29. Wren #2
“Did we leave this here?” she says, between puffs. “I’m not sure I’d have forgotten it.”
“You smoke now?” Crow says, unable to hide the judgment in her tone.
“We smoked together once,” Starling tells her. “Have you forgotten?”
“When we were kids,” Crow says. “A different time.”
“Yet you’re still a bore, it seems. Anyone want one?”
Cuckoo and I shake our heads.
“Is it really ours?” I say. “Is that the one we . . .”
“No chance.” Starling tips the ash into the sink. “I smoked the rest of that packet myself.”
“Then why is it here?”
“We’re not the only people to have been here in the last seven years,” Starling says. “Someone else has good taste.”
“And left the vodka too?”
“They’re both common brands, Wren. What’s the problem?”
Besides returning to this place? Besides knowing what we must do before dawn breaks?
I have trained to speak up to students; I haven’t trained to speak up to my friends. I say nothing, and I am my old self again.
Starling pockets the cigarettes and we return to the hallway, migrate next to what was once a living room.
The brick is exposed, reminding us of the strange nature of this house, which has been built on and built on again and again, pieces of it fused together whether they fit correctly or not.
Long ago bishops roamed these grounds, but there is very little left of what they knew, an occasional Gothic archway or reused stone.
When it became a true home, that was when the Victorian features were put in—the stained glass, the cornicing, the floorboards—but then it was extended upon further.
Rooms were switched around. Fireplaces were filled in and left to rot.
More and more people crowded this house, but it grew emptier every time, a shallow cage for something that was once loved.
God, where did that come from? I’ve always been frightened of Bishop’s House, but I’ve never thought of it like that before. A victim of too much attention, and ironically abandoned until now, when it will finally be destroyed.
This was always one of the more cluttered parts—boxes and boxes of old magazines and toys and video cassettes and CDs.
Spiders have made this place their paradise: Webs are in every corner and within every box, invaders I am not going to mess with.
The nest that frightened us all those years ago is still at the bottom of the fireplace, though the egg left behind is gone.
Maybe the baby bird broke free after all.
“There’s nothing that will connect us in here,” Cuckoo says. “There’s too much stuff. When they come to clear it, I doubt they’ll even look at anything. They’ll just chuck it all in a skip and be done with it.”
Crow crouches down next to the giraffe, frowning. “There’s something under here.”
Sure enough, on closer look, there is what looks like a piece of paper.
Crow has to tug at it, which tears a section from the bottom, while Starling and I hold on to the giraffe to prevent it from falling over.
When Crow rises to her feet, eyes scanning the page in her hands, she lets out a small gasp.
“What is it?” I ask, as pinpricks of dread begin to stab my heart.
“It’s . . .” Crow turns to look at the boxes. “There are old newspapers in there, right?”
“Some. What’s your point?”
“This must be from one of them. It’s just odd that this article is the one that was . . . on the floor like that.”
“What article?”
She holds out the piece of paper, and I realize now it’s a cutout from a newspaper. There is a small, slightly blurry photograph of a woman in a bright blue raincoat, bicycle helmet on, which makes Cuckoo snatch the paper away.
“This is an article about Mum,” Cuckoo says. “It reported the hit-and-run, before Hugo was caught. It’s appealing for information.”
A thud from upstairs makes us jump.
It’s an old house. Old houses creak and groan.
But I don’t like that Bishop’s House knows all our secrets.
Cuckoo folds the article in two, shoves it into her bag. “Whoever was having a snoop at the old newspapers probably recognized her. The crash only happened a mile away.”
“Right.” Crow nods. “That makes sense.”
Does it? I want to say. Does it really?
“Moving on,” Cuckoo says. “We still need to explore the rest of the house.”
“It’ll be quicker if we break into pairs,” Crow says. “Wren, let’s start upstairs while Starling and Cuckoo finish off down here.”
Like the pages of a horror book.
But I don’t argue.
Crow takes the stairs two at a time, and I wonder if she’s feeling anxious too. She appears agitated, but how well do I really know her anymore? What I might read as familiar signs could mean something entirely different now.
“Does the house feel . . . off to you?” I whisper when we reach the landing.
“Off?” She doesn’t look at me.
“Just . . . not like how I remember it, somehow. Details which are changed.”
There is a silence. The doors are also closed up here, all along the corridor, but that is not a surprise.
Each of them would open for us apart from that one right at the end, which stayed wedged shut whatever we attempted.
I glance toward it now, hard to make out in the dark, and shine my torch directly to get a better view.
My insides shrivel; my throat closes.
“Crow,” I say. “Look over there.”
She is distracted; she is staring at something on the wall. A painting I’ve never noticed before, a bird chained to some kind of container, gazing back at her. It is a goldfinch, I know it in my bones, but I won’t look twice to confirm. I have my own worries with what is in front of us.
“Crow.” I am forceful, I use my teacher voice, the one I practiced every night and morning during my training. I discovered I could not shout, my voice would break and strain every time I tried, so I had to craft something else, something strong but not too loud.
She finally turns. Sees it, in front of that locked door.
The gnome. My gnome. Smiling widely. The one I know for sure I destroyed. Glued back together again, the paste thick and dry across each crack.