Crow Of Thorns

by Richard Mosses

  Fiona shrugs. “I didn't want to think ill of you. I've just been so pissed off with you after you went and hid in a field…I saw that you did make one call to Kathryn that Saturday.”

  “I left a message. I tried to tell her I'd changed my mind. That I was ready to come here if need be and start again. I was so sick that night I didn't know what I was doing. But that was the truth. I guess she never heard it.”

  “I will let her know. It may not be too late. But she's very shaken. Even with proof it wasn't you…I don't know. She took it hard. And the kids are seeing things from her perspective, you know. I'll tell the police too. You're right. I'm sorry. We should have gotten some proof before jumping to conclusions. I know you've never meant to do anything but the right thing for Kathryn.”

  “It isn't that you all felt I could really do this that pisses me off. It's that you never stopped to think about it, didn't question it once you decided it really was me. It's that it was so easy for you to believe it.” I get up from the chair. I feel heavy, tired. “Ask her to call me. When she's ready.”

  The bus ride home takes forever. It gives me plenty of time to think about the calls. I could access the phone company records. I've never tried to do something like that, but I reckon I could do it if I wanted to. Someone has attacked my family. I can't just sit back and do nothing. What I don't understand, is why it would start when I got sick though. That's an odd coincidence. There's so much happening lately it's hard to keep it all in my head at once; learning to be a shaman, my impending divorce, work, getting sick, Rachael, Albert's death and now this. Are there patterns? Can I make some sense of it all? It's like a Rat King; many tails and many heads too intertwined to separate and you'd likely lose a finger doing so. I rest my head against the window, opaque with condensation. The cold and the vibration are soothing. I just can't believe how quick they were to accuse me on such little real evidence. Perhaps Kathryn and I truly have moved too far apart in the last year. I have no one to blame but myself.

  The snow in the Gardens is starting to turn to slush. I nearly jump out of my skin when Corbie ambushes me. I was just thinking how weird it was to have a Saturday free when he swoops up behind me and lands on my shoulder.

  “Jeezus. You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Sorry, Boss. Guess we got time to work on that drum now. You're also gonna need the right clothin.”

  “First a drum and now a new outfit. It's like it's my birthday. What do I need to kill to make that?”

  “It will need to be made of skin and iron.”

  “Lucky for us the shops will still be open. We can walk down Byres Road and check out the charity shops. Bound to have plenty of suits. If we're lucky they'll have a skin and iron one in my size.”

  “Why are you always pushin back? You don't want this, fine. You don't wanna work with me, fine. I'll take it to the spirits and we'll see what they say. Maybe they'll figure you're just a pain in the ass who's not worth the effort. Maybe they'll decide to give you a real disease or kick you in the ass some other way til you get with the program.”

  “Fuck off. I've got other shit on my mind right now. Someone's been messing with my family. Do you get that? They're more important to me than finding a stupid fucking fancy dress costume.”

  “Important enough that you spent a year livin in a tent, so you could provide for them. Please spare me your bullshit, Dude. You're so full of crap you can't even smell it anymore. You wanna make a difference? You wanna help people? You wanna help your family? Then get through your trainin. That way the Powers That Be will leave you alone, and them.”

  “Wait, are you saying that spirits are behind these calls to my wife?”

  “I'm sayin that they could be. And if you do what they want there'll be no reason for them to carry on.”

  “This is seriously fucked up. I swear to you now, sooner or later I'm taking this to them and I'm gonna fuck with them the way they're fucking with me. They want Mafia tactics fine, I'll play along, but one day I'll be the Godfather.”

  “Fuckin A, Buddy. Fuckin A.”

  We go to the heart health charity shop just past the supermarket and all I see there are cloth suits from the Seventies and Eighties, some hideous ties, a few floral shirts, and tea sets from the thirties like my Dad's parents used to have. Those on my Mum's side probably used jam jars or whittled cups out of wood with old nails the way she makes Soviet Siberia sound.

  Further down the road we've been into a couple of cancer charity shops, seen some immense collections of VHS tapes and Stephen King paperbacks, but nothing I think would fit the bill. It's a long shot but I decide to go into the specialist vintage clothing shop. It has an interesting rack of elegant silk gowns from the early Nineteen Hundreds. You could get a uniform for almost any armed force in here too. Hiding in the back I see a short rack of biker jackets and a leather coat which, with its wide lapels, must be from the Seventies. I try them all on. It is skin after all, just like the doctor ordered. The Seventies car coat fits perfectly. Too well. I smile as I slide it on. I'm a bit embarrassed to wear something so old-fashioned, slightly cheesy. But it feels right and looks damned good. It feels weird not to be wrapped in my jacket made from man-made fibres, inner fleece and stow away storm hood. The car coat is heavy too.

  “That, my friend, is far out.” Corbie looks me up and down.

  We walk further down Ruthven Lane to the market hidden alongside some expensive restaurants I once enjoyed meals in. They are mostly small units piled high with bric-a-brac; broken Apple IIs, Bakelite phones I doubt even work on the modern network, pieces of obscure furniture like a leather dentist's chair, a Betamax VCR, and boxes and boxes of vinyl records. It's like a technological elephant's graveyard here.

  There's a heavy metallic clunk and white pain flashes from my foot. Several items rattle settling into a new position as I stub my toe on something under a table. I keep my curse to myself but do a little dance stamping my foot to shake out the pain in my toes.

  “You should remember that for next time you go into the Otherworld,” Corbie says.

  I accidentally stamp my foot down on Corbie, but the prickly muppet steps aside. I see the stall holder looking my way with concern. I fake a smile and he goes back to smoking his roll up and reading the paper.

  Underneath the table is a large red toolbox. I lift one flap and concertina out one side. Hammers with balls, claws and rubber heads, and spanners in a myriad of Imperial gauges mingle with screwdrivers of different sizes and cross sections. In the other half I don't recognise most of the tools. All of them are covered in liver spots of rust.

  “Would this be good for the iron part of this outfit?”

  The raven sticks his head in the box. “Could work.”

  “What do we need the iron for anyway?”

  “Bones.”

  “So it needs to look like I've got an iron skeleton?” Corbie nods. “Then this should be perfect.” I try to lift the toolbox, but can barely move it. “This could be a challenge.” I see a skateboard and grab it. I just about get the box secured on top of the board. Inside the toolbox is a roll of waxed twine. I tie the box down and make a lead.

  The stall holder looks at me through thick glasses and a cloud of smoke. “Twenty quid.”

  “For an ancient skateboard and a rusty box? I'll give you ten.”

  “The metal alone is worth more than that these days. How about fifteen?”

  “If that were true you'd have scrapped it already. Twelve fifty.”

  “Deal.”

  I wave my phone at his and the deal is done. It pains me to pay so much, but I keep it to myself. The box trails behind me like a lost puppy as we continue on our trip down Byres Road looking for skin.

  The charity shops for the aged, children, cancer, children with cancer, and sick animals, all turn out to be busy, but none of them have any leather clothes or any other replacements. Would anyone recognise a Nazi lampshade if they saw one?

  Tired I sit down on my new mob
ile throne. It is too late today to go into the city centre and try there. Besides there's not so many places to look. I'm not buying anything new from the leather shops on Argyle Street. I turn round and head back up the road. It's starting to get dark.

  There's a fancy dress vintage shop just along Great Western Road. Instead of crossing the road back to the Gardens, I go past the burnt out church towards Kelvinbridge Station. Super Trouper even has dummies dressed like Bjorn and Anna-Frid in the window. I have fifteen minutes before the shop shuts. The proprietor has long blonde hair, like Agnetha, that looks like it may be real, but something about her complexion makes me wonder if it is a wig. On the left is a long rack of women's clothes sorted by year, on the right is a shorter rack of men's which is unsorted.

  On a hanger underneath a denim jacket with an Iron Maiden back patch sewn on it is a pair of leather biker trousers with thick reinforced knees. I try them on. They're a bit big for me, but with a belt I should be okay. I could afford them, but its steep, and I'd rather not.

  “Hi. I'd like these please.” The woman looks up from her laptop. “Thing is. I can't really afford them though.”

  “I can't give you credit.”

  “Perhaps you need something doing in exchange?”

  “This isn't a porno, pal. And you're no ma type.” The illusion of Swedish sophistication is easily shattered.

  “I meant like a website or some IT stuff.”

  “Ah dunno. Ah dinnae need much.”

  “It's really important that I get these. It'll help me to help other people.”

  “Well, look, ah cannae connect this thing to the Wi-Fi in here. Almost useless without it. Maybe that would be worth half ae them.”

  “Okay, deal.” I pay for half and spend ten minutes rooting through menus to find the problem. Agnetha locks the door and turns the sign to Closed. I can't find anything wrong. I check that the router in the staff room is working fine, everything blinking green and return to the laptop. I look through a number of other menus and prod and poke the machine. I turn it off and on again. Then I notice she has moved the Wi-Fi slider on the front of the laptop to off. “There you go, should be fine for now. But if you need anything else give me a ring.” I hand her my card.

  “Magick. What did you do?”

  “One of your settings was switched off. I've fixed it now.”

  “Excellent, thanks, pal.”

  In the dark I'm wary of carrying the toolbox down into the tunnel in case I go through one of the steps again, so I leave it near the surface until morning. It survived sitting outside shops on a skateboard, it should be fine here.

  “We still need to fix your drum.” Corbie nudges the one I built yesterday with a talon.

  “You mean I still need to kill and skin something.”

  He shrugs. “If you prefer.”

  While I'm thinking what to do, I hear the eerie woman-being-attacked yelp of a fox. No matter how often I hear it, it puts me on edge, makes me want to find and help. Looks like I'll just be having noodles for dinner tonight.

  I find some plastic bags, shred them and weave them into a net. I use the waxed thread to loop over a branch and cover the bags with other rubbish in a spot near the water, well away from the tent city. No one with any sense will be out walking down here after dark.

  The newly bought sausages sit in the middle of my trap and I wait patiently feeling sick in my stomach knowing what I'm going to do. I'm sure any sensible fox would smell me and stay well away. While I wait I prepare a rough square frame from large twigs that I collected and piece of smooth wood that is a perfect fit.

  I hear rustling and tense up, when a small dog comes out from under a bush. It goes straight for the meat and I throw beer cans at it until it takes the hint and returns to its master on the path. Will the scent of the dog and the beer cans have soured the site? I wait for a long time. At least half an hour. There's no snow here, but it's still damp and cold. The cold seeps into my joints. I wait a little longer.

  Again I hear rustling. I hold my breath. A large fox, probably a male, bursts out into the middle of the trap. It sniffs at the ground and in the direction of the sausages. It turns to go then decides to leap on the food. I pull hard on the twine. The bag-net surrounds the fox, which yelps and kicks out ripping the thin plastic. The twine snaps unable to hold under the weight of the fox. Before it can escape, I grab a rock and dive into the trap. I bring the rock down on its head. Blood sprays across my face, warm and wet. The head caves in too easily. The body kicks out beneath me, then lies still. Blood seeps from the head wound. The fox's tongue flops obscenely out the side of its mouth.

  I stare at the rock in my hand, bits of fur and bone smushed into its surface. My stomach flips and I'm dry retching. I hate myself and I hate Corbie for getting me to do this. I retch until my throat and chest is aching. Nothing but thin water comes out. I feel dizzy.

  “Hurry.” Corbie stands near my head. “It's better to skin it while the body's still warm.”

  I have no idea what I'm doing. Fumbling for my pen knife, my hand slips pulling out a blade.

  “The easiest option is to cut off the paws and head,” Corbie says. “Then gently and not too deeply cut from throat to anus, circle around the anus, and then cut along the inside of each limb to the central cut.”

  “Cut off the head and paws, with this little knife?”

  “Then cut around them.”

  I can't quite bring myself to do it. Knife in hand, I freeze up. Fuck's sake, Kol'ka, you've already killed it. Now get the job done. I turn the fox onto its back and slip the blade in above the back left paw. It slices easily through the rough russet fur. I repeat with the other paws and around the neck.

  “Now be careful. Too deep and you'll go through into organs and intestines. You do that and you'll have a real mess on your hands and we'll have to do this again.”

  I hesitate again. Come on. Enough with this crap. I carefully nick into the skin in the circle around the neck and work my way down. I cut round the anus. As it turns out I have some luck. This is a vixen, giving me one less thing to worry about, as anyone who's changed a baby boy will know. Then I cut along the inside of each leg down to the cut in the middle.

  “All you have to do now is take it off like a coat.”

  My nose itches but with my hands covered in God knows what I resist the urge to touch it. I grasp the flap near the bottom left leg and tug it. It peels back with a light tearing sound. It is like taking skin off a pack of chicken legs, but easier. Every now and then I have to use the knife to separate some tissue. Before long I have peeled the fox.

  “Let's leave the body for the spirits, but there's one more thing you'll need. Crack open the head a little more and get the brain.”

  “Jeezus, Corbie. What next? We put another brain in there and spark it to life with electrickery?”

  “You'll be fine. We need it to tan the hide. It'll keep longer.”

  I find an empty tin and go back to the fox's head. The grey gelatinous mess I scoop into the can with my hands. I go down to the dirty river and wash my hands in the water. It is aching cold and my fingers feel numb.

  “Now take your knife and scrape away the fat and any tissue left inside the skin.”

  I follow my instructions, after tying the skin to the frame I'd built. My knees and back ache from kneeling too long while I do it. This is slow and hard to do in the darkness.

  Turning the frame over, I start to strip the fur away too. I use an old razor blade at first, but it goes dull fairly quickly. My knife is okay but I can't seem to get a good angle on it. I use the lid from the tin the brain is in and although it has a ragged edge from an opener, it works well. Bending it over makes working easier.

  When I'm done I wash the defleshed and defurred hide in the river using some washing up liquid. I'm tired, but I know that my night is not yet over. My hands feel frozen into claws.

  I'm wary of crossing the Gardens too openly. Even at night there'll be people about. I'm carr
ying a fox's hide on a crude frame and can of brains. It's like the opening to a joke. A man walks into a bar, and says “Ow!” Corbie creeps along beside me. Leaving the body out in the open feels wrong. The scene of my crime should be covered over. All traces erased. What if someone finds it and they get back to me? Don't worry. The Great Spirit Mafia will make it disappear for you. Would they disappear my wife, or my kids? Was that the purpose of those calls?

  Down in the tunnel Corbie tells me that I need to simmer the brawn in water. I refuse to use one of my cooking pots so I sit the can I collected it in on the gas. It forms a thick porridge that blurps out a whiff of sulphur every now and then.

  Taking it off the burner, I let it cool a little before being instructed to rub it deep into the skin side of the fox hide. It takes some time to cover both sides of the whole skin and when I think I'm done, the smell of cooked brain finally no longer nauseating me, I have to put a second coat on. I take the hide from the frame and wrap it up tight and put it in a plastic bag for the night.

  My stomach doesn't know what to do. I want to hurl, but have nothing left, and at the same time I'm ravenous. I clean my hands with the undisturbed snow lying beneath the air shafts and crack through the ice on a pool of water to rinse them off.

  Whether I want to eat or not, my arms start to shake and feel weak. I boil up some water and add two packs of cheap noodles. I'm done in. With food in my stomach I go to sleep.

  Chapter 10

  It's cold when I wake. It must be much worse on the surface. I'm content to lie here for a while. My hands are stiff and my shoulders ache. Corbie climbs on top of me, his feet just pricking my skin through the sleeping bag.

  “Rise and shine, camper.”

  “Go away. I want some rest. I was up all night skinning a fox and tanning its hide.”

  “It's light already. Long past lie in time.”

  I sigh. “What do we do today? Build a tepee from a herd of wildebeest now that I've got my skinning skills?”