“It’s fascinating,” said Nikki seriously. “Like the Pied Piper legend, but a local variety. Harry, I work at a college teaching English. I reckon my students would get a kick out of a proper old piece of folklore like this. I’d love to write about this story, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Uh, sure, knock yourself out.” He looked bemused now. “Here, look, take my card.” He fished a slightly bent business card out of his pocket and handed it over to Nikki. “Call me. You know. If you want to know more old stories.’ He grinned. “Or you want to buy a giant crow.”
As they walked away, back down the twisting paths, Heather elbowed her friend in the side.
“So smooth,” she said. “You always were a player, Nikki Appiah.”
“Oh, shut up.” But Nikki was laughing while she said it, her eyes bright. For a moment, Heather felt a genuine measure of contentment—it felt good to be teasing her friend, just like she did when they were kids in the school playground. When the rain picked up, however, the pattering of the rain on their umbrellas made her think of the abandoned caravan, and the lost and tiny faces of the children in the photographs, and all feelings of warmth and safety seemed to drain away into the soil.
They spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the countryside, taking photos here and there and sitting on low stone walls. Heather brought out her folder of Pamela Whittaker’s paintings every now and then, trying to match the images with the landscape around them, but she was never quite convinced she had got it right. She realized gradually that she was trying to pin the place down, as though it could be captured on Google street view, skewered like a butterfly on a board to be better examined, but Fiddler’s Mill and its environs were ever changing; in a constant state of flux, eroded into change by the seasons and wildlife and weather. It was an unknowable place—unless, perhaps, you were prepared to live under its bare skies for a while, like the commune had. She tried to picture her mother out here, living with a bunch of long-haired bath-dodgers, but it was difficult. It was difficult to even imagine her mother being happy.
Nikki was a good sport about it, wandering wherever Heather’s vague impulses directed them, but she noticed that her friend spent a lot of time looking at her phone, and any time there was a flicker of signal her fingers would fly across the screen. Giving into her nosier instincts, Heather peeped over Nikki’s shoulder at one point and saw enough of her phone screen to know that she was already engaged in a lively text conversation with Harry the artist. She looked away, smiling. It made her think of Ben Parker and his tousled sandy hair—but of course there was little chance he would reply to her text messages, and she could hardly be surprised at that.
When the light began to seep from the sky, they conceded defeat, heading back to the cottage with sore feet and empty stomachs. Once inside, Nikki began cooking a chili, neatly laying out her ingredients on the side before browning some mince in a pan.
“So,” Heather leaned on the kitchen counter, trying not to look at the darkness beyond the windows. “Harry the artist then. What’s your progress?”
Nikki continued chopping onions. “What do you mean, what’s your progress?”
Heather snorted. “Do me a favor, Nikki. I am an investigative journalist, remember?”
“Is that what you call it?” Nikki shot her a rueful look before sliding the onions into the pan with the edge of her knife. “I dunno, I’m thinking of asking him to do me a commission.”
“Oh, is that what you call it?”
Nikki threw a tea towel at her.
“We’re only here for a few days, aren’t we? But,” she shrugged, and Heather knew she’d won. “We did talk about going out for a drink tomorrow. There’s a place he knows a short drive from here, they do a really good fish pie.” When she met Heather’s eyes, she looked abashed. “I won’t go though, if you want me to stay, of course.”
Heather rolled her eyes at her. “Who am I to stand in the way of true love? And those muscles.” When Nikki opened her mouth to protest, Heather shook her head. “No honestly, go. I’m glad you might actually have some real fun on this little jaunt, rather than just traipsing around in the mud with me all day.”
“It’s just an evening thing, and …” Nikki sighed. “I am worried about you though, Hev. Do you really think you should be alone at all? With everything that’s happened?”
“Oh god, don’t start. I’m fine.” She thought of the dead bird on her mother’s dressing table, the petals like drops of blood leading up the staircase. She forced a smile on her face. “Honestly. It’s doing me good, to be away. Maybe my mum was right about this place. It’s peaceful.”
“If you’re sure.” Nikki went to the cupboard and retrieved a can of chopped tomatoes. “Did we have another bottle of red? It’d go better with the chili than the white.”
“I think I’ve still got one in my case.”
The shadows in her room were already the deep shades of night. Heather flicked the light on and began rummaging around in her case, trying to retrieve the bottle of wine that was nestled beneath her discarded socks and t-shirts. Her fingers had just closed around the neck when she saw a dark shape sitting neatly in the center of her pillow. She dropped the wine and straightened up, her heart skipping sickly in her chest.
Although it wasn’t the right size or shape at all, for an awful instant she was sure it was a dead bird, even as her eyes confirmed the
