Rebecca Wilson enjoyed her horse riding with a vengeance.


She was up at dawn every day of every week.

Rebecca who was lucky in looks and in life, she loved her farmer husband but in truth not as whole heartedly as she loved Penguin her cross bred nag rescued from the knackers yard a year previously.

She brought Penguin to a halt and gently patted his neck.

She turned slightly in the saddle and gazed across the fantastic view of the Wyle Valley. To her left about a mile distant was the old hill top fort which she knew gave a really amazing view down into the Wylye valley.

The problem was old Penguin didn’t like the deep trenches that encircled this bronze age fortress.

“Oh hell”, she thought, “on a clear day like this I have to go and peek down below again”.

Rebecca shared a medium sized farm house with her husband Alan and two kids. Samantha aged two and John aged four. John was named after Alan’s father who had passed away nine years ago from the dreaded Mr Cancer.

The farm was spread over 700 acres which kept Alan and his staff of four busy for most the year.

Rebecca stood at 5ft 6 inches while Alan towered over her at 6ft 3 inches. Both were natural blonds and when all four were out together shopping or on holiday etc, people would comment openly that they resembled angels.

That of course was not totally true because like most couples they had their fair share of arguments. But their love usually shone through until the next disagreement came along.

Twenty minutes later Rebecca tethered Penguin to an old wooded post that constituted a part of the boundary of their neighbours farm and then ran down into the nearest defence trench around the old hilltop fort and let her momentum drive her easily over the opposite rim into the fort proper. Penguin bent low to reach the damp grass and then totally ignored its master.

The view was not as far reaching as Rebecca would have liked due to the early morning mist in the valley below. She took off her riding hat and sat down on the tumuli (which for those who don’t know, it’s a low round mound) that most of these hill top forts possessed. Alan had told her years before that these mounds were supposed to be where the original inhabitants had buried their dead. Of course over the thousands of years these had been plundered and no bones lay beneath the man made pile to haunt her thoughts.

She let the breeze ruffle her hair while she rolled a cigarette. Alan thought she’d given up months before. She always said the same little sentence while she smoked, “every body just has to have a little secret”.

The hand rolling tobacco smoke drifted lazily away to the east. She remembered those years working “like a bloody maniac” in London trying her best to climb the slippery ladder to what she assumed was success.

And then along came Alan.

When they married and she settled into being a farmer’s wife in the spectacular landscape of South West Wiltshire she had never really if truth were told, missed the crazy streets of London one iota.

Rebecca checked her watch and realised she had to get back home to get John ready for play school. Poor Penguin never liked to rush but this morning he would have to get his hooves moving faster than just a canter.

As she replaced her riding helmet she took another sneaky glance into the valley.

She reversed her quick run down into the defensive trench and once again her momentum took her up the opposite bank directly to Penguins side.

She place her left booted foot into the stirrup ready to hoist herself aboard when Penguins ears flatted against his head and his eyes rolled skywards.

The last thought that encircled her pretty head as first Penguins front legs collapsed throwing her forward and her helmet being torn from her blonde hair snapping her neck and taking her head completely off.

The absolute rendering of Rebecca and Penguin was over in less than a second.