The Fairy Wren by Ashley Capes

Author:Ashley Capes [Capes, Ashley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Magic realism, Contemporary Fantasy
Publisher: Close-Up Books
Published: 2016-10-13T13:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Trying not to sneak, Paul walked the uneven service lane that led behind the newsagent, shaded from the sun by rows of buildings. Their backs were weatherworn; lacking paint and signs, occasional windows boarded up or left to gape. From their shadows he imagined eyes tracking him.

Ridiculous.

Having already checked that Pantene Sandra was busy with customers, and little Ruth was occupied with her phone, the odds were in his favour but he still wanted to be quick. Neither saw him; he’d chosen his moment, ducking in and out during the lunchtime rush, and was now working to slow his breathing as he reached the steps leading to his destination. A single door with no window and a heavy lock waited for him. He tried the handle but it held.

And that was it.

“Sorry birdie, maybe I’m not going in after all.” He crouched to search for a hidden key on the bare landing, almost as an afterthought. Nothing. He rose with a shrug but stopped at a scratching. It came from the door. His eyes widened when a tarnished key slid through the gap between floor and door.

“Hello?”

Only the distant hum of traffic. He scooped up the key and fitted it to the lock, hesitating. The stair was empty and none of the buildings opposite had shouting, pointing people in their windows. All was calm and still. Go now or go home, Paul.

He turned the key and stepped into a dim hallway, closing the door behind him. Empty. He shivered in the silence. Had the wren given him the key? A closed door let light creep in around the frame at the opposite end of a corridor. He inched forward. A thick runner muffled his steps and the closer he came, passing other, closed doors, the more he imagined the feel of cold handcuffs slipping over his wrists, the words ‘breaking and entering’ echoing in his head.

He paused, one moist palm coming to rest on the handle. The sound of a television, turned low, exhaled through the wood. On the other side would be something important. Or nothing important. Maybe the bird wasn’t there. Maybe it was simply crazy. As crazy as he was for following it. “In we go.”

Open windows let light and air into a room piled high with all manner of mess. Dust motes played. The place put Llyod’s desk to shame – this was the clutter of years. True hoarding.

An actual trail, like a forest path, led to strategic positions in the large living area; the window, the murmuring television, another doorway and the entrance to a kitchen. His view of the whole room was blocked by a bookcase and the jumble that had formed before it. Towers lined the path, some were chest high and others much lower. A few were even taller and all had to be navigated through. Mostly newspapers and books, or magazines and pamphlets. There were also war camps of LPs and 45s, some naked, some with sleeves. Empty bottles formed

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