Who is the child?
I’d stopped feeling sick now and had gained a degree of control over my body. Tilly was no longer trembling – either with her own fear or with the force of my heartbeat, I hadn’t been sure.
‘This is my daughter, Tilly. I’m Libby Douthwaite and I have to tell you that this house is about to be demolished and you must leave.’
A pause. The woman, Isobel Isherwood, was standing in front of the window, blocking much of the light so she stood as a dark shape, half hidden behind a large table where her sheets of paper were neatly stacked and surrounded by piles of books. There were also, I noted with a shudder, lots of loose feathers.
Another scrabble, another piece of paper. Another word.
No.
I gritted my teeth. Had Ross Ventriss known about this woman? Was that why he really hadn’t wanted to get involved in making sure the house was empty, because he already knew that someone was in here and was going to make things difficult? I shifted my weight and moved Tilly to my other side. Beyond the woman, Isobel, I could see that the top half of the window was open and wondered if that was where the birds had gone.
‘Look,’ I tried to sound reasonable. ‘The site has been sold. This man, Ross, is going to knock the house down and while I don’tthinkhe’ll do it with you inside he’s a bit hair trigger and I can’t promise that he won’t just bulldoze it to the ground the first time you step out through the front door, so if I were you I’d pack your things and move on somewhere else.’
In my arms Tilly wriggled and one of her boots fell to the floor with a plop. I shifted her around again.
‘If you need help finding alternative accommodation, I have a friend at the council who can put you in touch with a hostel,’ I added.
Isobel just raised the piece of paper again.
No.
Then she turned back to the table and wielded her pen once more. This time the words weren’t printed, they were written in a calligraphic hand.
This ‘man’. Is he tall, quite good-looking? Dark hair? Talks to himself?
Tilly wriggled again. ‘Down, Mummy,’ she ordered.
‘No, I…’ I wasn’t quite sure which person I was talking to.
Put her down. She’ll take no harm
Cautiously, in case the floor might prove to be explosive, I lowered Tilly to the ground, which turned out to be wonderful parquet woodwork, covered with bird detritus and dust. She slithered away from me, taking Brass with her, which was a bit of a relief as most of my words this far had been filtered through his red felt body.
Isobel tapped her note, clearly wanting me to reply. I stared at the words. Tall was about the only one I could affix to Ross Ventriss. Was his hair dark? I’d noticed a few grey hairs, so it must have been. I didn’t know about the good-looking bit and I couldn’t comment on whether he talked to himself because, so far, he’d only talked to me.
‘Ross? Ross Ventriss?’ I asked her.
Scribble scribble.
I don’t know his name. I’ve seen him around here, looking in the windows.
I had settled into my role now. There were no birds, just an old woman –wasshe old? The light in here was too dim to really see details; she certainly had wrinkles but that could be from a hard life. Tia had wrinkles and she was only thirty-six, four years older than me. But then she’d been on the streets since she was sixteen, had beaten a crack and meth habit and worked hard to keep her children out of the care system; she was entitled to her wrinkles.
‘You can’t stay here,’ I said firmly. ‘The place is falling apart. There’s no electricity is there? Or water?’
I have gas lamps. And there’s a tap outside.
Tilly was rotating around me, keeping one hand on my coat as though I might be snatched away into a maelstrom at any moment, but managing to explore the room within her immediate surroundings, which was involving quite a few thumps as things moved. ‘Mummy,’ she said, wiggling Brass. ‘Things.’
I looked down to make sure she wasn’t about to put her hand in a vat of acid or start striking matches; Tilly had the ability of toddlers everywhere to find danger in the most innocent of surroundings. ‘Don’t touch things, Tils. Find your boot.’
When I looked back up again at Isobel my heart went solid in my chest. She was still standing, holding her No placard again as though it were some great statement of intent. She hadn’t moved and it wasn’t her that was making my early cup of tea rise in my throat. Behind her, perched on the open bar of the window, was a huge black bird.
Outlined by the bosky twilight occasioned by all the trees, it looked to be the size of an eagle. Or an ostrich. It was bloody enormous anyway. My eyes travelled from the tip of its tilted beak, sharp and full of murderous intent, over the scintillating black feathers which shifted and gleamed as it moved, to the horribly finger-like claws gripping the wooden crossbar, scuffling up and down as the bird balanced itself.
I must not scare Tilly. I must not react.I knew phobias could be passed on like infectious diseases and I didn’t want my daughter to be damned to the kind of life that I had had, not in any way. So I bit down the horror, but kept my eye on the bird in case it moved. If one feathery wing so much as came my way, I’d… I’d… Well, it wouldn’t be pretty.
