The vibrating energy racing up and down my spine converted itself into a swift march up the lane. Good. Exercise it off. That’s what the magazines recommended. Cut down on alcohol, and do more exercise. And eat healthy. I thought of the dry crackers I’d had for breakfast. Another thing to fix. If I was going to check around the village for my neighbour, I might as well pick up some proper food, too. Vegetables. Wholegrains. Fish. Eat myself healthy. Yes.
The thick air pulled at the scraggly locks I’d failed to gather into my ponytail. The green hills rose around me. The trees in the distance stood at attention, as if they were ancient guards or bars on a cage.
I found myself thinking about all the murderers I’d ever read about in the news. How they’d tried to cover their tracks and how clumsy and stupid they’d been. Going back to the scene of the crime. Keeping the weapon. Heading to a petrol station, plastered with CCTV cameras, to get a packet of Rolos afterwards. I’d always thought that was just a symptom of their character. If you’re the kind of person stupid enough to murder someone, then you’d be stupid enough to get caught. Now I could understand why they did the stupid things they did. Because in moments like these, reality splits. In one reality you’ve permanently snuffed out a life, the individual spark of a person, never to be seen again by anyone they’ve ever loved and who ever loved them back. And in the other reality, you’re still just an ordinary person, going about your day, making cups of tea, telling people about the dream you had last night, stepping in dog shit and trying to wipe it off in the long grass.
And what would happen if, say, you’re not sure which one is real? How long would you last in that no man’s land between the two realities? How long before you’d beg someone to tip the balance and give you the gift of horrible certainty?
But that’s not what was happening to me, no. Because I was going to the village and I was going to ask after—
Wait, what was her name? I still didn’t know her name. Who would I ask after around the village? Fuck’s sake.
A high bleating broke me from my thoughts. I started at the sound. In the field next to me was a lamb. No, two lambs. White bodies, sweet black faces, side by side, reflecting each other perfectly. I could have put a mirror between them and got the same image. So perfect, so still, I wondered if I was looking at models, stuffed toys. A breeze licked the sweat off the back of my neck and a shiver ran a finger down my back. I don’t know whether it was the hangover paranoia or the horrible uncertainty I’d been carrying all morning, but the animals felt off. Like finding a straight line in nature. I stepped up to the dry stone wall to get a closer look.
The lambs bleated in unison. Strangled and in stereo.
My heart leapt in my chest at the sound.
Their identical amber eyes stared at me.
My skin itched in their gaze. What was it with sheep and staring? Dogs, too. Whenever I’d reached out a hand to pet a dog, it had always just seemed to stare at me.
They just don’t know you, their owners always said.
But they do know, don’t they? Animals and small children. I figured it was because they hadn’t learned shame. They hadn’t learned that it was better to swallow down your instincts. They hadn’t learned to worry about being rude or unfriendly or unkind. When they felt that someone was ‘not quite right’ they would just stare.
The lambs stared right at me.
They knew. They could smell it on me.
I pulled down my sleeves and looked out over the field. It was empty except for the two lambs. The paddock rose to a small hill then dipped back down and out of view. Perhaps the rest of the sheep were hidden over the other side. A line of crows waited along the hedgerow ahead, watching the lambs intently.
“Where are your parents?” I asked the lambs.
They bleated at me again in unison. As one, they turned inwards, one flicking their left ear and the other flicking their right at the exact same time. Then they trotted away, left and right, right and left, in perfect synchronicity, like the world had folded in two. They toddled up over the hill and out of sight. The crows on the hedgerow cawed in delight and took to the skies, floating their ragged, shadowed selves over the crest of the hill after the tiny bodies.
A new wave of nausea swelled into my chest. My back and neck flushed, suddenly hot and sweaty. I forced the feeling down and continued along the road. I’d dallied long enough.
I needed coffee. And a bacon roll.
CHAPTER 20
The first thing that caught my eye as I crossed Bodach’s Brig and walked into Carlinsrest that morning was the Celtic cross war memorial.
At the base of the memorial was a carpet of flowers. Pansies danced gaily in the breeze. Bold nasturtiums tumbled in verdant, virulent vines from polished terracotta pots. Proud fuchsia bushes shook their bright pink heads, though not a bee seemed to want to go near them. From the rood, pink, blue and purple lobelia spread in a wave down the little steps, tendrils creeping closer to the line of cafés and shops.
A young man stood staring at it while holding his squirming toddler in his arms. He saw me looking, raised an eyebrow and nodded in the direction of the flowers.
“Eye-catching, isn’t it?” he said, dodging chubby fists reaching for butterflies.
“Who did it?” I asked, staring at all the sudden flowers. “Was it the WI or something?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “We don’t have one of those, uh, branches up here. Someone must have done it overnight. One of those guerrilla gardeners you hear of. Y’know the types. They throw seed bombs onto abandoned demolition sites and the like. Though I’ve never seen anything like this!”
“No,” I said, hangover curdling in my stomach. “Me neither.”
There was something in the brightness of the flowers, an enforced cheeriness, that felt a little… unreal.
“Someone’s repainted the sign over the community centre as well.” The woman who’d served me at the café—the eponymous Maggie, perhaps?— wandered over, arms crossed, apron tied round her waist. I tucked my head down, hoping not to be noticed. She frowned at the flower display. “Community centre’s been closed for months, mind. Must be a newcomer.”
