Hostage by Clare Mackintosh

FORTY-SEVEN

Don’t run, you’ll fall.

Past the park, up the hill. Wait for the green man, not yet, not yet…

Now!

Cat in the window. Like a statue. Just the tiniest tip of his tail moving. Twitch, twitch, twitch.

Another road to cross. No green man, and no lollipop lady—she should be here…

Look both ways. Not yet, not yet.…

Now!

Don’t run, you’ll fall.

Postbox, then lamppost, then bus stop, then bench.

Big school—not my school, not yet.

Bookshop, then empty shop, then the ’state agent where they sell houses.

Now the butcher’s shop, birds hanging from their necks in the window. My eyes squeezed shut so I don’t have to see theirs staring back.

Dead. All dead.

There’s dead on the plane—the man on the radio said. Daddy talked so I wouldn’t hear, but I did hear. I did. And now the birds are looking—I sneaked a look, and they’re staring at me, staring as I get near, and I don’t care what Mummy says I have to shut my eyes and I have to run as fast as I can because of the birds and the bad people and Daddy in the ground and—

Smack!

Hit.

Hard and hot and stinging. Tears on my face. Blood in the snow.

The ’state agent, then the butcher, then…then… Then where?

It’s all different. Dark and covered in snow and shadows in shop doors I don’t want to pass. They’re still staring at me, the birds with their black bead eyes like ink poured in their heads. There are dead rabbits in there too—I’ve seen them. And the three little pigs’ feet. All of them watching from the shop. Waiting for me.

Snow on my slippers. Snow on me, on my dressing gown, on my pajamas.

So cold, so so cold.

Where now?