Page 34 of How to Kill Your Rival

I pour myself a cup of tea, but forego the biscuits. They make me think of Terry.

‘I’m not built for waiting.’ I sigh, resting my head against the back of the couch.

‘I know,’ he says. ‘There’s still time to learn.’

* * *

Hewie, Dewie and Louie snuffle in their field, coming trundling over when they see me.

‘Hello, my hungry boys.’

The pigs sing along in their usual chorus of snorts and grunts.

‘I brought you the kitchen ends. I know you prefer a leg of man, but I’ve not had anyone to get rid of up here since Martin.’

In a flap of black, Coffin arrives. He fluffs up his feathers after landing on the fencepost.

‘My sweet boy,’ I croon. ‘I’ve missed you.’

I rummage through the scraps until I find a half-eaten boiled egg and a slice of watermelon. ‘Will these do for you?’

Coffin hops closer, plucking the egg from my hand. Here with my bird and the pigs, it feels almost like I’m a girl again. When Maggie and Fraser and I would tear around the estate, play-acting the killers we’d become.

I trace my fingers over his soft feathers and smile as he tips his head into my hand. ‘You’re my best boy. And here’s the rest for you,’ I tell Hewie, Dewie, and Louie, who snort greedily as I tip the scraps over the fence. ‘No fighting.’

‘Who are you talking to?’

I turn around to see that James is at the edge of the garden path, looking at me with those stormy grey eyes.

‘Nobody,’ I say as he crosses the grass.

He looks at the pigs, then at Coffin, who looks right back with his one good eye. ‘Coffin won’t take kindly to being called a nobody.’

I laugh. ‘I meant the pigs,’ I say. ‘I talk to the pigs sometimes when I’m thinking stuff through.’

James reaches out and gives the crow a stroke. To my surprise, Coffin doesn’t shrink away. The bird has always had good judgement, to be fair.

‘Chef says dinner’s in twenty minutes.’

‘I suppose I’d better take my leave from these distinguished gentlemen, then.’

We walk back up to the house quietly, our hands occasionally bumping as we go. James catches my little finger with his, and that small touch ignites something potent inside me.

I don’t pull my finger away.

12

JAMES

We only just found a free table in the pub, squeezed in near the toilets. Fraser, Eliza and I relax into our seats amid the hubbub. It’s rare to see The Busted Lantern so full, with it being in the arse end of nowhere, but this little valley in the Highlands attracts people who don’t want to be watched too closely. People like us.

The smell of chip fat and old beer taints the air. It’s comforting. Simple. Regulars fill the dark wood tables and line the barstools, mostly older men, but with the occasional variation. Dougie, the owner, pulls pints with little conversation, just a gruff nod.

He also pours far larger than the government measures allow and doesn’t wait for you to ask for a top-up. If you’re sitting by the bar, there’s fat chance of you going home in a straight line.

Coffin sits on one of the overhead beams, having ridden Fraser’s shoulder to the pub. Nobody pays him any mind; it’s not unusual to see him here, watching the goings-on of us lesser beings. Hell, Dougie will often take some meat out and leave it for him.

Dougie comes over and launches a plate of steaming roast potatoes onto our table. It’s only been a few hours since we sat down to eat at home, but the offering is irresistible whether hungry or full.