It’s not until Friday lunchtime that I get to do the dare. The teachers have been prowling in the playground all week, standing near the gates. I haven’t had a chance, until now.
Tamsin stands up tall on the bike-shed roof. “Okay,” she says. “It’s only Mrs. Bentley on duty today. Laura’s going to distract her by pretending to be sick, so you can get out of the gates. We’ll watch you from up here.”
“What if Baba Yaga’s not in?” I say.
“She’ll be in,” says Tamsin. “She goes to feed the birds first thing in the morning. She’ll be back by now.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m ready.” I slide my hands deep into my pockets. I do my best to look almost bored, like it’s no big deal, but my palms are slick with sweat.
Gracie glances between Tamsin and me. “I don’t think this is such a great idea. I mean, what if . . .” Her voice trails off.
Tamsin leans forward and grins. “What if Baba Yaga offers Scarlet a chocolate? What then?” She makes squawking sounds and flaps her hands, just like a bird.
Erin, Laura, and Kim screech with laughter. Gracie smiles but glances at me, biting the corner of her lip.
Tamsin gives Laura a shove and points to Mrs. Bentley. “Okay, Laura, you know what to do.”
We watch Laura climb down the ladder and walk across the playground toward Mrs. Bentley. Laura clutches her stomach and doubles over. It’s the worst acting I’ve seen, but Mrs. Bentley seems convinced. She glances around the playground, checking that it all looks quiet and under control, and steers Laura inside the school.
This is my chance. I walk along the wire fencing, hands in pockets. Casual. When I reach the gates, I don’t even look around to see if anyone has seen me. I slip out and cross the road, walking with my head down, on the far side of the street, on my way to Baba Yaga’s house.
I can feel Tamsin, Erin, Gracie, and Kim watching me from the bike-shed roof. If I look at them I might chicken out, so I focus on the house at the end of the street.
I stop outside the plain white door. There’s a window to the right, and two windows upstairs with their curtains drawn. Curtains screen the downstairs room as well. I could pretend to knock and walk away and make them think Baba Yaga isn’t in. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. But I won’t have done the dare. I’ll have to do it again and I might not be brave enough next time.
I can’t see a bell, so I lift my hand and knock three times.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
THUD!
Something hits the inside of the window to my right, making me jump back. A large seagull lifts the edge of the curtain and struts up and down the windowsill, watching me. It cocks its head from side to side. I can’t help staring at its yellow eyes. Its feathers are greenish white and look brittle and frayed, not like the snow-soft feathers of the seagulls on the river. It throws its head back and gives a mewling cry. Erin was right. She said she’d seen birds flapping at the windows.
Other than the seagull, there’s no sign of life. Maybe Baba Yaga is out after all. I turn the handle of the door, expecting it to be locked, but it keeps turning and I push the door open just a crack.
I peer in.
Boxes of old newspapers line the hallway. Plastic containers filled with seeds are neatly stacked against the walls. The house smells like a mixture of boiled cabbage, disinfectant, and the aviary at the zoo. Baba Yaga’s coat is hung over the bannisters at the bottom of the stairs. I can hear the seagull’s webbed feet slapping on the floor behind the closed door to my right.
I could just grab one of the old newspapers and go. It wouldn’t really be stealing if it’s yesterday’s news. But I can’t. Something draws me in. I slip into the house and shut the door behind me. Ahead, at the end of the hall, the door is open. I walk along the tiled floor and peek into a small kitchen. Feed bowls have been washed and stacked on the draining board. Bottles of disinfectant line the windowsill, alongside a pot of miniature daffodils. The kitchen window looks out onto a small patio, crowded with a wooden bench and bird feeders. On the small table in the kitchen, containers full of different foods have name labels: Petre, Anna-Maria, Lukas, Magda, Sergey, Elena, Marius, Erik, Victor, Michaela . . .
So many names.
Everything is spotless.
Everything is quiet.
Everything, except for a pan on the stove. Its lid rattles and steam escapes into the air. This is where Baba Yaga boils her bird-children before she eats them.
It’s stupid, I know. Fear makes you believe all sorts of things. It could be anything in the pan. Anything at all. Liquid bubbles over and spits on the metal burner. I look around. Baba Yaga must be in the house somewhere. Maybe she’s watching me.
I want to know what’s in the pan. I have to know. I move closer and lift the lid. I hold my breath. Steam flies upward, and when it clears I look in. I breathe out slowly. No bird-children, only three peeled potatoes bouncing around in boiling water.
I leave the lid off and walk back along the hall. I can still hear the seagull pacing on the other side of the door. There are other bird sounds in there too. The harsh caw of a crow. The coo of a dove.
I open the door and push my head through to see. The seagull runs away from me, lifting its wings up high. In the far corner of the room a small TV sits on the floor. The sound is muted. Silent images move across the screen. Along the wall, large plastic boxes with wire grille doors are stacked one on top of the other. They look like the carriers people use to take their cats to the vet, only there must be about fifteen of them. I step closer. Each one contains a bird. I see them inside, moving around, their feathers pressed against the wire door. Some poke their beaks through, looking for food. There are all sorts of birds: pigeons, seagulls, a blackbird, a crow, and lots of smaller finch-type birds. At the end, in a huge cage, is a large black bird smelling of fish. I guess he must be one of the cormorants from the Thames.
I jump when the seagull flaps across to me and pulls at the laces on my shoe.
“Don’t mind Petre, he’s just saying hello.”
I spin round. I didn’t see Baba Yaga right behind me in the armchair. She’s sitting perfectly still, wrapped in old blankets so she almost looks like part of the furniture. Her face is deeply lined and she looks old. So old. Wisps of white hair sit on her head like feather-down. Her eyes are small and dark.