Page 81 of Hot Ghost Summer

“Brigid? Yeah.” She nods over her shoulder, signalling further north. “She was walking with two men up by the brook.”

“Two men?”

The girl holds her free hand flat and raises it to a bit taller than her. “Yeah. Men. In black.”

There’s that silence again, then all the other teens fall about laughing while doling out high-fives.

“Um, cheers.” I jog off toward the towpath.

What’s Brigid doing coming out this way? She always goes to the high street for the nasturtiums in the council’s planters. And who are the men in black?

That uncomfortable tingle prickles the back of my neck again.

The other night at the farm, when I’d disturbed those men trying to lasso Brigid, they were wearing dark clothing. One had been bald, with a tattooed hand—Russ, his mate had called him. Is it them? Did they come back just a couple of nights later? Why?

I jog from one spaced-out streetlight to the next. Long shadows stretch between, and in the darkness my thoughts race. If it is the same men, then how did they get her so far so fast? And so quietly? Last time they tried to snatch her from the yard and barely got her through the gate, but tonight they’ve managed to get her clear through the park and into the next borough. How?

That’s when I hear her agitated nasal lowing. Stepping off the path and into the tree-lined verge, I quietly close in on the trio.

The men are trying to push Brigid through the blue-painted security fence of the Bowen’s Plaza site, but like last time, she’s resisting. Having planted her feet and lowered her centre of gravity, the rope around her neck isn’t enough for them to make her move. Not that it’s stopping them from yanking it so tight she’ll get rope burns.

I ball my free hand into a fist.

It’s them. The same men who bashed my face in.

Slowing a little, I creep as far as I can between the long grasses and the wrought iron fence. Now that I’ve found her, how am I supposed to help her? I came armed with a bag of biscuits because I was expecting her to be on her own, not with two vandals. There’s no way I can attract her attention and not theirs. Not to mention, Plot 47 is on the other side of that blue fence, and Hollis was very specific about me not being here.

Worrying, and staring hard at where that rope is cutting into her thick neck, I overhear Russ say, “If we can’t get her through the gate, how’re we gonna get her in the back of the van?”

“Don’t you have any of those biscuits left?” asks his mate, moving behind Brigid and jamming his shoulder into her rear to try to budge her. “How daft is that old bat, anyway? Inviting people in to feed the animals, then telling everyone their favourite food. Might as well paint a sign on ’em that says ‘steal me.’”

Their dark and gravelly laughter grates on my ears.

Brigid suddenly tips her large head back to produce a louder, higher-pitched bellow. Distress. She can sense something isn’t right and is sounding a warning call.

“Watch your fucking hand!” Russ yelps. “Whoa, easy girl.”

A loud, splintering crack pierces the quiet night.

Brigid releases a low, long moo, and the dickheads trying to take her unleash a series of curse words, and then a false, “Come on, girl, we’re just gonna take a short trip to the motorway where you can accidentally cause some havoc. There we go, yeah, have another biscuit.”

Desperate, I search for any passerby to help. I don’t need them to physically intervene, using their phone to call the police would be enough—I left mine at home with Hollis—but this entire area is void of life. There isn’t even a discarded golf club or wine bottle I could get a couple of good hits out of.

Russ and his mate succeed in luring Brigid through the security gate of Bowen’s Plaza, and when they vanish from sight, I hop the iron railings and rush to press my back against the blue-painted chipboard.

“Go get the van doors open. Quick! While she’s still moving.” Their whisper-yelling is clear to hear, but I can’t risk sticking my head around the corner in case they see me.

There’ll be things I can use as a weapon in there, though. Maybe some rebar or a hammer-like tool.

The loud ringing of a mobile phone cuts through my heroic thoughts.

“Fuck. Hang on. You got her? I need to take this. Yeah, boss?”

Taking advantage of their momentary distraction, I peep through the hole cut into the wood where the security chain still dangles. That could be a good weapon.

Russ is busy tugging Brigid, and his mate has his back to me.

Leaving the chain where it is, I rush inside and run to take cover behind one of the parked diggers.