On the pillow, a scrap, bloody strings, half a wing, wet feathers, a beak. A dead chick. I swallow my cry of surprise and fetch tissue paper, take the bird down and put it in the compost bin. Milky at my heels, I retrace my steps.
I spend the night fitfully, frightened to sleep, the cat at my feet. Questions wheeling through my mind: Did she die quickly? Did she suffer? Did she call out, did she speak? What were her last words? Blunt force trauma. How many times did he strike her? What with? Was he counting? Did he kick her? Did he rape her? Why kill her, my Lizzie? Why?
When I do let go, my dreams are dark and steeped in blood, my arms full of dead things that I cannot wake.
17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX
Early Monday morning, there is a nanosecond of innocent ignorance as I come to and find myself in the spare bed. And then the fist of reality hits like a lump hammer. Shock spikes through me, an electric surge bringing with it an overwhelming feeling that I’ve done something very, very wrong. Akin to guilt or shame, the emotion sits cold and heavy in the pit of my stomach. Not logical but visceral, and I don’t even attempt to analyse it.
No one else is up; it is six o’clock. Outside it is raining, a misty drizzle, and the light is violet grey.
Out of habit, I pour a bowl of muesli and add milk. The first mouthful brings nausea as violent as morning sickness. Mourning sickness? A band of heat around my head, saliva thick in my throat, a spasm rippling up from my stomach.
Restless, feeling confined, I leave a note and go out for a walk. The earliest commuters are about, walking briskly to the train station, or driving past me, sole occupants in their cars. None of the pedestrians speak to me. I keep my eyes averted just in case; we are prone to nods and smiles when we pass each other up here, so this signals that I am not available. I am invisible. A dishevelled grandmother in a sensible waterproof and muddy shoes. Thankfully, I don’t meet anyone who recognizes me.
It’s as if I’m experiencing everything through a filter, and the rain blurs the world even further. I wander up to the park, ignoring the joggers and the dog-walkers and their animals. In the gloom of the day, a Japanese maple glows luminous red. Reaching the orchard area, I see apples on the trees. Could I eat an apple?
There was a library project we hosted this time last year with the local Sure Start. The children came here and picked apples and then returned to the library for a puppet show about healthy eating and got to polish off their harvest, suitably washed and cored. The trees are labelled. I spot the Cox’s orange pippins, my favourite, and twist a small one from the branch, rub the fruit on my jacket and take a bite. It is tart and crisp and stings my taste buds. My eyes water. All those myths, apples that bring evil. Snow White choking, Eve and the snake. I won’t be tempting fate. The serpent has already come for me.
