1 Chapter 1

MARC SWAM UP FROM THEembracing depths of an exhausted sleep to the lighter shallows, and then further, resting on the warm surface, not quite ready to leap out into cold wakefulness.

He lay there, drifting, and the noise came again.

Tap, tap, tap,a polite rap on the door.

That pulled him out of his sleepy haze. Someone at the door.

But...no-one knew he was here. He’d arrived late last night, made up the bed with the sheets from the cold, slightly damp airing cupboard, and collapsed straight into it, face down, the faint lavender scent of the cotton bringing back memories of living here with his Aunt Pen as a child.

He slammed on the bedside lamp—it wasn’t properly light yet—pulled on the jeans he’d left on the floor by the bed, and stumbled down the narrow cottage stairs toward the front door. It was wooden, thick old-oak, and he had to yank it hard to get it open.

There was no-one there.

He put his head outside into the dim light of the porch—perhaps they’d made their way round the side of the house to look through a window—when his foot brushed against something.

He looked down.

It was a chicken.

Marc froze.

A teeny-tiny, feathered dinosaur happily sat on his doorstep.

As he opened the door further, letting in a huge blast of freezing air that made him wish he’d pulled a shirt on, it made a short of chirping, purring noise and stood up and looked at him, head on one side.

Actually, it wasn’t teeny-tiny. It was huge. Enormous. It looked like someone had dressed a pillow in another, inside-out pillow and stuck a head on it.

He looked back at it.

It gave a polite squawk and stepped over the threshold.

“What?” he said. “No, no, don’t do that!” He flapped his hands ineffectually at it and tried to push it gently with his bare foot, but that overbalanced him and he landed on the bottom step of the uncarpeted staircase with an abrupt thump. It scooted round him like a particularly talented scrumhalf and turned right into the kitchen, where it began pecking crumbs off the slate floor as if that was its job.

He blinked and sat on the stairs watching it. It was far too early in the morning for this shit.

He looked at his watch. What time wasit, anyway? Not quite eight. He’d arrived as it was getting dark last night, so about four, made tea and toast from the groceries he’d picked up in Welshpool when he stopped to fuel up the car—hence the crumbs for his visitor—and collapsed. He’d slept for about twelve hours. No wonder he felt as if he’d been hit on the back of the head with half a brick in a sock.

He’d been exhausted. It had a been a long drive from London and he hadn’t been on top form when he’d left. He’d pushed on because heavy snow was forecast all over the country and he’d rather be snowed in than snowed out.

He moved his rear up a step to save his feet from the freezing flags of the slate floor and wrapped his arms round his knees, curling his toes around the edge of the bottom stair as he watched his guest bemusedly.

Well. It was definitely a chicken. In his kitchen. At eight o’clock on a Saturday morning.

He’d already bought a leg of lamb to roast for Sunday dinner, so that solution was out. He grinned to himself and then caught the chicken looking at him and straightened his face.

“What are you doing in my kitchen, Chicken?” he asked, conversationally. His voice felt rusty with disuse. He hadn’t spoken to anyone for a few days. David had sat him down and explained that Marc needed to move out and that David would be staying with his mother until he was gone. Then he’d packed a bag and left and Marc had spent two days shoving things into boxes and playing Tetris with his car.

And here he was.

He hadn’t contacted any of their mutual friends. They were mostly David’s anyway. He was sure David would let them know.

He grimaced. Things had been going down the tubes with David for a while, but he hadn’t realised quite how much until the other day. Walking in on your partner shagging someone else in the non-marital bed certainly opened your eyes to the weaknesses in your relationship.

The chicken chose that moment to punctuate his thoughts with a large, steaming deposit on the kitchen flags, which nicely summed up his feelings about his whole situation.

“No,” he said, standing up. “That’s my line in the sand, I’m afraid. Out you go.” He made vague flapping motions with his hands and his guest moved reluctantly toward the open door into the porch. He noticed there was also a reasonably sized pile of evidence that she—he was pretty sure she was a she—slept there regularly.

He rolled his eyes as he shut the door after her and went to clean up the mess she’d made.

Well. He was awake now and there was plenty to do. He hadn’t been here for a couple of years, although he paid for the electricity to be kept on. Odd that he’d never brought David here in all that time, really. He’d suggested it once or twice, but David had never been keen and somehow that had been that.

It was genuinely freezing. In the obscure morning light he could see where frost had coated the windows with delicate fern-patterns and through them he could see the white rime on the looming bushes that made up the field-hedge across the garden wall. The first thing he needed to do was light the fire.

There was kindling in the small basket by the wood burner, but no logs. It had been summer last time he’d stayed. The summer before he’d moved in with David. He retreated upstairs for a shirt and thick jumper, then shoved his bare feet into the boots he’d shucked off by the door when he stumbled in last night, took the large basket, and opened the door to go round to the woodshed.