Snowdrop comes and sits down beside him. She’s warm and smells of the outdoors; of baking. She points at the picture that accompanies the article. It shows a young Rowan, wearing Mountain Rescue red; a ridiculous half-moon hat buckled to his head. He’s talking with a spry, wiry man with a dark moustache and unruly eyebrows, similarly attired.
“You’re only about six years older than me there,” she says, in wonder. “Do you think I could be a journalist even younger than that?”
Rowan looks down at his feet. He wrote an article on this subject a year ago – a virtual obituary for court reporting and regional journalism; a desperate cry of anguish about the state of the media industry and how free content providers and the internet had turned journalism from a profession into a hobby.
“Apparently, you can be anything that you want to be,” he says, meeting her eye. “So if anybody can, it’s you.”
She seems satisfied with the answer. She shifts a little, ducking into his eye line. They sit in silence, watching the firelighters kiss the paper and twists of card; the haphazardly chopped tinder; the great hunks of sap-scented wood. She tries to rest her head on his shoulder. He sucks on his lower lip, his curiosity unfolding like an origami rose. He can sense an opportunity. Can see the faintest light of possibility: a haze of phosphorescence in the darkness. He’s spun baser materials than this into gold. Has polished far darker turds to a truly dazzling gleam.
“Go on then,” says Rowan, trying to make it sound like a hard-won favour. “I can give you a masterclass in what to do next, if you like.”
Snowdrop grins, little fizzing sparks in her eyes. “Can we really? Can you show me how to be a journalist and a writer and find stuff out …?”
“If you stop dancing about, yes,” he replies, smiling at her and meaning it.
She stops performing her unsettlingly vigorous jig and considers him as if he were a particularly intriguing fossil. “Uncle Rowan, you wrote a book once, yes?”
Rowan laughs, drily. “I’ve written lots – I’ve published one.”
“And it got good reviews but not enough sales, is that right?”
“Oh I’m glad you’re so well-informed ..,”
“But everybody said you were great at getting into people’s heads. I mean, you wrote about a serial killer and you were able to make him sound somehow normal. Said you were like a locksmith when it came to getting people to open up. Lots of people said it was very unsettling.”
“And?”
“Well, Mum’s friend sounds like somebody who wants to talk.”
“Talk about what?” he asks, losing patience.
“What happened when she was abducted,” says Snowdrop, pronouncing each syllable as if he’s simple.
“Abducted? It doesn’t say that,” says Rowan, glancing at the yellowing newsprint in its glossy coat.
“No, but Mum says there’s more to it. She was a bit surprised when she saw the article, actually. Last night – when we were making this. I don’t think she would have put it in the portfolio if she’d have been on her own. I saw her trying to put it to one side but I told her – every article from when he was starting out needs to be in portfolio. I’ve Googled it – that’s what you’re supposed to do.”
Rowan sits forward. His fingers are tingling a little, and he wonders if sensation is about to return with a kiss or a punch.
He closes his eyes. He gives the order like an embittered submarine commander urging his crew to launch the torpedoes. There’s a weary resignation in his voice.
“Go on then,” he says. “Get the laptop, and the phone. Two pens. A lined notepad. Set them up on the table where the phone signal’s best.”
“Yes,” hisses Snowdrop, performing a mini fist-pump. “What do we drink?”
“Whisky,” says Rowan, slithering down into the embrace of the sofa. He raises a hand. “I would type but I’ve got flippers.”
“Do you want a straw?” she asks, over the banging of cupboards.
“I haven’t sunk that far yet,” he says.
He hears the squeak of the chair across the flagged floor. “So,” she says, after a tiny hesitation. “What do I do?”
On the sofa, Rowan smiles. Raises a bandaged hand and manages to close it, gratefully, around the tumbler of amber fire and ice. It’s a 12-year-old, all seaweed and peat. “They should call this Snowdrop,” he mutters, and manages a gulp without spilling a drop.
“Dial this number,” he says, and begins to recite from memory.
Snowdrop, energetically does as she’s told. She stops three digits from the end. “That’s Mum’s number,” she says, suspiciously.
“Aye,” he confirms. “I want to know what she knows…,”
“She’ll be cross,” protests Snowdrop. She slaps her forehead. “Damnit – that’s rule 1! I shouldn’t have revealed my source!”
“No,” says Rowan, ruefully. “That’s way down the list. Rule one is simple. Be prepared to be unpopular. Can you do that?”
At the tiny table, Snowdrop draws herself up. Nods, solemnly. “Whatever it takes.”
Rowan hides his grin behind the glass.
4
Saturday, July 11, 1987
Silver Birch Academy, Wasdale Valley
4.01pm
The girls are lounging in the little horse-shoe shaped bay at the edge of Wast Water, their backs to the school. This is a favourite spot. The trees form a screen. They’re not up to anything naughty, but they still enjoy the sensation of being able to do what they want without fear of observation.
Violet is in one of her moods today. She’s quiet. Sullen. She wants somebody to say something negative to her so she can tell them how little she cares. She has a habit of chewing her cheek until it bleeds. Catherine, who has learned to read the signs, is doing her best not to be annoying. She doesn’t really know what will trigger an outburst, as the rules seem to change every day. She sits quietly beside her, trying to exude the warm, golden light that she has been reliably informed she can employ as both sword, shield and blanket. She tries to centre herself. To listen to her heartbeat and to breathe in tandem with the vibrations of the universe. More than anything, she tries not to be annoying. Violet’s temper scares her.