The Birds, They're Back

by Wendy Reakes

  The Birds

  …they’re back

  'There is no terror in the bang,

  only in the anticipation of it.'

  Alfred Hitchcock.

  First published in 2018 in Great Britain.

  Copyright©thebirdsthey’reback

  wendyreakes2018

  The moral right of Wendy Reakes to be identified as

  the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with

  the copyright, designs and patents act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication

  may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

  in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior

  permission of the author and copyright owner.

  ISBN: 9781726791328

  Imprint: Independently published

  WendyReakes.com

  The Birds

  …they’re back

  When Daphne du Maurier wrote ‘The Birds’ as a short story, she couldn’t have known that the tale of horror on a small farm in Cornwall, would garner such interest by a certain American director.

  When Hitchcock bought the option on the script and took it to America, he set the 1963 movie in the now famous Bodega Bay, where it became an unrivalled American classic.

  This story, ‘The Birds…they’re back’ re-visits a small town in England’s Poldark country to the historical city of Bristol, honouring Du Maurier’s original story with the suspense that Hitchcock mastered like no other director before him.

  As a lifelong fan, I can only hope I would gain the approval of the originators of the classic tale.

  Thanks for reading.

  Wendy

  For Jake

  Tom and Charlotte

  The Beginning

  The night was black. No moon, no traffic glare, and no artificial lights out there along the rugged Cornish coastline. From inside the house, only the sound of waves breaking over rocks broke the silence of the night. Winter was coming. He knew just by the chill he got in his bones when he stepped outside. Better to be in, where the embers of the fire still offered a gentle heat. Especially when he was under the blankets, snuggled up to Mrs Hock.

  Bill Hock wished he’d drawn the curtains tight before he got in. Dolly did it most nights, after she put the window at the top on its first or second hole. Just enough to get a bit of air in the room. Since she’d forgotten, and was now lying next to him fast asleep, he’d been left with no choice but to see to it himself before he got undressed.

  Then he’d forgotten to close the curtains tight.

  In the dark, he could make out Dolly’s foot poking out the bottom of the bed, mainly because it was a white foot, free of any marks nor tan since she always kept her boots on around the farm. He asked her once why she poked her foot out of the blankets like that. She said she didn’t know, except it was the only time her feet ever got any air.

  Now, as he felt the heat of her body next to his, he was still thinking about those curtains not closed tight. Even though he was just getting warm, he was irritated by the notion that if he didn’t get up and sort out the problem, he’d remain irritated half the night.

  With a sigh, he slipped his feet into the leather slippers Dolly had bought him last Christmas. They were still warm. He didn’t bother with anything else. After all, it was just a quick dash to the window and back again.

  He must have looked a right fool, dancing over that lino floor with just his pants on, but he thought no more of it after he heard a rattling noise. His eyes wandered up to the small window at the top. The arm had come off its hole. Maybe he hadn’t put it on tight enough and the wind had knocked it.

  He’d always been a wonderer, so said Dolly, once too often. ‘Never mind your wondering,’ she’d say, ‘Wander off and get those cows in.’ Then she’d chuckle at her play on words as if she’d never said that before.

  He put the arm back on its second hole and made sure it was pressed down good. Then he drew the curtains tight, which had been his intention all along. But just then, he heard an almighty crash, like a window getting a brick thrown through it, along with a high-pitched scream, all coming from the children’s room.

  Without pondering anything any further, Bill took strides four-feet long, just so he could get there as quick as lightening. From the landing, he swung open the door and saw a sight he'd never seen in his life before.

  Now, Bill was a country boy, so said his mother whenever he set his sights on bigger and better things. Maybe moving to the city, Bristol or Bath and doing a decent job, instead of milking and mucking out cows all year long. ‘You just stay where you are, Bill Hock,’ she’d say. ‘You don’t want no fancy life like the one you’re proposing. You’re a country boy. Always have been, always will be. You hear me, Bill? Stay away from them big cities, son.’

  Since he was ‘a country boy’, he reckoned he’d seen most things around those parts that needed seeing, but he knew that tomorrow, when he went down the lane, he’d be saying to someone, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  Six-year-old Toby was sitting up in bed with eyes as big as boulders and his mouth resembling that big cave on south beach, black and gaping, with no plans to close it up. At the bottom of the bed, perched on the wooden footboard, was a crow. Cocky bugger! Its black feathers were picking up the glow from the light on the landing making the plume sheen to a deep purple colour. It was staring mindlessly at Toby, never once looking around to Bill in the doorway. The blighter just sat there and stared at his boy.

  Bill looked to the window. It had smashed the glass in its quest to enter their home. Now Bill thought, don’t let Toby get out of bed with bare feet and crunch those shards underfoot.

  Lucy, one year older than Toby, was in her own bed across the other side of the room and she was about to scream her lungs out. Bill made a gesture to hush her grizzling, and she did what she was instructed without another murmur, like she knew that to scream her lungs out, might send the bird into a frenzy and they’d have it flying around the ceiling looking for an escape. Then they’d have a fine old time trying to catch the creature.

  Bill offered a nod to Toby who was sliding out of bed clinging to the wall on the other side, away from the broken window. With its black flickering eyes, the crow followed him as its head moved slowly on its neck, its body remaining rigid, as if it were a mechanical toy and the battery was getting low.

  When Toby reached Lucy's bed, Bill watched him get in and cuddle up with his sister for the sake of warmth, comfort and safety. Now Bill had a clear playing field to get that damn bird out of their house.

  He walked slowly to the broken window, glad of his slippers as he crunched glass underfoot. He unlocked the sash and slid the frame upwards to allow a clear route for the intruder to fly out and live another day. Another loose shard crashed from the cracked putty and dropped to the sill. The noise didn’t bother the bird one bit, as if it were devoid of its natural feelings.

  As Dolly appeared, standing in the doorway in her nightie and blocking out the light, Bill whipped a blanket from Toby’s bed and in one easy motion, lashed that bird from its perch in the direction of the open window.

  In its bid for freedom, as it flew out, the bird snagged a wing on a shard of glass on the sill.

  Bill felt for it. Despite the intrusion into their home, breaking a window that would now cost him to make good, he still felt for its bloodied black wing as it flew off into the night.

  “Must have got lost in the dark,” Bill said.

  Chapter 1

  In Bristol, Ellen Fear took the same route she always took, down the long winding road through
the Clifton Gorge to the city below. There had never been a moment, in all the time they’d lived in that house, that she had not regretted leaving. Her home was her island and if she had anything to do with it, that was the way it would remain.

  The divorce had threatened that existence, since the only thing keeping them afloat now, was the money Harry made from the restaurant. The Boathouse had a good summer, with plenty of tourists and passing trade, and the locals seemed keen on the new food operation.

  In March after a dire winter season, Harry had brought in a consultant to build the business from mediocre, ticks-over-okay, to a fresh, thriving, money making environment. It was money well spent, Harry had said. And afterwards, Ellen agreed.

  Afterwards, because she’d tried to put the brakes on from the get-go when Harry got the consultants quote. ‘Extortionate,’ Ellen had scoffed when she opened the envelope six months before. The letter had been delivered to the house, as was all his mail, which was something else they rowed about. "Why can't you have your mail sent to the restaurant? You live there now,” she'd yelled, but he'd just made one of his usual excuses.

  Excuses, excuses. That’s was all she ever heard from Harry. He’d been making them for years before she threw down the gauntlet and begged him for a divorce. It wasn’t that she wanted anyone else. It was just that Harry seemed to be stuck in the eighteenth century compared to her brighter outlook, whilst embracing life after forty.

  Now, as she drove down the hill, her eyes were going from left to right, since she always enjoyed looking at the big houses along the route to town. For as long as she could remember, she'd always wanted to live in one, but now she had the house overlooking the gorge, and that was perfect.

  Years ago, when she’d fallen crazy-in-love with Harry, she would have lived in a bedsit in Bedminster. That was the area in Bristol where he’d been living at the time. When they moved, they’d called it ‘going from B to C' (From Bedminster to Clifton). That’s when they were courting and working in the city and able to secure a mortgage more than they could really afford.

  In those days, the housing market hadn't boomed yet, so they'd purchased the house in Clifton for a good, modest sum. Now it was worth ten times as much since the boom had kept booming. Then, two years ago, Harry had felt secure in the knowledge he was sitting on a real-estate fortune, so when the kids were still in high school, he re-mortgaged the house and bought the restaurant. That's when their marriage went downhill. She knew she'd never forgive him for putting their home at risk.

  Now, she was looking through the rear-view mirror, where, in the back, Molly was sucking her thumb whilst staring dreamlike through the window. At her side, Gemma was face-timing, whilst her twin brother, Mathew, sat in the front, speed texting like he was playing a concerto. “What have you got today?” she asked her often-distracted teenage son. He didn’t respond. “Hello, Matt? Mum calling.”

  “What?” He just kept on texting.

  “What have you got today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What?”

  She shook her head as she pushed her sunglasses further up her nose. She saw the college in the distance. She would pull over, park illegally and they would jump out. Other cars in front and behind would do the same thing. “I’ll pick you up,” she said.

  She stopped and kept the engine running. Gemma got out and threw a ‘thanks, mum' at her while inserting her earphones. By the time Ellen had swung her head about, Matt had already gone.

  Whilst she waited for the car in front to pull away, she watched her twins split up and go their own way. She couldn't help it, but whenever she saw them do that, she remembered them as babies when no one could pull them apart.

  She checked out her mirror. "Just you and me, now; kid," she said to Moll. She offered a brief smile back, but it was a patronizing one. It took Ellen only a second to realise her eight-year-old was smiling to make her old mum happy. Now, she'd drifted back to the place she was before her brother and sister had alighted from the car. Ellen wondered if she should consider them a dysfunctional family, but then she rationalised that they weren't that bad.

  “Mum?”

  “Yep?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To get dad.”

  Molly still didn’t know about the treat that Ellen and Harry had planned. Ellen didn’t want to say anything in case the arrangement went south, and then Molly would be disappointed. Harry had argued about that one. ‘Get her used to disappointment,’ he’d said. ‘God knows she’ll be getting a shit load of that when she’s older.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Ellen answered. ‘Just the sort of encouragement our daughter needs.’

  Of course they weren’t dysfunctional!

  It was nine by the time they pulled up outside the restaurant; The Boathouse. The property was multi-layered, with a terrace overlooking the River Avon. Next to it, moored to the side of the terrace so as not to spoil anyone's view, was an old barge which wasn't seaworthy but great for private functions. They'd catered for many a wedding on that old boat, decking it out with ribbons and flowers. At night, while candles flickered on the water, it was a sight to behold. Harry said it was one of their best features.

  The barge had no heating, so it could only be used during the spring and summer. Last year, Harry had bought some heaters, but Health and Safety dictated they couldn’t use them since ‘wood and fire don’t mix’, so said the miserable old bat who’d filed the report.

  From the double-bay parking area, ‘reserved for management and deliveries only’, was a glass annexe leading to the main entrance.

  Ellen shifted the gear into reverse, but before she had chance to manoeuvre, Molly had jumped out of the car and slammed the door. She ran inside as Ellen straightened up the wheels while cursing her daughter for doing what she just did.

  Inside, Harry was behind the bar, emptying a float into the till. He looked up. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey.”

  She always tried to ignore the fact she still fancied him. He was tall and athletic, brown hair kept short, brown eyes that said come to bed, and a chin with a short-bristle beard. He kept it trimmed each day. He was wearing jeans and a black polo shirt with The Boathouse logo on the upper left pocket.

  In the service area, chairs were still stacked on tables, and the cleaner was running the mop over the wooden floors. The restaurant seated forty. It was rustic, but it had a contemporary slant. The main attraction and their unique selling point was beyond the glass doors that opened concertina-like, bringing the interior into the open. The river held a spectacular view of HMS Great Britain on the opposite bank. The location was superb.

  “No one in yet?”

  “Only Frank.”

  The chef was English and not particularly good at cooking, but he was a great manager and motivator of his small brigade of four. The real creator of their modern eclectic menu was the second in command, Pierre La Monde. He wasn't French, he just had the name and the accent. No one really knew where he was from, but they said the only thing that mattered was that he cooked and presented sublimely.

  ‘What time can you get away?’

  “What for?’ He slammed the till drawer closed and went into the kitchen.

  As Ellen followed him she watched his arse in hip-hugging jeans. His phone was in his back pocket and she briefly wondered if his girlfriend had called him yet. Probably. Young love and all that bullshit. She remembered when Harry had called her ten times a day. Now, it was only to talk to the kids and that wasn’t very often. “You know what for,” she said following him. “What we talked about. For Moll’s birthday, remember?”

  He was distracted. Ellen wondered at what point in their lives he’d decided that she wasn't the girl for him anymore. He used to look at her as if she was the only woman in the world. Those eyes of his! They would look her up and down and show desire as if he wanted to rip off her clothes and throw her onto the bed. His eyes were that intense. Now, n
ot so much.

  She leaned her body against the hotplate running along the centre of the kitchen. “Harry?”

  “Okay, yes…I can spare half an hour.” He took some invoices hanging from a hook and shuffled them into a neat pile.

  “That’s good of you. Are you sure you can manage time for your daughter’s birthday at all?” Ellen knew she sounded like a nagging wife, but he got her so riled those days, she couldn’t help herself. Besides, she was past caring about what Harry Fear thought about her.

  Molly charged into the kitchen where Frank the chef, swung her up over his shoulders. “Strong flies around here,” he said as she clung to his back. “Shame Molly’s not here. I was going to get the biscuits out.”

  She leaned over and touched his cheek. “I’m here,” she said, excited.

  He feigned surprise and they laughed the place down.

  That was how it used to be when Ellen and Harry raised the twins before Molly was born. They were happy then. Really bloody happy.

  Harry looked at his watch. “Come on, if we’re going.”

  Frank gave Molly two cookies to take with her. She kissed him and charged out of the kitchen the same way she’d charged in.

  Harry Fear didn’t often live up to his name, but right then, as he contemplated asking Ellen what he’d been meaning to ask her for two days, he did fear his ex-wife. She’d never go for it, he thought, as he drove through town and out towards Cribbs Causeway.

  He needed Ellen to watch the shop while he took Melanie to Cornwall for the weekend. He’d meant to phone her last night, but then the restaurant became busy and he didn’t get around to it.

  “That’s an excuse,” Melanie had said when he eventually sat down and grabbed some supper at ten o’clock. He leaned his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes. He was dog tired. The business had really picked up after they’d brought in that consultant and now he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a day off. Before June, he reckoned and now it was October. Man, he needed a break.