‘I get that, Brian,’ I say. ‘But I still have a lot of questions.’
‘I know.’ He reaches his hand to my arm and squeezes it gently. His voice is higher now, and quieter, and I feel a sense of calm. He understands. He will take care of us. It will be fine.
‘And thank you for your patience, and your honesty,’ he continues. ‘You’re coping well, with all this change. Much better than I would, in your place, I think. Madeline, I really want this to be successful. It’s important. The two of ye are important. When I married your mother, I kind of married both of ye as well …’ He exhales heavily. ‘… That sounds creepy, doesn’t it?’
I crack a smile. ‘Yeah. I kind of know what you mean though, Brian. And I appreciate it.’
He looks at me. ‘I told Sheila if you need to put salt under our bed to feel like you’re at home here, that’s fine by me. But she’ll do what she thinks is best. She’s a good mother.’
‘She is,’ I say. ‘And you’re a good stepfather.’
‘I’m not sure that that’s true. But I am trying.’ He looks calmer now that he’s said his piece. He pours another cup.
‘I’ll take this with me. Fecking Tokyo.’ He shuffles off upstairs. I didn’t hear the phone ring. Maybe he just wanted the conversation to be over. The kitchen’s cooler now that he is gone, I realise.
The stars are out, but technically it’s morning. How desperate would a person have to be to kill a fox, I wonder. What were they after? I wish there was a way to just make people tell me straight out what I want to know. It will be hard for Brian, to tell Mam whatever else there is. She hates my salt, and my salt isn’t a weird pagan murder village or a terrifying dead father.
I drain my cup and switch on the immersion for a shower.
I need to clear my head, still muggy from the dream and kitchen heat.
It’s all too much, and somehow not enough.
26
Ginger
Catlin sits in the kitchen with a mug of tea. She isn’t drinking, just staring blankly into it. Her eyes are empty, the shadows underneath bruise-dark. They look like someone’s gouged them on her face with clumsy thumbs. My heart hurts looking.
‘Catlin?’ I ask.
‘What?’ she says.
‘Are you OK?’
Her face is confused. ‘No.’ She grabs her cup and holds it to her chest. She leaves the room, and I am all alone. I look up at the shining copper pots, the heavy rafters. You could hang a thing from one of those. Strings of onions or garlic, or a body. I shake my head. It’s filling up with something I don’t like.
I think of Catlin’s face, before we moved here. It was the same as mine, but brighter. Better. And now, she’s weak as well. When you move plants, sometimes they fail to thrive in their new soil. They wilt and flop, leaves dry out. Bits fall off, no fresh growth. It’s hard to watch.
I put my hands hard against my eyes and press them deep towards my brain, my skull. There is a tension welling in my head. I feel it humming like a coming swarm.
The entrance to Mamó’s house in front of me. The hard door cold on my knuckles. Three harsh times I knock. The door clicks open.
‘Madeline. Hello.’
‘I’ve come about your offer …’ I tell her. ‘I want to …’
She looks at me. I’m not wearing a jacket. It is cold.
‘Come and help me in the garden,’ she says. ‘First we’ll work and then we’ll have a talk.’
She goes out the back door to the physic garden. It’s bigger than the courtyard one. None of the herbs are labelled.
‘What’s this?’ she asks.
‘Sage?’ I venture.
‘And what’s sage for?’
I scan my brain.
‘Look at it,’ she snaps. ‘Touch it. Smell it.’
I take the sprig, give a sniff and try my best to remember what I know.
‘Um … For guidance?’ Maybe I should have said for when you’re worried your sister is in love with the wrong man. Brought it up organically, like a smooth detective.
‘Depends on the kind of sage. This one here is green. And this –’ she gestures to another plant – ‘is marshmallow. Wild garlic. Lady’s finger. Honeysuckle. Mint.’
‘We’re here for mint,’ I tell her.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I feel it.’
She says nothing, but she steps aside. I pluck eighteen separate mint leaves. Stack them one on top of the other. Roll them into a cylinder. The moon is bright. She hands me a little jar. Her dress is neat and brown and she is wearing Birkenstocks with socks. Her hair is loose. Normally she wears it braided back. It hangs down to her shoulders and it suits her. She glares at me. I twist the jar tight shut and hand it back.
She’s after me. She wants to be my boss. It is a weird dynamic, being headhunted for witchcraft by an in-law.
‘Caw,’ I hear, and turn. The raven on a branch beside her. Mamó takes a slab of juicy-looking meat out of her pocket, feeds it to him. He eats it and she murmurs things along. He’s very big. His beak is thick and cruel. This is too much witch for me. I snort. He flaps. She glares.
‘Wait in there.’ She gestures to her house.
‘What, so you can discuss things with a blackbird?’ Nervousness is making me prickly, I can feel resentment building up. Why am I here? Why do I have to do this? Why the raven?
‘Baaaaaaab is no blackbird.’
‘It’s pronounced Bob. Ugh,’ I snap.
She glares at me, I stomp towards the flat. A raven always wants to eat a carcass, and they’ll eat any carcass. Owl or fox or goat. Even human. I think of his stern beak. The downturned opening. They eat our dead.
The eyes from little lambs.
This is her pet?
Or her familiar.
The creaking rasp behind me meets Mamó’s voice. There is a music to it. I push the door. It opens slowly, like there is a force that’s pushing back. Is that a spell as well? I wonder. It’s cold inside. I poke the fire.
Beaks on carrion. Claws that grasp until the flesh gives way. The beak was black and pink inside. A little tongue. It had a little tongue. I cannot handle this. I want my life right back the way it was. I want my sister safe. My world arranged.
Mamó’s voice breaks the silence. ‘So. You’ve thought about my offer?’
‘Yes. At length.’ I swallow.
‘And what have you decided?’ Her voice is even.
God, I hate this. I’m terrified that whatever I say will be the wrong thing. That I’ll regret deciding either way. I think of her finger, pointing me back to the house. I think of Brian and his little chat. I think of Mam, quietly removing salt from floors. Knowing what I did and saying nothing. She hates the bit of me that Mamó wants.
She wants an answer. I don’t have an answer.
This place is like a tick upon a dog. It’s sucking all the certainty from me.
‘I want to know some more about Lon,’ I say.
‘What does that little rip have to do with this?’ she asks me, her voice harsh.
A little rip, I think. A tear in something. The writing I saw before, on the wall.
‘Is he dangerous?’ I ask. ‘I had this dream …’
‘What did it feel like?’ Her face is very sharp, her eyes pierce through me.
‘Warm and muggy, kind of like …’
‘Like what?’
Like I would do anything that he asked of me. That I would have to, unless I fought myself.