Darryl, Gwenda had called the piper. Of course no one believed her. I imagined my dad, young and pale-haired, with a smile cruel as the new moon. But he had been proud of me, once.

“Urban exploration,” pronounced Trish, thoughtfully. She took out a cigarette, but Gary told her off. “A whole ghost town. Why didn’t we ever go up there?”

“There’s not much to see,” said Gary, “It’s—” He shut his mouth.

“You’ve been there?” Trish sat up straight. “When?”

“With my dad once. Boundary works. And my gran still lives in the old Damson house. It’s just—” He shrugged. “I don’t like ruins.”

“I do,” said Trish, with relish. “There should be more of them.”

I opened the gate. When he’d driven through, Gary got out too, leaving Trish to brood with her feet on the dashboard. He took the bird skull from the hollow post, delicately, muttering, “Knew they weren’t welcome … I bet ghosts would be,” and spent some time tightening wires, with an arrangement of ratchets and levers and clawed chains. He scuffed the dirt clear of grass and bark and frail things: beetle shells or bird bones. Then he fetched a box from one of the tin trunks on the back of the truck and scattered powder around the base of the posts, along the fence line a little way in each direction. Salt, perhaps, or poison against white ants.

I watched closely, propriety straining against curiosity.

“It’s a start, anyway,” said Gary. He washed his hands with the jerry can of water in the back and dried them on his shirt. “Keeping the fences clear, marking them, is the main thing, really.” But he didn’t sound sure. “I’ll come back and fix it up better.” He glanced at me. I knew Trish was watching us in the mirror, she sat so still.

“What happened to your arm?” He took it and turned it, wrist upwards. I’d been right; I did know the feeling of Gary Damson’s hands. Not angry, but forthright. There were the scratches left by Gwenda’s fingers: the curl of white-grazed skin, a few beads of blood.

“It’s just a scrape,” I said. “It will heal soon.”

“Gwenda did that?”

“She held me back, when we were leaving.” Gwenda Sage hadn’t said anything, only looked hard as if trying to see my dad in me, but her nails had dug into my arm, like she’d hoped to feel something other than flesh and bone under my skin. “It was an accident.” Accidents don’t need to be explained, or forgiven.

“I’ve got disinfectant in the—”

"Look,” I said. “It’s barely there.” I brushed away the dry skin. “The bruises you’re making will last longer.”

He wasn’t holding my wrist tight, but he let go quickly. I felt a moment’s triumph and straightened my cardigan with meaningful primness.