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Speaker 1: I'd been after that damn thrush for a week. I

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saw it once, skimming alone near the canal. It was

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a nervous thing, with a chest like it had been

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sprinkled with pepper. It was nothing flashy, but that glimpse

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left me wanting more. I think it was the fact

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it wasn't meant to be here. It was definitely, of course,

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it probably caught the wrong goss somewhere south and ended

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up where it shouldn't have. I hadn't seen one in

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this area before, not in all the years I've been

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coming out here bird watching, so I kept coming back

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every morning. I put boots on before the town woke up,

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shoved my scope in my bag as well as some

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snacks and a thermus of tea, and followed the same

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muddy tracks through the trees. There's a battered old notice

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board nailed up near the canal shelter, faded from years

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of sun and frost. I never meant to make it

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happy of checking it, but lately I couldn't help myself.

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It used to be the usual mess of dog walker ads,

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but now it was littered with missing persons posters. I

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often glanced at it on the way in But on

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Monday I spotted Gareth with his uniform jacket half buttoned

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up and radio clipped to his shoulder, leaning over it

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with a stable gun. All right, you old sod, Gareth said,

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glancing sideways without turning fully around. Morning to you too,

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I said, grinning. He snorted back again, you trying to

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court that bird or marry it? If it starts letting back,

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I'll let you know. I stepped up beside him. Who've

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we got to day? He tapped the edge of the

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top sheet. It was a woman in the mid twenties.

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The print out looked like it had been taken off Facebook.

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Below her was a boy about eight or nine. From

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the lock of him. Both this week, Gareth said, he's

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been building real slow. One here, one there. Woman and

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little heads always look similar, but they never related. We're

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meant to keep it on the hushburn. Come on, it

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feels like someone's picking them out on purpose, he rubbed

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to the back of his neck. Problem is this sodd

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ale to go off on? I didn't know what to

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say to that. Instead I gave a quiet hum and

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watched him press the paper flat with a side of

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his hand. I see you've got a busy morning. A

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few more of these the stick up around town, then

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back to the station to pretend I know what I'm

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doing for hours, Maybe sneak a cuppa if the phone

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stops ringing long enough, living the dream, I said. Gareth

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hofed and laughed through his nose and stood stepped back.

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He squinted at the board, making sure it all lined up,

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then gave me a serious look. If you see anything

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strange out there, you let me know, just me, but

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you already knew I was a bit off. He gave

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a dry laugh, then moved on and watched them go,

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then turn back to the trees. The woods out here

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go on longer than most people reckon. From the main trail.

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It all looks neat and groomed near the couple of

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picnic benches and the odd wooden sign pointing out butterflies

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or fungus. But you only have to take a few

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steps off the path and it all folds in on itself.

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It all becomes a slow, thick mess of hawthorn, older

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and nettles. You can't avoid. Where I'd seen the thrust

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last was off to the left, well past the cut

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of the canal and into the sort of tangle that'd

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make most people turn around, But I'd grown up out

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here when I was little. These woods were my patch,

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way before mobile phones and the estate got bigger. I

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used to spend hours getting lost on purpose. Me and

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a couple of mates built a half rotten den out

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there once, proper deep where the brambles got thick. We

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nicked a couple of planks from a skip and a

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bit of tarp we weren't meant to have back then.

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It felt like a bloody fortress. I don't go in

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as far these days, but that thrush wasn't going to

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hang about on the edge trail, not after a week

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of me stomping through. If I wanted another lock, I'd

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have to push deeper. It was just past noon when

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I took myself lower between a couple of twisted hazels

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and a rotted out log that must have been down

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for years. Bracken came up to my knees and spot

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a nasty invasive plant that looked like it was slowly

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infecting the entire woodland. Then I heard a clink like

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metal on metal. It wasn't loud, but it cut clean

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through the trees, and I started to ponder what it

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could be. Maybe someone flight it out here, though here'd

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it take some effort, though I wouldn't put it past

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a few of the scruffs that lived near my end

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of town. Either way, you don't usually hear that sort

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of thing that deep in. I stayed crouched and listened.

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It kept coming clink, clink, sometimes on its own, sometimes

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in twos or three. Each one seemed to come from

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a different spot, first to my right, then behind me,

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then dead ahead. It gave me a jolt, scared me

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enough to stiffen me up a bit. I stayed where

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I was, listening hard. Then it came again, clink. I

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slowly lifted myself just enough to see over the log.

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It took me a second to find it, but there,

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perched on a low stump, was a missile thrush. I

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watched as it tilted its head and opened its beak

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to make that same metal clink, perfect and crisp. It

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threw me a bit. Sure missile thrushes will copy the

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odd sound, but they're not known for it like some others.

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And even if they were, why that noise out here

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in the thick of the woods. There's nothing metal for miles.

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We must have learned it near by, heard it enough

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to copy it back. Like that, it shifted once more,

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then took off His wings caught the lights as it

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darted between branches and dipped through a narrow lion of alder.

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I followed carefully. The ground here was knotted with roots

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and soft underfoot, spongy in some places where the moss

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was thickest. I kept low, stepping where the ferns bent,

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smoothly moving around the trees. Brambles caught at my jacket.

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Occasionally I'd lose sight of the thing, but hear it again, clink, clink,

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always just ahead. I couldn't help but admire it, even

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with everything else going on. It moved with that sharp,

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nervous grace mistle thrushes have. The patterning across its chest

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looked darker in the shade, almost oily, and its eyes

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flickered back at me now and then, like it knew

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I was behind it. I'd watched the birds my whole life,

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but something about this one held me. If he had

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left again then dropped out of sight, I pressed forward,

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pushing through a wall of damp rush, and there it was,

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sat atop a rusted metal roof, wings tucked in head

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turning slowly. The building looked more like an old shed.

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It was narrow, sunken slightly into the slope, edges softened

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with age and dirt. Tarbs had been thrown over the

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top and weighed down with camou netting, but they started

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to rot and curl back. The thing looked forgotten, as

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if it hadn't seen proper use in years. The door

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at the front was heavy duty, bolted shut. A padlock

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hung from the frame. Rust crusted deep into the mechanism.

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Then I heard it again, clink, but the bird didn't move.

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It stayed still on the roof, feathers flat, eyes fixed

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somewhere behind me. The sound hadn't come from it this time, clink, clink, clink,

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this time more sporadic. I edged closer, careful not to

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snap any branches under foot. A smell something like bleach

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hung in the air. The noise persisted. I circled around

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to the far side, where one of the lower panels

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had walked out of the frame, a gap maybe a

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foot wide. I dropped to my knees, brushed the bracken aside,

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and pushed myself through. Inside. It was hotter than I expected.

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It felt wrong straight away. The air hit the back

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of my throat in a way that made me want

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to spit, and there wasn't much light, so I pulled

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out my emergency torch. The floor was concrete and sloped slightly.

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At the far end was six cages, welded straight into

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the ground proper thick steel. Each one had been lived in,

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no question about it. Blankets pressed flat from use, bits

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of paper, and string, trays with hairs in them, kid's clothes.

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One had a muslin cloth baby sized. Another had what

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looked like make up, just the stub of a lipstick

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and a broken comb. None of it matched, None of

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it made sense. The last cage had a little boy

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in it. He couldn't have been more than seven. He

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was curled up in the far corner under a blanket,

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blinking slow, like he'd just woken up. His face was

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gorn to but clean. He looked looked after in the

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way a pet might be. No marks I could see.

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Then A notices the strip of faded cloth pulled tight

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around the back of his head and knotted hard enough

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to leave a mark. A gag. Once he got a

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good look at me, he started moving quick and panicked,

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trying to talk through the gag, pointing to the lock,

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then to the floor. The cage was bolted shut. I

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rattled it gently, but it didn't budge. I'm gonna get

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you out, all right, I said, trying to keep my

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voice steady. Just hang on. I got up and started

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checking the room. There was a grimy, indented surgical table

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in the corner, with one leg braced on bricks. On

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it was a scalpel, a boning knife, thin and stained

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tweezers blackened at the tips, and a jar of cloudy

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liquid that looked like it was meant to clean them,

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though it hadn't been touched in a while. Most of

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the metal had what appeared to be dried blood crusted

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in the grooves. Seeing the tools turn my stomach a bit.

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I kept looking at them, trying to convince myself they

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were just old junk and that the blood was rust.

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But I couldn't. Not With the boy behind me, I

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stepped over a length of pipe and crossed to the

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far wall. The freezer chest was low to the ground

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and held shut with a thick rubber strap. A mess

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of jumper cables fed out the back, still hugged into

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the terminals of a car battery. It buzzed faintly when

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I touched the lid inside, but plastic tubs stacked tight

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about half a freezer full, and each was labeled. The

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top one read Shannon scalp, Benjamin lower, left arm, Shannon teeth.

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Even through the frost, I could tell they were real.

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I slammed the freezer shut and held the lid down

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for a few moments. Then I pulled out my phone

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and started snapping. Flash lit up the space as I

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took pictures of the freezer, tools and cages. I felt

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clumsy doing it, my hands slick with sweat, but it

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had to be done. I'd make sure to delete them later.

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I opened maps, dropped a pin where I stood, and

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fired it straight off to the Gareth found something in

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the woods bad sent my location. Get here quick and

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don't come alone. I turned looking for the key and

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spotted two Mannikins tucked into the shadows near the back wall,

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one adult sized, one child. Pinned above them on the

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wall were diagrams, polaroids of the same woman and little boy,

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scrap paper with rough sketches, measurements, and a shopping list

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of different body parts. Then I heard a lock shift.

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At first I thought the boy had been able to

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free himself, but as I turned, the sudden flush of

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light flash banged me. The shape in the doorway stood stiff,

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its head tilted to its left shoulder, like they were

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melted into each other. I squinted to see more, but

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the light from outside made it difficult. All I could

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see was the bulk of him, broaded through the chest,

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with one arm hanging longer than the other. He stepped

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in and I raised my torch slightly. You don't want

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to do this, I said. My voice came out quiet

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and pathetic. He kept moving. The shape of him came

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into view. He was burned with twisted but healed skin.

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He was big. He lunged with both weight and power.

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I stumbled back, caught off guard, and slammed sideways into

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the metal frame of one of the cages. The torch

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clattered to the floor, spinning light strobing around the room.

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He came at me again, arms wide, trying to grab hold.

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I dug sideways and shoved my shoulder into his ribs.

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He grunted and swung one arm to the side of

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my head. I shoved back, using both hands, pushing him

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off balance toward the table. He knocked it, sent talls scattering,

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but stayed upright. He came at me again, clumsy but fast,

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leading with his shoulder. I grabbed a bit of pipe

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or rod and brought it up between us. It slowed

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him and gave me just enough room to back pedal

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and breathe. Everything in me wanted to run, but I

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knew I couldn't leave the boy alone. He charged again, faster,

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this time, slamming me back into the cages. My shoulder

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cracked the bars and sens a jol down my arm.

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I swung the pipe and clipped the side of his head.

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He roared, voice all torn up and broken. Get away

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from them, their mine, my Shannon, my benjy. He grabbed

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a handful of my jacket and yanked me forward. I twisted,

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kicked hard, and landed somewhere near his shin. He didn't

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go down, but he gave me just enough space to

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wrench free. My ear was still ringing from the earlier blow,

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and sick the rock behind my eye now as something

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had split. He kept coming. Every breath he tuck sounded

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like it hurt, wet and uneven, full of rattling heat.

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The barns had wrecked his face, but there was still

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strength in him, more than I had. He was desperate,

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and desperate men don't stop easy. I tripped trying to

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dodge his next swing, landed hard on my back, ribs flaring,

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slipped on the pipe, and it skidded out of reach.

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He loomed above mouth, working like he was trying to

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say more, but all that came out was a dry,

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bubbling rasp. His boot pressed into my leg, pinning me.

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I tried to twist to roll clear, but his weight

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kept me pinned. My ear was still ringing, and now

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my ribs were burning. I couldn't catch my breath. The

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pressure on my leg grew sharper harder. He was trying

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to crush me. The door slammed open behind him. Down,

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Get the hell down. The man didn't flinch. He kept going.

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There was a crack of Gareth's bat and slamming down.

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The figure reeled back a step. I kicked out hard

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and caught him just above the knee. He staggered sideways.

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I said, get on the ground. Gareth didn't start, got

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behind him fast and brought the baton down again. This

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time across the shoulders. The man dropped. There was a grunt,

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and then Gareth was on him, pinning him, coughing his

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wrists tight behind his back. The figure flinched but didn't

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drop got him. Gareth barked, you're right. I nodded, caught

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my breath and sweat stung my eyes. I dragged myself upright,

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ribs aching and used the cages to hold myself up.

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We need bolt cutters, I said, voice. Horse now back

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up arrived quickly. They helped pin improperly and hauled him out,

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kicking and spluttering like an animal, while another stayed behind

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to free the boy. Gareth helped me walk back through

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the trees, mostly acting as a support over the rough terrain.

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Parramed were waiting near the path. They took me in,

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sat me down, gave me something for the pain, then

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carted me off to A and E to check for

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concussion and whatever else i'd rattled loose. I gave two

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full statements that day, then another two later in the week.

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I had to repeat some of it more times than

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I felt like. A few days later, Gareth swung by

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my place with a flask and some imported cigars. We

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sat in the garden out back, just like we used

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to when we were younger. Eventually he said, ugly bugger,

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wasn't he? Yeah, I muttered. Gareth nodded, staring into his flask.

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Didn't even know he was still around. Thought he'd left

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years back. He used to live on the fringe near

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the old paper mill. His wife and kid died in

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a house fire. Poor Bugis didn't make it out. He

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did he always that big, I asked. Gareth hoffed, Yeah,

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he's a big lad. Worked in salvage. I think he

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used to see him down by the skippins holding stuff

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no one else would touch. After the fire, something just snapped.

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We thought he moved off. I took a sip of

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my drink in that shed. Those women and boys. He

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was storing certain parts, Yeah, Gareth muttered. He wasn't just

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storing them, he was trying to put them back together,

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bit by bit. We both went quiet. After a while.

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Gareth cleared his throat. It's sick, but in his head

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he thought he was fixing something, putting his family right now,

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fixing that, I said, not what he did. Gareth gave

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a slow nod. Nah, there's no coming back from there.

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Did you find that bird you were looking for.