The Rye Trail
written by: Suzzi Harwood
I turn my back toward the bobby and move my hands behind me, resting them on my low back. I feel the metal of the handcuffs, cold and heavy as they ratchet around my small wrists. The officer gives me a nudge on my elbow and directs me to the back seat of his panda car. Although I notice it’s not the black and white patrol car of my youth. Looking through the plastic screen to the front seats, I see there’s more fancy gadgetry in this car than I have in the entirety of my house.
I was on my regular Tuesday morning trail walk along the creek, listening for birdcalls. Last week, I heard the distinctive call of a Northern Cardinal. I was hoping to spot him in all his crimson glory, when all of a sudden a man’s arm was around my neck. He lifted me off the ground by my throat. I was in a total panic. I tried to scream–nothing came out.
I forced myself to calm down and think. I took a deep breath and thought about the senior self-defense training course I took a few years ago. All the ladies in my book club signed up for the free training at the fire station. Young, handsome lads showed us how to use our own body weight to gain an advantage. Of course, the number one rule was don’t panic. I remember the wonderful Wellington they served for tea with proper cups and saucers.
I pushed my body backward into the attacker and took a small stabilising step forward with my right foot. I lifted my left foot, bent my knee, and with all my might shoved the bottom of my left foot into his leg or knee, not sure what I hit. He immediately released the chokehold and bent forward. I turned around to face him, swung my right leg back, a little worried I’d hurt my knee that is scheduled for replacement next month, and kicked him in the nut sack—every man’s most vulnerable spot. His hands moved to cup his nuts. As he hunched forward, I grabbed the back of his head and slammed his nose into my left knee, careful to spare my right knee from any more trauma. Bright red blood spewed out of what I hoped was a broken nose. He flopped to the ground, hands dashing between his nuts and nose. I moved behind him and took a small step back, swung my arms toward the heavens, and propelled my legs upward and forward, landing square on the side of his ribcage. I heard a nice crackle.
Having released myself from his grip, I walked quickly up the hillside. I’d liked to have run, but that darn right knee would not cooperate. I needed to flag down some help. I heard what I thought was a whistling sound; perhaps I punctured a lung with one of his broken ribs.
I scrambled up to the road and waved my arms about like a madwoman. I completely forgot about the convenient technology that lingered in the hip pocket of my jogger. Incredibly, several cars swerved past me without offering any assistance. Finally, a distinguished older gentleman pulled over and rolled down his passenger side window. “Do you need help?”
I pulled up on the door lever, climbed into the seat, pushed the window button up, and said, “Drive.”
He pulled back onto Pine Crest Close, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“A man attacked me on the trail.”
“What man? Where is he?”
I was shaking, and crying as a wave of shock hit me. “I don’t know.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t,” I said and tried to take stock of the situation.
“Do you have your phone with you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Take it out and dial 999.”
“Ok.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked again.
“I don’t think so. I’m just shaken up a bit.”
“I have to pick up my wife at the dentist,” he paused and looked at me, “As you don’t appear to be hurt, I am going to drop you off on the High Street while you wait for the bobbies to arrive.”
“What? Can’t I stay in your car until they get here?”
“Well, I would, but I have to pick up my wife,” he said, “I was on my way to get her when I saw you waving your arms. But, as you are not hurt, I think I can leave you here, and the police will take over.”
“999, what is the address of your emergency?”
“I am at the Boots on the High Street. A man just attacked me on the Rye Trail.”
“Do you need an ambulance?”
“No.”
“Were there any weapons involved?”
“No.”
“What is your name?”
“Liz Atticus.”
“Police are on their way.”
I hear the warble of the police sirens, “The police car is here, thank you for your help,” I say, and let go of the dispatcher.
“We’ve got her,” the bobby says as he pushes the mike button attached to his epaulette.
“A man attacked me on the Rye trail,” I sputter out.
“There’s a dead man on the Rye trail,” the bobby replies, looking at me coldly. “Someone did a real rough up on him. Got to admit, you are not the first suspect that comes to mind.”
“What? I did not rough him up. He attacked me.”
“All I know is there is a dead man on the trail. You claim he attacked you, but you don’t appear to have any cuts or bruises.”
“I defended myself and got away.”
“Well, it will all get cleared up at the station. Right now, you are under arrest on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
- The Rye Trail - January 10, 2026
