Back at her mother’s garden gate, Heather paused to send off a final text to Nikki. They had exchanged texts all the way home; most of Nikki’s sounded worried, all of Heather’s were apologetic. She had promised, somewhat rashly, to make dinner for Nikki’s mum and Aunt Shanice in an attempt to say thank you for their kindness, and her head was full of how many people she owed apologies when she opened the front door. She clicked the hall light on and stopped, staring at the floor.

Petals, as red as droplets of arterial blood in the dim light, were scattered across her mother’s biscuit-coloured carpet, leading across the hall and up the stairs. There was also a smell, a hot stench like old garbage or meat left in the sun too long. Heart in her throat, Heather made her way up the stairs, trying not to think of fairy tales where children followed a trail of breadcrumbs into the darkest part of the forest. Did Michael Reave have a version of that story? Of course he did.

The trail led into her mother’s bedroom, and there on the dressing table was a small crumpled pile of darkness. A bird – a starling, in fact. A very dead one. The small cavity of its chest had been split open, and inside it, glistening unpleasantly, Heather could just make out more of the petals. They were the delicate pink of dog roses, just like on the wreath at the funeral.

30

Cathy stood in the entrance to the pub, for a brief moment completely paralysed with indecision. Compulsively she took out her phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen, just in case a notification there could poke her in one direction or another. There was nothing.

Okay, she thought to herself, a hand resting on the door. Turn around and go home now, if you want, get back on the bus and send her a message saying you couldn’t make it after all. But if you do that, you’ll always wonder what she was like. For ever. That’s not really a choice at all, is it?

The door opened and a man stepped out, pulling his collar up against the cold. He glanced at Cathy curiously, then he was past her. The glimpse she got of the pub interior was warm and cosy, so after taking a second to push her hair out of her face, Cathy stepped inside. Almost immediately she spotted the woman, whose name was Jane Bailey.

My mother. My birth mother, anyway.

She walked over to the table, and the woman looked up. Cathy felt a smile break out on her face even as she felt like crying.

‘Hello, uh, I’m Cathy. Wow. I can’t … I mean, it’s amazing to meet you.’