The Shadow Bird

by Ann Gosslin

  ‘Great, Timothy.’ She relaxed a little. ‘You’re a master at this.’

  In his right hand, he clutched a wad of paper.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

  ‘Sudoku.’ It came out as a croak.

  ‘You tore pages out of your book?’

  ‘No books allowed. No pencil. I can have three pages.’

  She stepped away and sketched two more magic triangles on the wall. Tim completed them as effortlessly as breathing. Now she was stuck. Off the top of her head, she couldn’t think of another one.

  ‘Shall we try a different game? This one uses words instead of numbers. But before we start, I want you to close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Like this.’ She placed her hands on her belly and breathed in and out.

  Tim copied her, hands on his abdomen, and sucked air noisily into his lungs. His breathing was laboured and slow.

  ‘Okay, here’s how the new game works,’ she said. ‘I’ll say a word, and then you say the first word that comes into your head. Ready?’

  Tim pressed his back against the wall and slid to the floor. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘That’s okay, it won’t take long. When we’re finished, it’ll be easier for you to sleep. Ready? Sky.’

  Silence. The only sound was the gurgle of water through the pipes in the ceiling.

  He breathed out. ‘Clouds.’

  ‘That’s great, Timothy. Let’s try another one. Ocean.’ ‘Cold.’

  ‘Eagle.’

  ‘Free.’ He loosened the grip on his knees.

  ‘Rainbow.’

  ‘Parrot.’ He lay on his side and closed his eyes. ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘I’ll let you rest, then,’ she said, backing towards the door. ‘Later, when you’re feeling better, I’ll come back and we can do some other games.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘I can stay a little longer, if you’d like.’

  His eyes were half closed, his breathing ragged.

  ‘I don’t want to go back to my room,’ he said, his voice thick with fatigue. ‘Not if that man is there.’

  ‘You mean the attendant who turned your light off?’

  ‘No. That man on my bed. He had a mean face. I yelled at him. But he wouldn’t go away.’

  A man on Tim’s bed? Harrison hadn’t mentioned anything like this. Was he delusional, hallucinating? Or was it something else? She was afraid to move and break the spell.

  ‘What did the man look like?’

  Tim peered at her from under the fringe of hair, his eyes in shadow. ‘Like me. Exactly the same.’

  *

  During the long drive back to Lansford, Erin mused about this latest development, Tim’s mysterious hallucination about a man who resembled him, lying on his bed. Like a doppelgänger. A malevolent twin conjured up by a delusional brain, though it could be something neurological, like temporal lobe epilepsy – in medical school, she’d once read about a similar case. Or it could be a Fregoli delusion, that oddest of neurological quirks in which the affected individual believes that everyone they meet is the same person in disguise. But Tim’s medical history made no mention of visual hallucinations, only auditory ones: voices, ringing bells, whispers. The formal assessment she’d signed on to, and should have taken two weeks at most, had mutated into an endless labyrinth, full of false turns and dead ends.

  By the time she reached the turn-off to Lansford, she was no wiser as to her next move. If Tim missed his court date, it could be another year before a new one was scheduled. Neither of them had time for that kind of delay.

  The road to Lansford High School was coming up on her right. On impulse, she turned onto it and drove through a neighbourhood of modest brick homes with pickup trucks or rusty vans parked in the drives. She’d scoped out the high school twice before, without any luck, hoping to catch a glimpse of Cassie. Almost four o’clock, and school would be out for the day. But it wouldn’t hurt to swing by.

  As a precaution, Erin pushed her hair under a cap and hunched down in the driver’s seat. A pity she didn’t have a pair of binoculars, though that would peg her as a stalker, and she was already crossing the line.

  On the school’s front steps, a few students larked about in the spring sunshine. But nobody who looked like Cassie. As she reached for the ignition, a girl with short dark hair and Cassie’s slender frame waltzed through the door, her arm draped over a boy in a leather jacket. She stopped and nuzzled the boy’s neck, playfully pushing her knee between his legs.

  As Erin started the engine, the girl turned her head in her direction. Cassie, no question about it. She glared at Erin for several seconds, her posture rigid, a sullen look on her face, before whispering something in the boy’s ear. He smirked and wrapped her in a bear hug. Behind his back, Cassie shoved her middle finger high in the air, before stepping away, hands balled into fists. ‘Stop stalking me.’ She fixed her eyes on Erin, her face tight with fury. ‘Or I’ll call the police.’

  24

  Belle River, Maine

  July 1977

  He stumbles on the rocks above the beach, nearly dropping the crate of lobsters. A leaden sea sloshes in the fading light. It’s taken him twenty minutes of slogging through the woods to reach his father’s so-called secret cove. The town beach isn’t good enough for one of his famous parties. Ruined by out-of-towners with their fat wives and smelly egg salad and tinny radios. Or so he claims.

  The rock-strewn spit of sand is a far cry from the yacht club, but even here the old devil manages to hold court. Master of ceremonies in his mirror sunglasses and a sky-blue polo shirt with the neck unbuttoned. Green and yellow checked shorts ride up over his father’s sunburned knees as he kneels to dig a bottle of Lowenbrau from a plastic cooler. His white teeth flash as he salutes his guests, though the smile sours when he catches sight of Tim. There’ll be hell to pay later, though who knows what he’s done this time. It’s always something. But he’s safe for now. The self-proclaimed wizard of the cocktail hour won’t let anything spoil his party.

  As he trudges down the sand with the poor beasts struggling to escape the crate, the guests’ faces swim into view. The yacht club crowd. Summer people, mainly, though he recognises one of the fat-cat lawyers from the Portland office. The blonde lady with the frosty smile and tinkly laugh is making a ‘poor you’ face at his mother, who’s developed an ugly rash from something she ate. Swanning across the sand, the blonde lady flashes her long legs in an orange and white mini-dress. Next to her, his mother looks dumpy and glum. The jingle-bell titter grates on his nerves. Give it up, lady. No one wants to see your wrinkly knees.

  ‘The prodigal son, here at last.’ His father’s voice rises above the water slapping against the rocks. He smiles for his guests, but the words are tipped with ice.

  He’s late. Before picking up the lobsters, he’d stopped by Jeremy’s for a couple of hits off his friend’s bong. His eyes, a tad bloodshot, might give him away, but he doesn’t care. All summer, his father’s been treating him like his own personal slave, and he’s sick of it.

  ‘Ooh, lobsters. How marvellous,’ the blonde woman says in a fluty voice. ‘You clever man.’ She tilts her chin and taps his father playfully on the arm. ‘You’d think there wouldn’t be a single lobster left in the state after last week’s regatta. And what a triumph that was.’ She bats her mascaraed eyes. ‘People will be talking about it for years.’

  ‘I happen to have a top-secret source,’ his father says, clinking his bottle of beer against the woman’s cocktail glass. They giggle like teenagers.

  Perched on a piece of driftwood, his mother squirts a blob of white cream from a tube and smears it on her arms.

  He picks his way down the rocks, hugging the crate to his chest. Poor beasts, scrabbling in their cardboard prison. Do they know that death is imminent? When school starts, he’s going to swear off meat and let his hair grow out. That’ll piss off the old man. You’d think he’d invented filet mignon and prime rib, the way he goes on
about the benefits of a bloody steak. Washed down, of course, with liberal amounts of Scotch or gin. From now on, he’ll stick to carrots.

  Near the fire pit, he drops the crate and tries to rub some life back into his arms. From the other side of the headland, a boy his age clambers into view, clutching a basket of seaweed against his bare chest. Crap. It’s the skinny kid who hangs around with that Viking asshole. What’s he doing here?

  His father salutes the kid with a bottle of Lowenbrau. ‘There’s the man of the hour.’ A grin splits his face. ‘Without this marvellous harvest of seaweed, ladies and gentleman, there would be no steamed lobsters. So, let’s all give Louie a round of applause.’

  As the boy lowers the basket to the ground, he’s got a stupid grin on his face, as he basks in the light of the old man’s praise.

  Tim snorts in disgust. Does his father know that his skinny-assed hero is the biggest hophead at school?

  With plenty of backslapping, and joking around, the kid and his father set to work lining the fire pit with seaweed. As the coals spit and smoke, the rich smell of the seabed, with its fish bones and scuttling claws, billows in the air. At long last, the lobsters are ceremoniously lowered to their deaths, antennae waving in a final plea for mercy.

  His father slips a wad of folded notes into the boy’s hand and slaps him on the back once more.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Stern.’

  The Boy Scout grin is bogus. Christ. If his father only knew. ‘Don’t mention it. And, hey, why don’t you stick around?

  There’s plenty of grub. No need to rush off if you don’t have to.’ He slings his arm around the boy’s shoulder.

  Tim spits on the sand in disgust, but the sour taste in his mouth remains. He turns and heads up the beach to retrieve his bike.

  ‘Look at that sunset.’

  It’s the blonde lady, waltzing across the sand. She places a hand on his father’s shoulder as she leans over to adjust the strap on her sandal.

  ‘A photo, that’s what we need.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘To commemorate a stupendous evening, and this glorious gathering of friends.’

  Tim has grabbed the handlebars of his ten-speed and is just about to hop on when his father shouts, ‘Hey, get back down here. I need you to take a picture.’

  When he turns and squints, the sun is a huge ball, suspended above the horizon.

  ‘Come on, hop to it, or the light will go.’

  He considers telling his dad to take a hike, but that’ll make things worse. Like a whipped dog, he scrambles down the rocks, scraping his hand on a patch of barnacles.

  Without looking at him, his father hands over the Instamatic.

  ‘Come on, fellow revellers. This one’s for the history books.’

  But two of the couples have wandered to the far side of the cove, taking their drinks with them. So, it’s just the blonde lady and her husband who get hustled in front of the fire pit. His father positions himself between them. ‘Dorrie, come on, get in the picture.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Not with this.’ She points to the rash on her arms and chest.

  ‘No one will care.’ His face is flushed, and his eyes snap with impatience. He waits for his wife to join the group, though she keeps to the edge, standing as far from the blonde lady as she can get.

  He turns to Tim, his face dark with sunburn. ‘Come on, come on! Take the picture. And make sure you get the sunset. Okay, gang, this is for posterity. Say cheese.’

  Tim lifts the camera and squints through the viewfinder. The sun is going fast. If he doesn’t move quickly, it’ll be too late. One more thing he’ll have screwed up. But the skinny kid’s in the frame, crouching down to look at something on the sand. Move, jerk. But if he waits any longer, the sun will be gone. The four adults, burnished by sun and loopy with drink, flash their teeth.

  His hand twitches, and he presses the shutter.

  25

  Norfolk, Rhode Island

  April, Present Day

  A woman with a halo of soft white hair peered through the gap in the doorway. Her skin was deeply lined, but her eyes, the colour of toffee, held a familiar spark. It was the warmth of her smile Erin remembered. Not to mention Ruth Davis’ canny ability to take your measure at a glance, before plucking a book from the library shelves to suit the mood.

  She looked searchingly at Erin’s face before ushering her into the tidy flat. A large bay window, crowded with airy ferns and pink cyclamen, looked out onto a vast tract of marshland. The far wall was lined with books.

  ‘Thank you for taking the time to see me,’ Erin said, setting her bag on the floor. ‘You’ve got a lovely place here.’

  ‘Please make yourself at home.’ She motioned to a plush green armchair before heading into the kitchen. ‘And do call me Ruth. Otherwise,’ she smiled, ‘I’ll feel like an old lady.’ Within minutes, she returned with a tea tray. ‘Does it expose my ignorance to assume the English prefer tea? Years ago, a dear friend from Devon taught me how to make a proper pot of black tea, and I’ve been a devoted tea drinker ever since. I’ve got coffee, if you’d prefer, but afternoon tea is so much more civilised, don’t you think?’ She poured out the tea in delicate china cups with a spray of violets painted on the rim.

  Erin added milk and took a sip. Perfectly brewed. ‘Proust would approve.’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Marcel.’ Ruth’s eyes twinkled.

  The enticing citrus odour of the freshly baked lemon cake was irresistible, and Erin helped herself to a slice.

  ‘So, you’re a journalist then, or a writer doing a story on Belle River?’ Ruth regarded her over the rim of her cup. ‘I didn’t quite catch what you said on the phone.’

  Erin squirmed at having to lie to the woman who’d once saved her sanity, if not her life, when the Belle River library provided an island of calm in a sea of chaos. The memory of the much-thumbed pages of Anne of Green Gables and Little Women still lived in her fingertips. Even now, she had only to close her eyes to project herself into the March family’s cosy parlour, a twin to the feisty Jo, and cast an adoring eye on Marmee. On many a gloomy day, she hungered still for that fictional family’s love and the warmth of the firelight.

  ‘Actually, I’m a doctor,’ Erin said. ‘A psychiatrist.’ This time, the lies wouldn’t come. Some cake crumbs had lodged in her throat and she coughed. ‘I work at a private clinic for girls in upstate New York.’

  ‘How rewarding,’ Ruth said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. ‘Helping young girls in need.’

  Their eyes met briefly over the teacups before Erin looked away. If she wasn’t careful, she would dissolve into floods of tears.

  Ruth murmured something and crossed the room to open the balcony doors. A lively breeze carried the scent of the salt flats into the room.

  ‘As a side project, I’ve been working on a series of case studies,’ Erin said, when Ruth returned to her chair. ‘One concerns a former student of yours, and I was hoping you could help me fill in some gaps in his background.’ She returned the teacup to its saucer and straightened up. ‘His name is Tim Stern.’

  Ruth’s face grew pale. ‘Oh my.’ She fiddled with the emerald ring on her left hand. ‘Tim Stern,’ she murmured. ‘That poor family. It was a terrible shock when we heard what happened. The tail end of the summer vacation, it was, and Don Hickey, he was the principal at the high school, called all the teachers at home to give us the news.’

  Only after Erin started to dig into the details of Tim’s case, did she remember that Mrs Davis, in addition to her role as town librarian during the summer, had taught English at Belle River High School.

  ‘Shall we go for a stroll?’ Ruth’s eyes looked troubled. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’

  *

  A flock of terns swooped and squabbled at the water’s edge. The air, wonderfully fresh and alive, carried the sharp, briny scent of the sea. After guiding Erin through the bracken, Ruth led her onto a well-trodden path that wound through the marshland.

  ‘Brisk today, isn�
��t it?’ Ruth said as she fastened the buttons on her coat. ‘Not cold, are you?’

  Erin shook her head.

  They walked in silence for several minutes before Ruth cleared her throat. ‘So, Tim is one of your… case studies, is that it?’

  Admitting the truth would be a breach of ethics, but she didn’t have the stomach to lie any more than she already had. Posing as a born-and-bred Londoner to colleagues and strangers, and relating stories about growing up in Britain, was one thing, but Ruth had always loomed large in her imagination, to the point where Erin had fantasised as a child about what it would be like to have Ruth as her mother. Yet here she was, prepared to relay another outrageous falsehood. Ethics be damned.

  ‘Actually, I’ve been asked to provide an assessment of his case,’ Erin said, tucking her windblown hair into the collar of her coat. ‘It’s standard procedure for psychiatric patients in the criminal justice system who are eligible for release.’

  Beside her, Ruth bent her head into the wind. ‘You mean he’s been in a mental asylum all these years?’

  On the far side of the salt flats, a fleet of sailboats, white canvas billowing in the wind, tacked through the channel.

  ‘I’ve completed most of the formal assessments,’ Erin said, ‘but I wanted to speak with someone who knew Tim as a child. Before the crime.’

  Ruth adjusted the scarf around her neck. ‘It was a terrible shock, of course.’ She briefly met Erin’s eyes. ‘Tim was a quiet boy. Rather awkward. The kind of person you couldn’t imagine hurting a fly. He rarely spoke in class and when he did he would sometimes stutter from anxiety, what with everyone staring at him. He wasn’t a particularly good student, at least not in my English Literature class. Rather than take notes, he used to doodle in the margins of his paper. Once, I remember catching sight of a list he’d made of the collective nouns for different types of birds. A quarrel of sparrows, a conspiracy of ravens, that sort of thing. But I heard he was good at maths, and something of a talented artist. One time, I passed his desk and looked down to see he’d made an absolutely exquisite sketch of a great blue heron. So lifelike, I felt it might fly off the page. Since he was supposed to be taking an exam, I couldn’t exactly praise him for his work, but it was truly lovely.’