by Chris Simms
She climbed off the bar stool, wincing as her bad foot made contact with the floor. ‘Is...was there only birds’ nests?’
‘And soot. Clouds of soot. I had to change that bag in the hoover twice as well. That’s another first for a single chimney.’
‘Is the chimney now clear? Nothing else is up there?’
His eyes dropped for a moment. She guessed her hands had been fluttering. ‘Clean as a whistle.’
She crossed her arms. This wasn’t right. ‘How can you be sure? Can you see right up it now? Why are you looking like that? It’s a reasonable question, isn’t it?’
He blinked. ‘I can’t see sky, if that’s what you mean. It slopes in near the top. But the brushes can pass through it now, no problem.’
‘Pass through it? You can feel them poking out the top?’
‘Yes.’ He sounded troubled. ‘Why?’
She couldn’t say what she was thinking. He’d have seen a child’s skeleton, surely, if it had tumbled down into the hearth. She glanced at the sack again. Just birds’ nests, she thought. Should I ask him to open the bag so I can check? She couldn’t quite believe it was only nests up there. She’d felt so sure–
‘I’ll do a smoke test; to check it’s drawing properly. I’m sure it will be.’
She went to brush her hair back and saw the dried blood, like a coating of rust, on her fingers. She’d forgotten to wash it off. ‘Smoke test?’
‘Takes all of a minute.’
She trailed him to the front door. He placed the sack outside, next to a couple of others. They looked very full, too.
‘You should be sitting down.’ He pointed at her foot.
‘It’s OK.’
The hearth was back to normal, all traces of the dust sheets and gaffer tape gone. He removed a coil of what looked like compressed cardboard from his pocket. ‘This gives off a thick plume of smoke. It’ll soon fill the chimney and, all being well, come pouring out the top.’
She thought of the opening she’d created upstairs. If it connects to the chimney, she thought, some smoke should seep out into my studio. ‘I’ll be upstairs. Tell me when it’s lit.’ She turned about and started hopping for the door.
She was a bit out of breath by the time she got to the top of the stairs. Going as fast as she could, she headed to the room at the end of the corridor and knelt at the hole.
‘It’s lit now!’
His voice came from two directions: up the stairs and, more faintly, from the opening in the wall before her. She stared at the hole. No smoke came out. Not a wisp. But she could just see something in there. All but hidden by the darkness. The corner of something. A small box?
‘Drawing fine, it is!’ he shouted. ‘Checking outside to see if it’s coming from chimney’s top.’
She heard the front door open. What was it in there? She started to reach in. What if it’s an ancient trap? For mice or rats. Fearing it might snap down on her fingers, she poked the screwdriver into the opening instead. She heard the scrape of wood on the concrete layer. The object could move, so it wasn’t connected to the floorboards. A box? The base was wooden but she could now just see a row of thin bars. A cage! It was a small cage. About the same size as a half-brick.
She put the screwdriver aside and gingerly reached a hand in. Pinching a corner bar between a finger and thumb, she started dragging it closer to the light. There was something inside it. Something dead. She let go. A pale, furry little lump. A hamster? No, it had feathers, not fur. She reached back in and tilted the cage to get it through the small opening. The object inside weighed nothing. It rolled over, two tiny feet scrunched into balls. A bird, feathers a faded yellow.
The chimney sweep called up. ‘Smoke’s coming out top at a good old rate!’
She couldn’t take her eyes off the tiny corpse. It looked like it had been there for years. Decades.
‘Mrs Wilkinson? Smoke’s drawing fine! Little Tiddles nipped outside. Is that OK?’
She turned her head to the open door. ‘Tiddles?’
‘The cat. It went out the front door.’
Scaredy-mouse! She’d escaped.
Chapter 27
‘Laura? Laura!’ Owen called. ‘Where are you?’
She felt too weak to muster a reply. The tears had come so suddenly and then they just wouldn’t stop. She hadn’t cried so uncontrollably since...being taken into hospital. ‘Here.’
The word was no more than a whisper. The poor chimney sweep, she thought. He didn’t want to take my money. He’d got all his equipment back into the van so fast and was about to drive away when she’d come back out of the cottage with a cheque.
‘I’m sorry it’s so wet,’ she’d said, thrusting the tear-stained piece of paper through his window.
‘Really, there’s no need. I feel so bad about your cat.’
‘No, you must take it.’
Reluctantly, he’d laid it across his dashboard and looked at her. ‘You’re sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes.’ She’d crossed her arms and scanned the fields once again. ‘She’s so small. It’s dangerous out here. Birds – those ones that attack other birds...’
‘And your husband is definitely on the way home?’
She’d nodded.
‘Why don’t you go inside? Make a cup of tea and put your foot up. The cat will reappear once it’s hungry, I bet you.’
Where could Scaredy-mouse have gone? They’d scoured the lane in both directions. She’d gone round the garden calling its name. But the kitten had vanished. Or was hiding.
‘Laura? Oh, Jesus, Laura.’
She looked up. Owen was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms hanging at his sides. ‘She got out. Now she’s lost.’
‘We...we’ll find her.’ Slowly, cautiously, he approached. ‘Come on, you can’t sit there. Let’s get you up.’
I must look silly, she realised. Sitting in the cat’s basket, stroking one of her little toys, my bad foot stretched out before me. ‘I needed to sit on the floor. Because of my foot. The flagstones were too cold.’
‘Yes, you said on the phone you’d cut it. How?’
‘A mirror broke upstairs. I trod on some glass.’
‘Laura, there’s blood all over you. Let’s get you cleaned up.’
‘Can you check the fields at the back? What if she strays over to where the badgers live? She might go down one of their burrows. They can be very aggressive can’t they, badgers?’
He crouched down beside her, hooking a hand under one of her arms. ‘Come on.’
He sat her down on a kitchen chair and slid another one over. ‘This foot?’
She gave a nod and he placed her left foot on it. She was still clutching Scaredy-mouse’s toy.
‘Right, first things first, let’s get this blood off you.’ After wetting a tea-towel, he came back over and started dabbing at her forehead, then her nose. He moved to her right cheek. It was everywhere.
‘There’s dust and all sorts in your hair,’ he muttered, now starting on her fingers. ‘What on earth were you doing?’
‘I wanted to see behind the mirror. The bit Scaredy-mouse hissed at when the canary last started to sing.’
He raised his eyes and looked at her for a moment. Then he lowered his head and continued to work at her fingers. ‘You’ve been hearing the noise again?’
‘Yes. I forgot to say, it’s canary song. I looked it up on the internet.’
‘How often have you been hearing it?’
‘A bit. I think Scaredy-mouse heard it too, you see. Which...which means if she did, it’s not just in my head, is it?’ She wasn’t sure he’d understood: he didn’t say anything. ‘Owen?’
He continued to wipe at her fingers. She stared at the top of his head. There were freckles visible on the bit where his hair had started to thin. Or were they those other things, she thought. Liver spots. One was the shape of Ireland, where we went for our fifth wedding anniversary. The Emerald Isle. I liked it there, except the fields weren’t as green as I e
xpected. ‘So I tried to get the mirror off to see what was behind it. But it fell and some of it smashed. I found a hole in the plaster that the decorators had tried to cover up. The bricks behind it were quite loose. There’s a funny smell in there, from when I was a little girl. Owen, there’s a dead canary. It was in the wall. A canary!’
‘You’ve removed some bricks from the wall?’ he asked, head still bowed. His voice sounded a bit odd, like he needed to clear his throat.
‘Two bricks. A canary, Owen. What I’ve been hearing ever since we moved in.’
His shoulders sagged and she felt his breath on the back of her hand as he let out a sigh.
‘Go and see for yourself. It’s true. I can’t explain it, but it’s true.’ When he looked up at her, she could see his eyes were moist. She didn’t like his expression. It reminded her of before. ‘Go and look before you start to judge me! I’m not making this up!’
‘OK, OK, I’ll look – after I’ve seen to your foot.’ He reached down and eased the slipper off. There was a fair amount of blood inside. ‘Christ, Laura.’
‘I was in a rush. I didn’t do a good job with the first-aid kit.’
He examined the bandage. ‘Do you think it’s still bleeding under there? Maybe we should get you to hospital.’
‘Don’t be silly, they’ll be busy enough. It’s only a cut foot. Owen, why would there be a canary in the wall?’
He closed his eyes for a second. ‘Let me take a look.’
While he was upstairs, her eyes strayed to the laptop. She’d sent Tamsin another message. Or was it two? It was after the chimney sweep left. She knew she’d mentioned the hole in the wall. Would Tamsin have seen it by now? The woman had said her tinnitus was bad. Laura doubted she’d have gone out. She was still contemplating whether to haul herself over to the laptop to check when she heard Owen coming down the stairs. When he reappeared he looked a little pale. And confused. The cage had a hook on the top and it was hanging from his finger. The canary was inside.
‘See? Do you see now?’
He stopped in the middle of the room and looked at her. ‘This was in the wall cavity?’
‘Yes!’
‘Where you removed the bricks, it was in there?’
‘Yes!’
He walked over to the back door, unbolted it and placed the cage outside. ‘The studio is an utter mess. Blood everywhere.’
‘What shall we do with it?’
He slid a chair out, sat down, glanced toward the door and shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but I don’t want it in the house.’
‘When do you think it was placed there?’
‘The body is desiccated.’ He shrugged. ‘Years.’
‘Owen, this cottage was once owned by a couple who bred canaries. They handed them out to miners through that hatch in the shed wall.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘One of the archaeologists up at the church told me.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t you think it must be from that time?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘But why put one in the wall?’
‘Perhaps some kind of superstitious thing? Didn’t they used to bury a black cat in the foundations of a house to bring it luck?’
‘I don’t know. I keep thinking of that saying, a canary in a coal mine. A sign that something bad is about to happen.’
His eyes locked on hers. ‘Do you feel like something bad is about to happen?’
The question instantly jarred her. All he had to do, she thought bitterly, was add my name to the end of it and he could have been a psychiatrist. They loved that way of turning your comments back on you. ‘Owen, I’m fine. Shaken, upset, confused; but I know what’s what. I know what’s real.’ She looked meaningfully at the back door. ‘That cage out there, it’s real.’
He dropped his head and started picking at a thumbnail. She could tell that husk of a bird had thrown him. Its existence could not be denied. ‘I’m worried, Laura. So much of this...’ He looked despairingly about the room. ‘It’s so similar to what happened before. Can’t you see that?’
Her stomach turned over. She found it so hard to talk about when she became ill. The memories were so vague, for a start. ‘It’s not the same,’ she murmured, hearing uncertainty in her reply.
‘Walking into the kitchen earlier. Seeing you over there in the corner...’
‘The dream; that’s the same. Or almost. A child, trapped in a tunnel.’ She avoided mentioning her fears about the chimney. ‘I don’t know why it’s started. I don’t want a baby. I did once, but not now.’
He glanced at the soft toy in her hand. ‘Why did you buy that kitten?’
‘Scaredy-mouse?’ Her laugh was over in a second. ‘I told you: because I was lonely. Am lonely.’
‘Lonely?’
‘Yes. I told you; in here on my own for so much of the day.’
He nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry. You call yourself mummy when you speak to it. Did you know that?’
‘Do I? But that’s normal.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. People always say they’re a pet’s mummy or daddy.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes. Bloody hell, Owen, it isn’t a substitute baby, for crying out loud!’ She dropped the cuddly toy on the table.
The sound of a vehicle came from outside. Looking past Owen’s shoulder, she saw a car through the kitchen window. It pulled to a halt. ‘I wonder who that is?’
‘Mmm?’ He was blank-faced.
‘In the car.’
A guilty look twisted his face. His head half-turned but he didn’t look round properly.
‘Owen?’
His lips bunched in regret. ‘I’m sorry. It’s my fault, I know it is. This damned concert.’ He looked so sad. ‘I rang him earlier, when I was upstairs. I don’t know how to deal with this. I’m sorry, Laura.’
‘Who?’
‘Robert.’
‘Robert who?’
‘Robert Ford.’
The car door shut and she saw him looking through the window at her. No, she thought. The doctor. Owen’s called that bloody doctor.
Chapter 28
‘You had no right! None!’
Owen looked totally forlorn, caught between answering her or the front door. The bell sounded again. ‘Laura, at the very least, your foot needs seeing to.’
‘You didn’t call him about my foot. You bastard! You bastard!’
‘Laura, please. Let’s just...’ He made downward movements with both hands and then went to let his old schoolfriend in.
She had so much emotion welling up, no words would come out. She felt betrayed. Conspired against. Afraid.
She knew about the process Owen had now set in motion. She’d been through it before. She refused to go through it again. She could hear them exchanging quiet words in the porch. The fact it was her they were talking about was so demeaning. Already, she thought, roles were being assigned. Mine, if I’m not careful, will become that of a mental patient. She grabbed the toy off the table and lobbed it back into the cat basket.
Dr Ford stepped into the kitchen a few seconds later. There was a mixture of wariness and concern on his face as he looked over. She didn’t believe the concern was genuine. Owen was skulking behind him, as well he might. The shit.
‘Hello,’ she smiled warmly. ‘Sorry not to get up. My foot...’ She gestured at it with one hand. ‘Silly accident. All my fault.’
Dr Ford shrugged in an understanding sort of way. ‘You stay put, Laura. Please.’
Owen had circled round him to approach the kettle. ‘Tea or coffee, anyone?’
That’s right, she thought. Try and normalise this, Owen. Make it all friendly and civilised, your attempt at getting me confined to a psychiatric ward. ‘I’m fine, thanks, darling.’
‘Robert?’
‘No,’ he replied, still looking in her direction. ‘Thank you.’
Well that’s a relief, she thought. No drink: perhaps h
e’s not settling down for a long visit. Perhaps he’ll bugger off really soon.
‘Owen says you opened it up on some broken glass?’ His gaze was now on her foot as he came over, black medical bag in one hand.
‘Yes, thanks so much for coming out. I was trying to move a mirror and completely misjudged the weight of it. Over it toppled. Bits of glass shot everywhere! Seven years’ bad luck, damn it.’ She flashed him a smile which he returned, though his eyes remained serious. ‘Please.’ She gestured to the chair where Owen had been sitting.
Dr Ford lowered himself onto it. ‘May I take a look?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
He bent forward and started to remove the blood-stiffened bandage.
‘Owen?’ she said loudly. The hand he was using to stir his coffee visibly jolted. Good, she thought. I’m glad that made you jump. Pity you didn’t burn yourself. ‘Would you bring a bowl over? Something to put these dressings in.’
‘Of course, yes.’
As he began to peel the bandage away, Dr Ford cleared his throat. ‘Owen said you’ve been feeling a bit down.’
Ah, she thought, subtle. Slip the question in while doing something else. The casual approach. He kept looking at her foot and she could see those ear hairs of his sticking out. Someone really needed to pluck them. ‘I wouldn’t say down. As you pointed out when I came to see you, it’s not easy moving somewhere new. Settling in has been a bit hard. Especially with Owen in Manchester so much.’
‘Have you met many people – locally, I mean?’
‘There’s a group. I met them when I drove over to introduce myself to the vicar; he’s very pleasant.’
‘The Reverend Flowers? He just took over from Tim Dobby.’
‘The previous reverend?’
‘Yes.’ Dr Ford glanced at Owen. ‘How long was Dobby in charge? Forty years?’
Owen tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t know. When I was in the choir up there, Reginald Burridge was vicar. He made way for Dobby just after I enrolled at the RNCM. That was in 1968.’
‘So I’m right; over forty years,’ Dr Ford replied. The last of the bandage came off and he examined her foot. ‘One nasty slice. The wound has closed, though. No fresh bleeding.’
