24.

‘Biddddeee! Biddddeee! Biddddeee Weir!’

Biddy was still crouched behind the tree, hugging her knees, trying to make sense of what she’d seen, of what she now knew was going on between Alison and Mr Patterson, when she heard Mrs Abbott calling her name. Startled, she glanced at her watch. It was twenty to six. She was late for dinner, but there was no way she was going down to the house. Not now. She felt confused, and disorientated. She knew what she wasn’t going to do, but had no idea what she was going to do. Above her, a crow squawked twice. Biddy looked up at it and instinctively relaxed, albeit ever so slightly.

‘Bidddeee! Where are you?! For goodness’ sake, you’re missing dinner. Bidddeee!’

Biddy was surprised that anyone had actually noticed she wasn’t there. She felt a wave of nausea again. Alison would definitely be planning something now. She’d be busy working out how to make sure that Biddy kept quiet about seeing her and Mr Patterson kissing. Not that she would tell anyone. What would she say, and who would she say it to? And who would believe her anyway? No one would ever take her word over Alison’s. Ever. But she knew that Alison wouldn’t take her silence for granted, and that whatever plan she came up with, it would most likely be worse than anything she’d done before.

Biddy stood up and peered round the side of the tree. She could see Mrs Abbott walking back towards the front door of the house, shaking her head and raising her hands up to her shoulders in a shrug directed at Mr Boyd, who was now standing at the top of the steps. Mrs Abbott went into the house and Mr Boyd stood looking around for a second or two and then followed her. She didn’t know what to do next. There was no trace of hunger in her stomach now at all, just waves of nervous cramps. Her heart was thudding, her head spinning, her hands shaking. If she did go back to the house now and ventured into the dining room, she’d be told off for being late, and she couldn’t face seeing everyone staring and sniggering at her. She wouldn’t be able to eat. And she really, really couldn’t bear the thought of Alison’s menacing stares. She couldn’t go inside, she knew that for sure. But what else should she do? She sat down on the grass, then immediately stood up again, her back pressed against the tree, biting her lips and clenching her fists. Her pad and pencils lay, unused, at her feet. Her breathing accelerated and the sound of her banging heart grew louder. She felt herself becoming dizzy. She reached into the front pocket of her jeans, drew out the small silver tin, opened it, took out the longest needle and stabbed it through the denim into her thigh – two, three, four times. The thick fabric slowed down the force of the jab, but the effect was still enough to bring an immediate flood of relief. Biddy’s heartbeat slowed down, the rushing noise in her ears faded and the dizzy feeling seeped away.

Exhausted, Biddy slid down the fat tree trunk and slumped back onto the ground. There had been a heavy shower earlier that afternoon and the clumpy grass around the rim of the trunk was still damp from the dripping leaves. Her bottom was getting wet from the repeated bouts of sitting down, but this time she didn’t quite have the energy to stand up again. Resting her head against the tree, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the chattering birds and the swish of the branches swaying in the evening breeze. She felt calmer, but still didn’t know what to do next.

If I was a bird, she thought, I could fly up to the top of the mountain, right now, and they would never see me again.

The sudden sound of noisy, raucous squawking jolted her from her thoughts. A group of four or five big black crows were circling above her, screeching and calling. Are they talking to me? she wondered. ‘Hey,’ she called, ‘are you talking to me?’ The birds seemed to multiply in seconds. There must have been thirty of them, maybe even forty. Biddy found it impossible to count. They perched in groups, balancing on treetops, telephone lines, chimney pots and the roof of the greenhouse. Their screeches were almost deafening. Biddy wondered if the birds had come to tell her something. Perhaps they were here to help her escape from this latest nightmare. Yes, that must be it. She was certain. An enormous crow landed beside her and picked at something on the ground.

‘Hello, bird,’ said Biddy quietly. The crow looked at her, right into her eyes and squawked three times. Biddy held its gaze. ‘Help me, will you?’ she asked. ‘Tell me what to do.’ The bird gave another squawk, then flew up to the roof of the greenhouse where it strutted for a few seconds before flying off in the direction of the mountain, followed by the rest of the flock. They vanished almost as quickly as they had appeared, and, in an instant, Biddy knew exactly what she had to do.

She slid the tin of pins back inside her jeans pocket, tucked her sketchpad and pencil box under her arm, took a deep breath and started walking up the driveway, glancing behind her every few seconds to check that no one was following. Just as she reached the gates, she saw Mrs Abbott, Mr Patterson and Mr Boyd all standing on the steps together and quickly darted down behind the old stone wall which ran around the grounds of the house. She was too far away to hear properly, but she could faintly make out her name.

‘Bideeeee! Bideeeee!’

As they called it over and over again, it suddenly occurred to Biddy just how much her name sounded like ‘Birdy’. How had she never realised that before? Holding her breath, she peered above the wall and watched from behind a tendril of ivy as the three teachers went back inside the house. She breathed a sigh of relief – they hadn’t seen her, then she looked around, trying to get her bearings, not entirely sure how to get onto the path they had taken earlier. She hadn’t taken that much notice of the actual route this morning, lingering at the back of the group, drinking up what she could of her surroundings. Now, as she started up the narrow road which she thought might lead her onto the mountain path, she thought about the falcons, the most glorious birds she had ever laid eyes on, and hoped they would still be there, waiting for her, when she arrived.

As soon as she reached the stream and saw the stepping-stone boulders daubed with blue paint by someone called Billy in April 1981, she knew she was definitely on the right path. This was the start of Paddy’s Wall. She carried on, running now, until she came to the mound of stones which marked Paddy’s grave, and slumped down, breathless, beside the wooden cross, running her hand over the roughly carved inscription. As she picked at a thick bunch of wild flowers growing around the base of the stones, which smelt strong, like chives, she thought about Paddy Joyce and the story that Mr Price had told them earlier that day, and she wondered why Rory had called him a bloody weirdo. Was it just because he had liked to be on the mountain? Biddy couldn’t see anything weird about that. Or was it because he built walls? But men were always building walls in Ballybrock, especially in the places where all the new houses were being made on the outskirts of the town. She couldn’t work it out. People knew who she was. They could see her, so it was obvious that she was a weirdo. But Rory couldn’t see Paddy Joyce. She shivered. It was getting chilly, and she suddenly wished she’d lifted her cardigan when she went to get her sketchpad. She looked around the mountain. It was still, and gloriously silent, apart from the occasional distant bleating of a few stray sheep. There were no birds, she realised with a jolt. She couldn’t hear any birds. Where had all the birds gone?

The light had started to dim and the sky seemed to be moving closer to her. For the first time, she felt a twinge of apprehension. Maybe she was making a mistake. Maybe she should turn back. No. No, that wasn’t an option. She couldn’t go back there. She never wanted to see Alison Flemming again. Ever. What she needed to do was get a move on if she was going to get there before dark.

Biddy stood up and stared at the inscription on the cross. ‘Goodbye, Paddy Joyce,’ she said aloud. Suddenly an image of Miss Jordan popped into her head. Penny Jordan. Paddy Joyce. P.J. P.J. Paddy Joyce wasn’t a bloody weirdo. He couldn’t have been. He’d been a good man, gentle and kind and nice, she knew it. And somehow she was equally as certain that if he’d known her, he would have been her friend.

A familiar sound echoed across the mountain. Biddy looked up to see a raven circling high above her, its cry bouncing across the inky sky. Her apprehension vanished. She was safe on Innis. And if Paddy Joyce was here, then he would look after her. Paddy Joyce, and the birds.