Not yet able to see her face, she was still the most beautiful creature he’d ever encountered. Gordon could feel her wholeness and goodness radiating outwards. Without speaking a word to her he knew that she was honest and trustworthy, generous and kind. Had she not been a spectre from the past – some golden age of simplicity and rural living – he would have spoken to her, pursued her. This was the young woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Other than in this vision, however, he knew he would never meet her. Nor was it likely he would ever see her again. Ghosts, and he had seen a few these last three years, must be left to their business.
Knowing all this and heartbroken over everything that would never be, he watched as the girl drew out a white lily from her tunic and placed it on the recently turned earth. Beside this she laid a magpie feather, its deep, lustrous turquoise shimmering in the warm summer light of a distant era.
What the connection between the ghost girl and Flora was, he didn’t know and trying to think about it now would be to lose this trance and this vision. But the ghost girl knew something about Flora and her passing – she had chosen to leave the same feather as Gordon had. All he could do, all he wanted to do, was watch this girl and be captivated for as long as she was willing to stay.
That turned out to be a very short time.
She appeared to make some gestures and he thought from the tiny movements of her head that she might be speaking to Flora or saying a prayer for her. When she was done, she stood up. Watching her move set fire to his groin. In his searching and travelling he’d always pushed feelings like this aside. Getting close enough to be intimate meant opening up to danger. Since his first terrified escape from the Ward, when the Palmers had nursed him back to health, his rule had always been not to let that happen. This was different, though. He was drawn to her the way a falling man is drawn to Earth.
When she turned to him, everything stopped.
No breath.
No heartbeat.
He was right, of course, her face was as beautiful as her movements and aura had suggested. She was tanned and her cheeks were touched pink, as though by a frosty morning. Her green eyes glittered in the light from that other time. Her voice was so sweet it anguished him to hear it.
“I see you, Gordon Black. You are loved by many, and more than you know.”
He wanted to answer but time had stopped. His body would not respond.
“Flora’s time had come. It was signalled by your arrival and it was right that she passed – no matter what you believe. She recognised you and she loved you. And so do I. Never forget that everything you need will come to hand in the very moment of its requirement. No matter how dark the world may seem to you, everything is as it should be and can be no other way. Keep searching, Gordon. Keep fighting and never give up. If you can do this, if all people can do this, there will always be a future.”
Surely he would suffocate now. Surely his heart would not restart.
“I see you, Gordon Black. I see you.”
The girl began to withdraw into her light and her light began to shrink. When she was gone time began again. He breathed, and his heart continued to beat – both as though nothing had happened. Gordon wept at the loss of her, as though she were the world. Where her light had been, London's gloom gathered like something intelligent, drowning the memory of her, erasing her presence in this time. The sky descended, closed in over the abandoned houses and empty streets, wrapped his head in shadows. Darker and darker until he thought the world was ending.
When he finally roused himself from his fugue, the darkness finally made sense to him. He’d been drifting for a long time. It was night.
16
Dear Gordon
I’m sorry I couldn’t say more last time. The scrap of note paper Bossy got for me was too small and I ran out of space. I was so desperate to tell you things. To tell you everything. Bossy couldn’t get me any more paper before his trip into the woods to deliver the letter to one of his friends. He’s very fair, really. Promises not to read a single word as long as I keep him company sometimes. The one thing I really wanted to say was please, please write back to me. Even if it’s just a word or two. Knowing we can talk to each other will make all of this OK. I told you, didn’t I, that there was a small price to pay for paper and a pencil? Bossy likes to sit beside me for that. On my bunk. I suppose I don’t mind if it means I can communicate with you. Afterwards, he tells me things about what’s going on outside the substation. He seems to know a lot. He told me you’re searching for the Crowman and helping the Green Men. He says you’re tough – well “brick-hard” he calls it. It’s good to know. I was so worried after I shut the green door on you that day. You seemed so small and terrified and I had so many nightmares about what they would do if they caught you. Never mind that now. I know you’re alive and I don’t have nightmares any more. Well not so many. I don’t know where I am or I’d tell you to come and get me. Bossy says if he had some help he could get me out of here. As wonderful as that would be, I’d settle for just seeing your face and knowing you’re OK. You must have grown so much since I last saw you. You must be a man by now. Silly me. Running out of paper again. Be safe. Write very soon. I love you, Gordon. Jude.
Long before the daylight made a target of him, Gordon raided several houses around the property where Denise’s attic now stood abandoned. Most were already cleaned out but one boarded-up basement flat had been ignored by looters. It yielded more tins of food than he could carry, some dried pasta and even some plastic bottles of water. The use-by dates had been exceeded on almost everything he could scavenge and he longed for the land, where he could trap or gather food he trusted. In the cities you had to be thankful for whatever you could steal. He made several trips to transfer the goods to number 257 and lit a fire in one of the many fireplaces the old Victorian house boasted.
Resting pans on an oven tray over the coals, he cooked penne and a couple of tins of tomatoes. By firelight he ate as much as his stomach would hold. Rather than making him sleepy, it renewed him. He mixed the leftovers into one pan and put them to one side, ready to reheat when Denise woke up.
Though he was ready to start searching for the Crowman again, to make forays into the heart of London, he was reluctant to leave Denise in the house alone. When she came round and he was sure she was OK, that would be the time.
Gordon returned to his vantage point at the top of the back steps. By comparison to the almost complete darkness of number 257’s interior, the murky light of dawn in the garden seemed bright at first. The lily and the feather remained where the girl from some long ago summer had left them. He didn’t know how he was going to explain them to Denise.
With nothing to do, he let himself drift again, hoping to recapture the vision of the previous day. Agitation in his limbs prevented him from slipping through the moment into the fluidity of time. He knew this restlessness. Even when his mind was not searching his body was itching to pursue his singular and elusive quarry. The chase was programmed into his muscles and his blood. Resisting its call created discomfort in the very hollows of his bones.
A movement at the periphery of his vision drew his attention. Beyond a fence, several properties along, heads were visible. It was the back garden of the house where Denise had lived. The heads belonged to three men. That was about all he could make out at this distance. They seemed to know where they were going and soon disappeared through the back door. These must be Denise’s friends, the ones who brought food for her and Flora. They’d be back when they got no response from the attic and then they’d start looking around.
Gordon considered his options. If they saw him sitting up here, they’d approach and then the sanctuary that was number 257 would be open to all comers. If he slipped inside now, there was every chance they wouldn’t even come in this direction. He retreated down the steps into the garden and down again to the basement window. If they were decent friends, they’d be back to search another day. By then Denise would have de
cided whether she wanted to share her new address. For now, undisturbed rest was what she needed most.
Ruing the interruption of what little daylight he could enjoy, he slipped back into the darkness of the house.
Gordon slept on a mattress in a room across from Denise. He wanted to be close in case she woke in the darkness and was disorientated. When she eventually rose it had been light for a while. He was cooking in the fireplace when she shuffled in.
“That smells good.”
He could barely see her face by the firelight but she seemed calm.
“This is chickpeas in tomatoes. I’ve got pasta in tomatoes from yesterday. What do you fancy?”
“Yesterday? How long have I slept?”
“Two days, near enough.”
“God. I’ve never slept that much in my life.”
“How do you feel?”
“Sleepy, believe it or not.”
They both laughed a little.
“You hungry?”
“Now that you come to mention it, I’m ravenous.”
He gave her the steaming pan and a spoon and heated up the pasta in the other pot while she ate chickpeas. There’d been a time when he’d missed herbs, spices and salt and pepper. All food tasted good now. After a while, Denise handed back the first pan and he handed her the pasta. She seemed to prefer it and he was glad to see her eat it all.
As he stacked the pans, one inside the other, a noise came up from the basement. The sound of glass underfoot. Gordon unclasped his lock knife and motioned for Denise to follow him. Together they descended to the basement. By the light coming in through the exposed, broken window they both saw two men. A third was climbing in. Gordon squeezed her hand.
Before the third figure was through the window he said:
“Didn’t your parents teach you to knock before coming in?”
The man framed in the window froze and the other two spun towards the sound of Gordon’s voice. Both men held out weapons into the darkness in front of them. One, a crowbar, the other a machete. For the moment, Gordon’s eyes were more accustomed to the gloom than theirs.
“Why are you breaking into my house?” he asked.
“It’s not yours,” said the man with the machete. “No one owns anything any more.”
“I’m the current occupier. You are the current trespasser. What are doing here?”
“We’re looking for someone. A friend.”
“Does this friend of yours have a name?”
The man with the machete took a step forward in the darkness. He could see Gordon now, that was clear. Gordon pushed Denise back up into the obscurity of the stairs. The machete man edged forward.
“Listen, shithead. It’s none of your business. You should leave before you get carved up.”
“Carved up? By three of you? That’s quite an assumption. Especially as you have no idea how many of us are in here.”
The man tensed. His machete quivered. The man with the crowbar couldn’t keep his eyes still. Gordon saw the sheen glistening across his dirty forehead.
“Ah,” said Gordon. “Nerves creeping in a bit, are they? Well, it’s your own fault – you know what they say about piss-poor planning…”
The nearest man adjusted his grip on the machete’s plastic handle.
“Don’t drop it now, will you?” said Gordon.
“Listen…”
“I’m listening.”
“We’ve seen the grave.”
“And?”
“We want to know what’s happened.”
“Of course you do. Your… friend.”
The man with the machete nodded, swallowing.
“Here’s what I suggest,” said Gordon. “You go back out into my garden. I’ll stay here while you do. Then I’ll pop out and we can talk. How’s that sound?”
The man swallowed again, glanced back at his accomplice and the man stuck halfway through the window.
“OK,” he said. “Alright.”
“Good.”
No one moved.
“I’ll stay right here,” said Gordon. “Promise.”
The man with the machete adjusted his grip again. The tip of the blade wavered. He took a step back and glanced behind. He nodded to the crowbar man and together they reversed towards the window. Seeing this, the third man dropped back into the garden. More light came in through the window but Gordon retreated up the stairs so the raiders couldn’t see him.
When they were outside he took Denise’s hand, led her down to the basement and across to the window where they crouched, out of sight.
“Nice friends,” he said. “Supportive. Strong sense of community.”
“They’re dangerous, Gordon.”
“Sometimes a dangerous friend can be a good thing. Right?”
“They’ve always brought us food. Kept our place a secret. Protected us.”
“But there were costs. Compensations to be made. True?”
Denise couldn’t hold his stare.
“Yes. There were.”
“Hey,” he reached out and raised her face with gentle fingers. “I’m no one to judge. Understand? We’ve all done things we wouldn’t have done in other times. What I want to know is how much you want these people to continue being… friendly.”
“They’ve got connections. I’ll never get away from them.”
“You will if you come with me. My connections are bigger than theirs.”
He grinned and watched her calculate the options. It was a decision based on the need to survive, not on feelings – people made cold decisions like this every day now. If they were going to be friends that could come later. If they weren’t, he’d make certain Denise was safe before he moved on.
“I want to get away from here,” she said. “From them. I’ve got no reason to be here any more.”
Gordon squeezed her hand and smiled.
“Good choice.” He stood up. “You stay right there.”
“I thought we were both going out.”
“Now, that would be dangerous. Don’t come into the garden, whatever happens. No matter what you see, OK?”
“But what if you don’t… I mean–”
“Don’t come out unless I call you, Denise. Do as I say and you’ll be fine. Alright?”
She didn’t respond.
Gordon pressed her back into the darkness and stepped into the pool of dull, wounded light seeping through the broken window. Out beyond the steps leading up to the wild garden stood the three survivors. Hungry, lean men with simple appetites and little patience. They must have been tough to have survived this long. Through earthquakes and disease, civil unrest and the unceasing round-up of suspects.
Perhaps they were in the pocket of the Ward. That made more sense; Denise had hinted that they had questionable connections. Whatever the case, Gordon had no regard for them. They’d used hard times as an excuse to live off other people’s misery – certainly they’d used Denise for their own purposes. The fact that they’d given food and medicine in return for favours made her their possession, not a friend. He’d seen people like this all across the country, seen what they’d done in the name of “survival”.
He felt a gathering within himself. Jolts of energy burst up through his feet into his belly and exploded out to his arms and hands. His vision went black for a moment as the obsidian fire ignited behind his eyes. An updraft pushed at him, sending broken glass and dust whirling. To the sound of a thousand pairs of black wings, he leapt up and out through the window.
17
Gordon pushed me back, away from the window and out of sight. But I saw it all. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand what happened next. I can only tell you how it looked to me. How it felt.
Before he moved, something happened around him; to him. The air in the room altered. He was framed in the dim light coming through the smashed basement window and in the space all around him there was this, I don’t know exactly, call it restlessness. Agitation or something. The air fluttered. That’s the onl
y way I can describe it. It was like there was this energy all around him. I could feel it like a push from a strong wind. It made me take a step back.
The air around him blurred. The nearest thing I can compare it to is the movement of a flock of birds. Before all the changes, there used to be thousands of starlings around our block of flats. They often congregated on the pylons and then take off as one. They’d whirl and wheel in the sky, turning fast and coming around, blackening as they blocked the light and then spreading out and thinning as they changed direction in long sweeps. A murmuration; that’s what it’s called.
The way they flew always reminded me of nature programs about the ocean. They were like shoals of fish, flashing light and dark as they darted away from prey in the ocean. The air around Gordon Black was like that, invisible wings shimmered through it, flashed and darkened in a dozen directions. All I could think at the time was that the weather had suddenly changed. That the wind had blasted through the window and kicked up all the dust in the basement. But I knew it wasn’t that really. It was something freaky. Gordon’s murmuration. One of Flora’s dreams coming true, God rest her sweet soul.
He didn’t climb out through the window like the three Ds did – that’s Darren, Dean and Danny, by the way – and he didn’t jump either. He flew. I’ve never seen anyone move like that. He leapt forward and he took off and he sailed out into the garden like a cat with wings. The three Ds couldn’t believe it either. I rushed to the window and I saw the looks on their faces as he landed.
He hadn’t gone far; he still had to climb the steps from the basement up to the level of the garden. He didn’t try to make it look fancy but something in the way he moved was beautiful and wild and they could all see it. I would never even have thought anything like this before meeting Gordon but all I can say to make it clear is that it was like an animal spirit had gone into him. He moved like something lithe and free, not like the chancers and deadbeats who lived in the city. He’d been on the road for three years by then but Gordon was strong and agile. It came off him in waves.
The Book of the Crowman Page 11