The Birthday Girl: The gripping new psychological thriller full of shocking twists and lies. Sue FortinЧитать онлайн книгу.
a lot of trouble with this secrets game,’ I say, as Joanne stands in the doorway, fastening her jacket.
‘I like these sorts of things, they’re fun.’
‘Fun for all of us, right?’
‘Probably more fun for me, if I’m honest.’ She looks up from her zip.
‘And this is only a game?’
‘Of course it is,’ she says. ‘Unless you’re worried I might know your secrets.’ She gives a fake laugh, as Andrea and Zoe clomp down the stairs. At which point Zoe chides me for not being ready. As I squeeze by Joanne in the doorway, she gives a smile. ‘Only a game,’ she says, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Pulling down my woolly hat and yanking on my gloves, I feel quite well protected against the elements and ready to explore the Scottish countryside. I fall into place alongside Andrea and we follow Joanne and Zoe round the back of the croft and up the hillside towards the trees.
The forest consists of a variety of trees, mostly tall firs but some deciduous varieties, too, whose foliage is a mix of yellows, reds and browns as the autumn is beginning to take over. Underfoot the ground is uneven; small rocks and stones hamper our stride and we take care where we place our feet. Already leaves have begun to fall, and they lie scattered across the ground like woodland confetti.
As we walk deeper into the woods, I can feel the drop in temperature despite my fleece. ‘Is it me, or is it cold in here?’
‘Nope, not you. It’s definitely colder,’ says Andrea. ‘Hey, Joanne! You do know where you’re taking us, don’t you?’
All the trees look the same to me. We are following a track that weaves its way around the trees and climbs the hill.
‘Yes, don’t worry,’ calls Joanne. ‘Anyway, like a good boy scout, I’m always prepared. I have a compass and a map but, yes, I do know where we’re going.’
Twigs crack underfoot and once or twice I think I hear rustling noises in the undergrowth and bushes. ‘This place is giving me the creeps,’ I say, and as I do, another noise catches my attention. ‘Did you hear that? It was a rustling noise. From those bushes.’
We all stop to listen.
‘That’s the river,’ says Joanne. ‘It flows down from the hills and eventually joins up with the main river that you saw outside the croft. There’s a walk, Archer’s Path, that runs alongside the river. We’re going there tomorrow.’
‘Never mind tomorrow,’ says Andrea. ‘What about today? How much further? My legs are killing me.’
‘You should be the fittest of us all,’ says Joanne. ‘You’re the one with the gym.’
‘Yes, but I’m the owner, remember?’ says Andrea. ‘Unfortunately, you’re more likely to find me stuck behind the desk these days, dealing with a mountain of paperwork, than you are to find me heading up an exercise class. Rugby boys excepted.’
Joanne looks blank.
‘She took some sort of spinning glass with the local rugby team,’ I supply.
Joanne gives an exasperated look to the sky. ‘Oh, my heart bleeds for you. Can anyone hear those violins?’ She mimes playing the stringed instrument while humming a sad and mournful tune. Joanne turns and walks backwards. ‘Don’t think you’ll get any sympathy from me, you’re the one who wanted to be the sole owner.’ She spins on her heel and jogs ahead to catch up with Zoe.
‘That’s me told,’ says Andrea.
‘She’s still prickly about it all, then,’ I say. It’s more of a statement than a question.
‘You noticed, huh?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I’m not worried,’ says Andrea. ‘But it pisses me off that we always make allowances for Joanne. She gets to say what she likes and none of us ever stand up to her. Why is that?’
‘It’s just Joanne being Joanne. You know what she’s like. It’s amusing at first, especially when it’s directed at other people, but at some point she always manages to turn it on you. Then you’re like, “How am I now the butt of her barbed comments?” She does it in such a way that no one wants to say anything because, at the end of the day, she does very generous things. Like this weekend.’
‘I know. She can be totally endearing one minute and an absolute bitch the next, and yet we still love her,’ replies Andrea. ‘At the moment, she’s definitely in absolute-bitch mode.’
We walk on in silence for a few more minutes. Ahead of us, Joanne is chatting away to Zoe. She calls to Andrea and me from time to time, chivvying us along.
‘We’re here!’ she announces at last, with a flourish of her hand.
‘Praise the Lord!’ says Andrea.
We step out from the trees into a small clearing which seems almost circular in shape. In the centre is a heavy stone slab on top of four smaller stones, which have been carved to almost identical sizes of roughly three feet in height.
‘It’s an altar,’ says Joanne. ‘Apparently, the Vikings used to make human sacrifices here in honour of their gods. When their chief died, the chief’s female slaves would volunteer themselves as sacrifices to follow him into the afterworld so they could tend to him there. They were bathed, dressed in white linen, given some sort of drug to relax them, and then they walked to the altar, where they’d lie down and have their throat cut.’
‘Lovely,’ I say.
‘You wouldn’t catch me doing that for my boss,’ says Zoe. ‘I’d be bloody dancing on that altar.’
‘Good thing Tris isn’t your boss any more,’ says Andrea.
I’d forgotten Zoe used to work for Tris, back when he was still with the local NHS Trust. Zoe was a secretary in the psychology department where he was one of the senior psychologists. Although, since then, Tris has moved into private practice where the money is more lucrative.
Zoe clasps her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, sorry, Joanne. I didn’t mean Tris. I only meant I wouldn’t do that for any man.’
Joanne grins. ‘It’s OK. I’m with you on that. I wouldn’t be offering myself up as a sacrifice for Tris either. Do you honestly think I want to go to Valhalla and spend eternity washing his dirty socks and pants?’
‘What are those petals on the altar?’ asks Andrea as we approach the stones.
Now we are closer, I can see a dozen or so red petals have been scattered across the stone. They look like rose petals, but there aren’t any roses in sight.
‘There’s another Norse legend,’ says Joanne. ‘I can’t remember all the details, but Mrs Calloway, the owner of the croft, told me about it once. Apparently, the son of a Viking king fell in love with a local Scottish girl but her mother was against it. She pleaded with the king not to allow the wedding. The king said the gods would be offended, so to atone for angering the gods, the mother would have to sacrifice herself. So she did.’
‘Did it work?’ asks Andrea.
‘I can’t remember. But after that, young people who wanted to get married would come here and spread petals on the altar to receive the gods’ blessing. Something like that, anyway. The petals are supposed to represent the mother’s blood and the sacrifice she made for her child.’
‘What a load of mumbo-jumbo,’ says Andrea.
Joanne shrugs and looks at the petals. ‘I didn’t realise people still did it. I thought it was one of those folk stories. I suppose we should be grateful