He tried to broach the subject as mother treated his eczema, which had flared into angry red welts on his skin. The house was eerily quiet as he sat at the table, the only sound the ticking of the clock and the wind howling outside. He wished he had a television like other families. Books were fine, but they could not silence the voices intruding in his thoughts. Bert took a deep breath and blurted out what was troubling him.
‘Mum, sometimes I hear voices telling me to do things.’
‘It’s just your imagination,’ she said, as she slathered the cream up his arms.
‘But sometimes it tells me to do things I don’t wanna do,’ Bert said, shivering in his vest.
His mother laughed, but her face was cold and hard. ‘Poor Bert, you’re so afraid of life. Not like Callum. He wasn’t afraid of anything.’
Bert was taken back by his mother’s intense stare. She rarely mentioned Callum any more.
Her desperate eyes stared into his, trying to see any trace of the boy she missed so much. Her grip sent sharp painful darts into his broken skin.
‘You’re hurting me,’ Bert said, pulling back his arm with a gasp.
Mother lowered her eyes and handed him the roll of bandages. ‘You’re old enough to do this yourself now. You don’t need me any more.’
Something shifted that night as Bert felt his passenger grow form. It wrestled with his inner conscience, the one that told him killing was bad. The raven reminded him he was summoned as his protector, and he could not lie dormant forever. Bert knew deep down it was what he wanted, and that night as he stared at the bare branches of the oak tree, a frost crept through his soul.
[#]
On Thursday evenings, Lucy Grimshaw went to book club after school and cycled home alone. Bert was waiting. The timing would have to be right, but the cards had guided him and wouldn’t let him down. Bert hid in the bushes as her bicycle approached. Pulling the black balaclava over his head, he was grateful for the winter nights, which were drawing in. The noise of the lorries drowned out his heavy breathing as adrenalin coursed through his body. Perhaps she would just fall off and scuff her knees, he thought, picking up the pole, his heart hammering a warm beat in his chest. He crouched down into position. The plan was to ram the pole into the tyre of her bike and run like hell. Bert tried to ignore the steady stream of cars, and to stem that nagging feeling that being upended off your bike in heavy traffic seemed an excessive punishment for being a tease. But it wasn’t just that. Bertram's eczema had become unbearable, and school was only going to get worse. Carrying out the raven’s wishes may stem the voice hungry for blood. The doctor had told them his skin condition was stress related, and to Bert, his annoyance over Lucy was never going to dissipate unless he did something about it. Besides, a prediction had been made, and blood would be shed one way or another. A single bicycle headlight glared in the distance, flickering on, off, on, off in time with the dynamo that powered it. Oh shit and fuck, Bert thought, as a lorry came rumbling up behind her, trying to overtake but was hemmed in by the cars passing the other side. Bert prayed his black clothes would protect him from onlookers.
‘Just be quick, a quick jab is all it needs, then take the pole and run,’ the voice said, bubbling within him. Bert’s heart pounded at twice its normal speed.
There was no time to dwell as the bicycle drew near. This stretch of the road was downhill and Lucy was travelling at speed. She was near enough now for him to hear her humming a tune. Bert tried to make it out. If someone was going to die, then the last song they sung should at least be noted. But it was too late for all that now. Rain began to pelt from the skies, and Bert thanked the skies for the blessing of what would cloak him into further obscurity. The voice whispered, reminding him of how he felt the day Lucy humiliated him in front of everyone. ‘Are you going to let people walk over you all your life, Bert? It’s time to be a man, take control. She won’t disrespect you a second time.’ His heart thundering in his ears, Bert jumped from the bushes. Lucy was so busy concentrating on the lorry beside her that she didn’t see the pole catch the spokes of the front wheel of her bike. The motion jerked Bert forward, his arms rattling in their sockets. Clamping his hands on the rain-greased pole, he jerked it back, falling on his bottom onto the edge of the path. Lucy didn’t have time to scream as the front wheel jammed, making the rear wheel of her bike come up. Dismounting its passenger, it threw her into the path of the impatient lorry driver. A horn shrilled and a ker-thunk noise followed as the brakes shrieked, too late for Lucy. Car brakes screeched amidst grinding metal. By the time the drivers got out of their vehicles, Bert was long gone, gasping for breath, snivelling and laughing at the same time and not understanding why.
When he got home and discarded his clothes he felt like he had been through an initiation of sorts. The voice, now satisfied, whispered in its slumber. ‘You’re a man now, Bert. You did good.’
His hometown was shocked, as apart from the bad luck his own family generated, there was not much in the way of deaths in their area. Newspapers reported that it had been raining heavily, visibility was bad as darkness fell, and the young girl just came off her bike into the path of the lorry, who was driving way too close in his impatience to deliver his goods on time. His arrest was little comfort to her parents. The thrill Bert felt at reaching manhood outweighed any doubts in his mind. It was there in black and white, the lorry driver was to blame. By the end of the day, he had relinquished all feelings of guilt. Bert was becoming a master at reconstructing past events to suit himself. A sense of empowerment overcame him as he stretched to full height before the mirror. His eczema had virtually cleared overnight, and he felt like the old days, unencumbered by pain, grief, or feelings of worthlessness.
[#]
Each initiation was Bert’s strongest memory. The first was his earliest recollection, the night he was summoned to the woods. The second was when he lay in the blood of his brother and created a raven onto the soil. The third and final was in his adolescence when he killed Lucy Grimshaw. That was all it took to make him what he was. Many people had crossed his path since then, and with the help of the cards many had come to regret it. He often wondered how he could remember parts of his life so clearly when others were so hazy. He sometimes dreamt of a clinical room, speaking in groups, watching a large-screened television from a paint-chipped wall. The dreams were so vivid he could recall many programmes in his mind when he heard the theme tunes but not how or where he had watched them. Small flashes seeped into his consciousness; nametags waving on clothing, swallowing multi-coloured capsules with thin plastic cups of water that quivered in his hand. But the memories were foggy and the darkness inside him worked hard to keep them repressed. Those memories served only to weaken him. He would have to remain strong for what lay ahead.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The tall electric gates parted to allow Jennifer and Will’s unmarked Ford Focus inside. Will gave a low whistle as they drove past the beautifully manicured garden bordering the long gravel driveway to Christian Bowe’s impressive six-bedroom home.
‘We’re in the wrong jobs,’ Will said as the three-storey house came into view. The large bay windows and solar panels fed from the generous morning sunlight, which beamed down on the English country home. Expansive green fields flanked the gravel driveway, maintaining the privacy of the residents within.
Jennifer glanced up at the old fashioned street lamps that disguised the CCTV domes discreetly hidden within. Several burglar alarms flashed on the outside of the building and all exits appeared to be securely fenced. Christian certainly wasn’t taking any chances with security. Their old Ford Focus appeared sorely out of place next to the red Jaguar as they parked in the driveway. Jennifer ran her fingertips over the shiny paintwork as she walked to the door, knowing it was the nearest she’d ever come to having one.
She was half expecting a butler to answer the glossy red wooden door, but instead she got Christian, red-eyed and gaunt, a sharp contrast to the publicity imag
es splashed across the tabloid magazines.
‘Oh Jenny it’s awful, isn’t it,’ Christian said, before wrapping his arms around her and dropping his head into her shoulder.
Although taken aback by the sudden display of affection, she reciprocated by rubbing his back, allowing him time to catch his breath before breaking away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m a mess, I know. I … I just don’t know what to do with myself. Please, come inside.’
Jennifer ran her eyes over his baggy clothes. He had lost weight, and his shoulders appeared to have dropped a couple of inches since she had seen him last. His slow lifeless feet dragged across the oak floor as he led her through the double doors to the vast living room. Jennifer wondered if their visit would make things better or worse.
The delicate fragrance of white lilies greeted them as they entered the bright but stuffy room, and Jennifer’s eyes danced over the overflowing vases decorating the window ledge and mahogany sideboards. Her eyes drifted to a portrait hanging over the wide traditional fireplace. Felicity Baron looked stunning in a full-length white gown, her face framed by her wavy blonde hair. Christian was standing behind her, one hand around her slender waist, the other holding her left hand, which was showing off an engagement ring the queen mother would have been proud of.
‘Beautiful, wasn’t she,’ Christian said, his eyes misting over. ‘It was taken at our engagement party last year.’
‘I’m so very sorry,’ Jennifer said, usually one to shy from such acts of grandeur. ‘Thank you for seeing me, I understand your need for privacy at this time.’
Christian waved a hand over the leather sofa. ‘I could do with a friendly face. At the moment, all I get are paparazzi calling me day and night. I didn’t need friends when I had Felicity. But now …’ The words caught in his throat and he gestured towards the sofa. ‘Please, take a seat. I take it this is police business?’
Jennifer nodded solemnly. She glanced around the room as Will tinkered with framed photographs on the sideboard. ‘Are the children about?’
Christian stared into space for several seconds before responding. ‘The children? Oh … they’re with their mother. She’s been cleared by the police, but I expect you know that.’
Jennifer undid her jacket. The room was stifling, and she wondered when was the last time he had opened a window. ‘Yes I was aware. Right now we’re looking into every aspect of Felicity’s case. Part of the investigation involves interviewing family members.’
‘I was recording a live television show when Felicity …’
‘I know that, Christian, and this isn’t about you, so please don’t worry. I want to ask you about your cousin, Bert.’
Christian’s head snapped up, and he hastily daubed away the tears welling in his eyes. ‘Bert? Do you finally believe me that he had something to do with this?’
Jennifer squared her shoulders. ‘I’m afraid that’s a very distinct possibility, and he may be involved in a lot more.’
Christian gasped, cupping a hand to his mouth. ‘There was a murder on the news … a young woman, found dead in her bed. Was that him?’
‘I can’t say either way,’ Jennifer said, leaning her notebook on her crossed legs. ‘That’s why it’s important that we know everything there is about his background. The police are doing everything they can to find him. Teams of officers are scouring local areas, dog handlers are searching the woodlands, and the police helicopter has made several trips overhead to search for his van.’
Christian blew his nose and replaced his sodden tissue with a fresh one from the box on the coffee table. ‘Bert’s spent half his life in and out of mental institutions. Why do they keep letting him out? Don’t they ever learn?’
‘We’ve got your earlier statement, but can you tell me a bit more about the last time you saw him?’ Jennifer said, trying to obtain the information before he broke down. She felt like a vulture, feeding off him for answers when he was in so much pain. But that was often the way in the police. You saw people at their worst, and all you could do to help was apprehend the people responsible for their pain. Her eyes flicked to Will, who was now staring out the window. He was in his comfort zone when he was on foot chases, or struggling with suspects as he locked his cuffs in place. Grief unsettled him, and he was happy to leave such interviews to her.
Christian took a sip of water from a glass on the table and coughed to clear his throat. ‘Bert used to visit our house when I was young. He made mum nervous, so she told him to stay away. Then when I was on TV, he managed to get a hold of my mobile number and began calling me night and day. He even got to a phone when he was in the institution. It carried on long after he left. That’s when I reported him for harassment.’
‘Why the fascination with you?’
Christian shrugged. ‘He’s plagued me half my life. Mother thinks I remind him of his brother, the one that died when he was a child. Can I get you a drink?’
Will opened his mouth to respond but Jennifer cut him off. ‘No thanks. What sort of things would he say or do when he came to visit? Did he give any readings?’
‘Readings? No. Sometimes he’d talk about his mother as if she was still alive.’ Christian sighed, recalling the memory. ‘When I was young, he’d ramble on about his blackbirds and how he used to save them from traps. Sometimes the farmers would hang out dead jackdaws on their land to keep the birds from their crops. I remember Bert telling me once that he was up all night cutting them down. He’d save a few of their feathers as keepsakes then bury their bodies in the woods. In the early days, he used to tell me his stories. He’d sit there, scratching his arms and legs until they bled. He had terrible eczema, but I was young and I felt sorry for him. To me, he was a fragile old man.’
‘Did you ever speak to his mother?’ Jennifer said, scribbling his answers in her pocket notebook.
‘Aunty Grace? God no. After her husband died she isolated herself from the world, wouldn’t even allow mother to visit. God only knows what used to go on in that big old house, with just the two of them rattling around up there. She was dead for weeks before anyone found her.’
‘How did she die?’ Jennifer said, nodding at Will to join her on the sofa.
‘They said it was her heart but her body wasn’t discovered for several weeks. Bert had left, and was sleeping rough in his father’s old van. You don’t think he had anything to do with it, do you? I mean, Bert was creepy, but this all still seems a bit beyond him.’
Jennifer was non-committal. ‘I’m just trying to get a feel for what your cousin is like, and your relationship with him.’
‘What should I do if he comes back?’
‘You’ve got excellent security. Be alert, and carry your phone with you at all times. If you hear from him, call us straight away.’
Christian pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose. He glanced up at the picture one more time before speaking. ‘Felicity would hate to see me like this. She loved the kids, you know, she’d tell me to be strong for them.’
The mention of Felicity’s name brought a fresh question to Jennifer’s mind. ‘Can I ask … did Felicity ever mention a group called “The Reborners” to you?’
‘No. What’s that?’
‘It’s like a self-help group for people who want to forget their past and begin again. Does that sound like something she could have been interested in at some point in her life?’ Jennifer would have liked to mention the Facebook group they discovered, but Zoe had given her strict instructions not to breathe a word. Besides, she had already seen Felicity’s very public Facebook profile and she wasn’t a member of any groups.
Christian shook his head. ‘Felicity told me everything. She was a very happy young lady, and had no regrets in life.’ He stared back up at the picture as fresh tears began to fall. ‘Oh Fliss, why did you have to leave me?’
Jennifer gave him the only crumb of hope she could think of. ‘Christian, you know better than anyone that there’s life after death. You
have to take comfort in that.’
‘I know. But I want her here with me, now. I miss her so much.’ Christian’s face crumpled and he folded his arms tightly around his stomach, leaning forward in the chair.
Jennifer’s eyes met Will’s, and he mouthed the words ‘Let’s go’. She felt uncomfortable invading Christian’s grief when it was still so raw, but she was a professional, and finding the person who tampered with Felicity’s car would at least provide him with a grain of comfort. ‘It’s very early days. Give yourself time.’
Will interjected as he stood behind them. ‘Have you spoken to any of Felicity’s friends since the funeral?’
Christian stared at him, as if he had only just realised he was there. ‘No. I know it sounds selfish but I just don’t have time for anyone else’s grief right now.’
Jennifer understood the sentiment, and it made her all the more determined to get her hands on the Raven before he could kill again.
Chapter Forty
Bert
* * *
Bert wrapped his fingers around the chipped mug, slowly draining the scotch and allowing it to warm the pit of his stomach. Branches tapped the roof of the van like long bony fingertips, tap tap tapping into his psyche, the pitch-black night causing him to awake disorientated and confused. But camping out in the depths of the forest was better than going home to mother, or whatever was left of her. He imagined her still sitting in her rocking chair, just as she did when he was a boy. He tried to recall a time when he felt kindness. There had been a woman … Bert gasped as the name came to him through the mists of his mind. Rosa. That was her name.
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