Good Girl

It was dusk already, streetlights wearing haloes of drizzle. The dog pulled at the leash, whining, wanting to be at the park, to run. A dark figure stepped out from the shadows at the gate and Anne cried out, then saw the Rottweiler trotting placidly at its heels.

“Sorry if I made you jump,” he smiled, all twinkling brown eyes framed by wrinkles, comfy sweater, and taint of old cigarettes that brought her father to mind.

“Bit late to be out,” he remarked as they watched their dogs chase circles around the floodlit park.

“Had to work late.”

“Didn’t your boyfriend offer to walk her for you?”

Anne tensed at that, weighed whether to be honest. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she admitted, fist clenched around the keys in her pocket, but “Ah,” was all he said, and they sank back into silence, letting the dogs tire each other out.

“Which way are you walking?” he asked, clipping the lead to his dog’s collar. She pointed, and when he said “I’ll walk with you,” she felt oddly comforted.

They met often after that, even on nights work didn’t keep her late. Anne wondered more than once how he seemed always to be at the park when she arrived. It crossed her mind he might wait for her. Unease curled around the thought like wisps of smoke, blown away, always, by the fresh air of the walk, the joy of watching the dogs run wild.

“Come, Max!” he’d call, and the big black dog would scoot up, docile and fawning, whatever it had been doing seconds before. Her own dog, Kyla, was still all pup, impossible to coax away from another dog, an interesting stick, a teasing squirrel.

One evening in late summer, Max sat obediently at his master’s feet, while Kyla raced loops around the park, refusing to be caught.

“Ky-laaaaaa!” Anne called, her voice fading to a whine. It was late, work had been a drag, and all she wanted was to be at home with a glass of wine. The pup, of course, neither knew nor cared, bounding across the grass out of reach, tongue lolling gleefully.

“Kyla! Come!” he snapped, his voice like a gunshot. Anne flinched.

Her dog swerved, paused, then raced toward him. He took the leash, clipping it to the collar’s steel hoop.

Irritated, she accepted the proffered leash, forcing a “thanks.”

Kyla rolled at his feet. He rubbed her belly, crooning.

“Dogs, children, women: they all respond better to a firm hand.”

Anne bristled. “Oh, I think most of us prefer to be free,” she said, her smile tight.

He gave her an odd, pitying look, and clicked his tongue. Max sprang to attention at his side.

“Nonsense,” he murmured, half to the dog. “Far rather be looked after, wouldn’t you?”

He walked away toward the lane.

“Good girl,” he called over his shoulder to Kyla as his own dog trotted behind him.

Anne took the opposite gate out of the park, her shoulders tense. Tomorrow she would find a different route to walk.

She was almost home when a figure stepped from the shadows, a familiar black dog at his heels.

“Wha–?” she managed, before his hand clamped something soft and strong-smelling over her mouth, his arm catching her as she fell.

____

Anne squeezed her eyelids apart, the light scalding them. It was a moment or two before the room swam into focus, another few seconds until she could make sense of where she was.

A small living room, beige walls, the sofa she was sprawled on dark brown leather. Kyla curled contentedly on the thick pile carpet, snuggled against the black mass of Max.

The door opened and he walked in wearing carpet slippers, two steaming mugs in his  hands. Anne sprang up, only to be yanked back by something tight around her throat. Her fingers scrabbled, finding leather, a steel hoop, a clip sealed shut with thick, hardened glue. She turned to see the other end of the leash secured to a bracket on the wall.

“Ah,” he placed the mugs carefully on a little coffee table. “That’s just until you’re trained.”

She opened her mouth to scream.

“Don’t worry. It won’t take long. You’ll soon learn what’s best.”

He smiled patiently as Anne screamed, until her throat was hoarse, until she couldn’t tell if she’d stopped or was still screaming, her own voice real, or only inside her head.

Defeated, she slumped to the sofa.

“Good girl,” he said.