Making Marion by Beth Moran Page A

still in the man’s arms, one leg sticking out at an awkward angle. It was whimpering softly.
    Oh no. I had broken his dog.
    â€œWhat was that? Are you completely insane, or just a total idiot?”
    He was dressed in running clothes, hair almost black with perspiration, and his broad shoulders were heaving. From exertion or because he was really, really angry, I wasn’t sure.
    â€œSorry.” I wiped my wet hands on my trousers. They came off sticky with mud.
    â€œSorry? Oh, that’s all right then. I am so sick of tourists .” He said this with an impressive sneer. “Trampling about the forest, damaging the wildlife, dropping litter, starting fires, leaving gates open, winding up our livestock, provoking the local kids… they are so infernally irritating !”
    I stood, wide-eyed, not sure whether to point out that I wasn’t actually a tourist.
    â€œYou’ve probably broken her leg!” His voice cracked, and I realized he was more upset than I was. “Sorry? Of course you are. Isn’t there a law about stupid city girls who don’t know what they’re doing, riding bikes if they can’t control them?”
    Woah! I don’t react well to being called stupid.
    â€œIsn’t there a law about letting a dangerous animal unsupervised on a public footpath where it can attack members of the general public? I was perfectly in control of my bike until you lost control of your dog! Who do you think you are, telling me what to do in a public place?”
    He pulled his head back, surprised.
    â€œAnd – I’m not a tourist, not from a city and I got the top score out of my whole school in the cycling proficiency test!”
    There was a tiny flicker at the side of his mouth. “Wow. The top mark in the whole school. You must be very proud. And this isn’t a public place. This is my land. So, as the landowner, I’m asking you to leave before I have you arrested for trespassing, damage to private property and seriously harming my dog.”
    I had run out of bluster. I felt terrible about the puppy. Hauling up Pettigrew, who had thankfully landed in soft earth and appeared undamaged, I scanned the forest, trying to get my bearings. The mud was beginning to set on my legs and backside. It was freezing cold and so was my wet top. I was exhausted. My bag had been stolen. I had cuts and bruises to complement my aching muscles and sore buttocks, and I didn’t even know which direction to take to get back to the path.
    A tear popped out of the corner of my eye and slipped down my cheek. The man sighed and shook his head again. He took my bag out of the basket and handed it to me. Then, gently placing the dog in Pettigrew’s basket, he started wheeling the bike through the trees. I had to scurry to keep up with him, stumbling over roots and scratching myself on poking out branches. He ignored me until we reached the edge of the woods and I could see the campsite only a few hundred metres away.
    Passing me Pettigrew, he scooped up the dog, who responded by licking his hand furiously. “Next time, keep to the path.” He strode off, calling over his shoulder. “And tell Scarlett I’ll fix her brakes on Fire Night.”
    I leaned on Pettigrew, inching my way forwards one slow, squishy step at a time, only glancing back when I heard the bark of laughter coming from the woods. That man stood, one arm braced on a trunk for support, helpless with mirth, his dog dancing around his ankles.

I woke in the pitch black. Jolted out of deep sleep by a noise. A crash. My blood hammered so loudly in my ears that I had to strain to hear if the noise, whatever it was, sounded again. I lay in bed, every muscle rigid. Waiting.
    My eyes fixed on the shadow of the doorknob as the shapes of furniture and belongings emerged from the darkness. I tried to keep my breathing slow and even, ready to feign sleep if the door began to open.
    Silence. Stillness. The