The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

slick with rain. I look to the quad, pinned in place by a wishbone branch. I don’t know whether to follow the woman or to try and yank it out. I hear her whistle to the dog, who works around her, pushing Miranda away from the edge and back towards the farm. An animal like that makes Pickles look completely incompetent as a pet. He’s so lazy that sometimes he can’t be bothered to wee outside, so climbs into a planter and relieves himself there. We’ve had three monsteras and he’s killed off the lot.

I leave the quad where it is (it’s not like there’s anyone around to nick it) and head inland, away from the cliffside that I was terrifyingly close to hurtling over in a low-budget homage to Thelma and Louise. My trainers are completely saturated with rain and I’m convinced I have the beginnings of trench foot by the time I emerge from the woods. When I reach a gap in the dry-stone wall, the border collie is waiting, head tilted with curiosity, her mismatched eyes locked on me from afar. When I approach, she nudges up and down my leg with her nose. Am I being frisked by a dog? Is that what’s happening?

‘She wouldn’t leave until she saw you catch up. It’s strange, because Jess only herds animals that can’t think for themselves. Don’t take it personally.’

‘Thanks?’

‘Not my fault, it’s the way she was trained,’ says the woman, frowning.

Now that my turbo adrenaline surge has subsided, I realise just how cold I am. I tuck my hands inside my sleeves and try to hold my body still, but I’m shaking so violently I can barely stand. The woman sighs.

‘Come on, lass. Can’t stand there quivering all day. Kian’s got enough to be getting on with without running about after you and all.’

Chapter 13

Date: Tuesday 8th October

Location: Farmhouse kitchen

Cups of tea: Two

Sleep: 7 hours and 13 minutes

How much peril can you experience within a forty-eight-hour window? No, this isn’t a new quiz for Snooper, I’m talking about actual, real-life peril. Sure, careering down an escalator whilst trying to text is a fairly common occurrence in London, but I’ve faced my mortality far more frequently since arriving in Kilroch.

My vision of wandering in and out of a wisteria-woven barn with happy pigs and a jolly farmer for company faded within seconds of arriving. For starters, the farmhouse is held together by a combination of mildew and sheer willpower, the yard is patrolled by geese who hiss and bite like feral cats, and I haven’t seen a single health and safety notice on display, which is unsettling when you consider that the farmer keeps petrol in a barn full of highly combustible hay bales.

I’ll be amazed if I make it back to London without needing first aid.

The next stage of my plan involves finding a reason to leave the farm. Unless my sister is squatting behind the chicken coop, I’m not going to find her by wandering the same field in Kilroch day in, day out – that’s for sure.

***

‘Honestly, it’s no bother,’ says Kian. He digs out chicken feed using a milk carton trimmed down to form a scoop.

‘It is, though.’ I duck and step out of his way, my eyes watering. I sweep the next load of soiled straw into a pile, which is pointless as the wind immediately whips it into a tiny, mucky tornado. I take shallow breaths. The smell of ammonia is so strong it burns my nose, as though I’ve inhaled swimming pool water.

‘We got Miranda back, that’s what’s important,’ says Kian. He screws a plastic lid on the container and wipes his hands on his trousers as a brood of hens burr around his feet. The sound is comforting and homely, like elderly women gossiping over tea and pink wafer biscuits.

‘Will it be hard to replace? The quad?’ I ask, turning my hand over in a sunbeam that appears through a break in the cloud.

‘I might need to source a few parts, but it’ll be fine. The folk round here trade scrap with each other most of the time. Unless you’re a McCulloch. They’ll buy anything that makes farming more efficient, even if it compromises animal welfare. It works for us. Our farm is barely keeping its head above water so we need to save as much money as we can, even if it means more tinkering in my spare time. It’s something to do when the evenings are long,’ he says.

Kian flicks through the clipboard’s wrinkled pages, a furrow deep set in his brow as he taps a pencil on the page. ‘Ah, it’s the hotel in Cumnaird that needs another tray of eggs this week,’ he says, scribbling down a figure.

‘That sounds far too productive for anything I’d consider evening down-time, but somehow I get the sense that Netflix and Domino’s Pizza isn’t your thing?’

‘It might be if we had the bandwidth,’ says Kian. ‘The wi-fi is too patchy for streaming videos unless you go down to the car park behind The Wailing Banshee. The landlady had a new router installed thinking it would encourage a younger crowd, but there aren’t enough of us here to pack it out at the best of times.’

I nod, mentally fist-pumping at this news. Prehistoric internet means less chance of Kian seeing my live stream meltdown, or the numerous GIFs and edits that have cropped up since.

‘I see you met Jacqui,’ says Kian, breaking my reverie. We walk around the coop to where a rectangular nesting box sticks out at the back, dusty paint flaking off its wooden slats. Kian unlatches the lid and opens it to reveal three plump hens, who blink up at him in annoyance. He carefully tips the hen nearest to him to one side. Underneath her honeyed feathers are two porcelain white eggs. I can see why she looks a bit miffed; I’d be fuming if I had to push one of these out every day.

‘Is