Page 79 of Madness

I ignore the calls from Red and the others, walking through the thorns, not caring as they tear at my trousers and nick my legs.

Thatcher can’t be goneagain.

I can’t lose him again; the pain would be far too much to bear.

“Harry!” Red calls after me, the others shouting my name in unison as Red warns the guards to back off.

They don’t like it when we wander into the unknown past the overgrown shrubbery in case there is a hole in the fence that surrounds us, but none of that matters right now.

Nothing matters as the white fur covered in blood comes into view, and my whole world stops.

I fall to my knees, the wet mud soaking through my trousers, and I cry out, cradling his tiny body in my arms.

“No!” I chant repeatedly, rocking him in my arms as I’m transported back to my childhood home all over again.

Al comes over to me, his hand on my shoulder. ”It isn’t him,” he says.

“Are yi dumb as well as mad? Thatcher is clearly dead.” I want to shout at him, to lay my friend at my feet and throw myself at Al until all this pain is transferred somewhere else.

Al shakes his head in response, “A little mad, but that isn’t Thatcher. He’s not wearing a waistcoat.”

“What do you mean, Al?” Red asks him.

She drops to my side, her presence a comfort I desperately need at this moment, and rests her head on my shoulder, her eyes never leaving my furry friend in my hands.

“Thatcher has a waistcoat, just like the guards are cards. I know I sound bonkers… crazy even, but my delusions only affect certain people and things, and Thatcher always had a waistcoat.”

I lift my tear-streaked face to meet Al’s eyes, a tiny spark of hope igniting in the depths of my grief.

The weight of the tiny, lifeless body in my arms suddenly feels less crushing, but the loss of an animal’s life still makes my soul ache. “Are yi sure?” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears.

Al nods firmly, “I’m positive. Thatcher always has a waistcoat. That is not Thatcher.”

Red grips my arm, “We’ll search every inch of this place until we find him.”

I nod slowly, allowing myself to look closer to the rabbit in my arms and see that it isn’t Thatcher. With a heavy heart, I stand with the tiny creature in my arms and dig a small hole behind the trees, laying him to rest, and whisper a small apology for mistaking it for my friend.

We turn back towards the tree, the guards reluctantly stepping aside, and I can’t help but glance back over my shoulder one last time.

“Come on, let’s find Thatcher,” Red says, interlinking her fingers with mine and tugging me away from the small grave that could have been so easily my friend.

Determined to find him, we split up and search the grounds.

The minutes feel like hours, and I feel like my heart is going to leap out of my mouth the longer it takes to search for him as we comb through every nook and cranny. The twins search by where the guards stand stationed, and Red, Al, and I all continue our search towards Bander’s greenhouse.

When I start to think all hope is lost, the sight of the greenhouse has relief rushing through me, and I hope like hell that Thatcher is inside.

“Harry!” Red shouts as I sprint towards the glass house and step through the jimmied door. I sweep my eyes over the tangled greenery, hoping to see a flash of white.

Small, barely inaudible squeaks draw my attention to the back; rushing over, I find Thatcher, trembling but unharmed, between two broken plant pots, shattered glass, and overgrown plants.

I scoop him into my arms, cradling him tightly as relief washes over me, “Thank goodness,” Iwhisper, feeling the warmth of his body against my chest. “Whit happened?”

“Fox,” is all he says as he burrows into my T-shirt, and I hold him closer.

Red catches up, Al following closely behind, both panting heavily, “Is he okay?” she asks, worry etched on her face.

“Aye, just terrified. That bloody fox got in again,” I reply, gently stroking Thatcher’s fur to calm him and myself down.

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