Triskellion by Will Peterson

her watch. Three o’clock now. “OK. See you there at four?”
    “It’s a date,” Gabriel said. He spoke without emphasis, but Rachel felt herself redden all the same. Gabriel rose to his feet and tossed the bag of crisps to Adam, walking slowly away down the length of the garden and out through a gap in the hedge.
    Adam turned to his sister, his look telling her that
he
thought that
she
quite liked Gabriel. “Wooooo,” he said,making kissy noises with his lips.
    Rachel laughed bashfully, then jumped on her brother, punching his upper arm with what he discovered, somewhat painfully, was considerable strength for a girl.
    The twins couldn’t settle, so, half an hour later, having told a dozing Granny Root that they were off on a bike ride, they set out on the lane.
    They decided to take the long way round: down the lane, up past the edge of the woods and then out along the narrow road that ran through the middle of the moor towards the chalk circle. They could have walked it cross-country in ten minutes from Root Cottage, but the afternoon was beginning to cool, and the breeze as they freewheeled down the lane was welcome. They sped down past the pub then round the bend, stopping at a red postbox where Adam deposited his letter home. Then on, alongside the red-brick wall that marked the outer boundary of the Waverley Hall estate.
    As the ordered limits of the wall gave way to the narrower lane, Rachel felt suddenly nauseous. Sick, and scared in the same terrible second, as though she were passing through something rank, and dangerous. As though it were passing through her.
    Even as she registered it, she heard the nearby grumble of a diesel engine grow swiftly into a roar, and a mud-spattered Land Rover careered into their path round a blind bend in the lane.
    “Adam!” Rachel screeched to her brother, two bike lengths in front of her. Adam swerved to the right, but not quickly enough for the truck to avoid clipping his back wheel, sending Adam and his bike skidding across the gravel. In turning to avoid Adam, the Land Rover was now headed directly at Rachel, who threw herself from her bicycle and into the scrub at the side of the lane.
    In that split second, screaming and rolling, tumbling headlong away from the impact, she could have sworn that the Land Rover was being driven by a huge, grey dog.
    The next few moments unravelled in slow motion. Rachel picked herself out of the bushes, thorns scraping her legs and catching at her clothes, until she sat, dazed, by the side of the road.
    She looked over to where Adam was picking himself up at the roadside. He was brushing himself down, a hole scraped through the knee of his jeans by the rough surface of the road. Rachel felt instant relief; her brother was alive, and she had no more than surface cuts and bruises. She was shocked out of her relief by the angry, booming voice of the man getting out of the Land Rover.
    “What the bloody…?”
    Rachel looked up to see the imposing figure of Commodore Wing climbing stiffly down from the driver’s seat and limping fast towards her, the huge figure of a grey Irish wolfhound loping along behind him.
    “Oh, it’s you.” The commodore’s temper instantly subsided. He smiled grimly, holding out a large, dry hand and helping Rachel to her feet. The giant dog sniffed Rachel, then licked her scratched arm.
    “Sorry,” the commodore said. “Bit of a shock. I’m not used to meeting anyone on this road. Couldn’t see very well. Sunlight through the trees. Almost blinded me.” He held his other hand out to Adam. “Nothing broken? Hope not. I really am most awfully sorry. My fault entirely.”
    Rachel found it hard to say anything. The man’s sudden charm was every bit as alarming as his anger had been just a moment or two before. Adam looked pained, dabbing the blood from his knee with a tissue, but still managing a croaky, “No problem.”
    “Good,” barked Commodore Wing. “The cycles have taken a bit of a prang,