soon. We’ve got Sprite.’
Obediently, we all traipsed into the farmhouse behind Fallon, as if Sprite was the most golden carrot she could dangle. Cobwebs drooped in the corners of the kitchenette like forgotten Halloween decorations; the room opened up onto the same dingy lounge area, with the same tired leather three-piece and walls seemingly made from stacks of old newspapers. The shelving all around the top of the room was packed with ornaments, stuffed birds and woodland animals in small glass cases and clean white animal skulls acting as bookends and paperweights. The only light in the room came from two small windows and a box beside the fireplace with a nightlight inside, illuminating photos of Kate Middleton.
A little bird fluttered in from the lean-to and landed on a beam above our heads.
‘Don’t mind the mounts,’ said Fallon, having seen Max staring up at the shelves of stuffed animals. ‘They all died naturally.’
She retrieved three jam jars from a kitchen cupboard and put them on the breakfast bar. Not trendy jam jars like in some upmarket shabby chic restaurant either – actual old jam jars with the labels still glued on.
‘Where’s your mum gone?’ I asked, moving aside a broken hamster cage to sit on a stool. Max stood beside me, hands still in his pockets.
‘Gone to collect some pigs who died in the night. Sudden Pig Death Syndrome.’
‘What does she do, exactly?’ asked Max. ‘I mean, I know she’s a farmer or summing.’
Fallon turned to the fridge to get the Sprite and poured it out into the empty jam jars, handing them to us. ‘She used to be a farmer. She had to disintegrate, cos supermarkets are bastards with milk prices.’
Corey smiled. ‘Do you mean diversify?’
‘Yeah, that’s it. We sold off most of our livestock; kept a couple back for milk and wool. Nowadays she’s an ARS. Makes quite good money from that.’
‘A what?’
‘Animal Rescue Specialist. We look after sick animals, nurse them back to health. Kinda like vets, but a lot cheaper. We euthanise too, and cremate, all at cut-price. People report dead sheep or horses or large roadkill to Mum and she’ll go out to them and pick them up. We’ve got a furnace out the back where we burn ’em, if they’re no good for meat or black pudding.’
‘Gross,’ said Corey.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Fallon. ‘It’s a good business. I help out when I can, but it’s a bit difficult at the moment.’ She looked at me and smiled again, so genuine it was kind of unnerving. A three-legged white cat, wearing a small plastic tiara, limped across the worktops, stopping by the stove to nuzzle the kettle; the kettle, potentially, with the you-know-what in it. A guinea pig ventured in and Fallon picked up a broken tennis racket and lightly tapped its tangly little arse back down the steps. While she was gone, Max moved over to the stove, prized off the lid of the kettle and peeked inside. Corey looked at him expectantly but he shook his head
After we’d gulped down the jam-jar Sprite and some stale smoky bacon Mini Cheddars, Rosie still wasn’t back, so Fallon said she’d take us round the farm.
It was sad, really. The fantastic playground the farm used to be – giant tractors, rope swings, creeks, orchards, haunted corners and woods to ride our bikes through at breakneck speed – it was all still there, but we could see it now for what it was. Just a small, downtrodden smallholding in the middle of nowhere, housing dead or dumped animals, full of rust and mud. As kids, we saw the magic there. We saw magic in everything. Something about growing up kicks that out of you without you even realising it’s happening.
‘It’s a shame Zane’s not here,’ said Fallon. ‘Do you remember when those boys chased us at the swimming pool, Ella? We told them to get lost, but they kept on trying to kiss us.’
It was a memory I’d forgotten until Fallon unlocked it. ‘God, yeah, I do.’
‘Zane saw them off. He hated anything like that. His dad used to beat up his mum.’
‘I never knew that,’ said Max.
‘Yeah,’ said Fallon. ‘They split up. Zane still lives in that ground floor flat on the seafront with her.’
‘How do you know?’ I asked her.
‘I’ve seen him a few times since the – funeral,’ she said, guiltily. ‘I’m so sorry about what Mum said at Jessica’s inquest, Max. She really didn’t mean any harm, I promise you.’
There was a brief silence and awkward looks all round. Then:
‘Where are we going, exactly?’ asked Corey, bringing us back to the matter in hand.
‘We could go down as far as the old railway line if you want,’ said Fallon, as we crossed the road to the field gated by the three shopping trolleys. ‘Nine times out of ten, if someone’s lost a cat, that’s where they’ll be. Get loads of mice down there, cos loads of rubbish gets dumped. Mum’s had to go down a few times cos of a fallen cow.’
So we headed across the lane to the fields and orchard, in the direction of the old railway line – a long road cut into the hillside, leading from Brynstan Bay through the interconnecting villages, and on towards Bristol. We used to race our bikes down there as kids. The big attraction was the Witch’s Pool but you had to go miles down the track to get to it. There was an old railway tunnel halfway along the Cloud section of the line; we used to race through it at top speed, pretending a witch lived in the darkest part. If we went too slowly, there was a danger she’d reach out her bony fingers and grab us, dragging us screaming to our deaths. Zane was the most scared of all of us – I’d never seen anyone ride a bike as fast as him.
Past a chicken coop and a pen where four silky black goats were chomping on large heads of lettuce, we came to a rickety barn. Inside it, behind a mountain of hay bales, was a stash of small brown bottles. Each had a label on the front that read ‘Acid Rain’.
‘Mum’s home brew,’ said Fallon. ‘We’ve got a ton of the stuff. Help yourselves.’
Max grabbed four bottles, and Corey put two in his bag of sweets from the Pier. I didn’t take any, and Fallon said she preferred Capri-Suns. I couldn’t work out if she was joking.
Fallon had grown up in a different way to us three. She hadn’t grown up in the town like we had, so she was quite oblivious to a lot of the things we said, some of our slang. I almost envied her, a child wearing teenage skin that was never going to fit. I wanted to ask her if she had kept my secret, but I couldn’t with the boys around. It was too much to hope she’d forgotten all about it.
Max pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time. Along with it came a small see-through bag, with a clump of what looked like dried grass. I’d seen it before. He’d dropped it at the garden centre the other night. I was first to reach it this time.
‘What’s this?’ I said, handing it back to him.
‘Nothing. Just a bit of weed.’
‘Weed? You mean, drugs?’
‘Keep your voice down, or they’ll want some.’
Still processing his answer, I followed Fallon through the orchard and across
