Free Bereft by Chris Womersley

of a week-old bruise. A pink cardigan, no shoes, toes like stubby shells at the ends of her feet. She had a sharp chin, hobnail teeth hammered into her gums.
    Quinn’s mouth was sticky with sleep. Dirt crumbed from his face. His neck was sore from sleeping on the uneven ground. He ran a hand through his hair. “Who are you? Have you been there for long? Watching me? Are you alone?”
    The girl didn’t seem to register the fact he had spoken at all. Not only were her eyes the dark brown of a moth’s wing, but—even open, as they were now—they fluttered gently, almost preparing for flight. She stared at the surrounding trees as if listening to what they were saying, idly scratching one foot as she did so. She was perhaps not right in the head. Another simpleton, like that Edward Fitch.
    Neither of them spoke. She made Quinn uneasy. He brushed himself down and set about rebuilding the fire, throwing on handfuls of dry leaves and blowing on the smouldering embers. He was hungry, although this was nothing new: he had been famished for years.
    The girl watched him with her dark eyes. “What are you doing up here?” she said at last.
    â€œI could ask you the same thing.”
    She pursed her lips and pondered this. “Go on then.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAsk me, then. What I’m doing up here.”
    â€œThat would be idiotic.”
    â€œNot if you wanted to know it wouldn’t be.”
    He snapped a branch in half across one knee and threw it on the embers. “To be honest, I don’t really care.”
    The leaves had begun to burn and now the larger pieces of wood crackled and glowed. He drew unaccountable pleasure from this limited control over such a dangerous element. He blew on the leaves some more and tossed on another handful of bracken. The girl watched him in the manner of someone who knew a better way to do the task at hand but was biting her tongue. The fire took hold. He sat back on his haunches and decided to humour her. “Alright, then. What are you doing up here by yourself so early?”
    â€œI can’t tell you.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIt’s a secret.”
    Quinn smiled despite himself, then covered his mouth with one hand. Although the scar stained only the left part of his mouth and jaw, there was a certain tightness about his entire face when he assumed particular expressions. His smile, he knew, was now lopsided and somewhat sinister, as if one half of him were amused while the other unimpressed by the same joke. He stood and put on his trench coat.
    â€œWhat happened to your face?”
    Quinn blushed and kicked at the edges of the fire. “The war. I got injured.”
    â€œI always live up here. I live in these hills.”
    Quinn doubted this boast, but nodded by way of answer. He had wandered these ranges as a boy and knew there was little here apart from boulders and bushes, the dark and disordered press of trees. No people lived up here now the miners had gone.
    The girl licked her lips. “I have a house. A whole house, hidden away where no one can find it.” She looked inordinately pleased to have told Quinn this and said nothing more for a few minutes, before standing to stretch and yawn. Now she was upright, Quinn could see she was a bony cat of a girl, all angles and joints. “But you never answered my question.”
    â€œWhat question?”
    â€œWhy are you up here when your house is down there?”
    â€œHow do you know where I used to live?”
    Her smile was thin-lipped, as if what she prepared to reveal pained her. “I know all sorts of things.”
    Quinn was suspicious, but the girl appeared guileless. She had probably heard whispers about him, from her parents or town gossip. People around here talked when they had nothing better to do and invented facts to fill the spaces in their knowledge, the way ancient cartographers surmised entire continents into existence. And