Lyrebird. Cecelia Ahern

      ‘The imitator. The imitatress.’

      ‘Gendered titles, from a feminist such as yourself. You should be ashamed,’ Rachel teases, signalling the barman for another round.

      ‘Echoes of Laura.’

      ‘Perfect,’ Rachel says. ‘For True Movies.’

      ‘She mimics,’ Solomon says, thinking aloud. ‘She repeats things that she hasn’t heard before, a few times, until she gets it right. Maybe it’s to understand them. She makes distressed sounds when she feels endangered, like the barking, growling, car alarm sounds when we first met her. She associates those sounds with danger or defence.’

      They’re both hanging on to his analysis.

      ‘Interesting,’ Rachel nods along. ‘I hadn’t realised there was a language to it.’

      ‘Hadn’t you?’ Solomon asks. It had seemed clear to him. The sounds were all different. Sympathetic when whimpering with Mossie, defensive, on the attack when she was surrounded. Mimicking Solomon’s throat-clearing when she recognises when he’s uncomfortable or generally an uncomfortable situation. The sounds make sense to him. Entirely peculiar, but there seems to be a pattern to them.

      ‘Laura’s Language,’ Bo says, continuing her search for a title.

      ‘So she’s a mimic,’ Rachel says. ‘Laura the Mimic.’

      ‘That’s deep,’ Bo laughs.

      ‘She doesn’t mimic actions or movements. Just sounds,’ Solomon says.

      They both think about it.

      ‘I mean she’s not on all fours, growling like a dog, or running around the room and flapping her arms like a bird. She repeats sounds.’

      ‘Good point.’

      ‘Our friend the anthropologist,’ Rachel says, raising her new pint towards him.

      ‘Anthropologist, now that’s a good idea,’ Bo says, reaching for her pen and paper. ‘We need to speak to one of them about her.’

      ‘There’s a bird somewhere, that imitates sounds,’ Solomon says, not listening to the two of them. ‘I saw it on a nature programme a while ago.’ He thinks hard, mind foggy from the jet lag and now alcohol.

      ‘A parrot?’ Rachel offers.

      Bo giggles.

      ‘No.’

      ‘A budgie.’

      ‘No, it imitates all sounds. Humans, machines, other birds, I saw it on a documentary.’

      ‘Hmm,’ Bo reaches for her phone. ‘Bird that imitates sounds.’

      She searches for a moment. Suddenly her phone starts playing loudly and as the customers turn to her again, she quickly apologises and lowers the volume.

      ‘Sorry. This is it.’

      They huddle around to watch a two-minute clip of David Attenborough and a bird that mimics the sounds of other birds, a chainsaw, a mobile phone, the shutter of a camera.

      ‘That’s exactly like Laura,’ Rachel says, prodding the screen with her greasy salty peanut finger.

      ‘It’s called a lyrebird,’ Bo says, deep in thought. ‘Laura the Lyrebird.’

      ‘The Lyrebird,’ Rachel says.

      ‘No,’ Solomon shakes his head. ‘Just Lyrebird.’

      ‘Love it,’ Bo grins. ‘That’s it. Congratulations, Solomon, your first title!’

      Elated, they call it a night at midnight and return to their bedrooms.

      ‘I thought you were tired,’ Bo smiles as Solomon nuzzles into her neck, as she opens the door with a keycard. She misses a few times, her aim off. ‘You’re like a vampire, coming alive at night,’ she giggles.

      He nibbles at her neck, which reminds him of a bat, which reminds him of the bat house, which reminds him of Laura, who is in the room next door, which knocks him off course, which makes him loosen his grip on Bo. Thankfully, she doesn’t notice as she finally gets the key in the door and pushes it open.

      ‘I wonder if she’s awake,’ Bo whispers.

      Laura close to his mind, Solomon pulls Bo close to him, kisses her.

      ‘Wait,’ Bo whispers. ‘Let me listen.’

      She pulls away and moves to the connecting door to Laura’s room. She pushes her ear to the door and while she listens, Solomon starts undressing her.

      ‘Sol,’ she laughs. ‘I’m trying to do research!’

      He pulls her underwear from her foot and throws it over his shoulder. He starts at her ankle and kisses his way up her leg, licking the inside of her thigh.

      ‘Never mind,’ Bo gives up on her research and turns her back to the door.

      In bed, Bo lets out moans of delight.

      Solomon pulls her down to him, to kiss her, and as their lips lock, he hears the sounds of pleasure again. Bo’s sounds. But they’re not coming from Bo, they’re coming from the connecting door. They both freeze.

      Bo looks at Solomon. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispers.

      Solomon looks at the connecting door. The light from the bathroom is illuminating the otherwise dark room. Though the door on their side is still closed, Laura must have opened her own connecting door and is listening at their door.

      ‘Oh my God,’ Bo repeats, getting off Solomon and pulling the bedclothes around her protectively.

      ‘She can’t see you,’ he says.

      ‘Sssh.’

      Solomon’s heart pounds, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be. Even if Laura can’t see them, he’s sure she can hear them.

      ‘I don’t care, that’s sick.’

      ‘It’s not sick.’

      ‘For fuck sake, Solomon,’ she hisses, disgusted with him.

      They listen out but there’s no further sound.

      ‘What are you doing?’ she hisses, watching him get out of bed.

      He goes to the connecting door and pushes his ear to the cold wood. He imagines Laura right on the other side, doing the same thing. Her first night away from her cottage, perhaps they were wrong to leave her alone for a few hours. He hopes she’s okay.

      ‘Well?’ she asks, as he gets back into bed.

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘What if she’s nuts, Sol?’ she whispers.

      ‘She’s not nuts.’

      ‘Like crazy psycho-killer nuts.’

      ‘She’s not.’

      ‘How do you know that?’

      ‘I don’t … it was your idea to bring her here.’

      ‘That’s helpful.’

      He sighs. ‘Can’t we at least finish?’

      ‘No. That’s freaked me right out.’

      Solomon sighs, rests his arms behind his head and stares, feeling wide awake, at the ceiling. Bo lies on top of him, her leg across his body, so he can’t even finish himself off, while she sleeps. Fully awake now, and unsatisfied.

      He throws the covers off and moves so that Bo will get off him.

      ‘If you’re going to wank in the toilet, you better be quiet or the Lyrebird will be repeating your every sound for the next two weeks on camera,’ Bo warns, sleepily.