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‘You wrote a story about something called aBogwort?’ Billie asks.
‘He’s not athing, he’s anold man!’ Fin shouts, bouncing even harder. ‘With green skin and silver hair—’
‘And purple prickles all over his back?’
‘That’s theGruffalo! Forbabies! Bogwort’s alotscarier! He’s got—’
‘A poisonous wart at the end of his nose?’
Fin splutters for breath through his hysterics. Billie chuckles, glancing around at him. ‘You’re such anink, Finny. But it sounds like a cool story.’
Finally, the boy recovers. ‘Nin–COM–POOP!’ he yells, riding even harder. ‘Woo-HOO!’
‘How?’ Lucy whispers. The air rolling out of the bedroom is tinged with Billie’s Jimmy Choo perfume. But there’s another smell too: ocean salt and rotting seaweed.
Her children ignore her, or perhaps they don’t hear her.
Lucy’s hand moves to her bare wrist. Yesterday, she fastened Billie’s silver bracelet around it. Did she take it off last night? Did it come loose as she slept? Snig, too, has disappeared. She remembers, vaguely, untying it.
‘Billie,’ she pleads. ‘Fin.’
In response, the boy leans forwards and slaps his sister’s shoulder.
‘Ow, Nink! Leave off!’
As Lucy watches, a stain spreads out across Billie’s towel. Fin’sThe Incrediblescostume goes from dry to soaked through. He stops laughing. The blood drains from his face. ‘I’m c–cold,’ he stammers. ‘Billie, what’s happening? Billie,please…’
But the girl can’t answer. Her eyes bulge. The arteries in her neck swell.
Then, an explosion of movement by the window – a herring gull landing on the frame. Lucy yells, diving into the room. With a cry, the gull flaps off. When she turns back to the bed, her children have disappeared.
She blinks, hears that other reality unzipping. The floor tilts and swings. When it rises up to meet her, the impact is stunning. Knees, chest, face. Her ribs feel like they’ve splintered into points. She tastes blood, hopes it’s not from her lungs.
Somehow, she gets to her knees. Using the bed, she pulls herself up. The duvet, soaked a few moments ago, is now completely dry.
The Mobiginion, she thinks. And moans, dismayed at her own unravelling.
From the bed she moves to the door, from the door to the top of the stairs. Gripping the rail, she stumbles down the flight. Something has changed, but she doesn’t know what. Herring gulls at the windows, another one circling – a warning of death soon to come.
It’s a daft superstition. Just another story humans create to explain the world. Like God, like angels, like the Devil. All of it a sham – all of it a distraction from what’s real.
Lucy reaches the bottom of the stairs. In the living room, she goes to the window. Overnight, a ghost mist has crept in from the sea. Down in Skentel, the buildings are pale shapes shrouded in white. The ramp of the RNLI boathouse descends into drifting smoke.
North of Mortis Point, Penleith Beach is similarly robed, but its flat expanse of sand isn’t deserted. A few yards from where the surf is breaking, a collection of dark shapes have gathered. Lucy steps closer to the glass. Impossible to draw meaning from those half-glimpsed forms. Her stomach tightens as she watches them.
Snatching up her binoculars, she trains them on the beach. Deep inside that milky soup, part of the scene resolves. She sees a trio of grey figures clustered around a fourth.
Lucy’s lungs empty. Her binoculars thump to the floor.
Out of the living room. Into the kitchen. Through the back door and along the house to the front drive. On to the Triumph, kick down the starter.
Rear tyre spitting shingle, she peels off the drive.
3
Wet road. Dead leaves. No grip. Lucy accelerates through the gears, wind scouring tears from her eyes. From the peninsula she pulls on to the coastal road with barely a glance for passing traffic.
Faster now. Wider tarmac, less debris. Lucy leans into the bends, pushing the bike harder. In her head, the slap of herring-gull wings, the tapping of beaks against glass.