Crow Of Thorns

by Richard Mosses

  I can be a horse. No one has to ride – a mustang roaming the prairie. Can't I?

  Showing the Chairman of the Underworld I wasn't going to play his game means that I can show the rest of them I'll do it my way. Or I'll choose the corpse option. Better to die on my feet than live on my knees. I'm making too much of this, a melodrama out of a crisis.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  There's a hunched shadow behind the blind covering the window. I walk over, the drip no longer needed. Corbie is sitting on the sill outside. This is one of those environmentally controlled places. “Either walk through the wall or come in the door, the window doesn't open.” I go back to the bed.

  Corbie sits on the end of the bed, looking at my records upside down.

  “That doesn't help me know if you're real or in my head.”

  “What's the difference?” Corbie says.

  I shrug and laugh. “You know I've actually missed you. I didn't really have anyone to talk to. Mum is wrapped up in it all and I don't want to freak anyone else out and have them lock me up in a loony bin.”

  “You mean Rachael.”

  “I told Rachael about you. She thinks you're a morphine dream. I mean the nurses. I'm sure they could find a couple of doctors to agree with them pretty quickly.”

  “You've been here too long. You've got used to being fed like clockwork, lights out, lights on. You're institutionalised. Like a pet rat in a cage.”

  Or a horse in a corral. “Back to the Gardens then.” It's cold outside. It'll snow soon.

  “I still have a lot to teach you.”

  I get my rucksack out of the cupboard. It smells musty, as do my clothes. After putting them on I feel more normal. My prison robe I discard on the end of the bed. I pack the few things I'd got in the room, collect my toiletries and edge to the door. Away from the nurse's station, at the end of the corridor, is an emergency exit. It's my only way out without facing the Spanish Inquisition. I follow the nurses' movements and when I'm sure none of them are between me and the way out I go for it.

  Walking in my boots feels weird and they make an annoying rubbery squeak on the polished floor. Everyone can hear me coming. My hand rests on the small lever over the lock. The metal is very cold and my arm breaks out in goose bumps. Where are my gloves?

  “Go on.” Corbie has waddled down the hall behind me.

  I swallow and push down on the lever. The door swings open and the cold draught takes my breath away. I rush outside onto the fire escape, slam the door shut behind me, and clatter down to the foot of the stairs. There's miles of walking to get back to Glasgow. In front of me is an evergreen forest and behind the hospital building a hill rises up to a grey sky. Following the road is out of the question – I may be found and persuaded to return. I head into the dense conifers behind the small hospital.

  Looking back I see that the hospital was once a castle, the typical Scottish solid box shape. Crenellation runs around the slate roof, small turrets occupy the top corners. To either side wings have been added in tasteful wood, glass and stone that matches the original building. My room was in one of these wings.

  I smell damp pine and resin as I crunch over brown needles. The trees are tall, the boughs curling up at the ends like arthritic fingers. It's been a long time since I felt such fresh air on my face. I'm invigorated and cold.

  Brushing aside prickly brambles and avoiding roots and branches I make slow progress through the forest. I stub my toe on a slab of stone and stumble into a clearing. The ground is littered with fallen tombstones. Only a couple remain standing to show this wasn't some loose crazy paving. The forest is encroaching though as little saplings emerge from the spaces between stones and moss is trying to cover everything. Beyond the ancient cemetery is a round building with a metal cross sticking from its roof. A church of some kind, but not one I've seen before. It's holding up better than the graveyard next to it.

  It would be good to stay and look around, but I want to make decent progress before dark. They may look for me here as it's close to the hospital.

  I text Rachael – Felt well enough to leave, thanks for your care and support. Hopefully she won't be too mad with me.

  The easiest way back to Glasgow will be to go over the hill. I'm used to camping out, but not really hiking. Is this insane, should I go back now? What if this crazy idea to walk back is part of the illness or the drugs? I trudge on without an answer. Corbie has gone AWOL again. My pack is heavy. Absolutely everything I have is on my back. It isn't the end of civilisation, but this is what it would be like. A long walk in the forest, unless everything burns first.

  Do I have enough change for the bus? I could get on and ride past my fare. Hope the search party doesn't notice me waiting in a bus shelter. Why am I so sure, so paranoid, that they'd send anyone anyway? I remember that they always did before.

  I start walking up the hillside. The trees give me something to cling to until they find it too steep themselves. I have to zig zag back and forth. Just as I get to the brow of the hill I find it wasn't the top after all. There's a long flat bit ahead and another steep slope beyond. Trudging through the scabby grass is like the walk through the moonlit desert in the Underworld. I got past that by flying to the abyss. Can I fly to Glasgow? Land like Superman in the Botanic Gardens. I stop and give it a try. Closing my eyes, I will myself to rise. I open them again, one at a time. I'm right where I was, on terra firma. Just for a moment I felt lighter. I thought maybe…maybe I'm an idiot with some real problems. Fucking fly home. Who am I kidding?

  I walk on, the wind making my eyes water.

  The top of the slope isn't the highest point on the hill either. I walk round instead of over. Passing a rocky outcrop the Clyde valley opens out before me. Glasgow sprawls across it, some tall blocks still stand, but most of them have been levelled since I was small. Windmills turn lazily on the hills on the other side. I feel a fierce pride. It might be a crime-ridden grimy shithole, but it's where I live. My city, my home.

  I sit down and give myself a break. Unlike the Underworld my legs ache with the exertion. My chest feels like it's under a rock. I don't know if I should have left. The familiar rumble of hunger rises in my belly. How quickly we adapt to luxury, take it as a given. This is the beginning of that near permanent sense of something missing – but also the satisfaction of being fed.

  I can go back. I can eat. I don't need to do this. But I do. I have my doubts, my weaknesses. I don't want this, this life. But I need it. It calls to me. The comfy beds, the regular meals. It isn't me anymore. I think Kathryn knew this when she asked for the divorce. I could go back, but I'd not be happy. She knew I wasn't ever coming back. My place is in the tent city. I didn't know what it was before. I couldn't say that I've been fulfilling it up to now. The role of shaman is not one anyone there would recognise. Hell, I barely know what it is myself. But the sense of it, the feel of it – like running my hands over the body of a lover in the dark – it feels right.

  It's downhill all the way from here to the West End, even on rubbery legs I should make it. Using the distant spires of Glasgow University I orientate myself. Half a dozen carefully tended golf courses, numerous farmed fields and then the streets of Maryhill if I'm not mistaken. I'm no expert but it must be about five miles across country.

  It's after dark when I get back to the Botanic Gardens. I can almost feel frost growing on my brows and cheeks. My body is warm, wrapped in coat and jumpers, my head in a hat and the coat's hood. As soon as I slow down though the cold will seep in.

  As I expected, my spot has been taken. I don't recognise the tent, so it could be someone new. But no one told them it was my spot.

  The ground is hard. I don't think I'd put my tent up well in the dark either. I look over to where Albert's tent was only a couple of weeks ago. That space and those around it are taken too. Despite the winter really starting to bite the camp appears to be growing. I'll know better in daylight.

  I wander over to the main gates where Byres Road and Great
Western Road meet. The church on the other side lies derelict. The artwork inside its roof burned away with the rest of the interior. An insurance job was the implication in the press and on the street. Like the nightclub in the listed building that got torn down. The stones still stand here however. Maybe I can find a nook for the night and set up my pitch in the morning. I stash my pack in the bushes beside the gatehouse. It's good to get it off. I stretch my back like a cat.

  On the other side of the ragged Keep Out tape whipping in the icy breeze is nothing but treachery and charcoal. Sodden beams, fallen masonry and the heavy smell of charred wood. I was married here, when it was an entertainment venue, beneath the constellations painted on the ceiling. Now the stars have fallen and there's no shelter here.

  I retrieve my pack and look at the wall between the railings and the gatehouse. I've seen it, but not paid it any attention. It rises up to head height, made from sandstone blocks, with a slightly oval capstone sitting on the top. There's a short section at this end, and a longer section heading parallel to Great Western Road. I follow it round. It's like a tall isosceles triangle with the top part lopped off – the short end where I started. No doors, no roof. With difficulty I pull myself up onto it and catch myself from falling. On the other side it goes down below ground level. Four thick iron I-beams span the gap. The inside of the wall is lined with small rectangular ceramic tiles, which where once white or grey. It's too dark to make out, but there is something flat down there.

  Of course. This is an air shaft. Someone once told me there used to be a railway line along here. The station must have been near here too, where the bushes and trees get thick beyond the airshaft wall. Perhaps it too burned down in suspicious circumstances. I must be looking down onto the platform.

  It looks too far to drop without twisting an ankle or falling onto my back. Although maybe from one of the crossbeams it might be okay. If they left this open and exposed what about the remains of the station. Along the road there's a wall breaking up the perimeter railings. Now I come to think of it, a relatively new one too.

  Getting off the wall, I go to where the bushes and trees look impassable. Crawling under a well-developed rhododendron, I can just about see that most of the area has been reclaimed by nature, but there are two spaces around which is a low fence made of rotting wooden posts and wire. Inside are iron stairs, leading down.

  I straddle the fence easily and go to where the steps start. The wooden treads are almost gone, showing a honeycomb of metal beneath. I'm not confident about the iron holding together. This must have been exposed for at least thirty years, probably more. I test it with my weight. It holds. Taking the next step down, I try to be as light as possible. The metal flexes and I rush down to the first landing which feels more secure. The final set of steps I take in another rush.

  The platform heads into gloom towards the north, to the south light comes through from the air vents. There is a platform on either side of a wide ditch where the rails would have sat. This ditch is overgrown with bushes and thorns. In summer it must be a jungle. Pools of water lie scummed with ice, but my breath is no longer steaming. I rummage around in my pack for my torch, but I can't find it. This is what happens when someone else packs your stuff.

  I head into the gloom of the south tunnel which leads towards Kelvingrove. It is lined with red bricks and my footsteps echo. I hadn't expected it to be dry in here, but the Victorians must have built in drainage when they made the railway line.

  I follow the tunnel until I can barely see anything. The ground here is flat. There doesn't seem to be any rats. I take out my mat and my sleeping bag, remove my boots and climb in. It only took a fortnight, but I've forgotten what it was like sleeping like this. I can feel every brick under my back. I hear drips of water echoing down the tunnel. An ambulance siren brings me back just as I'd nearly nodded off.

  I feel like I'm falling into the darkness of the tunnel above me like I was falling into the abyss.

  Chapter 8

  An ambulance breaks my sleep again. It must be returning from the callout. It's much lighter in here. I can see the roof of the tunnel. Snug and warm, I'm content to stay here. The light is bright and sharp though and won't let me get back to sleep. My phone is dead, so I have no clear idea what time it is. I'm pretty sure it's Friday, must be after nine to be this bright.

  I look down toward the platform. It seems unnatural. Clean and fresh compared to how it seemed last night. After crawling out of my bag, I walk towards the stairs. Nature calls. The sight is beautiful and terrifying. Jack Frost has been hard at work. The whole platform area beneath the air vents is covered in a fine white down, from the hard surface of the platform itself to the spindly limbs of the trees growing in the centre.

  If I had been outside last night I would have died for sure.

  I take even more care going up the rusty steps to the surface. The orange corrosion is quite clear against the stark white. I emerge into a crisp fantasy world. Every bush and tree is heavy under snow with a thin hard film on the surface. My breath is heavy in front of me. It feels like the moisture is freezing before it hits my face. I clear the fence and duck through the bushes. The tent city looks like a number of strange hillocks. I would never have been able to walk through this if I'd left today. The men's facilities are more Baltic than ever. I don't want to touch the seat in case my flesh bonds to the plastic.

  My stomach feels like an empty pit. Getting up has woken it. I've not eaten since yesterday lunchtime. Only a few weeks ago this was hardly unusual, but I also walked five miles too over countryside. My legs are stiff and heavy. I'll need something to keep me going in the cold.

  On my way back to the station I see Janice struggling out of her tent. I start to move some snow out of the way. Janice starts and Brutus begins yapping. “Jesus, Nik you scared the shit out of me. We all thought you was dead. Got whatever Albie had. I thought you was a ghost. Thing is you look less like a skeleton now.”

  “Soft living in the hospital.”

  “You shoulda stayed there. Jesus, Nik, if you can afford hospital what the fuck are you doing back here?”

  “I wasn't footing the bill.”

  Janice has a knowing look on her face. I expect her to wink saucily at me. “You shoulda stayed there,” she says. “I'm sorry, someone took your pitch. No one ever comes back, you know. We thought you was dead.”

  “That's okay. I understand.”

  “Where did you stay last night?”

  “In the railway tunnel. It's so much better there than here, Janice. You should join me there. Everyone should. We'll freeze to death up here. It's snug down there, and with more of us it'll be warmer.”

  “What railway tunnel? Nearest station is Partick.”

  “The Victorians built a line that runs under the Gardens. Plenty of tunnel, and out of the elements.”

  “How'd you get in?”

  “The old station is gone, but the stairs leading down are still there. Look I can show you.”

  “Aye. Maybe later, Nik. I need to walk Brutus here.”

  “Ok. I'll be about.” I expected more enthusiasm, even from Janice.

  I head back to my stuff to get ready for work. I really ought to check in. If I'm lucky I may even have been paid. There's a grating scream and the step gives way beneath my weight. I'm suspended in space, then fall through the gap, landing hard on my left leg. It is rammed into my hip socket. My knee is bright blue pain.

  The demon tugs my leg off. My skin rips like thin paper.

  Flakes of rust and snow fall onto my body. My arm feels wet. Have I slashed it open on the metal?

  Feeling something jabbing at my cheek, I swat it away. It comes back.

  “Get up,” Corbie says.

  Slowly I come up to sit. My head is throbbing. My arm is cold and wet where it had broken through puddle ice. Pain flares in my hip when I shift my weight. “Fuck.”

  “Dude, why are you always in some mess when I come and look in on you?”

&nb
sp; “Maybe you're the cause?”

  “I see your humour hasn't broken.” Corbie stands beside me, head tilted up.

  Carefully I come up to stand. It feels like a lump the size of an egg has grown on the back of my head. My stomach growls. I laugh. I can't keep it in. It's almost hysterical. I just can't seem to get an even break. “Let me guess. Playtime is over and it's time to go to school?”

  “Yeah. If you're well enough to throw yourself down some stairs…”

  “Can I get something to eat first?” I hobble along the platform to the tunnel, careful not to slip on any black ice. “Then I really have to check in at work.”

  “What were you plannin?” Corbie glides along behind me.

  “I know a great place to get a bacon roll and tea. You got twenty quid you can loan me. It'll be my treat.”

  “Sure I got it right here.” I look up from stowing my toothpaste and brush. If the raven can get us money then things might not be so bad. “Aw crap. Looks like I left my wallet in my other pants. Tell you what I'll get the check next time.”

  I am such an eejit. I grin despite my pain.

  The café is warm and welcome as ever.

  “Who's been feeding you up?” Sindi takes out her pad and comes over.

  I smile. “I was in the hospital. Pneumonia.”

  “Sure, we nearly went out of business without you.”

  “I'll have the usual, please.”

  “Breakfast of kings it is then.” She waits.

  “Sorry.” I wave my phone at her terminal, but it's dead. “Shit. I forgot to charge it.”

  “Hey, don't worry about it,” Sindi says.

  “Gimme a second.” I remember I still have some change from the hard currency that Kathryn gave me and dig the crumpled notes out of the pocket I'd thrust them in.

  “I think she digs you,” Corbie says, after Sindi's gone. His talons dent the fake leather upholstery on the couch opposite.

  “Yeah. She's a waitress. She digs me until I've paid the bill, then the smile slips. I used to like the old indifference more. It was at least real. Once someone brought the great American customer service over, everyone had to do it.”