The Crows

5:2 [Something in the Attic]

By ten past eight, Carrie's life had taken another downward twist, but now the calming crash of the rising tide breaking over the beach made Carrie forget she'd spent the past hour in tears. SupaPrice had called to say they were sorry, the rota had changed at short-notice and they wouldn't need her for the next two days after all, could she stick to weekends this month. Maybe the manager had finally got the Don't-Hire-The-Crows-Woman memo.

Carrie's calculations, based on her initial number of shifts, were sliced in half. She now couldn't afford the electricity and gas bill. She couldn't face calling either of her parents – it wasn't fair, they weren't exactly well off, her dad would only worry himself sleepless and hypochondriac and her mother would be more triumphant than sympathetic. Something might come up in the meantime.

She burrowed into her trusty grey Bruce Springsteen hoody, head down against the brisk wind, the long walk working its calming magic.

Mercy came jogging over the smooth pebbles, slim figure bulked up with wellington boots and a parka jacket, hair covered by a snug, pink crocheted hat. She was followed by an eager Golden Retriever. "Hey! Carrie!"

Carrie waved, squinting as the wind lashed her hair across her eyes. "Hi! Who's your friend?"

Mercy grinned, stretching. "This is Branston."

Branston nosed Carrie's pockets, tail thumping against Mercy's straight-cut jeans.

"Branston!" Mercy grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him back, but he battled her to thrust his muzzle in Carrie's midriff.

Carrie grinned, hunkering down to his level to make a fuss of him. "I don't mind," she said, scratching his head and fondling him behind the ears. "He's a lovely dog!"

"He's a daft old thing." Mercy thrust her hands into her coat to produce a sad looking tennis ball. "Branston! What've I got? What's mummy got? Look Branston! Ball! Who wants the ball? Who wants the ball?"

The dog bounded back and forth in front of her, salivating with joy. His gleeful bark carried along the strand as Mercy threw the tennis ball as hard as she could. He shot off like a golden bullet.

"Look, um. I don't know if they've already called you, but... I'm glad I bumped into you. How random is this!" She gave an embarrassed laugh, caught off guard. "First, I didn't do the rota this month. That was Pauline." Mercy winced. "I'm really sorry, Carrie, but..."

"You've cut my hours," Carrie finished for her. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Look, people call in sick or don't show up a lot," Mercy said, frowning. "When they do, I'll text you first. I don't understand why they've done it, to be honest. We really need an extra person in the week."

Carrie nodded, biting the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to cry. She looked out at the sea, the grey breakers lapping at the shingle.

"Have you walked all this way?" Mercy asked, looking up at the cliffs behind them.

Carrie nodded.

Mercy gestured to the grey, unpredictable waters. "We always come out for a walk along here. Branston loves it. How's it going? Did you go to the History Society meeting?"

Carrie watched the dog running off after some interesting scent, the coveted ball firmly gripped between his teeth. "Yeah, they were very unhelpful. No one wants to tell me anything." She paused. "I forgot to say... Mrs Wend invited me to Wundorwick for tea and, um. I went along yesterday. And it was... weird." She chanced a glance at Mercy's face. Her elfin features were frozen in a pale, wide-eyed stare. "I didn't want to be rude and turn her down," Carrie added, trying to smooth over the fact that she had ignored Mercy's well-intentioned advice.

"No, no of course not." Mercy frowned. "No, that was the, the right thing to do, I guess. Did you... eat or drink anything?"

"What's that about?" Carrie asked, folding her arms. "That's... Mrs Azeman the secretary, she said exactly the same thing. 'Don't drink the tea'. Why?"

Mercy pressed her lips together.

"Mercy, come on. What is it?"

"People... go strange." She winced. "Gosh, that sounds mad when you say it out loud. People get attached to her." She watched her dog bounding happily in the shallows, chasing waves. "She's got this little group of people who follow her around and treat her like a queen. They start off normal, and she invites them over, and then they start... acting out of character. I can't explain it. They'll do anything for her, it's weird, it's little things, I've seen people give up their places in line at the shops, if she needs something they're all falling over each other to help her out, it's... it's creepy. I can't explain it. I'm talking about people who used to hate her. They go for tea and a chat or they... eat some of that gingerbread she makes for bake sales and things, and then... total change. Total three-sixty."

Carrie assumed she meant one-eighty but didn't correct her. She raised her eyebrows. "Well, I'm not rushing to go back there or help her out. Just let me know if I start acting out of character."

Mercy brushed strands of hair from her eyes as the breeze picked up, buffeting them. "Yeah, 'course. Have to get to know you a bit better first, though." She grinned. "Hey, if you want, you can come over ours on Monday? I've got the day off next week."

"Or you can come over mine?" Carrie balked at the idea of spending an evening away from The Crows. The evening was her favourite time, where she could curl up and savour the peace of the place. "We could watch a film or something."

Mercy nodded. "Sounds good. I'd love to see the house. I could bring Tina, too? She's just split up with her partner, so she's really down at the moment. We could have a girl's night."

Carrie wondered if this was the same Tina that Mrs Wend had mentioned. "You know what, that sounds lovely." It didn't. It sounded like something she ought to do, and the eel-slither of panic at the idea of guests slipped into her chest. Carrie took a deep lungful of sea air and wet dog, steeling herself.

"Fab." Mercy whistled and Branston tore back over the sand with happy, easy bounds. "We're off! Come on, my little pickle! Let's go home! Do you want a lift back, Carrie? I've got the car."

Branston woofed at her, tail thumping.

"Nah. I'd like to keep walking for a bit. Thanks, though."

"You sure? Okay. See you soon!"

"See you," Carrie said, as Mercy clipped Branston's lead back onto his collar.

Mercy trotted off, Branston loping beside her.

Carrie set off in the opposite direction feeling sick, chancing a glance up at the cliffs above. The bank of smothering cloud hung over the sea, flat and grey like a tin lid on top of the world. She thought she heard someone calling, but there was only a lone figure walking the path in silence.

As she looked up, the figure stopped, hands in their pockets and hidden by their quilted coat, watching her. Prickles washed along Carrie's back, lapping at her fight-or-flight response.

It wasn't the right build for Phil.

She thought she could hear a whistle on the edge of hearing, sounding shrill and faint from some distant, invisible source. The figure jerked into a crouch, reaching for her across the gulf with crooked gloved fingers like talons.

It was the pose of a pounce.