The House of Birds and Butterflies. Cressida McLaughlin
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a day forcing her out of bed with the sunrise, and she often pottered or watched television until the early hours of the morning. But tonight, after the young girl’s comments, and recalling her own encounter with the badger – a moment that had truly scared her – she found that she was on edge.
The wind was rustling through the trees, the woodland was never quiet at night, and she couldn’t help picturing Swallowtail House, its dark, hulking shape looming over the village. Her hands shaking slightly, she twisted the back of her torch, checking the beam was on full, pointing it directly ahead, her steps slow and deliberate so she didn’t upend herself over a rock or tree root. It was fine, she told herself; she’d done this so often before. But she wished she had Raffle with her, or even Gavin making ridiculous wisecracks, or Stephan – why hadn’t she taken him up on his offer? It would only have been a few minutes out of his way.
Something screeched to her left and she copied it, clamping her hand over her mouth at the ridiculous outburst, knowing the instant she’d screamed that it was one tree branch rubbing against another in the wind.
‘Come on, Abby, get a grip.’ She surged forwards, seeing the smooth concrete of the road up ahead, and then the glowing, beckoning light of Peacock Cottage. It was just in one downstairs window, but it looked so inviting, so safe, away from the murmuring trees and the darkness creeping in around her. She tried to think of the robins, greenfinches and blackbirds all safe on woody perches, little balls of puffed-up feathers, unconcerned by the wind raging around them. She tried to take strength from her feathered friends, but the pull of the cottage was so strong, her legs automatically turned towards the front door, its bold blue hue hidden in shadow.
And then she thought of Jack’s smirk as she’d ranted about his car, the way that, despite complaining to her about ridiculous things, he’d been entirely confident and unashamed in his self-centred opinions. She felt again the disquiet of seeing him and Flick Hunter together. Her anger returning, Abby’s train of thought led swiftly and predictably to the fantasy she had conjured up, his strong arms grabbing hold of her, his lips, when they met hers, tender but with clear intent, tasting of lemon-scented Earl Grey tea.
She disliked Jack, what little she knew of him. Her mind had no right to be gallivanting off in these wayward directions. Angry at herself now as well as him, she was distracted, and as she stepped with relief out of the trees and onto the road she missed the biggest, most obvious tree root and got her foot caught, her momentum propelling her forward, the torch clattering to the ground as she put her hands in front of her to stop herself landing on her face.
The light went out. It sounded loud, probably fatal for the torch, and she could feel the sting of her grazed palms, a painful tug in her ankle where her foot had been wrenched out of the root as she fell. She swore and scrabbled in her bag for her phone, switching the light app on and casting around for the bits of torch. She didn’t want to risk causing anyone a puncture in the morning.
She worked quickly, finding the black metal casing, the batteries and the spring. She was nearly there, so close to being able to leave the darkness and run home to safety and warmth, when the meagre light from her iPhone was joined by a much bigger, softer, glow. She looked up to find that the front door of Peacock Cottage was open, light spilling across the road, a tall figure silhouetted against it.
‘Hello?’ Jack said. ‘Is anyone there?’
Abby stayed still. Chances were he wouldn’t see her – she was just out of the reach of the pooling light – would dismiss it as any one of a number of irritating creatures, and go back inside.
‘Hello?’ he said again. ‘Who’s there?’ Was his voice wobbling? Abby couldn’t tell over the blood pounding in her head.
She spotted the torch bulb and reached inchingly towards it, and then a third, almost blinding light had her in its grasp. Of course he had his own, powerful torch. Of course he did. It was probably MI5 issue.
‘Abby! Shit, are you OK?’ He was at her side in moments, kneeling in the dirt. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I’m fine. I tripped, broke my torch. Nothing to worry about.’
‘OK, but can I …?’ He placed his torch on the ground.
‘What?’ she asked, but he’d started running his hands down her arms, his touch feather-light, pausing as he turned over her hands and saw the grazes on her palms. She didn’t want him to touch her, it reminded her too much of her daydream. She tried to pull away but he’d let go of her hands anyway, was patting his hands gently down her legs, from her knees to her feet. She winced as he got to her right ankle.
‘I’m fine, thank you, Jack. I should get home.’
‘You have no light – that doesn’t count,’ he added, when she waggled her phone. ‘And you’ve hurt your ankle.’
‘I haven’t. It got stuck, that’s all.’
‘Come inside, let me check you over properly.’
‘No, I—’ she sighed as he gripped her elbows and pulled her to standing. ‘I’m fine to get home.’ She put her foot gingerly on the floor, relief spiking as she realized it wasn’t that sore, that walking wouldn’t be a problem. ‘Thank you for looking out for me.’ She started putting the bits of broken torch in her bag.
When she’d finished, Jack hadn’t moved.
‘I’m not letting you walk home on your own with only that ridiculous phone light to guide you.’
‘Well, I’m not letting you force me into your house so you can do God knows what to me. Are you a qualified doctor as well as a novelist? It seems unlikely! Your pat-down just then was more like you were searching for hidden weapons at an airport than seeing if I was injured.’
He stared, aghast, and for some reason, Abby kept going.
‘Perhaps you want to experiment on me, to work out all the gruesome ways the victims in your next book will get murdered. How do I know I can trust you?’
‘If I practised my murders before I wrote about them, don’t you think the police would have put two and two together before now?’ Jack shot back. ‘Discovered victims who had reached similarly bizarre ends, and done a bit of digging? I’m not clever enough to commit the perfect murder, and even if I was, right now I’m too cold to even entertain the prospect, and I’m just offering to look at those cuts on your hand for you, check your ankle’s OK. I’m sure your parents told you never to talk to strangers, but I’m really not an ogre, whatever our last two encounters may have led you to believe. Come on, I’m not wearing a coat.’ He bounced up and down on the spot, and Abby bit back the urge to laugh.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, ‘but I have to be at work early in the morning, so I need to get home.’
‘At least let me drive you.’
‘It’s a ten-minute walk! Do you have any idea how much fuel you’ll use up in that huge thing doing a completely pointless journey?’
In the light from the door, she saw Jack roll his eyes. ‘I am not going back inside and leaving you out here,’ he said. ‘Either you come in with me, or you let me drive you home.’
She wondered briefly whether, if she was to take him up on his offer, she’d find Flick Hunter sitting on his sofa. She almost said that he could walk her home if he was that bothered, and then she realized that would involve spending more time with him, and also that she would worry about him getting back safely when he was such a city boy and couldn’t even cope with a few pheasants.
‘Fine,’ she said, sighing heavily. ‘You can drop me at home. Thank you.’
‘Good. Arm?’ He held his hand out, and she reluctantly let him take her arm. It was a few short steps to the Range Rover, and her ankle was barely bruised, and yet she found herself leaning into him, feeling the solid weight of his support. He pointed his fob at the car to unlock it, opened the passenger door and waited while she climbed into the seat. It was even more luxurious than