The Saviour
There were but a hundred miles left to travel when the car’s headlights illuminated a red motorcar parked on the roadside, its bonnet raised. Beside it stood a chap, waving his arms with urgency. To stop on a deserted road at night was folly. Yet the sky ahead had lightened with the promise of dawn, and the journey’s end was near. Edmund brought the motor to a halt and stepped out. No sooner had he taken two paces than a sharp blow struck the back of his head.
He stirred awake to the sensation of fingers rummaging through his pockets. He tried to rise, but a heavy weight pressed him down. Likely there were several assailants, for a boot struck his ribs. The pain was so fierce he cried out.
At once, blows rained upon him from all sides. Kicks landed without mercy. Edmund curled upon the ground, knees to his chest, shielding his belly, hands clasped over his head. A strike to his right ribs sent white-hot agony through him, and darkness swallowed his mind.
When he woke again, a faint whimper sounded beside him. At first, he thought it was his own groaning. The beating had ceased. He shifted, and a wet nose nudged his cheek. Edmund cracked his eyes open to see the wary face of a dog gazing down. He tried to sit up, but a searing pain stole his breath. “Broken ribs,” he realised. His thoughts moved sluggishly, as though his skull were stuffed with wool. The dog whined again.
The next time he awoke, he felt the hum of an engine and the rocking of a motorcar over uneven road.
“You’re awake. Nearly to town, hold on, lad,” came a voice—he couldn’t tell if it belonged to a man or woman.
Edmund could not pry his heavy eyelids apart. Nor did he try. A bone-deep weariness pulled him back into oblivion. He surfaced again at the jolt of movement. Now he was being carried. He opened his eyes—only to screw them shut against blinding light. His forehead throbbed with pain.
“You’ve come round,” a bright, girlish voice observed.
Edmund opened his eyes once more. A face blurred in the flicker of lamplight. His head spun, nausea rising. The motion ceased. A face bent close—an old man with a wedge-shaped beard, studying him intently.
“What’s your name, young man? Do you recall what happened?” The voice seemed distant.
“Edmund Whitmore. I was…” His lips felt thick, uncooperative, but they understood.
“Aye. They gave you a proper thrashing.”
“My motor—” Edmund exhaled, each breath a dagger in his side.
“There was no motor near you. Just the dog. He saved you. Rest now—better yet, sleep.” The old man spoke, and Edmund obeyed.
When he woke again, the pain in his head had dulled, his thoughts clearer. Muffled voices murmured nearby.
“He’s awake. Good. Can you hear me? I’m Inspector Hawkins from the police. Can you speak? I’ve questions for you.”
Edmund listened—and, it seemed, recounted how he’d stopped on the road, the beating, his motor’s number…
“Is this your dog?”
“I don’t have a dog,” he replied, puzzled.
“But the driver who fetched the ambulance said a dog dashed from the woods straight into his path. When he stopped, the hound led him to the ditch where you lay. You’d have been left there if not for this brute. Right. Sign here.” A sheet of paper appeared before him, a pen pressed into his fingers. Edmund scrawled his name and let his arm drop.
“What’s wrong with me?” he whispered.
“You’re alive—that’s what matters. Two ribs cracked, head injury, bruises aplenty.”
“That’s enough. He’s tired. Come back tomorrow,” the familiar voice commanded.
Edmund felt exhaustion claim him once more.
He woke in darkness. Shadows from swaying branches danced on the ceiling. The movement made his head spin, his stomach lurch. He shut his eyes, but his mind was sharp now. He remembered the roadside…
By morning, he woke to sunlight streaming through the window, birds singing. He felt stronger.
“There we are. Can you stand?” The doctor with the wedge-shaped beard smiled.
“Yes,” Edmund heard his own voice reply.
“Let me help. Easy now.” The doctor steadied him. “Good. Take your time. Now sit. Rest. Dizzy? Then swing your legs down. Well done.”
Soon the room stilled, and Edmund took in his surroundings—a small ward with pale blue walls, a nightstand, the doctor in his white coat and cap, looking like a country parson with that beard. Bandages bound his chest, stifling deep breaths, but the pain had ebbed.
“Good. Next time, we’ll try walking,” the doctor said, pleased.
And walk he did. Strength returned with each step. He reached the window. Below stretched the hospital gardens, benches lining narrow paths.
“See there? Under the tree? 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. We bring scraps—he won’t eat unless we’re gone.”
The dog sat beneath the tree, watching passersby. Edmund couldn’t stand long. The next day, he ventured outside.
The hound saw him but stayed put, waiting for Edmund to approach.
“Was it you who saved me? Thank you, old boy.” Edmund ruffled the dog’s ears. A tail thumped the ground.
Edmund made his way to a bench. The dog settled nearby.
They sat basking in the sun until Inspector Hawkins appeared. At the sight of the uniform, the dog retreated but didn’t flee.
“Good day. Better, I see. Doesn’t care for coppers, eh?” The inspector chuckled.
More questions followed.
“We’ve sent word, but no sign of your motor. Likely stripped for parts. Need help with the coach fare?”
“They won’t let him aboard.” Edmund nodded toward the waiting dog. “A cab, if you’d lend the fare. They took my money.”
“Taking him with you? Good lad. I asked around. His master died overseas. Mother’s heart gave out. Left alone, he was. A cab’s dear—wait, I’ll arrange a ride.”
They sat in the back of a patrol wagon, the driver chattering.
“The whole town’s talking of you two. Wish I had a dog like that…”
The dog sat unmoved. Edmund felt a shadow in the borrowed glow of his saviour’s fame.
At last, they arrived. Edmund bid the driver farewell and led his faithful companion to his flat. The aroma of roasting meat greeted them.
“Well? Come on,” Edmund urged, opening the door.
But the dog halted at the threshold. From the kitchen stepped Margaret, her floral apron tied neat.
“You’re back! I had a feeling—made a proper welcome.” She offered her cheek for a kiss, then spied the dog on the mat.
“Who’s this?” Her eyes widened.
“Meet Sunny. He’s staying. With us.”
Margaret paled, stepping back. Then Edmund remembered—she’d been bitten as a child, endured the needles. Terrified of dogs ever since.
She flung her apron aside.
“You did this on purpose!” Her voice rose.
“Meg, listen. He saved my life. I couldn’t leave him—”
“Get him out!” she shrieked.
Sunny stepped aside, yielding the path. Margaret snatched her shoes, pressed against the doorframe, and fled, eyes locked on the dog.
Edmund let her go. They ate the roast together—he and his saviour.
