Always seeming stationary, guiding me, and leading me on. This heart pounds within my chest, pumping fire around this foreign carriage, my throat sucking huge lungfuls of air to feed the powerhouse barely under my control. The features of the forest floor picked out in an eerie monochrome, your footprints as well as the smell of your sweat and musk pulling me forwards. A fallen tree lies across my path, I leap across it, clearing the upturned branches easily. This beautiful machine that I am enclosed within lands with a grace completely at odds with it’s’ size. I sense the woman before I see her, I fly around the rocky outcrop to hear her ragged breathing further ahead and down in the valley. I race in to the clearing, the moon above calling her siren song as I run towards the sheer drop ahead. My paw lands on the very edge of the cliff, a fifty foot drop below, and I leap without hesitation into the air. The wind flattens my fur to my flesh, as I sail through the night, the moon. A swollen face, a lolling tongue, and above all his familiar grey eyes, bulging in silent accusation. ‘Oh Harold.’ * The trees clawed at the sky like a skeleton’s hands, they tore holes in the sunset until only the night remained. Half an hour later, as if overcome by the syrupy blackness, the crime-scene lights fizzed and went out. Constable Oakman swallowed hard, startled by his descent into impenetrable night. Slowly his eyes adjusted. He made out the grey and silver shapes of trees, the subtle brush-strokes of moonlight providing the only detail on a black canvas. Mark Oakman had checked the crime-scene log. It confirmed that everyone who had entered had also left. He was alone. Alone in the presence of the dead. It was impossible to forget that. Mark had not seen a corpse until two months ago when, during the first days of police training, he had visited a mortuary. An elderly man with unidentifiable yellow stains on his apron had displayed his parade of cadavers. He ticked off.
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