I follow her gaze and the crow stares back. ‘I think so.’
Her voice hardens. ‘She won’t let us be.’ She flicks her hand towards it, but the crow ignores her and preens its feathers.
‘So we’re meant to tell people about the Morrigan?’
She sighs. ‘I’d advise you against running around saying that you’re a creative servant of the goddess of death. I’d prefer it if you weren’t locked up. No, we do it by making art about death and war. We write a poem, we paint a picture, we sing a song.’ She taps the camera. ‘Or we photograph what we see. We tell people about what happened. And we do it quickly or we forget.’
‘Why do we forget?’
‘They want us always ready to take down what we’ve seen, to do it right away. We’re servants to them.’
Her features harden when she talks about the goddess.
‘Why don’t you write poems any more?’
A brisk shake of the head. ‘That part of my life is over. I don’t really have visions these days and I block out what she tries to make me see.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m done with her.’ Her fingers grip the camera.
‘I thought you said we can’t break our vows,’ I say.
‘You can, but there’s a price.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘Now –’ she hands me the pinhole camera – ‘tell me what you’ve seen.’ She lifts the notebook and her pen hovers over it.
‘What’s the price?’
There’s a tap from the bottom of the garden. The crow on the fence. It catches my eye and calls out.
‘Ignore it.’
The bird taps again and a pain jabs behind my shoulder blade. Something’s not right.
‘Why do you need to write down my visions?’
Nanny Bet lifts a stone and throws it at the fence. The thump makes Fergal hiss and the crow flies off. She turns back. ‘We need to work out what she wants you to know. My powers have faded, but they were never as strong as yours. They’re appearing in your work, and I want to help you find out why.’
I try to relax. ‘They appeared in Dad’s photos too. Do you think this has something to do with him?’
‘I do, and I hope we can work out where he is. But you have to tell me everything.’
Under the unnervingly watchful gaze of three crows in the tree above, I start from the beginning. Nanny Bet writes it all down, occasionally asking for more details as Fergal lazes in a patch ofsun, swatting at a bee. I describe the photos, which I don’t say are hidden in the bag at my feet. When I get to the most recent one, the vision in her garden, she goes pale.
‘What exactly happened?’
I close my eyes. ‘There was a soldier right at the bottom of the garden. And Dad was there. He was just a kid. He was shouting at the soldier.’
She swallows.
‘Why was there a soldier in your garden?’ I ask.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘They were always in people’s gardens back then. Looking out for the IRA. Hard to imagine, I know, but you got used to it.’
How could you get used to the army being in your back garden?
‘But Dad was shouting at him.’ I picture his red face, his bared teeth. ‘He said “murderer”. Who was murdered?’
She sets down the notebook and wraps her arms around herself. ‘Your granda Frank. You know he died of a heart attack?’
