The marsh was quiet; the only sound came from their own footsteps and the sled scraping along the footbridge. Occasionally a few crows who were up early struck up their own dissonant version of the dawn chorus.
Laura wanted to tell Hedda about the previous day. About her meeting with Iben. About Iben and Jack. Yet at the same time she didn’t want to, oddly enough. Maybe she was afraid of what her aunt would say? Instead, she decided to bring up something else that had been bothering her.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Milla in your letters?’
Hedda stopped.
‘Oh – I thought I had done, but it’s been such a busy autumn.’ She made an apologetic gesture. ‘An old friend of mine who’s a social worker got in touch. Milla was only meant to be staying for a few weeks, but things became difficult, so I’ve agreed that she can stay until she turns eighteen in January. We’ve got plenty of room in the winter – there’s only me and Jack.’
‘And me!’ Laura snapped.
Hedda smiled and stroked her forehead again.
‘And you, of course. I should have said something. Can you forgive me?’
Laura would have liked to sulk for a while longer, but Hedda was smiling in the way that made it hard to stay mad at her.
‘Of course,’ she muttered.
Hedda flung her arms around her niece and dug her fingers into her ribs.
‘I didn’t hear you. Do you forgive me?’
Laura stepped off the bridge, lost her balance and fell into a snowdrift with Hedda on top of her. Her aunt carried on tickling her.
‘Say you forgive me! Say it!’
Laura wriggled and kicked and tried to keep the mask in place, but it was impossible. She was very ticklish, and Hedda knew exactly what she was doing.
‘OK, OK, I forgive you!’ Laura laughed.
The tickling stopped, Hedda rolled to the side and they lay there next to each other in the snow.
‘I love you, my perfect little princess.’
Laura didn’t answer. The happiness she’d been searching for ever since she arrived finally seemed to be within reach, but then she thought back to yesterday again.
‘Why did Milla have to move?’ she asked, trying to keep the unpleasantness at bay.
‘She had a few problems. She needed to get away for a while.’
‘What kind of problems?’
‘She was mixing with the wrong people. Made a few mistakes. It’s easily done when you’re young and stupid and think you’re immortal. I was the same.’
‘So what did you do?’
Hedda didn’t reply. Instead, she scrambled to her feet, brushed off the snow and held out her hand to Laura.
‘Come on – let’s go and chop down that tree before the forest ranger wakes up!’
They clambered back onto the footbridge and set off towards the castle. Laura took the lead, and Hedda followed on behind with the sled. The hoarse, agitated cawing of the crows grew louder as they approached an ancient oak tree growing on solid ground. They could see black, flapping wings among the branches; the birds were so busy they barely registered the presence of strangers.
Then, as if from nowhere, came a stench that took Laura’s breath away. Paraffin, singed hair, burned meat.
‘Laura,’ Hedda said warningly, but it was too late. She’d already looked up.
A body was hanging by a noose on a branch. Laura gasped, saw a triangular, blue-black head with the tongue hanging out. A torso, white ribs, the remains of charred black wool.
One of the crows was perched on top of the sheep’s head, repeatedly driving its sharp beak into the empty eye socket. It pulled out something grey and wobbly, which it swallowed with a jerky movement.
In spite of the cold, the smell seemed to be getting stronger with every second. Laura’s stomach contracted. She forced herself to look away and staggered over to the nearest tree trunk. She stumbled, landed on her knees and just managed to avoid throwing up over her jacket.
‘Not again,’ she heard Hedda murmur. ‘Not another one . . .’
18
Dusk has begun to fall and the exterior light comes on just as she parks outside Hedda’s house. The crows welcome her with their usual warning cries.
George bursts out of the cat flap as if she recognises Laura’s footsteps. She winds herself around Laura’s legs with such enthusiasm that Laura trips and kicks the empty cat food tins by the door. One, two, three, four – two more than yesterday.
She looks over at the forest, but it’s already dark among the trees.
‘Hello? Anyone there?’
Nothing. She stands, listening for a minute or so, but all she can hear is the wind, soughing in the treetops.
She opens the door, goes inside and locks it behind her. In spite of the fact that she’s ready for the chaos, the sense of revulsion is almost as strong as before. She picks her way between the furniture and the piles of crap, flicking on every light switch she can find.
The thermometer is on the kitchen windowsill, next to the binoculars and the china figurines, exactly where she saw it on her previous visit. It is showing nineteen degrees, which means it’s working. At one end there is a float with a plastic loop, so that you can secure the thermometer with a piece of string to stop it drifting away.
So why is the thermometer in here, instead of tied to the ladder off the pontoon as it’s always been, summer and winter? There is a rational explanation. Maybe Hedda had lost interest in the temperature of the water? It’s not difficult to check. Laura picks her way to the woodburning stove in one corner of the living room. The bookcase beside it is crammed with books covered in dust, cobwebs and dead flies. The bottom shelf contains green- or blue-backed notebooks. There must be well over forty.
More fun than a diary. And it’s become a bit of an obsession.
Laura takes out the book on the far left. It is less dusty than the rest, which means it ought to be this year’s.
The pages are ruled into columns, just as she remembers. Date, time, who swam, air temperature, water temperature.
1 January 2017 19.32, Hedda, air 0 degrees, water +2 degrees, says the first entry. It is followed by a second, almost identical.
2 January 2017 19.26, Hedda, air -1 degree, water +2 degrees.
Laura turns the pages. Hedda swims virtually every evening. The date changes, the temperature of the air and water slowly rises. The only column that remains the same, as the days become weeks and months, is the one containing the name. Hedda swims alone, evening after evening, but she still feels compelled to note that fact in the same meticulous way as the other data.
There is something manic and sad about the whole thing, a record of a lonely person’s life.
She continues to turn the pages. The only real break comes in late September. It lasts for almost three weeks, which surprises Laura until she realises that must have been when Hedda was in hospital following her second heart attack. Towards the middle of October, she’s back, defying her doctor’s orders and continuing to subject her heart to high and low temperatures, which she records in the book with the same meticulousness as before.
And then on 12 November, exactly one week before her death, the notes stop. There are two possible explanations for this. The first and most straightforward is that Hedda simply grew tired of making notes about her daily swim. Without warning, she broke off a routine she’d maintained for at least forty years.
The second explanation, and the one that Laura is convinced is correct, is that Hedda took the thermometer out of the water for some reason and decided to stop swimming in the winter. But why?
If the heart attack in September didn’t persuade her to listen to her doctor, then what did?