Magpie. Sophie Draper

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СКАЧАТЬ I see the horizontal lines of the five-bar gate, the darker shapes of the hedgerow in the fields, the uneven turf. Under all that grass, there are dips and hollows and holes dug out by rabbits and moles and foxes … I feel the touch of cool air on the back of my neck, almost as if I’m out there not inside. Then the fog lifts, uncertainly, like a grey sheet flapping in the wind. I can see through to the far slopes of the valley on the other side of the water. There are figures. Dark, black figures. People.

      I lean in. There are four of them, I think.

      Moments later, the fog sinks down again and I can’t see them anymore. Then the fog rolls back and now there are only two. I’m not sure if what I’m seeing are real people, wearing coats and hats and earphones, holding those stupid sticks. Or if they’re animals, cows or even sheep in the distance. It plays tricks on you, the fog, especially here in the valley, something about the light being distorted by the shadow of the hills. Or maybe I need a pair of glasses. I watch as the fog closes in again, thick and solid against the window, like the safety curtain on a stage. I can’t see them anymore. I can’t see a thing. I wait and watch and moments later, when the fog shifts and the view opens up, the men, or whatever I saw, are gone.

      A short while later, there’s the scrabble of a hand on the back door and the sound of Arthur’s wet paws clattering on the tiles. A cold draught gusts across the kitchen.

      ‘Mum?’

      It’s Joe. He’s back.

      ‘Mum – are you there? You won’t believe what I’ve found!’

       CHAPTER 14

       CLAIRE – BEFORE

      ‘Look, Mum! Did you ever see anything so beautiful?’

      I look at the tiny disc in his hand. It seems little more than a clump of dirt to me. But I can make out that it’s a coin. Albeit of the chewed, dull and damaged sort.

      The edges aren’t quite circular and the disc is slightly bent from its years under the ground. Perhaps it’s got crushed by farming equipment, or simply warped through the process of time. The metal is heavily tarnished, soil still clinging to the surface. Joe turns it over in his hand and there’s definitely some kind of pattern on each side. One is more obscured than the other, but the reverse has the clear shape of a head, crowned with a laurel wreath.

      ‘It needs cleaning,’ Joe says. ‘But wow! Look at it!’

      ‘That’s amazing, Joe. Very nice.’

      I’m not sure what else to say. Nice – what an awful word that is, but so convenient. I lean forwards, trying to show more interest.

      ‘Where did you find it?’ I ask.

      ‘In the bottom field. I’ve been working that rough ground beside the reservoir near the road. On my own. I’ve not told any of the other guys what I’m doing as it’s our land. They’re out there today, further up the valley, so I had to come in. I found this last night only a few inches down in the earth. I’ve not found a coin as old as this before!’

      His fingers hold the coin as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. He folds his fingers around it and I can’t see it anymore. He kicks off his shoes, leaving them abandoned on the floor. Then he reaches up into one of the cupboards, grabs a bowl with his free hand and exits the kitchen, climbing the stairs. I hear the usual bang of his bedroom door and then silence. No music, not this time.

      That coin, I guess, will keep him occupied for hours.

      I pick up the shoes, tucking them out of sight, and unlatch the power pack from the metal detector – Duncan will have a fit if he knows Joe has a second one. I take it up to Joe’s room and knock on the door. He doesn’t answer.

      I nudge open the door and it swings back on its hinge.

      ‘Joe?’

      He’s not there. The door to his en suite is closed. I hear the sound of the shower running on the other side. His bed is strewn with dirty clothes, and a week’s worth of socks and pants lie scattered on the floor. There are deconstructed bits of bike and a deflated inner bicycle tube curling like an abandoned snake skin on the carpet. His desk isn’t much better: littered with half-eaten crisp packets and an empty bottle of Coke. I hate that – I’ve had a running battle with him about fizzy drinks ever since he was old enough to spend his own pocket money.

      The bowl he took up is there on his bedside cabinet. My eyes flicker across to the coin that rests inside. I place the power pack on Joe’s bed, scoop up some dirty laundry and back out before Joe’s even aware that I’ve come in.

      He’s been in his room for hours. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. By lunchtime, I make a sandwich and climb the stairs again to knock on his door. Any excuse to see what he’s up to. I hear music, ambient high-tech, sci-fi kind of music. Duncan would approve.

      ‘Come in,’ calls Joe.

      He sounds tired but happy.

      ‘How’s it going?’ I ask, smiling.

      I perch on his bed. He’s sat at the desk. The bowl is there now with a shallow layer of sudsy water and a toothbrush balanced on the rim. He’s loaded his laptop and I can see he’s been searching pictures of different coins. They fill the screen with profiled Roman noses of various degrees of imperious pointedness.

      He swivels round on his seat. His hair is too long, hanging in loose black curls that any girl would die for. His face is pale and waxy from lack of sleep, but his eyes shine big and bright.

      ‘Come and see,’ he says.

      I stand up and walk across to his desk. I don’t normally get invited to look. The coin itself is lying on a flat pile of neatly folded toilet paper. Some of the dirt is gone – not all, but enough to see the pattern more clearly. I lean forwards, not really paying attention.

      ‘Oh, wow, Joe. That’s amazing. You’ve done a good job of cleaning it up.’

      Joe frowns.

      ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘but you have to be careful. Too much cleaning and it might get damaged. Still, it’s better than it was.’

      He gingerly picks up the coin and holds it end on between finger and thumb. Then lays it back down on the paper.

      ‘Take a closer look.’

      I peer over his shoulder, guilty at my own disinterest. He needs me to take more interest. I squeeze my eyes and give a little gasp.

      The figurehead is clearer. He looks Roman, or some version of that, with that wreath about his head. There’s the usual long, straight nose and a stylised beard with elaborate curls that match the individual leaves on the wreath. But there, where you’d expect an eye to be, is what looks like an arrowhead poking down through the man’s eye socket.

      I stare at it, silent.

      Eventually, I feel compelled to speak.

      ‘What is that?’ I say.

      My СКАЧАТЬ