by Jane Davis
Jim looked at Aimee who was standing by the open door. He noticed that she had worn something of her own tonight.
“Nah! Won’t be gone long enough for that.”
Outside, Jim adopted the anonymous look everyone on the estate did: head low, shoulders slumped, hands in pockets. Aimee, walking tall and on the off-beat, stuck out like a sore thumb and yet she owned the place. Her lightning laughter fractured the darkness. “Your face when you saw me!”
Jim kept one eye on the shadows between the buildings. “Do you make a habit of inviting yourself to tea?”
She barged him sideways. “I’m usually asked!”
Somehow, without feeling insulted, Jim couldn’t imagine receiving a return invitation. People like Aimee can adapt, but sit Jim at a table with the best china and he’d have been too nervous to touch it. Expect small talk and he’d have developed a stutter. And he suspected Aimee’s folks would have checked his pockets for the family silver before handing him his jacket at the end of the evening.
“I forgot to tell you,” Aimee was saying, “I ran into this weird guy earlier.”
“Yeah?” He dribbled an empty Red Stripe can with the inside of his foot.
“He was dressed head to toe in green waterproofs and was carrying a fishing rod. He asked me what I was doing here. When I said I was visiting a friend, he asked, ‘What friend?’ I told him I was here to see Jim who goes bird-watching, and he said, ‘What he does is none of my business, but I’d like your name for future reference.’”
As steam trailed from a boiler vent and dispersed, Jim smiled. “So, you’ve met Bins.”
“You know him?”
“Everyone knows Bins.”
“I thought he was some nutcase.”
“Nah.”
“What does he do?”
Jim shrugged. “Fishing.”
“Fishing?” Aimee repeated, bewildered. “There’s no water round here.”
“There’s no fish either, but it doesn’t bother him.”
She laughed. “I feel bad about lying to him now.”
“You lied to Bins?” Jim feigned shock. “What did you say?”
“I told him my name was -” Aimee broke off, giggling.
“What?”
“It’s stupid.” She covered her mouth with one hand.
“How bad can it be?”
“Bad: Verity Parsnip.”
“You doughnut!” He exploded as they circumnavigated the bollards. “Where did you dream that up from?”
“I did exactly what you said. I made up something that was obviously a lie.”
“Well, from now on, that’s how you’ll be known. And it’s not a good name to have round here.”
“Or anywhere else!”
They scampered across the main road at the first break in the traffic, heading towards the bridge.
“You know what next week is, don’t you?” Aimee turned to Jim, still grinning.
He groaned, elongating the words. “Last week of the holidays.”
Her eyebrows twitched. “New school.”
Under the streetlights, the warnings on the signs were as pronounced as they would have been by daylight.
“Welcome back, Miss,” Jim joked.
“We must have stayed away long enough. Let’s come back here for the last couple of days.” Leaning on the side of the bridge, she sprung lightly onto her tiptoes looking over the edge. Then she froze. “What’s that?”
“Where?” Jim grabbed the barrels of his binoculars.
“I saw something move.”
He trained his lenses. Two shadowy figures were just visible in the yellow light of a small fire. Smaller criss-cross beams suggested they had torches. “Junkies, probably.”
“Maybe.”
They heard a loud crack followed by a shriek, then, as they locked eyes, the unmistakable noise of a creature in distress cut through the night.
“Let me look!” Aimee grabbed the binoculars, the strap chafing the skin of Jim’s neck as he was jerked towards her chest.
He hooked his thumbs under it, protesting, “Are you trying to strangle me?”
“They’ve made torches from the fire and they’re taunting something.” Her voice was becoming more and more frantic. Jim crouched low, his only view the brick wall. “I think they’ve got it trapped. Come on.”
“You’re never going down there!”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. We can’t see properly from up here.”
Released, there was no point lecturing Aimee about safety. Soothing his grazed skin Jim tried a different tactic. “What about your parents? Won’t they be worried?”
“Anyone would think you’re chicken.” She wrenched his hand away from his neck. “Solidarity.”
They crept down the concrete steps, Aimee hanging off Jim’s arm, and crouched behind the metal barrier.
“See anything?” Aimee whispered.
“Nothing.” Jim shook his head and let go of the rail. The liquid roar of the bonfire, its occasional crackles and bursts of ugly laughter were loud enough to mask the snapping of twigs accompanying their low-stalking approach. All the time, Jim chanted a silent mantra: Don’t let it be Nick, Don’t let it be Nick. But seeing what lay on the ground he came to a halt.
A barn owl!
Not satisfied, the boys were poking it with glowing branches, particles of shrivelled leaf taking to the air like fire flies. Its lifeless body rocked and settled with each prod. Unable to remain silent, Jim bolted upright and yelled, “You fucking eejits!”
Half-illuminated orange-tinged faces twisted towards him, the corners of mouths that had been lifted with laughter dropping. One belonged to Ben, the boy who would do anything for an E; the other to Nick, the older brother who had taken punches for him. Their bodies stiffened.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jim moved forwards furiously into the circle of heat.
Ben recovered his voice first. “It’s only your kid brother. Shit, Jim, you had us worried!” He sacrificed his burning branch to the flames, his head zigzagging as he squinted over Jim’s shoulder. “Who’s that you’ve got with you?”
“What the fuck have you gone and done?” Jim spat, clench-fisted, shaking with adrenalin and rage.
“It was an accident,” Nick offered feebly, hands raised, displaying a quarter of Thunderbird. “We were just checking to see if it was alive.”
Above the acrid smouldering, Jim smelt the alcohol reek on his brother’s breath. Searching for an explanation, his eyes wandered from the bottle to a dozen toppled Red Stripe cans strewn round the fire to an air rifle lying close by. The skin of one side of his face taut in the heat, his words were disbelieving: “You shot it?”
“It was only a bit of fun -”
“Fun?” Jim barked. “Torture’s your idea of fun, is it?” High knees, careful feet, he approached the owl. One singed wing outstretched; hardly a stain on its white underbelly where the pellet had entered. Crouching down, one of Jim’s hands found his mouth, reshaped it. The owl’s dark unseeing eyes stared up from its heart-shaped face, a residue of last-moment surprise.
“It came at us out of the dark.”
“It was a gut reaction,” Ben said. “Simple as that.”
Excuses.
Jim had seen roadkill before. Mice that cats had toyed with then abandoned when they got bored. Pigeons left half-eaten by foxes. Squirrels that had wandered onto the railway line. The results of real accidents, or nature taking its course. But never this personal. Bile rose in his throat: that someone he knew - someone he was related to - was capable of this.
“Listen, Jim -” Nick was saying.
“Fuck you!” No longer disappointment, this was hate. The boy didn’t look at his brother. Not because he was embarrassed that Nick would see his tears - there was nothing unmanly about mourning the death of another creature. Jim’s saliva, thick and sticky, cloyed his speech. “I don’t care if I never see you again!”
“Let’s go.” Nick said
quietly, his slow-rustling footsteps retreating.
“What the -?” Ben muttered. Jim heard him spit. “Are you going to let your kid brother give the orders?” Cans were displaced noisily as Ben kicked his way through outlying embers to snatch the air rifle from the scrub. Then, as his footsteps receded, Jim heard Aimee’s timid approach.
“Is it -?” she asked shakily, one hand on his shoulder for balance as she knelt beside him. Her amber eyes, burning orange, asked what she couldn’t.
It was Jim’s turn to spit: “Bastards!”
Trembling, Aimee gently reached for the tip of the owl’s outstretched wing. Face edged in pale gold, half hidden by liquid shadow, her bottom lip stretched painfully between the grip of her teeth. “Do you think he’s the one I saw earlier?”
“It’s a female,” Jim blurted, textbook facts the only language he was capable of using. “See the black spots on her chest?” He began to examine the bird. It was the length of a standard ruler, each wing about half the length of the body again. Underneath, the wings were purest white. On top, silvery-grey feathers nestled among the tawny gold.
“Someone’s in for some very bad luck.” Aimee hugged herself, attempting to contain her shivering.
Jim saw genuine fear and wondered, “Do you actually believe that story?”
A shrug: “The Indians have been proved right about lots of things.”
Again, his hate emerged. “Let’s hope it’s my brother, then.”
The fire snapped as it burned itself out, noises reducing to the bursting of bubble-wrap.
The half of Aimee’s face that was visible was wet and streaked. “What are we going to do with her? She deserves a proper funeral.”
“The ground’s too tough to bury her,” he said. “Too many roots.”
Aimee’s attention moved to the embers. “We could give her a cremation.”
“Not enough dry wood. We’d end up doing half a job.”
“Then let’s take her to the woods tomorrow. We’ll put her in our summerhouse overnight. She’ll be safe there.”
It felt like the right thing to do. Jim peeled off his tracksuit top and spread it flat, lifted the owl by her wings - light, so much lighter than he expected - and placed her in the middle.
He folded the sleeves neatly, as if packing a suitcase. The first time he had come this close to an owl - felt the softness of her feathers he had read about - and she was dead. He gently picked the package up and hugged the owl to him, still warm, talons digging into his flesh through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
“Let’s go.”
Approaching the summerhouse from the bunny run, that glorious rainy day was a distant memory. He laid the owl in the centre of the hexagonal floor, amid the metal and canvas furniture. Meanwhile, Aimee had picked up a large crate and, having read the instructions, nodded decisively and ripped into the packaging. “We may as well do this properly,” she said, handing two candles to Jim and quickly tucking the paper label and plastic into the back pocket of her jeans. “Let’s surround her with them.”
She made minute adjustments to each candle until the circle was to her satisfaction and then journeyed the full 360 degrees, crouching over each with the lighter she had stowed away with her contraband cigarettes. Hugging his knees, nose tucked into the angle of one arm, Jim watched each wick flicker to life. “What words do you say for an owl?” he asked.
Aimee sighed deeply. Jim hadn’t really expected a response, but she began speaking. “The owl, night’s herald, shrieks, ‘tis very late; The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest, And coal black clouds that shadow heaven’s light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night.”
Of course, Jim had no idea it was Shakespeare. She planted quotes to catch him out in years to come, when he least expected it. “Good night,” he found himself repeating, an Amen of sorts.
Aimee checked her watch, winced: “And now I really do have to go.”
Jim nodded from his bird-like position. He felt her hand on his shoulder for just a moment; a nervous hand, unsure what business it had lingering there. His eyes followed as it was withdrawn. “That was good, what you said. You should say that again tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“For the owl’s funeral.”
“Right. The funeral. I could if you like.” She hesitated in the doorway. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Shouldn’t we blow the candles out?”
“No, they last for twelve hours. I want to be able to see them burning when I look out of my bedroom window.”
“Mind if I stay with her for five minutes?”
“OK.” And then, before shutting him in, she smiled for him. As much as she was able to. “Five minutes, no more! Your mum will wonder where you are.”
CHAPTER 25: JIM - AUGUST 1992 - RAILWAY SIDINGS
The next morning, rising early, Jim dressed quickly, picking up yesterday’s clothes from the bedroom floor. There was no point in taking a shower when everything smelt of smoke; besides, the clanking of the plumbing would have woken his mother. Creeping out, he clicked the front door shut and headed down to the railway tracks. All that remained of his brother’s campfire was the acrid smell, bone-pale ash, a few sticks of charcoal and the scattering of beer cans, burnt to the colour of rust. Close by, caught in the scrub, was a single white feather. He ran it through his fingers, smoothing the vane. The barbules on the ends of owl feathers are missing. It gives the feathers an incredibly soft and light quality, meaning they can fly more quietly than other birds. Stowing it safely in a pocket of his rucksack, Jim contemplated that soon this single feather would be the only part of the owl that was left.
An hour passed, then another. Workmen’s shouts volleyed up and down the track. Jim caught the occasional glimpse of an orange jacket, the sound of a spade colliding with something solid. Perhaps Aimee couldn’t bring herself to pick up a dead bird. Maybe she was pacing up and down, cursing him. He set a mental deadline and, when ten o’clock arrived, set off to tackle the maze of back alleys.
Passing a post box, he identified graffiti at the base of a streetlight and saw the fence-bound track disappearing between two semis, only to see a policeman coming in the opposite direction. Jim stood aside, trying the confident approach. “I thought me and my mates were the only ones who used this shortcut.”
The officer pointed to Jim’s binoculars. “What are those for?”
“Bird-watching.” Breathe, the boy told himself, as the policeman raised his eyebrows. “Want a look?”
“No, you’re alright. One thing I’ve learned in this job is that it’s the most unlikely-sounding things that turn out to be true. Careful how you go. There’s been a fire in a garden shed.”
Goose-bumps prickled the back of Jim’s neck. He had imagined that the smell invading his nostrils was the residue of last night’s bonfire. “Whereabouts?”
“Up on the right.”
He swallowed. “Can I still get through to Durnsford?”
“You should be fine. But don’t go getting in the way.”
“Right.”
Jim stopped beside charred fence panels, ripped down to stop the spread. Beyond, he saw scorched remains. The entire roof of the summerhouse was gone, burnt or hacked out by the fire brigade. Shattered glass. Coils of springs from the sun loungers. Blackened wood in what little remained of the hexagonal floor. The owl had already had its funeral. The candles, Aimee’s prayer and a cremation; unplanned, but more spectacular than anything he could have dreamt up. As he was imagining the pyre, Jim heard a nearby voice: “…not your typical case of arson.”
He held his breath. Three figures stood a short distance away, their backs towards him: two firemen and a man with a denim shirt belted into his jeans. The rear portion of perfect striped lawn had been reduced to a mud bath.
One of the firemen was saying, “There seem to be some animal remains. Did you keep a pet in there?”
“We’ve got a cat, but she was safe in the house.”
“M
aybe a bird of some sort?”
“We’ve never kept birds.” The denim man sounded disbelieving.
“Can I ask what the building was used for?”
“Storage, mainly. But my daughter sometimes came down here to get a bit of privacy.”
“Likes candles, does she?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looks like someone’s been performing a pagan ritual.”
The denim man looked at the others, uncertain whether this was his cue to laugh, experimenting cautiously.
As one of them turned towards the debris, with every sinew taut, Jim stepped back behind the fence panels. It was only when the voices moved away that he chanced another look. The man was standing, his lace-up shoes muddied, staring up at a window. Through his binoculars Jim could see the dark silhouette of a girl with long hair. Trapped. Who would believe she had brought a dead bird home overnight to keep it ‘safe’? Damn it! Aimee’s telephone number might have come in handy, but phoning might mean a grilling - and that was if her parents would even let him speak to her. Still, it didn’t seem fair to let her take all of the blame.
He paced up and down her road looking at almost-identical pairs of houses, trying to work out which of the solid-looking fronts was attached to the back he had just seen. Was it the house with the black-and-white tiled path, or the one with the fleet of polished cars parked on the driveway? Then Jim remembered Aimee telling him that her neighbour’s house was up for sale. That left a choice of two. His eyes were drawn to movement: a black cat had jumped up and was sitting on the windowsill.
He skulked on the pavement opposite, staring at the front door. He might just make things ten times worse by knocking. On the other hand… Each time he thought he had moved closer to a decision, doubt seeped in. Eventually, in a moment’s clarity, he strode across the road. Unable to find a doorbell to ring, he lifted the letterbox to knock. Raised voices reached him, the words indistinct. Then he heard Aimee’s voice, shouting, distressed: “Alright, I’ll tell you! Just get off me!”
Images came to him: Aimee lifting up her top to check her bruises. Aimee telling him that she’d asked for it. Jim felt a fresh surge of anger. His desire to break down the door was interrupted by the sound of tyres displacing gravel. A silver jeep pulled onto the drive, and a long-haired lady threw open the driver’s door. There was no doubt she was Aimee’s mother. The resemblance was striking.