‘Well, what do you make of this?’ the woman said.
She’d just unlocked the collection box to empty it, and was peering at a small coin in her palm. Fran could see from where she sat that it was badly discoloured; but a muted gleam of silver caught the light. Probably an old two-shilling piece – a change, at least, from bus tokens and coppers.
It was time to move on. She got to her feet.
The woman gave her a glance. ‘That young man must have left it, he put something in the box. It can’t be real, can it?’
Fran joined her on the way to the door, and saw for herself. The rough-edged coin was tarnished, almost black, but she could make out the small cross stamped into the metal. The woman turned it over, and they saw it had a bird on the back: one with a curved and cruel-looking beak. A circle of crude lettering surrounded it.
The woman shook her head. ‘I’ve not seen anything like that before, I must say.’
Fran was picking out the letters, but they didn’t make a word. Hard enough to tell where the sequence began, apart from a cramped initial cross – and the bird’s malicious beak that broke the circle.
A scavenger’s beak, Fran thought – and frowned. A carrion bird. A raven.
2
Up on the hill, she turned around, and saw the country spread out like a quilt.
The patchwork was uneven, mixing greens and browns and yellows; its hedgerows like rough stitching in between. Isolated farms stood out in tiny detail. And over it all, the shadows of clouds came creeping: as shapeless as amoebas, vast and dim.
Wiltshire, stretching off into the distance. She’d originally thought of the Plain as flat, but here it rose much higher: thrust upward from the lowland like a cliff. Edington was down there, to the right: the church peeping out between trees. It looked like a toy village from up here.
She’d taken the footpath up Edington Hill. The way was steep and hollow, worn into the chalky ground. Clearing the trees on the lower slopes, it rose towards the crest – then skirted round it. She’d cut away, and climbed up to the top. The breeze grew fresher, plucking at her jacket; she shrugged into its sleeves. Her icon badge was pinned to the lapel.
Gazing out across the landscape, she remembered her walk with Dad the other week. Up the path behind the houses to the high ground overlooking Hathersage. They’d watched the evening settle on the village. The lights had come on one by one: a colony of fireflies waking up to greet the dusk. Dad had put his arm around her – drawn her close against his side. Content, she’d leaned her head against his shoulder.
‘You’re serious about him then: this lad?’
‘He’s really nice, Dad. You’d like him.’
They’d always been close: she didn’t need to see his face to know what he was thinking. He’d got his daughter back, to see her snatched away again. Every instinct said to hang on tight.
When he let go, she heard it in the wryness of his voice.
‘You’d best bring him up here, then. Let your mother have a look at him. And I can see what he thinks of Real Ale.’
Love you, Dad, she’d thought, and slid her arm across his back. Aloud she said: ‘He won’t drink pints, you know. Has to be the bottled stuff. And cold.’
He snorted. ‘Typical Yank, eh.’
‘That doesn’t bother you, does it?’ she’d asked, after a slightly anxious pause.
‘If he makes you happy, girl, he won’t bother me at all. Just don’t let him take you for a ride, all right?’
‘Dad. I’m twenty-three now.’
‘You’re still my daughter, Frannie. My little lass. That’s never going to change.’
She didn’t doubt it, either. Though they’d just been to see the local team, and Fran had shouted louder than the blokes, she was always going to be his little girl.
But even as they spoke, she’d felt the gloomy heights behind them: the tors like tumbled fortresses, and then the open moor. They were right out on the edge here, and dusk was coming quicker than a tide.
A wind had risen out of the distance. She’d felt it on her spine, and snuggled closer to Dad’s coat. But when she turned her head, she saw the yellow moon was up: its outline smudged and swollen, but the glow was like a lamp’s. The lantern of a friend, to light them home. The barren moor seemed thwarted – almost sullen.
The rustling breeze brought her back to the present. No wind from the back of beyond this time; just a whisper through the thistley grass. A snuffling round the dandelions and daisies. She breathed it in, and knew that she was ready.
Turning to come down off the crest – her face set firmly south, towards the range – she saw the black-clad figure in the hollow of the hill.
She ventured further down, and reached the track; then stopped again. The man was crouching on the slope a dozen yards below. He was head-down over something, unaware of her approach.
The falling contours made a basin here. The pathway curved around it, like a gouge along the rim. The ground was steep and strangely crimped: old terraces, she guessed. But grass this rough was just for grazing now. Tufty bushes sprouted up, like fungus on old bread.
The man had a tattered coat around his shoulders. Trailing in the dirt with the sleeves hanging loose, it gave him the look of a large, bedraggled bird. She thought of a rook in a fresh-ploughed field: rooting through the soil in search of grubs.
In the lee of the hill, the breeze had dropped completely. Fran stood there, scarcely breathing, her eyes fixed on his back. Her confidence had come crashing down; the world was huge and hostile once again.
The man was wearing black, just like the figure in her dream. He had the same fair hair. She was suddenly sure that his unseen face was featureless: a hole. Empty – and about to turn towards her.
Cold beads of sweat popped out across her shoulders. She forced her gaze away, along the path. It led over the rise and out of sight. Or should she just go back around the hill? Retrace her steps to Westbury; pretend she’d never come.
She knew she couldn’t. It was clear as the air, and the sudden, splashing sunlight. If she ran away from this, her mind would never rest.
It wasn’t a dream – not this time. It might be a coincidence, of course …
Oh, yeah, she thought, with fatalistic scorn. Oh, sure.
Perhaps a premonition, then. Perhaps it was her fate, to meet this man. She’d never sniffed at things like that: second sight and such. But when she met him – what would happen then? The thought compressed her stomach. A chill of nausea rose towards her throat.
What was he doing? Writing with his finger in the dirt? Whatever, he was too engrossed to see her. She recalled what that woman had said
