Page 47 of Pyg

“Come on, Bernie,” I said. The poor lad stood frozen in a crouch.

The nun’s eyes bulged so much I thought they might pop out. Bernard’s head whipped between Sister Mary and I, before he made a split-second decision and dashed for the door.

“Get back here.”

“Sorry, Sister,” Bernard called over his shoulder.

We ran along the corridor and out through the main school doors.

“What’s going on, George? We’re gonna be in so much trouble,” Bernard panted.

“We have to get home. I’m worried about Pyg.”

“Shit.” Bernard stopped in his tracks.

“What?”

He clutched his arms around himself. “I forgot my coat.”

I quickly whipped off my jacket and thrust it at my brother. “Here, have mine.”

“Won’t you be cold?”

“I don’t care, let’s go.”

* * *

I slidmy key into the lock, but before I’d turned it, the door edged open. I looked around at Bernard, who stared back with wide eyes. I tentatively pushed my way inside and an eerie silence met me instead of the usual shriek of Grandmother from the drawing room.

Several pairs of muddy footprints had been trodden along the parquet floor and the smell of smoke lingered, like the time we’d burned the potatoes, only stronger.

Bernard followed in my wake as I walked the muddy trail in reverse, along the hallway, into the kitchen, through the unlocked back door and out into the garden, where smoke filled the air with an acrid stench and a swirling grey haze.

Sutherland said she’d been burning rubbish.

A lead weight sunk in my stomach with the realisation.

No, no, no — she wouldn’t have, would she?I put an arm out to stop Bernard.

“Maybe you should wait inside?”

“No,” Bernard whined. “I want to check on Pyg. She’s my dog too.”

I sighed and dropped my arm. We continued along the path together, the smoke growing stronger with every step. Then, through the grey haze, the shape of the studio emerged. The remnants of the door hung from its hinges and the small window had shattered in its charred frame. Thick blue-grey smoke poured out through the gaping holes.

“Pyg,” Bernard cried out, darting past me.

“Bernard, wait.” I bolted after him, blinking my watering eyes against the smoke and following him into the blackness.

Beyond the charred door, the studio had been gutted. Water dripped from the blackened remains where the fire had been doused. Embers flashed like the eyes of tiny demons, still aglow in the wooden beams, cracking and popping as the fire died.

Everything was gone. Destroyed. Ruined. Our books, the transistor, Mum’s paintings, the cushions and blankets she’d made by hand, her smell, the memories. It that instant, it struck me that I’d never see my mother again.She’s gone.And the hope drained out of me, swirling away like water down a plughole.

“Pyg? Pyg?” Bernard’s panicked voice called out. “George, where’s Pyg?”

Then he was at my side, coughing and tugging my arm.

We left her in here to keep her safe… because the dragon never leaves its cave… because the dragon… the dragon…

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