The Crows

5:3 [Something in the Attic]

Carrie called her dad as soon as she got home, hoping he wouldn't hear the anxiety in her voice, and chatted about his medication and her stepmother's latest redecorating spree for half an hour.

"Are you really alright down there, love?" Her dad sounded concerned. "Your mum's been on the blower to me five times trying to get hold of you. She says you haven't called her for over a week."

"Yeah, I meant to, I've just been busy," Carrie admitted, hugging a sofa cushion into her chest. The sofa was too small for the living room, like all of her other furniture. It looked lost in the middle of the vast space, unopened packing boxes dotted about it like rocks around a tiny island. "I did email her, actually, but she probably hasn't read the message." Her mum was less techno-savvy than she liked to think she was. "I really miss you guys."

"We miss you too, sweetheart. We've all been so worried about you! Do you need me to come back and look at the plumbing again? Ann wants to know if you're eating properly. Why didn't you call? We could've covered your rent for a few months..."

"I don't want to worry you... and I don't want to keep asking for money, either. I just..." Carrie shifted position, flopping full-length on the cushions.

"Come off it love, it's not charity is it? And don't be spending more than you need to, calling up a plumber when I'm still fit to work..." Her dad started to cough.

"Dad! You still smoking?"

"C-ut down..." The reply was choked, but the coughs tailed off. Carrie heard her mother in the back of her mind – George Rickard, you stubborn old goat...

She shook her head, but before she could nag him about looking after himself, someone knocked on the front door. The hollow booms made Carrie start.

"Dad, stay on the line a sec? Someone's at the door."

"I don't like thinking of you in that big house all by yourself, Caro. That waster hasn't been bothering you again, has he?"

"He – he's rung once." Carrie rolled off the sofa and pushed herself to her feet, thinking about the stranger on the cliff. "I... I told him to get lost."

"Good for you. Listen, love, you call us, any time, and we'll be straight in the car. How far out are you from town?"

Carrie listened to her own footsteps echoing through the house as she crossed the hall. The grand staircase behind her responded with a creak, wood swelling in the afternoon sunlight.

"Takes about thirty minutes or so to walk..." It was a deliberate underestimate, but he was already worried.

"Let us give you some cash for a taxi, Caro. Or bus fare, or whatever. You can pay us back when you're on your feet again."

Carrie swallowed. "Hang on a sec, Dad."

She opened the door and Guy Bishop smiled at her, book in hand. "Hi."

"It's okay, Dad," Carrie said quickly into the phone, "Look, can I call you back in a minute? Someone's popped round, from the History Society, that's all."

"Oh – well, alright. Love you too sweetheart, speak to you later."

"Bye!" She hung up. "Hi!"

"So, um, I thought I'd pop over a bit earlier on the off-chance you'd be in," Guy said, looking coy. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."

Carrie shook her head. "That's okay. Thanks for this! Do you want a cup of tea or coffee or something?"

Guy beamed at her, his eyes bright and warm. "Great! If that's not any trouble."

"No trouble!" Carrie stepped away from the door, and Guy stepped over the threshold, book in hand.

"I was going to leave it in a bag on the porch for you," Guy said, handing the volume over. "If you weren't in... which you were, so that's good..."

There was a honey-coloured blend of blonde and auburn in the brown curls of his short beard, hair gelled darker into a deliberate messy ruffle, which Carrie hadn't noticed the other night. He had what her father called a 'book-lovers' tan', that is, the creamy shade of someone who spent most of their time indoors under a reading lamp. Phil had been the robust, quick-bronzing type who spent even mild spring days baring his chest to the world, but Guy looked as if his tailored shirt was a secondary skin. She was willing to bet if he rolled up his sleeves there would be an even paler line around his wrists.

He strolled around the entrance hall in a glazed state of wonder. "Oh wow. It's phenomenal. It's like I imagined it when I was a kid." He shook his head, craning his neck back to take in the restored beams of the ceiling. "I can't believe this."

Carrie beamed with pride. "It's taken a while, but these last two weeks everything's pulled together. I think the builders felt sorry for me." She hesitated. "Do you want to... have a tour...?"

Guy's rich hazel eyes were lit with enthusiasm, but the atmosphere in the house was becoming strangely oppressive. Carrie felt something heavy descend on them like a shroud.

He frowned, shaking his head as if something was in his ear. "I would love to, but – I have to go to the Home, see my dad. Another time?"

"Oh, yeah, sure! Just a coffee, then?"

But Guy was shifting his weight, glancing around with less enthusiasm than before. "You know what – I've got something I need to do, just remembered. Can we do this again?"

Carrie blinked, folding her arms to hide her disappointment. "Sure! Yeah, of course. Thanks again for the book."

"No problem!" He stepped out again onto the porch.

They stared at each other a fraction too long, then both looked away with shy smiles.

Guy blushed. "I could... show you around the town a bit? I know a great place by the pier. Have you seen the Historic Docks yet? If you'd like to get lunch, or a coffee, or something..." He looked hopeful.

The house creaked behind her.

"Maybe, yeah." There it was again - that long pause, the locked gaze held for too long...

Carrie's heart fluttered. "Maybe I could text you when I'm free?"

He got the hint and jumped on it. "Great. What's your number?" He pulled out his phone, prepared to type it in. Carrie reeled it off. He called it, then hung up. "That's mine. So. I'll see you soon, then. Enjoy the book."

Carrie nodded and he jogged down the steps. This was going far better than she had expected. She had almost forgotten the incident on the beach that morning, the sunny afternoon putting her at ease. It seemed like months, not hours, had passed since her mini-meltdown that morning.

As he turned to wave at her, he looked up at the porch, and his face paled. "My God... I'm so sorry about people in this bloody town."

Carrie frowned, puzzled. "What?"

"The graffiti." He scowled, gesturing at the portico surmounting the Doric pillars. "Sorry, I – only just noticed."

She came to stand next to him and followed his pointing finger. Her hand flew to her mouth. "What the – who would do that?"

A stepladder lay on the gravel around the side of the house, under the window on the left. That room had been the dining room, big enough for a banquet, long enough to dance reels. Carrie kept it empty, not knowing what to do with it.

Sell it to a spa chain, her mother said. Sell it on, to someone who can appreciate it.

Her eyes travelled from the ladder back to the porch, and the big red letters sprayed on the stone like a slap in the face.

GET OUT