Thorn by Vena Cork

Author:Vena Cork [Cork, Vena]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2015-12-10T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-ONE

Soft velvet comfort

Hiding the Queen’s cold dead heart

From all except one.

It’s 2 January and I’m forty. I don’t feel any different. Partly because I’m preoccupied with the blue velvet cloak that appeared on the snow woman yesterday morning. The cloak was child-size, and fitted well over the fast diminishing white lady. With the hood draped over her blonde wig, she looked like a blue version of the psychotic red dwarf in the movie Don’t Look Now. A note was pinned to it.

Hapy New Yeer Ana. Bee carful.

I removed the cloak and the note before Anna saw them. Since the desecration of her Pet Cemetery, Anna’s no longer such a fan of Mick O’Brien. I don’t want her frightened again. Tom says he’ll take the note to Consort police station to check the handwriting against any samples they might get from O’Brien.

Back to square one.

But I won’t let it ruin my birthday. I’ve always loved birthdays and forty, unpalatable though it is, is no exception. Anna, Danny, Jess and Lozz spend the entire day spoiling me. We have a birthday lunch at my favourite Italian restaurant in Portobello Road, followed by a walk on Hampstead Heath. We look down on London from Parliament Hill and exclaim over the white cityscape sparkling below us. Anna and Danny help Lozz fly the kite they gave him for Christmas. Then it’s home for presents and birthday tea, including a strange-tasting cake which I pretend I didn’t know Anna was baking yesterday. Then Jess and Lozz go home. Before bed Anna and Danny give me extra large hugs.

I’m staring into the fire, thinking about birthdays past and present, when the doorbell rings. At this time of night? After my experiences with the magpies and the cat, I don’t want to answer it. Then I tell myself not to be such a wuss. I won’t be intimidated in my own home. Nevertheless, I put the chain on before opening up.

I’m glad I did.

It’s Mick O’Brien.

I’m about to slam the door in his face when I see what he’s holding, cradling it like a baby.

The one-eyed cat. Its breathing is fast and irregular.

‘A car nearly hit her. She’s had a shock.’ He tries to hand the animal over, but she mews piteously and snuggles into his arms. He strokes her, making soothing noises. ‘Poor little thing,’ he says. ‘She’s trembling.’

‘Are you certain she wasn’t hit?’

‘Oh yes. I saw it all. The car missed her by a foot or two. She’s so lovely and white that she was camouflaged by the snow. He didn’t see her.’

I watch him through the crack in the door. Is this the monster I’ve feared all these weeks? Is this man capable of inflicting sadistic injuries on the animal he’s now so lovingly tending? Could he really have left the decapitated magpies on my doorstep and ripped up the Pet Cemetery? The worm of doubt that’s been eating away inside me ever since his knight-errant routine outside Consort Park Station now takes over my whole abdominal cavity, chomping away at my mistrust of Mick O’Brien.

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