Callum is still transfixed by the sight on his doorstep, as if he’s unable to look away.
“Is he… asleep?”
“I think he must have had a really big bang on the head, Cal.”
“So can you wake him up?” There is a doubtful note in his voice. “Daddy? Can we take him inside?”
Daisy tugs at my hand. “Make the birdie better.”
I bend over and take a closer look at the stricken creature. It’s completely motionless, the blood on its beak starting to dry to a dark crimson crust. Even without touching it, I can tell it’s beyond help.
“I don’t think we should take it inside.”
“Why?” Daisy says. “Why can’t we?”
“Let’s all of us go inside first, then I’ll take it into the back garden and we’ll have a proper look.”
Callum doesn’t move.
“Is he dead?” he says simply.
All his exuberance from the car has vanished, replaced by a downward set to his mouth that I normally only see on the football pitch after he’s had a bad game. My middle child is normally a cheerful, ebullient sort who doesn’t let most things bother him.
“Yes,” I say reluctantly. “I think he is.”
A tear rolls down Daisy’s cheek.
“Why has he died, Daddy?” Her voice wobbles. “Why did he die on our step?”
I finally get the two of them inside, all of us stepping carefully around the corpse on the doorstep, trying to distract them with TV, which is not normally allowed before teatime. But they’re still full of questions ten minutes later as I pick up the pigeon in the folds of a plastic bag and carry it around the side of the house to the back garden.
We find a shoebox for the bird, which Daisy insists on lining with tissues, and both children watch as I dig a hole in one of the few flowerbeds that is not thick with weeds, Callum stealing glances at the box as if he still expects the pigeon to rise from thedead, bursting from its makeshift coffin. Once the box is carefully interred, I push the earth back into the hole and the two of them gather small white pebbles from the rockery to mark the spot and arrange them into a lopsided circle in the flattened patch of flowerbed.
When it’s all done I stand up and lean the spade against the fence. My heart clenches when I see that Daisy is holding her brother’s hand, her little face solemn, the knees of her trousers muddy from helping him gather stones. She sniffs, cuffing tears away with the sleeve of her green school jumper.
“Come on, you two.” I take Callum’s other hand. “Let’s go inside and play a game of something. And there’s some nice cake in the kitchen from our lovely new neighbor, Mrs. Evans. Who’s going to wash their hands so they can have a slice?”
I cut three slices of sponge cake and hand them each a piece on a small plastic plate, watching as they tuck in hungrily with bare hands. I’ve just taken a bite of my own slice when my phone starts buzzing with a string of texts landing one after the other. I take it out of my pocket, assuming it’s Charlie to ask whether I’ve had any luck with the reverse-image search. But it’s not him. It’s from the number we found in the old flip phone.
I click on the message thread, a chill stealing over my skin as I read each one in turn.
I asked you politely.
You didn’t listen.
You know what we want, and how to get it to us.
I reply with the phone gripped tight in my hand.
Stay away from my house.
The blue ticks appear almost immediately, showing that my message has been read. The reply arrives seconds later.
This is your last chance.
Otherwise what happens next will be your fault.
29
