Margo collapsed in a chair, her eyes wild, darting from side to side like a trapped animal. One hand cradled her stomach, the other sought sanctuary on the desk between them as her bag was released to the floor, holding the wooden surface tight as if to steady the world. She tried to speak, but only primitive noises escaped in between desperate gasps for air.

Frankie held up a hand. “Take it easy. Just get your breath back and we can talk then. There’s nothing that can’t wait. We’ll get you a nice cup of tea. Things are always better with a cup of tea.”

Margo stared at Frankie as if she was the embodiment of her mother. Stock phrases coming hard on the heels of each other. Trite. Meaningless. She felt her breath returning to a more normal rhythm . She had left the cottage early that morning, gathering what few possessions she owned and bundling them into a bag in sheer panic in case Oscar came back and caught her in the act. He still hadn’t returned home since he had left for work the previous morning, and her fear had grown with every passing minute as she waited for the sound of his quad bike coming back up the glen. Oscar’s normally foul mood had reached new depths since she’d given him the news, far worse than normal, and she envisioned him drinking the night away until he reached that point where he was capable of doing anything.

No sleep had come to her. She’d lain in bed with the longest kitchen knife held tightly clasped in her hand, a cold sweat beading her skin and every sense straining in the dark for any sound of his approach. As soon as the grey light of dawn touched the eastern horizon, she took the one chance she might ever have to escape him completely. She would have to run away, far away from here, somewhere he could never find her. It was in that state of blind panic she’d first seen the shape as she hurried down the track towards the tree, causing her to stop suddenly with blood freezing in her veins, a cold pit forming where her womb lay. The shape rotated slowly and as the face turned towards her she saw dark shadows around the head resolve into crows. They flew off, cawing displeasure at being disturbed from feasting on his eyes, tempting morsels providing an aperitif to the main course. Her first instinct was to be sick, dry retching causing her to stagger away from the sight.

Margo made a detour around the tree, climbing some way up the rock-strewn slope to avoid having to see or smell the sight again, then once securely back on the rough track she half-ran, half-walked in a mindless fugue until she found her feet had taken her to the police station. The reaction now came in waves: horror, shock, relief, all jumbled together in an incoherent mix of emotions. She sat facing the policewoman, her placid patience an antidote, and felt the feelings inside her recede. Margo fixed Frankie with an empty look and Frankie felt unable to stare back into eyes so devoid of hope, making a show instead of picking up her notebook and pen and placing them on the table. An unnatural silence held the air between them, broken only by Margo’s breathing becoming less ragged, more measured. Two mugs of tea arrived, held in Hamish’s overlarge hands. He set them down on the table, swept a practiced eye over Margo and decided she was safe to be left – for the moment.