Magpie

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He swivels round on his seat. His hair is too long, hanging in loose black curls that any girl would die for. His face is pale and waxy from lack of sleep, but his eyes shine big and bright.

‘Come and see,’ he says.

I stand up and walk across to his desk. I don’t normally get invited to look. The coin itself is lying on a flat pile of neatly folded toilet paper. Some of the dirt is gone – not all, but enough to see the pattern more clearly. I lean forwards, not really paying attention.

‘Oh, wow, Joe. That’s amazing. You’ve done a good job of cleaning it up.’

Joe frowns.

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘but you have to be careful. Too much cleaning and it might get damaged. Still, it’s better than it was.’

He gingerly picks up the coin and holds it end on between finger and thumb. Then lays it back down on the paper.

‘Take a closer look.’

I peer over his shoulder, guilty at my own disinterest. He needs me to take more interest. I squeeze my eyes and give a little gasp.

The figurehead is clearer. He looks Roman, or some version of that, with that wreath about his head. There’s the usual long, straight nose and a stylised beard with elaborate curls that match the individual leaves on the wreath. But there, where you’d expect an eye to be, is what looks like an arrowhead poking down through the man’s eye socket.

I stare at it, silent.

Eventually, I feel compelled to speak.

‘What is that?’ I say.

My voice is quiet. This isn’t just another coin. It’s like none of the coins we saw in Vindolanda, or anything that Joe has found before. That arrowhead in the socket is cruel. And unique. He doesn’t know – how could he know?

I’ve seen it before.

‘I’m not sure,’ says Joe. ‘I’ve never come across anything like this.’ He slowly touches the arrowhead. Joe’s hands are surprisingly long and elegant. ‘You don’t get that on normal Roman coins. Or anything medieval. Weird, isn’t it?’

The fingers of his other hand move to tap the surface of the desk. He’s impatient to get back to his PC.

‘It’s even more interesting on the other side.’

He tips the coin over gently, setting it back on the tissue so I can look.

On this side is a man riding a horse. The figure looks almost comical, cartoonlike. The arms of the man and the legs of the horse are exactly the same, straight and narrow and knobbly. Bones, not flesh. Underneath the horse is another shape, three adjoining swirls, a kind of spinning skeletal disc. Like the symbol for the Isle of Man. I glance up at the screen on Joe’s laptop. He’s been googling it: Isle of Man flag. Yes, there it is, similar but different – three spiralling armour-clad legs bent at the knee, the triskele or triskelion.

He follows my gaze.

‘I’ve been trying to work it out. I knew the shape was familiar. I’ve found this story about the Celtic god of the sea, Manannan. He was a wizard and the first ruler of the Isle of Man. He cloaked the island in mist whenever his enemies approached and turned himself into a spinning wheel of legs to roll down the mountain.’

Very handy, I think. Joe loves this stuff. I’m still unable to quite take it in.

‘He had a horse, too – Enbarr of the Flowing Mane – who rode on water. I was thinking maybe the rider on this side of the coin is Manannan.’

‘You think the coin is from the Isle of Man?’ I find myself wanting to ask questions, to distract Joe from my reaction.

‘I did. I wasn’t sure.’

He goes back to the coin, pointing to it.

‘But I don’t think that now. Look at the rest of it – there are more shapes both above and below the horse.’

He’s right – above the rider are seven dots, linked together by more lines. Stylistically, they’re exactly like the joints of the rider’s arms.

‘They’re star constellations,’ says Joe. ‘I’m sure of it. See that one? It’s the shape of the Plough, it’s unmistakable – the constellation of Ursa Major.’

It’s not the star constellation that draws my eye. It’s the rider’s hand – it doesn’t look human with the usual four fingers and a thumb. Instead, it’s like a lobster claw, one half thicker than the other. It’s surreal, like the arrow pointing down from the eye socket on the head on the other side. The coin feels foreign now, not in a geographical way, but in an alien, not-of-this-earth kind of way. It doesn’t belong. Not here. I feel the weight of my own head, wooziness making me reach out for the edge of Joe’s desk.

‘I see what you mean. How intriguing.’ My voice fades away. There’s a noise rushing in my ears.

Joe wriggles in his seat.

‘I think I’ve figured out what it is,’ he says suddenly.

I stare at him blankly.

‘Look!’

He moves the mouse on his laptop, jumping to another screen. The website is headed Journal of Archaeological Studies in Eastern Europe and Asia Minor. An article is highlighted in pale grey:

This particular coin is one of the most enigmatic of the late Iron Age coinage, dating back to the early third century bc. It shows a male laureate head on the obverse, his eye replaced by an arrowhead.

‘See?’

Joe flips the coin again, pointing out the arrow jutting from the emperor’s eye. Then he turns it back over and slowly scrolls down the page on his screen so that I can read:

The reverse side of the coin shows a rider astride his horse, but only the upper body of the horseman is depicted. The triskele is shown below, a symbol common to Celtic culture. Most coin finds featuring these images are centred in the area around Hungary, Austria, Serbia and Croatia, which is consistent with the distribution of Eastern European Celtic tribes at that time.

Joe is virtually bouncing on his seat.

‘It’s called a puppetrider!’

The name has a ring to it. And it’s appropriate. I look at the man on the horse again and yes, he is a puppet rider. His body is cut off at the waist with no legs, no feet, and he has the bony body parts of a skeleton. Even the horse’s head and limbs look like the bony arms of the man, this time pointing downwards. There’s no attempt at realism. The rider is a half skeleton astride his horse, a living corpse that floats on the animal’s back as if held in balance by some invisible force. A celestial puppet with no strings.

‘And look here!’ Joe dabs at the screen again with his fingers.

The puppetrider is one of the rarest, most distinctive of a range of early Eastern European coins. Only a handful have ever been found in the UK. In every case, they have been part of significantly valuable coin hoards.

He doesn’t know. How could he know? It’s part of a secret that’s been buried since before he was born. I close my eyes. Oh, God, I think. Has he found any other items?

He can’t have, since he’s not mentioned anything else. I try to imagine the coin frozen in a line of cement, or buried in the mud. Or drifting free in a current of water. It can’t be possible. Of all the things to turn up out of the blue, for Joe, my own son, to find …

That coin belongs underground. Deep beneath where no one can find her.

It belongs to something that Duncan and I haven’t spoken of once, not since before Joe was born.

It belongs to her.

Evangeline.

CHAPTER 15 (#ulink_5661d4b8-5748-5671-81a3-dc0fb68b0e5f)

CLAIRE – AFTER (#ulink_5661d4b8-5748-5671-81a3-dc0fb68b0e5f)

I can’t face the morning. Nor do I like the night. It’s when the cottage feels too small and empty. The roof contracts and the walls flex and the windows shiver in their frames as the wind sweeps over the brow of the hill.

It’s not the silence that gets to me – there is no silence, there’s always some kind of low-grade noise somewhere in the cottage – it’s the lack of human company. I go downstairs, padding across the kitchen in my pyjamas. Arthur is stretched out in front of the range and I’m grateful for his presence. I kneel on the floor and stroke him in that soft spot he likes under his chin.

From here I can see all the spiderwebs in the room, glistening in the low light. There are bits of dreck that fill the cracks between the floorboards and dead flies that line up along the skirting board under the window. So much dust and dirt has accumulated whilst the cottage was empty, and I’m not sure how long there’s been between the previous tenant and me. I didn’t think to ask the estate agent; it must have been a fair length of time. I’m going to be busy cleaning, if I can bring myself to do anything at all.

I stand up and sit in the armchair. Arthur picks himself up awkwardly and moves a little closer, depositing his warm body on my feet. I retrieve the remote control for the TV from the gap between the cushion and the armrest and press the button.

Light and noise fill the room. Faces I don’t recognise flash across the screen, voices jangling one over the other, so many I can’t hear the words, louder and louder … I jab at the remote, banging the thing against the side of my chair until the volume rises even more rapidly. Arthur lifts his ears. The button must have got jammed. I panic and punch the thing again. Silence. I let a sigh shudder from between my lips. The screen still fizzes with tiny white fireworks darting in all directions. I clench my teeth – doesn’t anything work in this house?

Nothing ever goes to plan. Not Duncan, not Joe, not even my move to this cottage.

Joe was supposed to come with me. But he didn’t.

Instead, he went AWOL again. I was afraid of this. The last time he did that – went off and didn’t come back – was in August, just before his A-level results were due. He must have been worried about it all summer. He was gone for over two weeks. I was frantic then. It had always been no more than a few days before; though his absences had been getting longer. I’m frantic now – it’s been way longer than that. As each day goes by, I’ve grown more and more anxious. It doesn’t help that Duncan and I aren’t speaking. Not even for Joe’s sake. I’ve not had one phone call from Duncan, not one. But then, I haven’t rung him, either. How could I? Instead, I’ve blocked his number.

Those early days were a blur. My nights have been full of nightmares, my days are … I don’t know, unreal. I’ve been in shock, I guess. It didn’t exactly go to plan. Duncan? My hands clutch the arms of my chair.

I got here a physical and emotional mess, and to find myself here at the cottage after all my careful planning, in the state I was – am – in … I wake up each day gasping for breath. Everything hurts – my head, my body, my brain … even now.

I had to go without Joe. It hurts just thinking about it. That I left Joe behind.

I’m almost glad he’s gone AWOL. It means he’s not with Duncan. My first thought was that Joe had gone back to the Barn, after I’d gone. But I know he wouldn’t do that. He was so upset with his father that last day. I was almost on the verge of calling the police, then I got one text:

Mum – I’m okay. Don’t come looking for me. Goodbye.

I texted him back. Ring me, I said. He never rang. I rang him, again and again, but he didn’t pick up. Still doesn’t pick up. And that text just sits there, blazing from my screen. Don’t come looking for me. He hasn’t texted me again. As if that’s it, that’s your lot, Mum. I don’t need you anymore.

Oh, God, it hurts so much. I’m stuck here on my own and I can’t bear it. I hang on thinking, just one more day and I’ll get another message. I’ve even told him exactly where I am. He’ll come to me, of his own accord, I know he will. If I wait here long enough.

I bitterly regret choosing this cottage. It’s too close to the Barn. Why on earth did I think this was a good idea? I convinced myself it was in Joe’s best interests, that we could do this like adults, Duncan and me. And now I’m terrified. Hiding, almost. I can’t go anywhere near the Barn, or the north side of the reservoir, the other side of the dam. Or anywhere else. Not Belston, not Derby – not anywhere I might be seen. I can’t bear for anyone I know to see me like this, to ask questions.

And Joe is still missing. It’s been over six weeks and Joe is still missing.

I’ve worried about Joe ever since he was born. I knew something was wrong right from the start. I could never quite put my finger on it. He cried and cried and cried as a baby. Nothing settled him unless I held him close. I was exhausted, terrified, tired all the time. I needed to put him down, to look after myself, to do basic stuff like go to the bathroom, eat, sleep. Then one day, I threw him down – he literally bounced in his cot. He screamed like hell then.

I was full of remorse – what if I’d hurt him? What if I’d thrown him against a hard surface and not his soft bed? I was a monster! Why wouldn’t anyone help me? Couldn’t they see the state I was in? Didn’t Duncan, my brother, Ian, even his wife, Moira, understand?

No, apparently, they did not. Duncan assumed looking after Joe was my job and everyone else assumed that Duncan was looking after me. Such a great guy, my brother had said – You’ve done well, Claire. If only he knew.

Secrets, shame, families are full of them.

Every time Joe screamed, I was sure it was my fault – something I’d done or not done in the pregnancy, brain damage or something he’d inherited. I’ve alternated between fear and pain and guilt. And anger. In those last few days, it was anger. That Joe would choose to go missing again right then, right when I was finally leaving Duncan. I’d waited eighteen years, putting my whole life on hold for him, banking on the fact that once he was an adult, he’d be sorted, that I could step back from looking after him and take my turn. Well, he must have decided that he’s old enough, too. He’s upped and gone.

But what if he hasn’t? I look at Arthur. Joe should be here. With me. With Arthur.

I feel the fear wash over me. I jump up from my chair. I can’t think like this, it does my head in. He’s fine. He must be. He said he was. And I’d know if he wasn’t. Arthur watches me uncertainly, struggling to his feet, wondering if I’m about to take him for a walk. I shake my head.

‘No, Arthur, I’m sorry.’

He collapses back to the ground.

I think of that coin Joe found, right before I left. My fingers mentally trace the pattern and I feel such sadness. I would have brought it with me if I could, but Joe must have had it with him – it wasn’t in his room when I was packing all of his other things. I remember it clearly. I’ve held it that many times before it ever passed into Joe’s hands, albeit a long time ago. I shake my head. I can’t bear to think of that coin anymore.

I think of Joe’s excitement. Maybe he’s out there searching for more. Maybe he’s given up on all that metal detecting stuff and moved in with one of his mates and not bothered to tell me. Part of me almost believes he would do that. Communication was never his strong point. Perhaps the shock of what happened and me leaving has jolted him out of his obsessions. Is he angry with me?

I hold my head as if it’ll stop my thoughts from spinning. Maybe something has happened. Perhaps he’s banged his head and forgotten about his family. You hear stories like that, where amnesia means the person can’t remember the life they had before. I have to remind myself, he did send me that one text.

But it’s torture not knowing where he is. I have to believe that he’s okay, that someone has taken him in and perhaps even now he’s crashed out on their floor, stirring only to drink another can of lager and shovel cornflakes down his throat. Someone else’s cornflakes.

I pace the room, moving to the hall. I tear at the peeling wallpaper, even though I’m still in my pyjamas. I pull at the wall, arm over arm, fingernails filling up with bits of paper and old glue. Anyone looking in from outside would think that I’m mad, trashing my own home. Anything to block out the one thought I don’t want to voice in my head.