Doug Brace’s golden retriever, Lancelot, gave the lead one hell of a yank and managed to bury his nose in a bag of half-eaten chips.
Doug tugged Lancelot back gently so as not to hurt him, but the dog whined regardless. ‘Stop faffing, you mardy boy!’
Ahead of the two companions, illuminated by the moon behind it, was Knaresborough Castle. First built by a Norman baron c. 1100 on a cliff edge, it now stood ruined, following its taking by Parliamentarian troops in 1644 during the civil war. It wasn’t destroyed because of the warfare, but rather from a brutal insidious order from Parliament to dismantle Royalist castles. Some of the castle stone had made it into the town centre’s buildings, keeping the soul of the castle burning strong in Knaresborough’s heart.
Doug didn’t believe there was a better place in the world for a midnight stroll than Knaresborough Castle. However, he was born and bred here, and so was most certainly biased!
Doug led Lancelot through the central two imposing solid towers in the enclosure wall, and down the path framed by the Castle Yard, which was two large patches of grass, one of which had been set up as a minigolf course – an irritant to the hundreds of picnickers that flocked here on a summer’s day.
They walked past the bowling green, which he personally found far more enjoyable than the minigolf, to the five-sided keep. Like the rest of the castle, the keep was largely ruined. Doug had visited the interior on several occasions and admired the vaulted basement and the upper storeys which were roofless, so you could climb up and catch some rays.
Lancelot cocked his leg and let fly on the doorway to the keep.
‘Give me strength, boy! This was where the lord of the castle used to reside.’
Lancelot regarded him.
‘You don’t have a bloody clue what I’m on about, do you?’
Lancelot approached him, placed his paws on his owner’s stomach, and received a loving pat for his lack of manners.
Despite it being in the latter half of spring, the weather wasn’t giving up any summer warmth just yet, so Doug fastened the top button of his parka when the keep no longer provided him a wind block, and came upon the cliff edge.
There, he paused, as he always paused, to admire the view of the Knaresborough viaduct, striking over the river Nidd.
At night-time, the view was even more special due to the moonlight dancing on the Nidd; and, of course, the absence of snap-happy tourists who came in their droves.
The many cafés and houses alongside the Nidd were dormant at this time, and the swollen trees and blooming flowers swayed joyfully in the peace and quiet.
Lancelot whined and pulled at his lead.
‘What ’ave you seen now, boy?’
Lancelot whined louder and pulled harder. Something had his attention on the patch of grass ahead.
‘You’ll be the death of me, Lancelot,’ Doug said, negotiating the steep gradient of the grassy patch. They drew closer to the cliff edge, but it wasn’t dangerous. There were barriers up, protecting them from a tumble into shrubbery and onto the steps that led down to the river Nidd. However, Doug still didn’t fancy taking a tumble on this slope. His bones were old and his specialist was forever crooning about a hip replacement. ‘While I can walk, I can walk,’ was his mantra.
His specialist’s mantra was different. ‘If you don’t have to walk in pain, why walk in pain?’
Doug would always agree to think on it. A process that would last until he’d driven out of the hospital car park, before promptly forgetting all about it. It was bad enough spending an hour at hospital; why would he want to spend a few days there under a bloody knife?
Doug stopped and squinted. His eyesight wasn’t all that sharp, but he was sure he could see a pair of trainers poking out from behind the back of the keep.
Lancelot’s whining and tugging continued.
‘Lancelot, be quiet, and be still for pity’s sake.’
Doug inched nearer and, when he was near enough to conclude that they were trainers, and that they were still on someone’s feet, he took a sharp deep breath.
Exhaling, he looked up at the view, which over the years had left millions spellbound, before looking down again at the feet. ‘Dear God,’ he said.
Together, the two companions drew level with the back of the keep and saw a young man, wearing a jogging suit, lying on his back. Doug took a step towards him. ‘Son, are you okay?’
There was no reply, so he chanced a few more steps, shortening the lead and keeping Lancelot close to his side.
Eventually, Doug was close enough to see the boy was too pale to be alive. His open, lifeless eyes were further confirmation of his passing. Then, came the recognition. ‘Bradley Taylor. Dear God.’
Only seventeen years old.
Lancelot stopped tugging, sat down, and whined.