MORNING SERIAL
SHE places the warm cup next to him, the cookie beside it, and settles on the bed. Bobbins stumbles around the room, sniffing things, then curls onto Jack’s discarded clothes from the day before. The lamb is weak. She’s not sure it will make it.
Jack’s fingers reach for the drink. He slurps and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘What were you doing by the brook?’
‘Looking for fish.’ The sweet chocolate seems to have soothed him. He stuffs half the biscuit in his mouth.
‘You know not to go near the brook, little man.’
‘I wanted to see the fish.’ ‘It’s not safe though.’ ‘I wanted to catch one for dinner.’
‘You must stay away from the brook. Even when it’s sunny. Unless you’re with a grown-up.’
‘Mam lets me.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t in this weather.’
‘Mam says you have to learn from making mistakes. I won’t fall next time.’
‘Why don’t you come down. You can help me feed Bobbins and we can get warm by the fire.’
‘I want the key back.’ ‘Why? What’s it for?’ ‘Emergencies. I need it back.’ He turns his rain-grey eyes on her, holds out his hand.
Palm sticky, biscuit crumbs in the creases.
‘It’s downstairs. You can have it back later.’ She reaches past him to close the window, sees the sturdy block of Wylfa’s reactors like a mirage through the downpour.
They are nearly the same colour as the downpour, almost organic. She leaves him to finish his drink and goes downstairs. While she peels the vegetables for dinner she thinks of the brook, the route to the sea where the stream should drain, its banks overflowing and seeping water into the fields. She imagines the sea bass, fat and rubbery, swimming inshore, surging inside the water of the brook, luring Jack with a flash of their pewter scales. They are bigger at the outlet, near the bay.
The Half Life of Snails by Philippa Holloway is published by Parthian at £15