The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (read full novel TXT) 📗

I stick my arm out to show I’m turning left despite the relative isolation. When I get to the woodland, I take the speed up a little higher, on the verge of enjoying myself (I push the sheep peril to one side for a moment), zigzagging between the trees, my eyes wider and more alert than they have been for months. I scan the landscape. Over the engine thrumming, I hear waves overlapping each other, crashing on the rocks below like an over-zealous drum solo.

I scan the horizon, eyeballs wobbling in my head from the assault course of tree roots protruding from the ground, when—

‘Miranda!’ I shout, a flash of grey wool bounding over a stump in front of me. The sea forms a backdrop between the trees, blending with the sky in a shade I’d refer to as ‘dead salmon’, going by what I’ve seen in the Farrow & Ball catalogues that are posted through our front door in Dulwich. Fuck, where has she gone? I slow down, not wanting to spook her, and turn towards the sound of twigs breaking in the copse, where an almost spherical sheep is indelicately tiptoeing in the opposite direction. I can’t see her two pals. Maybe they lost their nerve and headed back towards Braehead. It’s what I would do. Why on earth would you want to get soaked by sea spray and eat moss for dinner when a heat lamp is on offer in the barn? I need to start thinking like a sheep. If I edge her out on this side and block her in, Miranda will have to turn back towards the farm, right?

My engine growls as I manoeuvre round a protruding rock, the back wheel spinning in thick mud. The path I was following is no longer visible beneath dead pine needles, and going by the sudden disappearance of trees to my right, it looks like Kian’s land comes to an abrupt stop at the point where it cuts into the North Sea.

From the corner of my eye, I see Miranda’s shaggy rump hop over a felled trunk, but when I twist the throttle to make ground on the outside, she speeds up, her matted tail bobbing like a rabbit as her hollow footsteps sink into the ground.

‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,’ I say, losing sight of Miranda as she bounds round the corner behind a stack of fence posts, their stakes rusting from sea mist that hisses up the cliff sides. Panic sets in. I speed up, ducking just before a low-hanging branch hits me at chest height. A branch snags my hat and yanks it off my head like a playground bully. I lunge behind me to grab it, but my reach is clumsy and I flail, my gaze broken as the handlebars twist towards the cliff edge. Just like that, the quad bike jerks, the seat shunting to one side. I’m holding on by an arse cheek, the engine groaning as it bombs over rough terrain, and like the total idiot I am, I manage to twist the throttle as I attempt to pull myself upright again.

Everything slows down, like the moment in a Bond film where 007 dives out of harm’s way, a super-bike exploding below him, a gun in one hand, and an anorexic supermodel in the other. OK, it’s not quite like that, but if you swap in an incompetent sort-of journalist from south London and replace the love interest with a rotund ewe, you wouldn’t be far off. In quick succession, three things happen. One: the quad bike skids to the side, pinning itself partway through a gap between two trees as the back wheels churn skid marks into the bark. Two: My coat catches on a branch, the elastics of my hood pulled so tight that I now peep through a tiny gap. Three: Miranda jumps out in front of me, crimped wool forming a moppy fringe over eyes set so wide apart it’s a wonder she’s able to see at all. The little sod.

I don’t move. Not through choice, but because the tangled hood situation is reminiscent of the time Big Philippa strung me up from a peg in the cloakrooms and stole my Tudor Day money in year five; I can’t move, it only makes it worse. From behind me, I hear footsteps.

‘Shhhh! Shh! She’s here! Don’t freak her out, she’s completely rogue,’ I hiss under my breath.

‘I think you’ve done enough damage yourself, lass. Get on, back you go, eh! Eh!’

Oh God, it’s not Kian. Miranda darts off again, clearly having the time of her life. ‘Go on, Jess. Way, way!’ A flash of black and white nips past me. A border collie, grizzled and grey, rounds in, stalking. ‘Adda’ girl, walk by. Hold. Hold, Jess!’

From my half-squat, tangled in my own clothing, I can’t see the woman who completely ignores my plight, her bare legs on show beneath an unseasonal chemise skirt and cut-down wellie boots. She leans over to the quad bike, still whirring between the trees, and twists the key. The engine putters out. Her hood is pulled low, but as she bends towards me, I see her eyes; so blue they’re marble-like, as though she pops them out and keeps them in a jar every night. The woman pushes my head to one side and I wince as she tugs the elastic free from the mess of branches. They snap back and twang against my face, stinging my already cold cheeks. I stumble to my feet and tug my hood down.

‘Thanks, I don’t know what happened, I—’

The woman picks up a staff propped against a lichen-covered stump and holds it aloft, looking at me through narrowed eyes. I feel exposed. Her eyes dart across my face as though she’s matching me up to a Crimestoppers e-fit. Her mouth is pencil-thin, curtailing my reconciliatory smile.

‘You the English girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm.’

At that, she turns her back to me and strides into the trees, her petrol-coloured coat