she’d made the nest in a hollow under the red robin hedge, gauged it out with a stick over several weeks, lined it with a blanket pinched from Mrs Watson’s washing line, Mrs Watson at No.3 not Mrs Watson at No.18 she’d never nick anything from that Mrs Watson but the other Mrs Watson sow of a woman snorting and poking her nose in all sorts of business that didn’t concern her stinking bitch her mother called her snooping stinking bitch always trying to dob us in
the nest is neat and round and big enough to fit a summer calf and it’s shallow and glitters when the sun cleaves through the red leaves the glitter from the school Christmas party the year before handfuls of small shining grab me quick plastic tubes red green silver gold plucked from the box of decorations and thrust into a coat pocket when Miss Hales was busy up the ladder shouting at Sarky Simon to help her pass up the tinsel and Sarky Simon peering right up her skirt mouthing slut slut dirty slut glitter scattering through spread fingers across the yellow blanket and all over the warped wooden cigar box too with her precious everything precious box of things
at first the nest was for special occasions when she needed to think space breathe shut her eyes shut them all out her mother the school the social worker Andy in his doc marts and his stupid friendly sympathy Candy Swanson who kicked her every time she walked past and pinched pinched blue green purple into her neck and bare arms that nothing would take the pain out of them not even a half squeezed lemon
special private occasions more and more in the nest, after school before school then during school instead of school stocking up the nest with a plastic comb and an orange lipstick and a half squeezed tube of toothpaste red blue white striped her favourite and a jar for spitting the froth to keep the nest clean must have it clean not like the house the scum pit of a house her mother can’t clean won’t clean too busy shouting at Mrs Watson both Mrs Watsons and drooling in the morning and out all night passed out all day need somewhere clean soft quiet away from the passing out of her mother
lying in her nest on her back eyes half closed catching the light and glitter and the wail of the pipes Angus the piper eleven or is he twelve every Saturday down there outside the Scotmid with his tweed hat for the thrown coins and his wee kilt and his wee pink salmon cheeks he’ll make something of himself that wee lad Mrs Watson from No.18 always says and she throws him a pound sometimes twice once on her way to June the hairdresser and once on her way back and once she beckoned her, Ailish, out off the front green beckoned her with a wink and a wee finger and Ailish went over expecting a pound and held out her hand and Mrs Watson shushed and looked around and dropped a small round cool smooth into her hand and she’d run back to the nest and squeezed in through the gap in the hedge and lain down on her back and opened her hand and it was like nothing she’d ever seen only on rich and celebs the old ones not the young ones a pearl a real live fresh water pearl
It is months after they realise that she has disappeared that Andy finds the nest, finds the empty nest with its all the colours glitter and yellow blanket and layer upon layer of mouldering leaves and a single mute feather of what might have been a wren or maybe something else. Andy isn’t great on bird identification.
How he’d found the nest he isn’t able to explain, not really. Maybe it was the glitter or a flash of yellow, he says to Officer Connolly, or maybe it was when I stopped to tie my shoe lace and looked along instead of looking up. Whatever it was Officer Connolly isn’t interested.
Just kids, the officer says as Andy keeps trying to explain, tapping his finger hard on the wooden counter. The officer picks at his teeth, and shouts at a lad behind Andy to sit down sit down and wait your turn. Andy taps again. Listen to me, he says. She’s only fifteen.You’re wasting my time, mate, says the officer. You must have had a den when you were a lad. Just kids. I told you to wait your turn! Andy says, but the jar with the spit, the toothpaste spit, that’s not just kids, Officer. Aye, Andy, you’re naïve son, they need the toothpaste for the smell of the booze. Probably nick it from the Scotmid.
Andy leaves the police station. Walks the four streets to the gap in the hedge. Studies the lampposts and sign poles. Chooses the one nearest to the gap in the hedge. Pulls everything he needs out of his bag and lays it on the ground.
The MISSING poster includes her name. And a carefully pressed finger print of red gold. Glitter. And a feather for her hair.
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SANDERLINGS 