Annie's memorial.
People everywhere, even those who haven't even met her.
Those who moved in only a few months ago.
Those who were only born seven years ago.
They have flowers.
Roses
Viburnums
Hyacinths
She was a lovely girl, the old folk muse.
I expect so, say the newcomers - the young mothers and the large families - quite fantastic, I suppose.
My best friend at school, say her classmates.
The ones who bullied her.
The ones who laughed at the way she choked.
The girl who shut her eyes.
She's there too.
ERECTED IN 2011,
says the memorial
IN MEMORY OF ANNIE.
The surname has been rubbed out.
Somebody has graffitied a bird of prey on the stone.
LOVED BY HER PARENTS.
LOVED BY ALL WHO MET HER.
LOVED BY GOD.
1995-2011.
The old teacher is there too.
The anniversary of her death,
Tears fall down her cheeks.
Fake?
Nobody questions the authenticity of her sobs.
I remember just how smart she was.
A little angel.
Perfect grades.
Knew every single answer.
There's a crowd of people gathered around her like she's a lecturer.
Like she's the president flying NASA to Mars.
They hang onto her every word.
Died on this exact day too.
The crowd ebbs and flows.
People join.
People leave.
A flurry of petals.
A merge of blurred, nameless faces.
Elbows interlocking, brushing together for seconds at a time.
Sorry.
Excuse me!
If you could just let me through?
The memorial is busy on the anniversaries.
This year, it's been a hubbub of frantic noise.
Champagne glasses.
Diet coke cans.
Banners and posters and flowers.
Flowers, always flowers.
Old, dying flowers.
New flowers to replace the brown lilted wilting ones.
Vibrant flowers.
Subdued, grassy flowers with silk stems.
There's a picture of her, taken before it happened.
On the beach, licking an ice cream.
The sea nibbling her toes, little tongues of foam lapping the painted nails.
Her parents are lounging on a towel a little way back.
Sunglasses on their heads.
Her father's beard is reduced to stubble and her mother's hair bounces like the waves.
It's tied up in a top knot, exposing her angular, tan skin to the harsh winds.
But it's Annie's green eyes that capture you the most.
Cunning, wily eyes.
Foxy eyes.
Bleeding through the photograph, tattooing themselves on your skin.
She's real in the photograph.
It looks like someone could just reach out and touch her.
Rescue her.
There's a poster scrawled with bleary eyes
HAVE YOU SEEN MY DAUGHTER?
There's a picture included in this one.
ANNIE, 16.
IF FOUND, CALL THIS NUMBER:
MANY THANKS, BILL J.SEYMOR
The number has been obscured now.
The leaflet is dated 7th December 2021.
Ten years after she was declared dead.
⁂⁂⁂
The kids have invented a game now.
The little children call it Ghost Hunting.
They've come up with a name for the girl in the hood.
Riding Hood.
That's what they call her.
Everything alright down there, Riding Hood?
A touch on the shoulder.
A prod in the arm.
Sliding off like water on a duck's back.
Does it hurt?
The tone mocking.
Eyes narrowed in jest.
They're just kids, of course. Rowdy teenagers eager to impress.
They're hungry for popularity.
They pull at the shroud, desperate for a glimpse of her eyes, but it remains firmly on her head.
She moves swiftly forward, too fast for them to get a strong enough grip with their chip-greased fingers.
Their fingernails bite at her skin.
It's like jelly.
Some are repulsed, others fascinated.
D'you think she's sixteen?
I thought she was, like, 2,000.
Reckon she's immortal?
Nah, I think she's a time traveller.
What, like Marty McFly?
They squash together, shoulders rubbing, voices merging in grotesque harmony.
They only stop when she walks into the rain and disappears.
YOU ARE READING
Birdy
Mystery / ThrillerThere's a girl who lives in London. Nobody knows her name. She just walks up and down the streets, her hood pulled up over her eyes. Some say that she's a witch. Others say that she was in a bad accident, leaving her mute and blind. Some say she...
