GRAHAM
Graham stares. Blinks. Keeps staring. Up into the branches. He can just about see Mr Mallow’s feet. Has he heard him correctly? Did he say the scarecrow has a heart? He knows Mr Mallow is a little peculiar, but he doesn’t have him down as someone who’d play such a crude practical joke.
Graham’s neck protests as he cranes it upwards, but he can't tear his eyes away from the scene as Mr Mallow unties the scarecrow with difficulty and drags it down through the branches, which snap and groan. Several dozen crispy leaves and a multitude of tree mites cascade into Graham’s eyes.
He thinks back to what he overheard yesterday, regarding moving the scarecrow and bringing bad luck, but that was before he found out there may or may not be a human heart inside. As an ex-detective, he knows better than to mess with a potential crime scene, but all thoughts have now blown away on the wind.
There’s something about this whole tree and scarecrow situation that calls to him. Like Mr Mallow, he has a passion for finding out the truth, no matter the cost. And now, this investigation has turned up a notch. If kids are playing pranks like this, then what else are they capable of doing?
Several minutes later, Mr Mallow finishes manhandling the scarecrow down through the branches and lets it drop through the final thinner ones where it lands with a thud at Graham’s feet. While Mr Mallow navigates his way down the trunk, Graham steps closer, shining the torch beam onto the grotesque-looking heap on the ground.
The coat is covered in blood; a new development from yesterday when he last saw it. Now he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure there hadn’t been blood there this morning when he’d looked up at it either. Some of the blood is still fresh, glimmering as the light from the torch catches it. There’s no way he would have missed it. Besides, due to the blood being fresh, it must have been left there recently, sometime in the last few hours. In the cold winter air, it will have taken longer to dry.
‘What do you think, Detective?’ asks Mr Mallow, joining him at his side. His breathing is laboured and a sheen of sweat sparkles on his forehead.
‘You okay?’ asks Graham.
‘Never been great at climbing trees. I’m not exactly what you’d call the athletic type.’
‘Join the club.’ Graham returns his eyes to the scarecrow. He hands Mr Mallow the torch and then kneels on the ground. His left knee clicks loudly, and he winces in response.
Graham is careful not to touch the coat too much, so uses a stick to pull back the front of it. There, wedged inside the chest of the scarecrow, is a bleeding heart. Fresh.
‘Is it human?’ asks Mr Mallow, screwing up his nose.
Graham does the same. It’s got that tangy, raw odour that most fresh meat has, yet it’s also just on the edge of turning foul.
‘Hard to say. Can’t say I’ve ever been this close to an actual heart. Could be a pig’s heart. They are remarkably similar to human hearts, especially to look at.’
‘And you would know that, how?’ asks Mr Mallow without missing a beat.
‘After fifty-five years on this planet, you learn a few random facts from time to time.’ Mr Mallow raises his eyebrows and Graham’s face remains deadpan. ‘I used to work in a butcher’s shop when I was a kid. Fifteen. Something like that.’
‘Huh.’
Graham meticulously checks the rest of the scarecrow, but he can't see any other body parts. He checks the pockets, but they’re empty. He finds himself disappointed.
‘Nothing in the pockets this time,’ he says.
‘Do you have the items you found on you?’
Graham stands up, his left knee cracking again. He reaches into his own jacket pocket and pulls out the sketch and the missing poster. He hands them to Mr Mallow, who studiesthem for several seconds, paying close attention to the sketch in particular.
‘Someone is sending a message,’ replies Mr Mallow matter-of-factly.
‘That was my thought too.’
‘I’m not talking about the sketch and the poster. I’m talking about the scarecrow. Has this happened before?’
‘Apparently, it’s a prank that the local kids play every year, close to the anniversary of John Hammel’s death, which happens to be around Halloween. But nothing was said about there being an actual heart involved.’
Mr Mallow stares at the scarecrow. ‘You said something about a curse?’
‘It appears there’s a superstition regarding the tree and John Hammel’s death. Ever since his death a hundred years ago, the village has been plagued with bad luck. A curse, if you will.’
‘Interesting.’
Graham shakes his head. ‘What is it with these strange little towns in the countryside and their weird traditions and curses?’
