Crow Of Thorns

by Richard Mosses

  “No, I get that. I think she really digs you, man.”

  “So what's the plan?”

  “You should ask her out on a date.”

  “I'm not divorced yet. That's not what I meant anyway.”

  “You got work. Then I guess you learn.”

  “How do we start?”

  “We'll take it as it comes. You seem to be with the programme now, but I think an element of surprise would do you good. Keep you on your toes. You just sort out your work life and we'll get into it later.”

  “Who you talking to?” Sindi places a plate with a bacon and egg roll and a mug of tea in front of me.

  “Oh, just myself. Just planning my day.”

  “You know what they say about people who talk to themselves?” she says, with a playful look.

  “No. What do they say?”

  “They have a great conversation.” She laughs.

  I laugh too. It sounds fake to me.

  “I'll see you later.”

  The tea is scalding hot, the bacon crisp, the egg just runny enough. It's Friday and I've earned it.

  There's no rush getting to work. The office is quiet. Checking the servers, everything is green. I should be grateful that nothing went wrong while I was ill, but I'm peeved that I'm really not needed. I'm proud of the code I've hacked out, it works well. It's what I was paid to implement. I'm worried that someone will notice and terminate my job. I manually set up some stress tests and go through the server logs while they are running just to be sure the software hasn't missed something and should have alerted me. It's not long before my stomach is crying out for food again. Eating is a habit that I'd successfully gotten out of.

  I chew on a pen and sip water from the cooler in the corridor. It reminds me of quitting fags all over again. At least there's no one here to get grumpy at. Even Corbie has buggered off. I think he's allergic to technology.

  When I leave to go home I see Corbie through the glass in the lobby. Looks like it's time to go to school.

  “It's not easy voluntarily enterin the Otherworld.” Corbie sits on my shoulder and talks into my ear. “If it was, everyone would do it, and there'd be no need for shaman. You need to reach a state of ecstasy, an altered state of consciousness. Sure some drugs will take you through the door, but like bouncers they'll throw you back out again and sooner or later the landin will be rough. In my case, literally.”

  I walk up Woodlands Road, close to where Corbie first introduced himself a fortnight ago. It seems much longer. I guess the Sleeping Beauty act didn't help.

  “You got dancin, jumpin, runnin, fuckin, almost any kind of physical exertion, until exhaustion. You got meditation, but that's real hard. You can use music and drummin for all of them. Breathin right is helpful.”

  “That sounds tough. I can't imagine the sexual technique is easy without an understanding partner.”

  Corbie's laugh sounds like he's bringing up phlegm. “It helps if you're both tryin to get there. Boy that brings back some memories. Free love, man. A whole tent of people tryin to get to Heaven. It's all gone so borin.”

  “Sounds kind of icky to me. You don't know where anyone else's been. Who knows who's sticking what where…”

  “That's what I'm sayin. Borin, dry, caged in your ways. Don't knock it til you tried it. It's about trust, about love. People you trust and love ain't stickin anythin anywhere you don't want it.”

  “So entering an ecstatic state…”

  “Yeah. I'd recommend we go the exhaustion route first. Then if the meditation route don't work you got somethin to fall back on. Either way, you gonna need a drum.”

  “I can't afford to buy a drum.”

  “Who said anythin about buyin one? You can make one.”

  “So I need some plastic for a skin, a bucket or something for the body and something to tie them together.”

  Corbie laughs. “You need skin for a skin.”

  I turn up towards Great Western Road. “Some Hannibal Lecter thing? I don't think so.”

  “Hannibal Lecter?”

  “A serial killer cannibal.”

  “Why did you go straight to human skin? A deer would be fine.”

  I shrug. Corbie has to keep his balance. Digging his thorned talons deep into my skin makes me gasp, but an electric thrill runs through me too. It's like playing with a milk tooth before it falls out. “Why an animal skin?”

  “Dude, you're a shaman. There's no power in plastic. No life lived through it. When are you going to get it? This is about blood and pain.”

  “You're wrong. It's about minds and symbols. We do that rather well these days. Even if it means wearing out the meaning.”

  “You may be right. On one level. But nothin works so well as the real thing. You'll know it's not real. Even if the drum makes a sound it won't be the heartbeat of the animal itself.”

  “What about the rhythm of the city? The almost imperceptible flicker of fluorescent tubes, the underground trains moving in perfect time from station to station, the morning inhale and evening exhale of commuters?”

  “That's not life itself, that's an abstraction.”

  “Ha. An abstraction is just a symbol. A symbol is a state of mind. I think therefore I am. Symbolically, there's no difference between the simulacrum and the simulated. If there was, the Otherworld would not be meaningfully real.”

  “Okay. We'll try it your way for now.” I feel more than see Corbie lift a wing and dip down in some semblance of a bow. “We'll make the drum out of somethin symbolic. I still think it would be good for you to learn how to hunt an animal and tan a hide.”

  “Thank you. I'm sure I'm not supposed to take a life unless it's necessary or some flower power crap like that. But I'm willing to bet those streetlights have spirits too.”

  “Don't push your luck, buddy.”

  “Hey, I'm on a roll here.” I feel a light buffet of a wing by my ear. “Hey.”

  “That was a symbolic knock upside your head. Let's get the materials together first.”

  We reach the gates into the Gardens. “I'll unpack my tent and get that setup. When I've found my torch we can go looking for what we need. Maybe get some food too.”

  Down in the tunnel I'm reassured that my stuff is still there. Not a word from Rachael. I thought she'd be mad with me for walking out. I take out my phone. Still as dead as it was this morning. Stupid Kol'ka didn't charge his phone up at work. The tent won't provide any power as it's not been set up for ages. I'm pretty sure I'm meant to see the kids tomorrow. It's amazing that Kathryn hasn't been in touch at all for two weeks. Either I've really freaked her out or something's wrong.

  I set the tent up and unpack my things. Corbie supervises when he's not nosing about in my pack. The brick floor is pretty uncomfortable, but I'll see if I can find some cardboard boxes to pad under the tent. Should I light a fire? There was an agreement between us and the city council that we wouldn't light anything other than gas stoves in the park. Down here is another matter. No doubt someone will see the smoke and I'll have the Fire Brigade giving me a good dousing.

  Amongst the flotsam and detritus along the Kelvin River I find what I'm looking for – a wheel from a bicycle, about the size of a bodhran and a large piece of plastic sheet from an advertisement, a large eye is printed on it. Several cable ties I liberate from round a lamppost.

  Back at my new home, I knock the spokes out of the wheel and use a couple of sticks to brace across its full diameter. The sheet I cut slightly larger than the wheel and secure it tightly using the cable ties. If the plastic slackens I hope I can tighten it further. My new drum makes a deep, dull sound. The resonance lasts for longer than I had expected and echoes in the tunnel.

  Corbie doesn't appear too impressed. “What's so symbolic about this? An eye? Isn't that a bit obvious?”

  “Don't you think that splashing around a riverbank in the dark of winter and we find a large enough piece of material, that just happens to have an eye on it just a little unexpected. Besides I
like that it is made of tokens of the modern world; industry, invention, and advertising.”

  Corbie is just a dark smudge in the black tunnel. It is too dark to see his eyes. “You should get started on the first run through,” he says. “If you're ready.”

  I've no idea what time it is and I have a nagging feeling about seeing the kids tomorrow. “What happens next?”

  “Start trying to get a rhythm goin, keep it simple and sustainable. Your arms may start gettin tired but you gotta keep goin. When you feel it workin into your bones move about.”

  I start hitting the drum with the tips of my fingers. It sounds okay, but doesn't feel right. Instead I use the heel of my hand near the rim like I've seen bongo players doing on Buchanan Street. This is much better and I can move my hands faster and with less effort. I soon get the hang of keeping a rhythm going, although not a very fast one.

  Every now and again I feel a little spasm. Like the jerks of my body as it starts to fall asleep. I try to control these until I remember Corbie's suggestion to move with the beat. I feel weird and distinctly self-conscious despite there being no one else around. Each twitch of movement takes me out of control of myself. My arms start to feel leaden and my wrists are aching but I if I stop I'll only have to start all over again with a bird nagging at me to do better. The judders begin to occur more regularly and I feel my feet and legs move, even my body twitches. This probably looks like the worst Dad-dance ever. I'd never get up at clubs, in the rare times that I went, unless I was very drunk. My face burns with embarrassment.

  The spasms and jerks begin to feel less random and more in time with the beat that is harder to sustain. Soon I'm moving round in a circle and I feel taken up. My arms beat the rhythm out faster and heat begins to steam off me. I don't feel so tired as I get a second wind and my legs take up more of the strain.

  Round and round I go, beginning to twist and whirl, like a planet in orbit around a dark sun. The pace quickens and I turn faster. Round. Twist. Beat. Turn. Round. Step. Beat. Turn.

  I lose track of where I am and what I'm doing.

  It is daytime. The tunnel is warm and golden. Beneath where the air shafts open to the blue sky is a thick copse of weeds, brambles bearing black fruit, tall thin saplings and long grass.

  I walk out of the shade of the tunnel into the beautiful heat of the sun. I can't remember a summer so fine. If I knew I could go here before I don't think I would ever leave. No need for holidays in the Caribbean. Soaking in the rays, I have a huge grin on my face.

  At the top of the stairs I expected a difficult tangle hindering me. Instead I climb up into a brick and tile building where the main exit leads to Great Western Road, past a turnstile and a ticket booth. It's like a London Underground station. Except there is an odd quality to the light. It is brighter in here that it should be and the light is grey. My eyes adjust. The whole structure is a little translucent. Some light from outside is filtering through the station. Where it is most opaque burnt beams are visible. It is an old photograph film that was exposed at different moments before development. Now different layers of time are visible, the eldest fading out of sight. Outside, twin towers emerge from the station roof, with onion-style domes on the top that are eerily reminiscent of Moscow. Across the junction, the church is still standing. The BBC building further up Queen Margaret Drive is intact, still awaiting demolition. What would I see in a Roman ruin? Would it have faded away by now, or would there still be a ghost of its former glory?

  In the park itself the Kibble Palace gleams like a newly made spacecraft. The flower beds are filled with Pansies in a rainbow of colours. On the lawn normally occupied by the tent city are strange pyramids made from some kind of thick webbing. It's like huge spiders have been trying to create a replica of what is in the Living world. This place appears to shadow what's there, but it takes time to form and time to dissolve.

  I go to where my tent used to be and see the dark brick tunnel arching over me. My legs kick as they try to keep walking. I sit up, cold and clammy with sweat fighting the disorientation.

  Corbie looks at me blankly. “Where did you go?”

  “I was here, but it was summer, sunny. I could see the station up above and other buildings that are now gone.” Ducking into my tent I find a jumper and slip it on. My stomach groans. I'm hoping I can find an instant noodle packet and make dinner. Looking at my phone once again I'm reminded I haven't charged it up yet. I plug it into the tent's charger. There'll be almost no light down here to help the tent generate power, but it might be cold enough to make some juice from the heat pump. However, it's unlikely to charge it up much before morning.

  “That's good. I didn't expect you to go over so easily,” Corbie says.

  “You mean you thought the drum wouldn't work.”

  “You weren't gone more than a minute or two. No point goin on the journey if you don't spend any time at the destination.”

  “Hey, it was my first time. I'm sure I'll get better with practice.”

  “You need the right tools for the job.”

  “You sound like my Dad. He was always fixing stuff.” I laugh. “I can change a motherboard but don't ask me to change a tyre.”

  “We're goin to get a proper skin for your drum.”

  “Not tonight. I need food and I've got my kids tomorrow.”

  I put on the gas stove and heat some water. If I don't find noodles I can make tea.

  Chapter 9

  My alarm startles me awake. It comes from everywhere at once. My stomach has turned into a hollow ball with a leaden core. If I don't eat properly today I'm going to get sick again. Some fruit, some meat. That sounds good.

  My phone is charged at least. I have several missed calls and messages from my Mum. Where are you? Why can't you come home? I can help you through this.

  There's a single text message from Rachael – I think I understand. Let me know where you are.

  I wish I understood. Maybe she's been speaking to Mum. Feeling bad walking out on her again, I reply – In Botanic Gardens Station. Got kids today. Maybe talk later?

  Nothing, still, from Kathryn. It's too early to call, but I don't have a good feeling about this. I go to the toilet block, and then head to the shops to stock up on essentials. Good thing about this time of year is that food keeps well, but I'm still wary of buying too much fresh stuff. I've not had to buy anything for a few weeks, so I've some money in the bank. Putting some sausages for dinner in my basket, I also get a big bag of potatoes, dozens of packets of noodles, cheap tins of beans. It's like being a student all over again except that my teenage body could cope better with this diet. I buy apples, crisp and tart and also get some kale. It tastes green and a bit bitter, but full of vitamins and pretty cheap. I still hate it. I also need a big bottle of water.

  Calling Kathryn, a friendly voice tells me her number is no longer available. I'm on the next bus to her mother's house. Fiona answers the door but doesn't open it. She leaves the chain on.

  “You've a bloody cheek showing your face here,” Fiona says. “Clear off before I call the police.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don't play innocent with me, you silly little man.”

  The ferocity of her anger shocks me. I thought I knew Fiona but clearly I was wrong. “I've been in hospital for the last fortnight,” I say. “Unconscious for most it. Whatever you think I've done it is highly unlikely I did it.”

  Fiona frowns.

  “I've dozens of witnesses.”

  “You can still make calls from hospital.”

  “Again, I was completely out of it, in a coma. Check my call log.” I push my phone towards the crack in the door. Fiona takes it and slams the door shut. After brushing snow away, I sit on the step and shiver.

  A couple of minutes later she opens the door again. “Would you like some tea?”

  “If you agree to tell me what's going on.” I follow her through to the kitchen.

  “It started almost as soon as you left.
Kathryn's phone rang. Caller ID said it was you. The line was silent and then you hung up.” The kettle's whistle pierces the conversation. Fiona puts a splash of water into a china teapot. “Well, not you, apparently.” She swirls it around and empties it into the sink, then scoops leaves into the pot and tops up with water when the kettle boils again. “Whoever it was called again and again and again. Nearly every hour until she switched the damned thing off. That Sunday we called the police who told Kathryn to change her number. There wasn't anything more they could do.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Fiona stares at me. “On the Tuesday the calls started on the new phone. We thought you'd hacked into the phone company's records.”

  “I honestly wouldn't know how.”

  “You're good with computers.” Fiona lifts the lid and stirs the contents of the teapot.

  “If I had a dollar… Never mind my wife, where are my kids?”

  “With their mother.”

  “Let me guess, since my hacking skills are so good that I could track her down anywhere she went, the police told Kathryn she should pack a bag and go somewhere with them.”

  Fiona pours tea into two old mugs.

  “No one looked for any proof it was me beyond the caller ID in Kathryn's phone. I'm sure my number wasn't in her new phone, unless some helpful person transferred over her contacts too.”

  Fiona sips her tea and avoids my eyes.

  “Nothing like being innocent until proven guilty. Can I expect a visit from the police? As a hardened computer hacker and wife harasser I must be high on the list of their priorities.” I take a mouthful of my tea. It is too hot. I can't spit it out all over Fiona, as much as I might like to, so I burn my mouth and throat swallowing it down.

  “Biscuit?” Fiona offers me a plate covered in foil wrapped domes.

  I take one. Food is food. I peel off the cover and the chocolate dome collapses into gooey marshmallow beneath my teeth. “What do we do now?”