The grounds of the hospital for the insane were deserted. Patrick Hill pulled his yellow beanie down low over his ears and continued on his usual route, turning every now and again to see if the dog was following him. The squelching of his boots and the buzz of a lone streetlight were the only sounds. He turned his back to the wind. Winter had been reasonable up until a week ago, before the temperature dropped sharply and the rain began. For God’s sake Brian, where are you? It served him right of course; he should have put the dog on the lead.
Patrick whistled once, short and sharp. The dog appeared, circled around to its left, vanished, and, seconds later, reappeared in the car park. A flash of white and then he was gone.
Patrick walked across the car park and into the courtyard beyond. On the ground lay something that looked like a bundle of old rags. The dog growled: vicious and deep. Patrick crouched down on the muddy ground and patted the dog’s shoulder. ‘What is it boy?’ He aimed his torch to where Brian’s snout was pointed.
‘What’s that?’ He stepped back. The torch tumbled from his hands and fell to the ground. ‘Sweet Jesus.’