Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [38]
Wish I could believe in all that stuff.
When I look up again, I see that the two men are walking back, more slowly this time, as though they are looking for something. When they draw level with the woods, they walk along through the trees, kicking at the undergrowth as though something is hidden there, waiting to be discovered.
They stop a few metres away, frowning.
‘Hello there, missy,’ the older one says. ‘Fine day we’re having.’
I just stare. Missy? Please.
‘D’you live nearby perhaps?’ he asks. ‘You’d be local?’
Their accent is strong, lilting. I nod my head, very slightly.
The younger man, the one with the hat, steps forward, taking a crumpled piece of card from his shirt pocket. ‘We’re looking for someone,’ he says, his voice low and gentle. ‘A boy not much older than yourself, dark-haired, skinny. We thought… We thought he might be here, at Lough Choill. Have you seen him? Have you seen him at all?’
It’s a school photo. A boy who looks a little like Kian is gazing back at me, his hair shorter and flatter, like someone just raked a comb through it. He’s wearing a blue school jersey and a white shirt with a stripy tie, slightly askew.
It can’t be Kian, though. This boy looks so sad, so lost, his dark eyes are dead, empty. There are dark smudges under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept for a month.
‘D’you know him, at all?’ the younger man repeats. ‘Have you seen him?’
My heart thumps in my chest, and my hands tremble as they grip the sketchbook. These men have come to take Kian, and I don’t want them to take him. I don’t think Kian wants to be taken. I look at the two dark-haired men, keeping my smile bright, my voice steady.
‘I don’t know this boy, no,’ I tell them. ‘I live just down the lane. I come here every day, and I’ve never seen him. Sorry.’
I watch the light drain from the man’s face, watch his eyes become as dead as the eyes of the boy in the picture. For a moment, I feel bad, but not bad enough to backtrack, change my story.
‘I told you he’d not come back here,’ the older man says. ‘Why would he? Thanks anyway, missy’
They turn away, walking back towards the trees, the road. Then the younger man stops, takes off his hat and unties the scruffy red scarf from round the brim. He strides over to the wishing tree, ties the scarf on to the highest branch he can reach and stands looking at it for a long moment.
My heart thumps. Has he seen Kian’s rucksack, the bedroll, the hay, wedged out of sight in a forked branch? Maybe not. He turns, tips his hat at me and strides off, through the trees and away.
As if I ordered it specially, the midday sun is hot and the sky is a perfect, shimmering blue. I drop back on to the grass and close my eyes, letting myself drift. When I open them again, Kian is at the edge of the lough, leading Midnight along through the shallows.
I look at him, searching for traces of the sad-eyed boy in the photograph, but all I see are slanting cheekbones, unruly hair and eyes that shine, darker than the lough. Was I right to stay silent? And do I tell Kian about the men who were looking for him?
Kian flops down beside me, grinning. There are wisps of hay in his black hair, like he’s been sleeping in a barn.
‘You took your time,’ I tell him. ‘Missed the best part of the day!’
‘I found myself some work,’ he grins. ‘Raking hay for an old farmer guy in the next valley, stacking it up into hayricks. Twenty-five euros and as much hay as I want for Midnight. Same again tomorrow.’
‘Cool.’
I pack my sketchbook away, bring out an apple for Midnight. The big black horse ambles over, taking the fruit from my hand softly with a nose like velvet. He crunches the apple with his big yellow teeth, and I push a hand through his mane, ruffling the red-ribbon braids, inhaling the warm, sweet, treacly smell of horse.
‘OK, I’m jealous now,’ Kian says.