They looked fresh, only one had the eyes pecked out, the red fur still sleek along each slim length. With a hook of barbed wire stuck in under the chin, they hung with their backs to the open view of green gently rolling fields and the hills further off. Lucy held out a finger to touch one, and then drew it back; even dead, the narrow mouth ragged with needle teeth looked ready to scream and tear. A stick snapped on the slope behind her. Under the footstep of an animal, she thought, a heavy animal; Janet coming down in search of her. If she kept still – crouched down like a bird on the open moor, so still you could pass close by and not see. 'Lucy?' The voice came softly, uncertainly. She recognised it at once, though it was almost the last one in the world she might have expected. 'It is you,' Anne Macleod said, peering forward as if short-sightedly, her body braced against the run of the slope. 'I might have gone past and never known you were there.’ 'Have you heard?' Lucy asked, and saw at once that she had not.
