16. Wren
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WREN
“Young lady, I am sick to death of you lazing around in bed. Get up!”
Mum’s shrill voice jolts me out of sleep, a dreamless rest after everything that happened the night before.
I have no idea what time it is, but my eyes open blearily just in time to see her flinging open the curtains, letting sunshine burst into the room.
I wince and hide under the covers, but Mum throws those off me too.
She is in one of her power suits for work, her favorite pinstriped blue one, and she has a full face of makeup on too, which is rare nowadays when most of her job is sitting at the dining table answering emails or being on Zoom calls.
Her features are sharp, pointy nose and elbows like she resembles a bird too.
A hawk of some kind, perhaps. Certainly a predator.
“What time is it?” I mumble, holding my arm across my face to shield from the sun and squinting at her from underneath.
“It’s almost two o’clock. In the afternoon.
I am heading out in a minute to meet with a prospective buyer, and I nearly left you alone.
Nearly said to myself, ‘She’ll be up when I am back.
She’ll have done some chores and not wasted the day.
’ But I couldn’t do it. Because I know if I left you to rot in bed, you’d still be here, whether it’s two o’clock or five o’clock or ten o’clock. Now get up!”
I sit up in bed, run my fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry, Mum. I’ll do my chores.” I am about to say more when I see behind her, sitting on my desk chair, which is only half turned away and easily visible, the gnome I stole from the garden last night.
It is bigger than I remember, at least ten centimeters high, thanks to its long, pointy blue hat.
It is wearing red dungarees and has a bright white beard and a smile on its ruddy face.
It is so obvious, sitting there, that this doesn’t belong, and I am terrified Mum is going to turn at any minute and see it and the game will be up.
Why did I even take it? I lied to Crow. I don’t collect gnomes. I made it up on the spot to try and impress her or make her laugh, and then when I saw the gnomes in that garden I had to steal one to keep up with the ruse.
But then why did we do any of what we did last night?
Perhaps there was a rage underpinning it, that Bishop’s House has been intruded upon and we can’t control it.
Just like so much else right now. And this person with their perfect house and perfect garden that they weren’t even using—it was too tempting, even for me.
I couldn’t help it. There is something electric when it’s the five of us, a force I can’t explain.
There are things I do with them that I would never do alone.
It almost felt like the house was egging us on, wanting us to destroy somewhere else when we couldn’t have our own space.
It felt right. I don’t wake up today with any regrets, only with the fear of being found out.
I make sure my gaze is back on Mum, keep my eyes focused. Thankfully, she is too busy scowling at me to look around the room properly.
What about me? What am I wearing? Did I remember to change into my pajamas before collapsing into bed last night?
No, she would have reacted if I was in outdoor clothes.
But still, I can’t resist glancing down to make sure, exhaling in relief when I spy my Winnie-the-Pooh pajama top and the beginnings of my matching pajama shorts beneath the quilt.
I run my fingers through my hair again, taking my time, making sure it is loose and not tied up in anything complicated that would have been difficult to sleep in if I wasn’t exhausted.
Am I still wearing makeup? Probably . . .
I can’t remember washing my face last night.
But that can be explained. I was experimenting last night and forgot to wash it off.
I’m fine. As long as Mum doesn’t spot that gnome, I have nothing to worry about.
“You’re meeting a potential buyer, you mentioned?” I say so that she keeps her eyes on me. I get out of bed and immediately start making it, knowing that’s what she would want.
She folds her arms, then seems to remember that might crease her suit and unfolds them again, tugging to straighten each sleeve.
“You’ll never believe it.” She’s smug, keen, and I realize this is why she’s really come in.
She wants to brag about something, and Dad won’t give her the correct reaction beyond a grunt of approval.
“What won’t I believe?”
“I’m finally selling it. Bishop’s House. I’m showing the buyers around today, but I’ve already shown them the place via FaceTime, and they’re very keen. They’re going to be putting in an offer for sure.”
My entire body turns cold.
The person who has been inside Bishop’s House and changed things around . . . it’s my mother.
Of course. She has a key. She has the place on her property portfolio.
But I never thought she’d actually sell it. Especially not now, during all this turmoil. Who could possibly want to buy a place like that at a time like this?
“Don’t look too stunned,” Mum says. “Your mother is one of the best in the business.”
“This buyer . . . wants Bishop’s House?” I whisper.
“Well, not the house exactly.” Mum waves her hand dismissively. “The land it sits on. They’ll bulldoze it, get planning permission for a set of flats.”
“What?” I say. I can’t hide my surprise or my horror. “They’re going to destroy it? They can’t do that! Isn’t it, like, a protected historical building or something?”
“Why are you so interested all of a sudden? I thought you hated that place.”
“No! I don’t . . . I . . .” I can’t act so invested. What’s the matter with me? “I mean, I do. I just thought there were rules about that kind of thing. It’s been here forever.”
“Well, they’ll have to keep the medieval ruins, I’m sure, but the rest can go.”
This can’t happen. It can’t.
Who is this person? How dare they?
“Do the vacuuming and some studying while I’m out,” Mum says. “I’ll be back in a few hours. You’re going to Cambridge in the autumn, and you need to make sure you’re prepared. You can’t just do nothing because exams aren’t happening.”
“Yes, Mum.”
As soon as she leaves the room, I’m up, throwing on some jeans and a top.
I won’t have time to shower. She’ll be driving to Bishop’s House, no doubt, even though it’s only a short walk away.
I quickly wash my face, dab some lip gloss on, brush my hair, and wait for the sound of Mum calling out goodbye before the sound of the front door slams. I grab the gnome and shove it in my wardrobe, then put my shoes on and head downstairs.
Dad is at his computer, answering emails. His glasses are perched on the end of his nose, and he pushes them back up when he sees me. “Your mother got you up, I see.”
“Yes.” She’ll kill me for going out, but if I can get back in time before she does, I might just be able to get away with it. “I’m going out for some fresh air. When I get back, I’ll do the vacuuming and some studying, promise.”
“Make it quick,” he says. “No more than half an hour, alright?”
“Alright. Thanks, Dad.”
I debate whether to bring my phone, knowing Starling would throw a fit at one of us being linked to Bishop’s House. In the end, I leave it switched off in the pocket of my jacket and head out with it just in case.
It feels bizarre, being out in the daytime.
I almost wish I’d brought sunglasses to shield my eyes.
I’ve spent some afternoons in the garden here and there, but since school shut, I haven’t actually been outside unless it’s night.
It feels strange now, like this is the wrong way round.
Without the dark as an almost cover, I feel oddly exposed as I walk down the road.
There are people out and about, cars driving, and it seems the world has moved on somewhat from the very beginning of lockdown.
There is more freedom, though it’s not quite normal yet.
I have my mask fastened around my face, and everyone else, bar one man walking his dog, is masked up too.
I wave at one of the neighbors, who nods at me, and then I turn the corner at the end of the street and walk along in peace.
I don’t really know what I’m doing. But I have to see them, this person buying Bishop’s House.
It’s an urge that powers me along, turns my walking pace into a jog in case I miss them.
But I am in luck: I arrive at the bottom of the hill that leads to Bishop’s House and see Mum’s car parked in front of it, herself waiting by the gate with a briefcase.
She’s checking her lipstick in her wing mirror.
I cross to the other side of the road and hide behind a different parked car while she’s not looking. She’s checking her watch now, impatiently. Are the buyers late? Are they not going to show up and the sale is off?
But no. I hear another car coming up the road, flashy and expensive, and it pulls up right next to Mum’s. A couple get out, a man and a woman, and there’s a great display of hand-shaking and cheek-kissing and excitable comments about Bishop’s House.
The woman is even taller than my mother, maybe the same height as Goldie.
No mask. Model tall. Attractive like one too, in an ephemeral way, the light catching her face in some moments and making her beautiful and in others cold.
Her hair is almost silver it’s so blonde, and brushes her shoulders in waves.
She keeps tossing her head this way and that, making it bounce.
She’s wearing silk trousers and a matching blouse in vibrant colors, and when she smiles at Mum, I feel wrong-footed, like this kind woman couldn’t possibly be buying and destroying Bishop’s House. No, it has to be her partner.
Boyfriend? Husband? He wraps a protective arm around her shoulder, and I spy a wedding ring on his finger.
Husband then. He towers over everyone, and he’s the one leading the conversation, his loud, braying voice audible even from across the road.
Even in side profile, there’s something familiar about him.
He’s not wearing a mask either. I frown, squinting to try and study him closer, and suddenly he turns, checking something with their car, and I get a full view of him.
That lopsided smile, teeth sharp as a shark’s.
I know exactly where I’ve seen him before.
“Hugo Fletcher,” I whisper.
The man who killed Cuckoo’s mother.