Simon Beckett - The Calling Of The Grave

'Sophie…' I said gently. There was no response. 'Sophie?'

She came awake gradually, eyes staring at me blankly before blinking as awareness returned. 'Sorry,' she apologized, sitting up. 'Please tell me I've not been drooling.'

'Only a little.'

She smiled and swatted at me. 'Pig.'

'Why don't you go to bed?'

'Not much of a host, am I?' she said, but she didn't argue. She stood up and put her hand on my shoulder as she swayed unsteadily. 'Whoa…'

'Take it easy,' I said, getting up to support her. 'Are you

'Just tired, I think. Must have stood up too quickly.'

She was still holding on to me. I had my hands on her waist, standing close enough to feel the warmth coming from her. Neither of us moved. Sophie's eyes were big and dark as she leaned into me. A smile curved her face.

'Well…' she said, and something hit the window with a bang.

We jumped apart. I rushed to the heavy curtains and yanked them open, half expecting to see Monk's nightmare face glaring back at me. But the window was unbroken and empty. All I could see beyond it was an amorphous sheet of white fog.

'What was it?' Sophie asked, standing close behind me.

'Probably nothing.'

It was an inane thing to say, especially when my own heart was pounding. Monk can't have followed us back here. Can he? But he didn't have to follow us. Not when Sophie's address had been on her letters.

'Stay here,' I told her.

'You're not going outside?'

'Only to take a look. 'The alternative was cowering inside all night, wondering what had hit the window. If it was nothing then we could relax. If it was Monk…

Then it wouldn't make any difference.

I took the heavy iron poker from beside the glowing stove and went into the hall. Sophie hurried into the kitchen and returned with a lantern-style torch.

'Lock the door behind me,' I said, taking it from her.

'David, wait But I was already sliding back the bolts on the front door and stepping outside. There was nothing to see but fog. The air was damp, scented with loam and rotting leaves. I shivered, wishing I'd thought to grab my coat. The fog soaked up the lantern's beam. Keeping close to the side of the house, I began making my way towards the sitting room. The poker felt flimsy in my hand, and I was already beginning to think this wasn't such a good idea. What are you going to do if there is someone out here? What if it's Monk?

But it was too late now. Up ahead I could see a misty glow that must be the sitting-room window. I picked up my pace, keen to get it over with.

And something moved on the ground at my feet.

I stumbled backwards, raising the poker as I thrust out the lantern. There was another flurry of movement, and then the light and shadows resolved themselves.

Caught in the lantern's beam, an owl blinked up at me.

I lowered the poker, feeling stupid. The bird was ghostly pale, its face almost white. It was hunched on the grass below the window, wings splayed out awkwardly at its sides. The dark and alien eyes shuttered in another slow blink, but it made no attempt to move.

'It's a barn owl,' Sophie said from behind me.

She startled me: I hadn't heard her approach. 'I thought you were waiting inside?'

'I didn't say that.' Sophie had more sense than me, enough to pull on a coat. She crouched beside the injured bird. 'It's lucky the window didn't break. Poor thing. The fog must have confused it. What do you think we should do?'

'It's probably just stunned,' I said. The bird was staring straight ahead, either determined to ignore us or too dazed to care. 'We shouldn't move it.'

'But we've got to do something!'

'If it struggles we might hurt it even more.' Besides, injured or not, the bird was still a predator. Its beak and claws were no less sharp.

'I'm not leaving it out here,' Sophie said, in a tone I was beginning to recognize. I sighed.

'Have you got a blanket or something?'

The owl flapped a little as I cautiously covered it with an old towel, but quickly subsided. Sophie suggested leaving it just inside the kiln, propping the door open so it could fly out when it had recovered.

'What about your pots?' I asked.

'They're insured. Anyway, it's an owl. It can see in the dark.'

The bird was surprisingly light as I carried it into the kiln, the rapid tattoo of its heart thrumming under my hands. Inside was damp and musty with the smell of old bricks. My footsteps echoed as I set the owl on the floor and removed the towel. We hadn't turned on the light, and its pale feathers were almost luminous in the darkness.

'Do you think it'll be all right?' Sophie asked as we returned to the house.

'We can't do any more tonight. If it's still there in the morning we can call a vet.'

I locked and bolted the front door, giving it a tug to make sure. Sophie shivered as she rubbed her arms.

'God, I'm frozen!'

She was standing very close. Looking at me. It would have been natural to take hold of her.

'It's late,' I said. 'You go on up, I'll see to things down here.'

She blinked, then nodded. 'Right. Well… goodnight.'

I waited while she went upstairs, then went through the rooms, angrily turning off the lights. I told myself I'd done the right thing. Sophie was scared and vulnerable, and things were complicated enough already.

But I wasn't sure whether I was angry because of what had almost happened, or because I hadn't let it.

I lay awake in the single bed, listening to the night-time silence of the house and thinking about Sophie. I finally fell asleep, only to be half-woken by a noise from outside, the sharp cry of either predator or prey. It didn't come again, and as sleep reclaimed me I forgot all about it.

Next morning I woke early and padded downstairs in the cool and quiet house while Sophie slept. I made myself a cup of tea as the sky gradually lightened, thinking about the past twenty-four hours. Normally I'd have turned on the radio to listen to the news, or gone online. But I didn't want to disturb Sophie and the house didn't have Wi-Fi. Instead I sipped my scalding tea at the kitchen table and watched the day slowly begin.

The morning chorus of birdsong reminded me of the owl. Pulling on my coat and boots, I went outside. The fog had lifted, although there was still an early haze, part drizzle, part mist. It frosted the branches of the apple trees, beading the cobwebs with quicksilver as I crossed the wet grass.

The sitting-room window had a dusty smeared mark where the owl had flown into it, but the only other sign of the bird was a few delicate pale feathers on the floor of the kiln. They could have been dislodged by the impact, although there was another, less happy explanation. There was no shortage of foxes around here. With the kiln door left open the injured predator could easily have become prey.

I wandered around the kiln. The scaffolding and props wedged against the walls had been here so long they might almost have grown out of the structure. Some sections of brickwork had been repointed with fresh mortar years ago, or even decades by the look of things. But most of it had been left to crumble away, and I guessed that the loose brick where Sophie kept her key was only one of many. Renovating the kiln, let alone getting it working again as she hoped, would be a big and expensive job.

She would have to sell a lot of pots.

Still, she was obviously talented. The crockery, bowls and vases stacked on the shelves were all simple yet striking designs. I ran my hand across the mound of hard clay on the workbench. It was made up of unused scraps that Sophie had slapped together and left to dry, but even that could have been an abstract piece of art.

I gave it a pat and went back into the house.