They were both of babies, both very young, their faces still quite red and raw looking. One was laying on a yellow blanket, wearing a white baby grow that was too big for it—the sock ends were flat where the baby’s tiny feet did not quite reach them—and the other was being held by a woman whose head ended at the chin, cut off by the framing. The baby was wrapped in a blue and pink knitted blanket, and it was looking up at the camera with the particular expression of annoyed confusion special to all very small children. There were tiny wisps of ginger hair on its downy scalp.
Heather stood very still. There was nothing especially sinister about this, she told herself. People loved to take photos of babies. Judging by her Facebook feed, it was a pastime destined to be forever popular. But her mind kept returning to Anna in the visiting room, touching a hand to her stomach, saying “they took my baby.” And the more she looked at the photo of the woman, the stranger it was to her that the photographer had cut her head off—if they’d taken a step back, they could have got mother and baby both in the picture easily enough.
And why were the photos still here? And hidden?
She turned the Polaroids over. On the backside of each, someone had drawn a tiny heart in red felt tip.
Taking a stumbling step backwards, Heather’s boot landed on something soft and yielding. She lifted her foot and made a small noise in the back of her throat. It was a dead bird, quite a large one. Maggots moved busily under and around the feathers, a tiny squirming civilization.
Just a coincidence, Heather told herself as she stuffed the photos in her pocket. Just a coincidence, just a coincidence.
At that moment, there was a loud scuffling noise from the room at the end. Something threw itself against the door, and Heather turned and ran, jumping over the dead bird and flying out the door into the rain. She kept going, through the grass and into the tree line. There was a flat crashing sound as something threw the caravan door open, but she didn’t look back. In seconds, she was deeper into the woods, the sound of her own breathing too loud, and even as she tried to convince herself she was fine—it was just a fox, a fox made a den in there, that’s all—the sense that someone was running after her was irresistible.
Disorientated by the rough ground, she stumbled to a stop, leaning against a tree trunk, and she forced herself to hold her breath, and listen.
Rain pattered down through the trees, creating a cocoon of noise that shrouded everything else.
“Shit.” Heather took a slow breath. Somewhere back toward the caravan, she could hear something—a crackle of twigs being broken underfoot, perhaps. Somewhere nearby, a bird cried out, making her jump.
Maybe not a fox. She stared in the direction of the noises, although she could see no one in the gloom. Maybe a tramp. Someone who has been using it to get out of the rain.
She waited, so tense her back began to ache, but nothing materialized from between the trees. As if on cue, the rain began to fall more heavily, and reasoning that the noise would hide her movements from anyone listening, Heather began to pick her way through the woods toward the cottage.
When Heather got back, she found Nikki bustling about, a dustpan and brush in one hand.
“We’ve been here less than a day, you can’t have found anything to tidy up yet.” She kicked her boots off, cringing at the overly casual sound of her voice. She felt tainted by the caravan and her panicky run from it, as though she’d brought back its fusty, rotten atmosphere to this cozy space. She wanted to have a shower.
“Oh. Well.” Nikki paused in the kitchenette, looking at the floor critically. “We must have left a window open or something because a bird got in. Feathers all over the place.”
“What?”
“It’s all right, I got most of them I think.” Nikki banged the pan against the bin, and Heather could just see a little pile of soft brown feathers disappearing into the binbag. “The bird itself must have done a circuit of the cottage and flown back out again, the little sod … Hev, are you all right? You look like you’re going to be sick.”
She turned away as she took her coat off, so that Nikki wouldn’t see her face. What has followed me here? And how could it?
“Did you look in all the rooms? For the bird, I mean?”
“Yup, no sign. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Heather joined her friend in the kitchen, retrieving a bottle of wine from the side and pouring herself a glass. It’s probably nothing, she told herself, although the sick feeling in her stomach only seemed to increase. If you tell her, you’ll be scaring her for no reason. “Listen, I am a bit tired though. How about we call it a day and have a rest? I want to drink a glass of wine, have a hot bath or something.” She took out her phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen, but still no messages from Ben. The idea of calling to complain that someone was leaving feathers in her holiday home only made her feel worse.
“Sure.” Nikki smiled, although Heather could see the little crease between her eyebrows that meant she was worrying about something. “It’s raining too hard to go for a walk now anyway. We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow.”
CHAPTER37
BEFORE
BONES, WHITE AGAINST the black earth.
Michael knelt, curious, pushing away clods of mud and pieces of mulch until a shape emerged: empty eye
