The kits returned to their lodge, and David and I walked back along the river in the direction of my car. The hills roll more modestly here in the eastern part of the county, and as we walked the sun went down over those on our right, like a party balloon losing the friction that had attached it to a wall and gently falling to rest behind a squishy sofa. About forty miles beyond that, or maybe closer, Flaviu still roamed free despite the zoo’s attempts to lure him back with some ocelot urine donated by a concerned keeper. He would roam for over a fortnight more before being captured, in that time toughening up a little and committing the rite-of-passage murder of four lambs. The night felt lively, the particular buzz and hum and rustle that only summer evenings in the countryside in July contain. David, who clearly had more finely tuned hearing than me, stopped abruptly every minute or two to investigate a distant splash or a rustle in the reeds. I had to remind myself not to get complacent about what had just happened: in less than a week I had seen three examples of an animal that just a few years ago I’d assumed I’d never see in Britain during my lifetime. On top of that, I’d seen two very clear examples of another animal I’d only seen in the wild twice – and much more fleetingly – before. But now it seemed oddly normal. Maybe a lot of this was about the power of scarcity? But it was about more than that too. When I was shopping for second-hand records and found rare, forgotten albums, they excited me because they were rare and forgotten, but that wasn’t the whole story: I wouldn’t buy them if they didn’t look and sound great too. Beavers were rare, and the role they’d once played in Britain’s ecosystem had been a little forgotten, but they looked and sounded great too.
At David’s commanding point and whistle, Willow shot off into the field to our right at speed and completed two ecstatic circuits of it. Upon returning she arrived at my feet and gazed at me keenly. I gazed back at her eager floppy-eared face, the face of a perfect spaniel in rude health. If you’d never seen a face like that, or one remotely similar to it, and you just stumbled across it living contentedly wild on some desolate moor, you’d go a little nuts. Or perhaps you knew about it, this mythical spaniel creature, but only via drawings or the passed-down, subtly altered tales of centuries of folklore. Even so, you’d be excited. ‘Oh my God! Look at this!’ you’d shout. ‘Come quick!’ But after that you’d remember you were on your own, and there was nobody to tell. You would reach for your phone and recall that it was at home on top of a cupboard. You’d shout a little more. Maybe someone was over the next ridge? But your shouts would echo coldly into the big surrounding nothing, unanswered. There would be a vague disappointment about that initially, but you’d get over it. In not much time at all what you’d seen would become your little secret: something that you’d put away somewhere warm and safe for ever that was all the more special for never being touched by anyone else.
4
THE HILLOCKS HAVE EYES
‘Is that my underwear catalogue?’ asked Annabel.
We had just arrived outside the studio where Annabel, an artist and university lecturer, worked, near Woodbridge, seven miles from the Suffolk coast. As we emerged from my car we had watched a man in off-white overalls with a sandpaper beard and darting eyes emerge from the front door of the studio. In his hand he clutched a glossy magazine produced by Bravissimo, the lingerie company that caters for women with bra sizes of D cup and above, showcasing their spring range.
‘Yeah, sorry, I wanted it for the men’s stuff,’ said the man, returning the catalogue to Annabel.
‘That’s Brian,’ said Annabel, opening the door to her studio when Brian had gone. ‘He works in one of the other buildings. He’s harmless, but he doesn’t like dipping his hands into things. There’s a water butt around the back filled with rainwater. I offered him a tenner to put his hand in it and he wouldn’t do it.’
Annabel and I were about to head off to find two scarecrows she had seen a few miles north, on the edge of the village of Blaxhall, but first she had to check on her zebra finch, which was currently living in the rafters of the spare room next to her studio. The zebra finch did not reside at Annabel’s smallish house in Ipswich, as there was no room, what with the amount of Annabel’s art stored there plus the giant collection of 1980s pornography dominating the first floor. This collection did not belong to Annabel but to her recently deceased landlord, or more precisely to his daughter, who had inherited it and had, for sentimental reasons, declined all requests for it to be removed. Annabel’s studio was in a former school built in the mid-1800s, featuring tall rooms with high windows purpose-built to begin their ascent to the ceiling at the average head height of a ten-year-old Victorian child, to
