Mary

Morgan’s Mam’s eyes are puffed up. Her lips narrow as she looks down at the dress I’m wearing. If her teeth all fell out, she’d look like some kind of frog. She dun speak, just turns away from me, walks along the black and white squares on the corridor floorboards. I can see from the tall windows it’s getting fogged up outside. She looks hunched and squat, solid.

I follow her into a room with a small bed, a table and a chair by a window with flouncy curtains. On the bed is a folded piece of lilac linen.

She nods at it. ‘Do the bedspread. Flowers. Lots. Every colour you have. I want to be able to dream in flowers when you’ve finished. I need some good dreams, from somewhere.’ She draws a square of green linen fabric from her pocket and blows her nose on it.

She says, ‘I’ve got to make food. My eldest isn’t here. She cooks. Get sewing. Dinner soonish. Downstairs.’ She walks away.

‘Dun talk like I’m just a thing of yours.’

She spins round. ‘Did you see my eldest? Outside?’

‘No,’ I answer.

‘Liar.’ She walks off. Her feet thud on the floor.

I call after her, ‘Look, I’ve got to—’

She’s gone off behind another door.

The crescent moon door at the back of the downstairs hallway is open. I go in. Morgan’s Mam is crouched, rummaging in a cupboard in a huge kitchen. There’s cupboards all around the sides, a range and a great wooden table and five chairs. She gets out a handful of onions and stands up. She sees me and drops the onions. Them roll across the floor.

I bend down to pick one up and watch her under the table, picking up three at once, dropping two of them. She glances at me and says, ‘What’s your name, liar?’

I put the onion on the table.

She stands up and looks me up and down. She says, ‘Your leg seems fine now. If my home has made you better, you owe me. I need those flowers on me.’

‘I never agreed a trade for feeling better.’ I bite my lip.

She picks up an onion from the floor, puts it on a chopping board, as another onion rolls off the table and bounces off her foot. She wails, ‘I don’t know how to do this!’ She bites her hand, slumps down on a chair and folds her arms like a little girl.

‘Did you make all this?’ I wave at the table and chairs. ‘See, there’s something you’re good at. It’s like the wood’s still living, the way it shines. And the pictures in the room along the hall …’ My voice chokes.

‘What did you see?’ She leans forwards. ‘In my drawings?’

‘A lost boy.’

She seems lighter in her face. She strokes her hair away from her cheek. ‘In one of them, I saw a sunrise on the surface of the fence, which was even higher. The sunrise shone from the fence into the windows, so it looked like the sun rose on the walls inside all the rooms. I might do that. There’s a thought … another layer of fence, higher than the house.’

‘But it’ll blow down in the winds!’

‘I could paint on a view to see from the top windows, instead of this blasted island. Mix white paint and salt together for the sun. A white, pure light …’ She leans back in the chair. Puts her hands behind her head.

She says, ‘How much gossip is there, outside, about us?’

‘Not much.’

‘Well, that’s something. Always thought there was.’ She looks at me, eyes narrowed. ‘Just a niggle.’ She stares out of the window at the fence.

‘How’d you know what’s lost to folks, to draw pictures of—’

‘I get such good ideas in the kitchen.’

My hands are chopping the onions. The smell makes me hungry. Morgan’s Mam’s eyes are far away. She shakes her head, ‘What was I hearing you talk about, flower girl?’

‘All the lost things in your drawings?’

‘Loss. Hm. Ah well. It’s an interesting process.’ She wrinkles her nose and sniffs. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

She tells me that she dreams every night and draws every morning. That it’s something about a subconscious and how it’s the place in us where dreams hide. She stands and leans on the windowsill, stares out at the fence. ‘The creator of automatic drawings harvests … yes. Harvests the images gathered within the collective unconscious. Reaps them—’ She runs a finger through the air.

I say, ‘Are you saying you’re drawing pictures you’ve farmed from our dreamings?’

She turns and smiles at the table. ‘I’m just going to draw some designs for the inside of the fence. It’ll make me feel better about, you know. Distractions.’ She glances at me. Licks her lips. ‘How long will dinner be? Five of us if you’re eating too.’

The twins come in first.

‘What’s for dinner?’ says Ash. Them scrape two chairs back from the table and sit down.

‘Do you all end up doing what your Mam wants?’

Hazel says, ‘Always.’

Thems Mam walks into the kitchen and sniffs the air. Both twins beam at her. She sits down and slides her chair up to the table. She nods at me, runs her spoon around the rim of her plate and the deadtaker strides in.

Him has grey curly hair tied back. Black suit and a white collar. I want to ask him something but my voice is stuck. I remember him. Him sits down. Him took Mam’s body away. Him puts hims hands on the table. The tear in hims gloves. Him is not wearing gloves now. Hims hands shine pale. I’m going to be watching him shovelling stew into hims mouth, trying not to think about hims hands touching dead bodies.

The four of them sit there, spoons in thems hands, and stare at the pot of stew in the middle of the table. I want him to notice me. Him has to remember Mam for me. Remember her from before I’ve been told I’m a thing of hers to trade, like a broiderie.

Them watch the pot, like the stew’s going to slop itself out onto thems plates. I sigh, loud as I can, and dish up. I serve the twins first, then thems Mam, then the deadtaker. Them wait till I’ve filled all four plates and plunge in thems spoons.

I stand next to the deadtaker. Him has dandruff flakes on hims shoulders. It looks like snow on rocks. I blow on it, only it’s stuck in the tight weave of the fabric.

‘Sit down too,’ hisses Hazel.

‘I ate mine while I were waiting for you lot.’

‘Have you poisoned it?’ whispers Ash and takes a great mouthful.

‘Shh,’ says thems Mam, glancing at the deadtaker. She guzzles her stew down, dun think she even tastes all the herbs I’ve put in it. The deadtaker eats slow, tiny spoonfuls, like him has five stomachs inside of him and them all want to be fed, but no more than just a taste.

I ask him, ‘Do none of you say thank you when someone’s put food in front of you then?’

Him puts hims spoon down. Morgan’s Mam drops hers on her empty plate. The twins stare up at me.

Him slides hims chair out, turns to face me. Hims dark eyes gleam. ‘Right. Intruder. You have all of our attention. Now, what is it that you want?’

‘You buried Mam. She were bitten by a diamondback. Dun know much else about her death. You must have been one of the first to see her deaded. And you would’ve been the last.’

‘And?’

I say, shrill, ‘You’re freezing cold for someone what should know of grief, and how it needs a bit of warm.’ I fold my arms.

‘This is not the time to speak of grief.’

‘You put her in the ground. I were never told much, well, not enough. Dun think she’s resting proper.’

‘What would make you think that, Mary Jared?’

‘You know my name, so you do recall her. I think Mam’s in my cottage. How come she’s not sleeping, still and quiet in the graveyard like Grandmam? I’ve never thought she’s hanging around the cottage, much as I’d like to hear what she’s got to say about the state of her deathlife.’

Morgan’s Mam gets up and her chair crashes back against the wall. She covers her mouth with her hand and slams the door on her way out of the kitchen.

The deadtaker frowns up at me. ‘Perhaps in your home dinner is a time for conversation. It most certainly isn’t here.’

‘Well, we did chatter at teatime – there’s nothing wrong in that. Only there’s not much point chattering at home now, as I’m the only one left, and if I did talk, I’d be talking to Mam’s ghost what I can’t even see!’

The twins stare at him. Then me. Then him. Then each other.

I shout at them, ‘Will you two stop thinking so loud!’

Him stands up. ‘We’ll continue this discussion downstairs, and then I must see to my wife.’

The basement is lit by candles all along the walls. The room is filled with planks of wood, stacked along shelves. There’s three more doors along the far wall.

The deadtaker walks towards the door in the middle.

I stop and glance back at the stairs. ‘Let’s talk here.’

‘As you wish.’ Him turns and leans hims arm on a shelf.

‘Is it true Mam never saw the snake what bit her?’

‘I’m not sure. Fascinating death.’

My heart pounds.

‘She was bitten. Not by any snake I saw, though she was marked by one, and filled with venom. When I arrived, three women were with her. They seemed to be chanting, or rather, as they said, singing.’

‘What’s wrong with singing? She were out on her own, like Annie says, and them three found her.’

Him nods. ‘Ah yes. One of the names was Annie.’

‘And the diamondback addersnake?’

‘It’s all documented, in my book. The signs of poisoning by snake venom were there.’

‘So, what do you mean, fascinating death?’

Hims eyes are bright, more alive than in the kitchen. Him likes talking of hims job, even if it’s a job none other would want.

‘It was the way they said it. Rehearsed. “She was bitten by a diamondback, it got away. She never saw the snake that bit her.” All three women used almost exactly the same words, though I questioned them individually. Not one of the three would be drawn further. It’s not my area of expertise, so in the end it was, let’s say, more convenient for me to simply document it. I have doubts. Those doubts have stayed, increased, even. I have no logical explanation.’

‘But it sounds like that’s what happened, like them said. She were bit and got deaded.’

Him looks at me. ‘As you say.’

‘You dun believe it.’

‘It sounded … invented. And the snake—’

‘Maybe them were nervous of you.’ I stare at hims pale hands.

‘Their behaviour aroused my suspicion. I can tell a liar, even if I’m not the most appropriate person to extract the truth.’

I ask, ‘Have you still got your documentation? Can I see what you wrote down when she got deaded?’

Him says something about confidential, but I say, ‘No one will care what you did or dun write down.’

Him says, ‘Sadly, you’re probably right. Your mother was an interesting case. One that I was unable to come to any conclusion which satisfied my personal or professional curiosity. No islander has ever asked for a sight of my documentation before. In fact, other than asking me to prepare their loved ones for burial, and all that entails, which, understandably, they have not the stomach for, no islander has ever asked me for anything other than a plank of wood. So why are you here, Mary Jared?’

‘Are you going to show me what you wrote down then?’

Him lowers hims voice. ‘An information exchange would be a beneficial … trade … as you would call it.’

‘And what would you want to do this trade about?’

Him glances at the stairs, then leans forwards, whispers, ‘You have a building here. You people believe it to be a place of justice. I would have thought that the person or persons concerned with your mother’s death would have found themselves there.’

‘Well, I dun think a diamondback could’ve slithered in through the keyhole.’

‘But do you believe it calls people? It’s the local belief in it that I find so personally interesting. That all crime can be punished, dealt with, with a thrashing. I’ve recently heard locals say that some men have been “thrashed”. They’ve disappeared,’ him lowers hims voice, ‘and yet, I’m not called to attend to their bodies?’ Him raises hims eyebrows.

‘I’d say, if you’re finding yourself thinking of the place so much, it’s already calling you.’

Him starts, backs away.

‘What have you done what’s so bad, then?’

Him looks like I’ve slapped him.

I say, ‘It’s best if I tell you what Grandmam told me. That’s my documentation. I’ve got it in my head. And you’ll show me your book.’

‘I’ll find you some paper and a pen. I assume you can write?’ Him walks towards the middle door and unlocks it.

‘Course I can. How many pages?’

‘What?’

‘How many pages are we trading?’

‘I have filled approximately four, perhaps five, in my documentation on your mother. But it doesn’t matter—’

‘I’ll do the same.’

Him goes through the middle door, leaves the key in the lock and comes back out of the room frowning, a pen and some sheets of paper in hims hand. Him waves at a dusty chair and hands me a small piece of wood to lean on.

Him goes over to the stairs, sits down and ties and unties hims laces while I write:

Dear Deadtaker,

This is some of what Grandmam told me: The Thrashing House stands on the topmost hill. It’s the tallest building on this whole island. On the main land, Thrashing Houses are said to be for beating out the grain, the wheat from the chaff. Only here it’s something quite different. Our Thrashing House is where we put folks when we dun know what else to do with them. No one ever heard of anyone ever coming out again what’s been put in.

The Thrashing House itself is alive, it has paddles and knives and sticks and bats what come out of the walls into the rooms when someone’s been sent in. And it thrashes them if it thinks them deserves it.

The deadtaker spits on hims fingertip and rubs at hims boot. I write more of Grandmam’s story:

Long, long ago, a woman killed her husband. No one believed she would have done it for she were right quiet, only squeaked instead of having proper talk in her mouth. She were a bit rodent-like in her appearance. All short and sharp with two buck teeth. Everyone else on the island were under suspicion, and she herself were so shocked at what she’d done she never spoke at all, not even to squeak, after him were dead. She locked herself in the Thrashing House one day, she couldn’t stand the guilt.

She were turned into a chain, for she’d felt herself chained to him, and had no other way to get away from him, other than to kill him dead with a knife. The Thrashing House thrashed the truth from her and that chain were the truth in her, of why she killed him. A rodent on the end of a chain can be right dangerous, so that’s the moral of that: make sure you never keep something dangerous chained to you, even if it’s smaller than you are. Its teeth might be sharp, and if it’s not of a mind to use them, it can always raid the knife drawer.

A woman burglared every house on the island and were caught one night. Caught with her hands plunged deep in a jewellery box, a shimmering green glass ring on her finger, what we all knew never belonged to her hand. She became a gleaming ring which were dull copper on the inside: it were only coated shiny.

She were looking for value: fine metals, jewels or secrets; anything she could find what would make her seem greater than what she really were on the inside. And that were the truth in her. On the outside she thought herself shiny, only the truth of her were that she were dull.

Another, a girl of fourteen, had a vicious run-in with her Mam. In a fury like a Glimmera, she cut off her Mam’s hand. Showed no remorse, all she’d say were that ‘It were her or me.’ Neither would say what the fight started over, and it dun even matter. Something about wanting to swap colours of hair, some such nonsense what were impossible all along. She wanted something her Mam had, and her Mam wanted what the daughter had. So the daughter took a hatchet to her Mam’s hand, so her Mam couldn’t get at it first. She became a glove. A left-handed one, to fit the hand what had been took. Not too much to learn from that one: just that you can cover up something what’s been lost, like putting an empty glove over a hacked-off hand; but sooner or later, it’ll flap clean off like a shadow and show you there’s nothing really there.

The deadtaker taps hims foot on the floor. Polishes a boot with hims sleeve. I’ve nearly filled four sheets of paper, so I write:

People who have gone mad, or are dangerous, or done something so bad we dun know how to punish them – get sent in there. Sometimes folks seem to go in of thems own accord. Only it’s not really thems own accord. The Thrashing House can seek out the truth. If it senses someone has done something bad, or is dangerous to others, it calls to them, and the truly guilty slowly and surely find thems way into it.

I say, ‘I’m done. You going to show me your documentation about Mam then?’

Him stands up, quick. Strides over.

‘You’ve left that lace undone.’ I point at hims boot.

‘Look in the desk in the room through the middle door. If I’m not here to see you read my documentation, you did not read.’ Him holds out a hand. ‘Agreed?’

I drop Grandmam’s story in hims pale palm and snatch my hand back.

Him puts it in a hidden pocket on the inside of hims jacket. ‘You’re not as quiet as I remember, Mary Jared.’

I ask him how come him recalls my name, and him says that him reads hims documentation book a lot, that him wishes him had asked more questions when Mam died, and him had questions for Da, but Da shut the door on him.

I say, ‘Well, you’ll not get any answers out of an old worn boot.’

‘A what?’ Him walks to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Nothing. But tell me, and tell me the truth.’ I breathe in. ‘You got the dead body of a three-year-old boy in this house?’

‘There have been no deaths of late.’

I breathe out. ‘So the drawing of Barney really is from your wife’s head?’

‘It’s similar to an inkblot technique, but using a more advanced and experimental skill. I assume you’ve never heard of the collective unconscious, of individual consciousness? She’s developed a visual language that speaks of much that is lacking in these theories. I admire her skills greatly. Her dedication.’

‘Look, your family’s too cooped up together, you’re coming up with some dipsy nonsenses what make no sense. What’s so special about your belonging people, or what’s so wrong with us, that you got to keep us out?’

Him walks up the stairs. One of hims legs walks straight and the other drags a little. I hear hims footsteps step and slide across the floor above me and climb the next set of stairs, one foot louder than the other.

I walk past the flickering candles and the shelves stacked with planks of shipwreck wood and open the middle door.

The deadtaker’s chair is covered with shining brown leather. A desk stands in the middle of this small room. A circle of light from a flickering lamp lights up the desk. A pen and ink bottle, blank paper and a glass jar of deep red liquid and a wine glass are lined up neat on top of the desk. I drop my bag on the floor.

Inside the drawer in the desk there’s a thick leather book. I lift it out, thud it on the desk and open the cover. The deadtaker has written in neat black ink:

List of the Dead.

I run my finger down the page and find:

Beatrice M. Jared pages 30–34.

I open it on page 30:

Beatrice M. Jared (embroiderer)

(married to Mr Ned Jared, mother to: Mary and Barney Jared)

Report on the Unfortunate Circumstances
I was summoned to inspect and remove the corpse of Beatrice M. Jared on the southern cliffs that look out across the ocean towards the geographic anomaly which is known locally as ‘the Pegs’. I was hailed there by a local man, name of Mr Martyn Spender, in the evening. He reported to me in a most breathless fashion that he: ‘went after my Annie’ (Wife of Mr M. Spender. Anne-Marie Spender, common name Annie, occupation: knitter) ‘as I dun think she really knew what she wanted. I went to the cliffs by the Pegs to find her in a right frazzle (assume: in great distress) as she and that pair, (Mrs Valmarie Slarius: occupation: herbalist, and Mrs Kelmar A. Barter: occupation: midwife, spinner and seamstress) ‘had found Beatrice unconscious, and were trying to stop the deadedness coming over her complete.’ (Assume: remaining with her in her final mortal moments.)

Upon my arrival, I noted that the three witnesses were chanting and were physically located around the deceased. I requested that they desist immediately, in order to enable room for the procedures required in order to check for the usual signs of life. I proclaimed that the three witnesses should avert their gazes, and wait some distance away. They persisted in their observation of me, although I repeatedly requested that they avert their gaze, considering their observations and comments at that time to be particularly distracting as they persisted in asking me what I was doing and requesting the reasons for each slight movement of my person whilst concluding my investigation. Despite this annoyance, I did rapidly ascertain that Mrs B. Jared was, in fact, deceased. The two unusual aspects of the three witnesses, aside from the chanting, was the fact that one carried a rope, and all three women were wearing gloves. This was mildly unusual in relation to my observations of local dress customs. I choose to deem it insignificant as it was a particularly cold day. However, it may be worth noting that the corpse was not wearing gloves.

The deceased presented the usual pallor of death, but I observed a blue tinge to the lips and the lower extremities. The corpse had two puncture marks upon her right ankle, which were raised and appeared to be the site of the poison entering the body.

I understood from the information I gleaned from the three witnesses and Mr M. Spender that they believed the snake responsible for the bite to be a variety of snake they referred to as the Diamond back Addersnake, which they informed me was venomous. However, when I requested one to be procured, to provide venom samples for comparative purposes, none of the local people were able to provide such a snake.

Summing up:

From conversing with all three witnesses, and from further inspection of the corpse post-mortem, I confirm that the only reasonable cause of death to be ascertained under the circumstances is that Mrs Beatrice M. Jared’s unfortunate demise was caused by the bite of a venomous snake, which was not located in the moments, nor days, after the death.

In fact, for several weeks, I personally sought out any variety of local snake by conducting a thorough search of the island, and despite my most persistent efforts, I was unable to locate a single snake.

In consulting my reference material on snakes, I have drawn the conclusion that the Diamondback is in fact a fictitious name, derived from some local folk tale.

The reason for the women being present was clear, though the content of their proposed discourse remained withheld; some kind of argument which required one of the women to bring a rope to the scene seems to be indicated. I can only deduce that it was a disagreement over some aspect of craft-making, which these women believed necessitated the element of mystery, when faced with persons, such as myself, perceived to be outsiders.

The fact that they were chanting when I arrived was certainly suspicious but when I asked the women about this they all stated that they were singing and went on to imply that I was a buffoon of some description if I was not capable of determining the difference between a chant and a song.

The evidence post-mortem was clear enough to ascertain that the cause of death was by venom entering the body via two puncture marks directly into the ankle, which would imply death by some variety of snake bite, but not, as the witnesses claimed, by a ‘Diamond back Addersnake’.

Them had a rope with them and there’s no such thing as a diamondback addersnake. I get up and lock the door. I rummage in my bag for the Thrashing House key. Someone will have thought of Mam’s death while them held this key. One of the women will know.

It’s not here. No. I rummage deeper. Must be. It’s not … no. Morgan wouldn’t have took it. I spill everything out on the floor and put it back in.

No key.

Morgan were so innocent … but she were in and out of my bag when we were stitching up my dress, and now I’ve lost all the women’s stories.

I flick the pages of the deadtaker’s book backwards and forwards. Dropping it on the desk, it falls open at the list of the dead. The last name on the list is scratched out. I lean over it. Him has written a name in and scored over it, like the person were dead and isn’t dead no more. I flick through to the last pages him has written on:

For all of this time I have lived here in this remote place, I have not yet encountered anything so strange. I was walking to the tall building on the hill, known locally as the Thrashing House, in order to confirm any suspicions in my mind regarding some rumours I had overheard. One such example that easily and rapidly springs to mind is a female voice on the other side of my garden fence, in conversation with others. This voice had clearly stated: ‘The men are thrashed good an’ hard. We’ll not be seeing them again.’

There was no doubt in my mind when I made the decision to investigate this statement that I would be thwarted yet again in my attempts to learn more of the Thrashing House, which holds these people in thrall, but yet remains locked, day and night.

I approached the building after dark, in order to investigate, but I was distracted by an owl in the graveyard, hooting on a grave. Recalling my eldest daughter’s youthful love of the description of owls as a parliament, and feeling a little nostalgic for our shared past, I took a detour into the graveyard to see the owl. What I experienced at that graveside distracted me completely from the task of investigating the building.

At first glance, the owl was of the appearance of a variety of barn owl, its feathers light in colour. However, as I approached the grave, it flew away immediately, and I did not see it return. And yet there was no one at that grave, but the soil of the grave was recently turned.

It was the grave of Beatrice Jared. And I could hear a female voice, muttering.

As soon as I heard the voice I drew close, hid myself, took out my notepad and set to recording the words I heard. I was convinced in that moment that if I did not fully document what the voice said, the sense of disbelief which was frustratingly present in my person would eradicate any information that I could temporarily understand with a later confusion and dream-like sensibility that I felt certain I would experience as soon as the voice was quiet. The following is transcribed as I heard it, copied faithfully from my notes as they were recorded, alas, with a slightly tremulous hand:

‘… torn.

Dig soil from mine grave.

Obey two women that dig and call and form me.

Mothers now.

Give life. Not death. Not same before.

Scatter earth from grave, free mine instincts. Then release … fly flap fall first face smash bruises. Then. Up up up, fly, swoop.

Instincts drawn out.

Yes, punish.

Men with lines of thoughts, guilty. Scratch, tear thoughts.

What were names …

Only name, myself. Once Beatrice …’

Summing up:

As I recorded these mutterings, and in the moments afterwards, the voice seemed further away, so though this is not a death as such, the voice spoke the name of the woman who lies in that grave. As yet, I have drawn no conclusions.

Mam is the ghost Valmarie and Kelmar raised up to make into the owl woman. Using earth from her grave. My hands over my mouth smell of soil. She were my Mam, no matter what the trade she made with Langward were. I tap on the desk. Faster and faster. Read it again. Them put Mam’s ghost into a barn owl and set her on the men what took the boys.

Mam sent Da mad. Scratching at hims thoughts.

When she’d done what Valmarie and Kelmar wanted, Mam’s ghost were homeless, so she must’ve flitted off. And come home.

I read her words again:

Give life. Not death. Not same before.

Them gave her death and then brought her back. Which means Mam were murdered by Valmarie or Kelmar, or both of them. Not Annie. Annie loved her. She’s always been afraid of that pair, so she must’ve been too scared to ever say what them’d done.

I’ve read more than the four pages I traded with the deadtaker, so I open the documentation book at the front page and write in the names on the list of the dead:

Mrs Valmarie Slarius

Mrs Kelmar A. Barter

I flick forwards to the next blank page and write:

Report on the Unfortunate Circumstances I were summoned to inspect and remove the stinking corpses of Mrs Valmarie Slarius and Mrs Kelmar A. Barter on the cliffs what lookout across the sea towards the place which is known sensibly as ‘the Pegs’ because that is what them are.

I were hailed there by a local young woman, name of Miss Mary Jared, who hollered up at my windows from outside my garden fence till I finally hatcheted my way out. She reported to me in a most breathless fashion that: ‘I dun know what can possibly have happened. Them never saw who it were what hacked them to death.’

I found the two women deceased, and realised that them had been viciously and brutally mortally wounded, and deaded good and hard, by a person or persons unknown. Them were tied up in a rope of which there are many on this island, and no one ever talks about thems teeth.

Summing up:

I now believe them to be responsible for the death of Beatrice Jared. Them got what were coming to them, for sure. All vicious cuts from some kind of blade, and the rope must have been placed there to remind me of the guilt them felt about the death of Beatrice Jared. I conclude that that pair were murderous and venomous, which took me long enough to figure out, as I’m right simple for all my fancy talk.

I feel a bit better. Not better enough.

I put the book back in the drawer and lock it. My head is getting unravelled. I can think of Mam as murdered and feel angry at Valmarie and Kelmar, but I can’t get angered at Mam, even if …

Something lands in my hair.

I look up …

White owl feathers fall in this room.

I shout, ‘Stop it!’

The feathers fall thicker. Cover the desk. All over the floor. I stand up, can’t see where the feathers are falling from, like a blizzard from the Glimmeras what fills the room. Feathers blow and twist all around me. Settle in clumps, curl into each other. The desk, chair and floor are covered, thick. I blow one off my mouth and more get stuck on my lips.

The feathers are all over my bag, I pick it up and put it on the desk. I rummage inside and pull out the moppet.

‘What’s going on?’ I whisper. ‘What do the feathers mean?’

Shadow Mary’s voice hisses, ‘Leave. Us. Alone.’

‘Barney, are you here in this house, did the deadtaker lie? Are you here, in a coffin box?’ My heart, thud thud thud.

Barney’s voice says, ‘Mary, get this Mary away. Tell her go.’

Shadow Mary hisses, ‘Quiet, sniveller.’

I say, ‘Dun talk to him like that!’

Barney’s voice says, ‘She angry you.’

I say, ‘Barney, dun listen to her, you talk – tell me—’

Him says, ‘Shh, dun make angry this Mary …’

The sound of the sea washes through the shell.

‘Barney?’

The moppet droops forwards, silent.

The feathers fly around me, land all over my hair, cover the moppet in my hand, but now I’m looking at the feathers twisting and spiralling through the room, making everything white, this dun feel like anything bad.

It’s quiet and still and the door is locked.

Warm snow. It’s comfort.

Think.

The moppet’s got Shadow Mary’s voice as well as Barney’s.

Think.

Shadow Mary has peeled off me.

If shadows are made when bad things happen, or feelings what are too big just tear themselves off a person, a shadow of Barney could have peeled off him. Him could have left a shadow in the net him were tangled up in. The shadow must have crept away and hid itself in the shell lying on the beach.

If Shadow Mary has peeled off me, and I’m still alive … Someone must’ve found Barney, washed up on the shore. Him must’ve been hurt bad for hims shadow to peel off, but them’ve kept him alive.

So I’ve got to get out of this house and find out who.

I fall back in the feathers, send them floating up into the room. Grab handfuls and throw them twisting over me. I blow them off my smile.