Gentle fingertips touched her skin, as they planned the pen strokes to come. Jennifer felt her breathing deepen as he brushed past the side of her breast and moved downwards. Swirls, pen strokes light and hard worked efficiently, as she stared at the wall, resisting the urge to bring her hand back and touch the man examining her body with such intensity. As Will moved closer for the tinier strokes of his pen, Jennifer could feel the heat of his body, and closed her eyes, enjoying the sensations of touch alone. She raised her hand to caress him and he reprimanded her instantly, lost in his creation.

‘Don’t move an inch,’ he said, dominating the moment.

‘You’re very serious,’ she giggled, biting her lip as the pen tickled her skin.

‘Shh, I’m concentrating.’

Dropping her hand, she felt like a living piece of art, as he worked, creating goose bumps, blowing the ink dry before dotting her skin with coloured pens. The pen dipped before reaching the curve of her hip, and quickened as it reached the end. Will’s breathing had also deepened, and as he reached her hip, he coughed to clear his throat. ‘Do you want me to stop here?’

‘No,’ Jennifer said, her voice husky. ‘Where I showed you, hang on.’ Taking another deep breath as she dropped the pillow from her breasts, she slipped off the tracksuit bottoms with her underwear. Lying back down, she allowed him to finish his creation. But the artist paused, and as Jennifer looked from the corner of her eye, she could see the tremble in his hand.

‘You’re killing me, Jennifer,’ he murmured.

She turned to face him, the cool breeze of the night on her naked body. She could almost feel Will’s heart pound against her as she pulled him towards her. There was no point in trying to fight it any more, and as Will’s lips found hers, she wrapped her limbs around his. His tongue flickered and he pulled away, his eyes unsure, questioning. Face flushed, Jennifer could barely find her voice to whisper, ‘It’s OK.’

Afterwards they lay in silence until Jennifer spoke, her face resting on Will’s chest. ‘I hope I didn’t spoil the picture for you.’

Will stroked her tousled hair. ‘I think you’ll like it.’

Jennifer grabbed a sheet as she rose from the bed and walked to the full-length mirror in the bathroom. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she gasped. Looking at the intricacies of the black roses climbing up the length of her body. The jagged leaves were bowed with dewy blood red drops. Tiny yellow stars twinkled around the vine snaking up her side and it was there, in the detail of the drawing, that she saw his love.

Overwhelmed, she could hardly breathe. ‘It’s beautiful. I wish it was permanent.’

‘Sorry we didn’t get to finish it,’ he grinned, clasping his hands behind his head.

‘Where’s your tattoo? Or was it all a ploy?’

‘No ploy, I guess you’re going to have to look for it.’

It was then that she saw the words, in the inner creases of his elbows. ‘Heart’ was underlined in the creases of his inner left arm, and underneath it, the word ‘mind’ and on his right, ‘courage’ underlined over the word ‘fear’ tattooed underneath.

‘Wow, that’s quite profound. I never knew you had so many hidden depths, Mr Dunston,’ Jennifer said, tracing the words with her finger. She felt strengthened by their developing relationship, and any reservations were long forgotten. Sliding under the duvet, she wrapped her arms around him, absorbing his strength and falling into the best sleep she’d had all year.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Bert

Bert had come home from school to find mother asleep in bed. His senses dictated that napping was just another means of avoidance. He gobbled down the cold sausage sandwich on the table along with a glass of milk. The cupboard hinges whined in indignation as he gingerly searched for food. There was little point, because homemade pies or cakes were only baked for good boys like Callum. But Callum wasn’t here any more and Bert was not a good boy. Kicking off his worn leather shoes, he strode to his room. With the promise of a full moon, he needed to get some sleep, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to get up to visit the woods later on.

His eyes lit on the package on his bed. He ran his fingers over the smooth brown paper, slowly picking at the Sellotape with his bitten-down nails. It wasn’t his birthday, and even if it was, that day had been dedicated to Callum. Mother’s candles had burned brightly next to the framed photo on the dresser, and nothing was allowed to interfere with her mourning.

He dragged the heavy box from the top of the bed and sat on the floor with it between his legs. It was postmarked and addressed to his mother. But it must have been for him otherwise she wouldn’t have left it there. Chewing the corner of his lip, he tore back another strip of paper, enjoying the tingly feeling of receiving a gift of his very own. He hardly noticed his mother’s slim frame leaning against the door as he eagerly cast away the packaging. The gift was mail order by the look of it, and it was no coincidence it had arrived the week his father left for a fishing trip to the coast. He spent more and more time away from home now, and mother had a suspicion he was getting comfort elsewhere. At least, that’s what Bert heard her say when she mumbled to herself during the day. After Callum died, her singing was replaced by the hum of prayer. When the pain and anger became too much, she ditched prayer and began talking to herself. Sometimes she became so animated in her conversations she would stamp her feet against the wooden floor, or hammer her fists on the table as she ate. Any attempt to interrupt her would be met with clenched fists and a steely glare.

She had been a lot kinder to him since he lied about communicating with Callum. Bert surmised that such contact may have been possible, but there was no way he was going to try. He had not wanted to hear from his brother when he was alive, much less after he had sent him to his death.

Bert unwrapped the globular-shaped package first. At first he thought it was a world globe, but as he tore off the rest of the paper, he revealed a glass ball on a black plastic plinth. It was hard and heavy, and he looked at his mother quizzically. She nodded at him to open the other packages. The second was a flat wooden board, all letters and numbers, with a small wooden plinth on a roller ball. He had heard about ouija boards at school, but the ones the kids spoke about were homemade, nothing as sophisticated as this. Smiling, he opened the third and last package. It was small, square, and heavy in his palm. Ripping open the paper he stared at the red velvet pouch, and after a cursory glance at his mother, eased the gold strings open to reveal a strange-looking deck of cards.

‘They’re tarot cards,’ she said, smiling. The expression looked alien on her face, and lasted only a second before falling back into her customary anxious frown. ‘They’re all for you, Bert, so you can talk to Callum. But only when your father’s not around. Do you think it will help you speak to him?’

Bert shrugged. He didn’t feel like being kind to her today. But then he caught the edge of a doubtful thought and sprang from the floor to hug her.

‘Don’t be sad, mummy, I’ll speak to him tonight, I promise.’

Grace nodded unconvincingly, as she tried to extricate herself from his hug. ‘In that case I’ll leave you to it. I’m going back to bed.’

The house was eerily quiet in the absence of mother’s singing. In the olden days, she would be doing something productive, baking, painting, or chatting with father. Now the house was as bleak as the light behind her eyes, and Bert could barely stand it. The barbed thoughts, the pity of his school classmates … if it weren’t for his ally the raven, he would have felt very alone.