The Garden of Stars by Zoe Chamberlain Page B

first. Two stood next to me on the ground, which didn’t seem too strange, considering they are such sociable little fellows. But, as I watched, another flew down to join his brothers, then another, then another until I was surrounded by blackbirds, like jailers ready and eager to take down the crook. I counted them, silently, nervously trying not to move. Seven. Seven’s supposed to be lucky. Perhaps I would get away with my forest faux pas after all. And yet, in the dusk light there was something terribly eerie about these seemingly gentle birds.
    Â The robin sang again. He’d jumped down a few branches of his tree and I could see him clearly now. It was as if he were walking down a set of vast courtroom steps to address the low life – myself – below. He was a very handsome chap with a pillar-box red chest, puffed out with pride. The forest hushed again. His song was beautiful, mesmerising. It sounded so exquisite I could hardly imagine he was passing a guilty verdict. I looked nervously at the blackbirds. They were slowly backing away, cursing the robin for his decision. The great tits were chirping ‘well done’ while their fellow blue tits were shrugging their shoulders, as if to mutter ‘what had the drama been all about?’ and urging everyone to carry on their business as if nothing had happened.
    Â I did feel guilty. Bill had been made to carry out 120 hours of community service for assaulting Mr Johnson. I hadn’t attended court. I felt I should have been there, supporting him, but I couldn’t; I couldn’t risk Rosie and me being exposed to the press. If Bill was hurt when I went to see him, he hid it well.
    Â I looked up at the sky. It was closing in fast on me. I was half tempted to just head straight home, which was the sensible thing to do. But then I was so close to the river, I just had to run down to see her silvery waters flowing fast down into the town. I was there within seconds and I sat on the bank gazing into the river as the sun melted into her and she turned from gold to black.
    Â I was so engrossed I didn’t notice footsteps behind me.
    Â â€˜Here, talking to yourself again, Ms Myrtle? What will the townfolk say?’
    Â I turned with a start. It was the vicar. Here we were again, back in the place where it had all started. He seemed more weasel-like every day. I knew he was just a hatchet man, carrying out the unpleasant assignments given to him by the mayor. It didn’t suit him to act the way he was doing.
    Â â€˜Hello, Vicar,’ I said, composing myself. ‘How’s Mr Johnson?’
    Â â€˜Better, but no thanks to you. You do realise if he’d have passed, God bless his soul, that you would have blood on your hands?’
    Â â€˜I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vicar, I wasn’t even there.’ I was getting tired of this accusation. Even though no one in the town had said this to me directly before, it was written all over their faces.
    Â The vicar leaned heavily on his Malacca cane; he was showing signs of ageing. I felt sorry for him at that moment. How had the poor man been so foolish as to get involved in such blackmail? I decided to appeal to his lighter, more devout side.
    Â â€˜How’s your wife, Vicar? I’d heard she was feeling a little under the weather. I’ve made some cherry cakes and was thinking of dropping one into her for you both to share.’
    Â This caught him off guard. He looked confused and wearier than before. In some ways he reminded me of my father. I felt saddened that, had we met in kinder circumstances, we may have been friends.
    Â He composed himself, taking on the devilish composure of the mayor once more.
    Â â€˜I’ve heard how you talk to the animals in the forest,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching you, every time you step foot out of that rundown shack of a house you call home, I’m there watching you.