I Let You Go by Clare Mackintosh Page A

on gratefully. It is empty, and I sit far enough back from the driver to avoid conversation. The bus picks its way inland through narrow roads, and I watch the sea retreat, then search for its reappearance as we approach our destination.
     
    The quiet road where the bus stops is sandwiched between stone walls that seem to run the length of Port Ellis, and there is no pavement, so I walk on the road towards what I hope is the centre of the village. I will explore inland, then head for the coast.
    The bag is half-hidden in the hedge; black plastic tied in a knot and slung into the shallow ditch by the side of the road. I almost miss it entirely, dismissing it as rubbish, discarded by holiday-makers.
    But then it moves, just slightly.
    So slightly I almost think I am imagining it, that it must be the wind rustling the plastic. I lean into the hedge and reach for the bag, feeling as I do the unmistakable sensation of something alive inside.
    I drop to my knees and rip open the bin bag. A fetid stench of fear and excrement hits me and I retch, forcing down nausea at the sight of the two animals inside. One puppy lies still, the skin on its back clawed raw by the frantic, wriggling dog beside it, its crying barely audible. I let out a sob and pick up the live puppy, cradling it inside my coat. I get clumsily to my feet and look around, calling to a man crossing the road a hundred metres further on.
    ‘Help! Please help!’
    The man turns and ambles towards me, seemingly unmoved by my panic. He’s old, and his back curves forward, pushing his chin on to his chest.
    ‘Is there a vet here?’ I ask, as soon as he is close enough.
    The man looks at the puppy, quiet and still now in my coat, and peers into the black bag on the floor. He makes a clicking sound, shaking his head slowly.
    ‘Alun Mathews’ son,’ he says. He jerks his head, presumably indicating where the son is to be found, and picks up the black sack, with its gruesome contents. I follow him, feeling the warmth from the puppy spreading through my chest.
    The surgery is a small white building at the end of a lane, with a sign above the door that reads ‘Port Ellis Veterinary Surgery’. Inside the tiny waiting room a woman sits on a plastic chair, a cat basket on her lap. The room smells of disinfectant and dog.
    The receptionist looks up from her computer. ‘Hello, Mr Thomas, what can we do for you?’
    My companion nods a greeting and hefts the black sack on the counter. ‘This one’s found a couple of pups dumped in the hedge,’ he says. ‘Bloody shame.’ He leans towards me and pats me carefully on the arm. ‘They’ll see you right,’ he says, and leaves the surgery, making the bell above the door jingle enthusiastically.
    ‘Thanks for bringing them in.’
    The receptionist wears a badge on her bright blue tunic, with the name ‘Megan’ embossed in black.
    ‘Lots of people wouldn’t, you know.’
    Keys swing from a lanyard studded with brightly coloured animal badges and charity tie pins, like the sort worn by nurses on a children’s ward. She opens the bag and blanches momentarily, before discreetly disappearing from view with it.
    Seconds later a door into the waiting room opens, and Megan smiles at me. ‘Do you want to bring this little one through? Patrick will see you straight away.’
    ‘Thank you.’ I follow Megan into an oddly shaped room with cupboards shoe-horned into the corners. At the far end is a kitchen counter and a small stainless steel sink, at which a man is washing his hands with lurid green soap that foams up his forearms.
    ‘Hello, I’m Patrick. The vet,’ he adds, then laughs. ‘But you probably guessed that.’ He is a tall man – taller than me, which is unusual – with dirty blond hair in no discernible style. Under his blue scrubs he wears jeans and a checked shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and a smile that shows even white teeth. I guess him to be in his mid-thirties, perhaps a little older.
    ‘My name’s