. He saved you. Rest now—better yet, sleep.” The old man’s words were a command, and Edmund obeyed, slipping back into oblivion.
When he awoke next, his head ached less, his thoughts clearer. Muffled voices murmured nearby.
“He’s awake. Good. Can you hear me? I’m Inspector Carrington from the police. Can you speak? I’ve a few questions.”
Edmund listened, even managed to recount stopping on the road, the ambush, the licence plate of his missing car…
“Is this your dog?”
“I don’t own a dog,” Edmund replied, bewildered.
“The driver who called the ambulance said a dog dashed from the woods right into his path. He stopped, and the dog led him to the ditch where you lay. You weren’t visible from the road. Without that dog, you’d still be there.” The inspector held out a form. “Sign here.” Edmund scrawled his name, his hand dropping limply onto the bed.
“What’s wrong with me?” he whispered.
“You’re alive. That’s what matters. Two broken ribs, a nasty head wound, bruises everywhere.”
“That’s enough for today. He’s exhausted. Come back tomorrow,” the familiar voice interjected.
Edmund felt it then—a bone-deep weariness. He slept.
He woke in darkness, shadows of leaves dancing on the ceiling. Their motion made his head spin, his stomach lurch. He shut his eyes, but his mind was clear now. He remembered stopping on the road…
Morning light greeted him next, sunlight streaming through the window, birds singing cheerfully. He felt stronger.
“Good. Think you can stand?” The doctor—wedge-bearded, smiling—asked.
“Yes.” Edmund’s voice was his own again.
“Easy now.” The doctor steadied him, helping him rise. “Good. Don’t rush. Sit a moment. Dizzy? Right—feet down. Well done.”
The room steadied. Pale blue walls, a nightstand. The doctor, white-coated, his beard giving him a scholarly air, stood watch. Bandages constricted Edmund’s chest, but the pain had dulled.
“You’ll be on your feet properly soon,” the doctor said, pleased.
And he was. Each step brought strength. He made it to the window, looking out on the hospital gardens—narrow paths, scattered benches.
“See there? Under the tree? That’s your dog. Waiting for you,” a nurse said behind him.
“I don’t have a dog.” Edmund turned.
“We thought he was yours. Tried to shoo him off, but he won’t leave. Sits there all day, watching the windows. We bring scraps—he won’t eat while we’re watching.”
The dog sat beneath the tree, tracking every passer-by. Edmund couldn’t stand long. He returned to bed. The next day, he ventured outside.
The dog saw him but stayed put, waiting.
“You saved me, didn’t you? Thank you, mate.” Edmund ruffled the dog’s ears, earning a thump of its tail.
He made it to a bench. The dog settled nearby. They sat, sun-warmed, until Inspector Carrington approached. At the sight of him, the dog retreated but didn’t flee.
“Better, I see. Doesn’t care for coppers, does he?”
The inspector questioned Edmund again.
“No luck finding your car. Likely stripped for parts by now. Need a ride? Bus won’t take him.” He nodded at the dog. “A taxi’s pricey without your wallet.”
“You’ve decided to keep him? Good. I asked around. His owner died overseas. Mother passed soon after. Dog’s been alone.”
They rode in a patrol car, the driver chattering. “Whole town’s talking about you two. Wish I had a dog like that.”
The dog sat composed. Edmund, meanwhile, felt like a shadow, basking in borrowed glory.
At last, they arrived. Edmund bid the driver farewell and led his loyal companion to the flat. Before he’d even opened the door, the rich scent of roast met them.
“Well, come on then,” Edmund said, stepping inside.
The dog hesitated. From the kitchen emerged Margaret in a flowered apron.
“Hello. I had a feeling you’d be back today—made a proper welcome.” She offered her cheek for a kiss, then froze, spotting the dog on the doormat.
“Who’s this?” Her voice trembled.
“Meet Scout. He’s staying with me. With us,” Edmund corrected.
Margaret paled, stepping back. Then he remembered—the stray that bit her as a child, the painful injections, her fear ever since.
She tossed her apron aside.
“You did this on purpose!” Her voice pitched higher.
“He saved my life. I couldn’t leave him—”
“Get him away!”
Scout moved aside, clearing her path. Margaret grabbed her shoes, edging along the wall, never taking her eyes off the dog. Her heels tapped down the stairs.
Edmund let her go. The roast was shared between him and his saviour.
