A Murder of Crows

by Ian Skewis

  He resumed watching the flames and trying to unwind, but the pain in his back was making him restless. He glanced at his walking stick, which leaned against his chair. As constant a companion as my dog, he brooded. The cannabis has never been enough to ease this perpetual pain. God only knows how I’ve managed to pull through. Fifty-four years old. My wife long gone. And there’s no one left to help me. There’s my son, of course, but he’s never shown any enthusiasm, so I’m forced to do all the work by myself. But I can’t run the farm efficiently anymore, not with my back, and I’m struggling to make ends meet. It’s affecting my health. I blame my son entirely for it.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Scott was wrapped in cotton wool from the outset, he pondered bitterly, replaying an age-old argument in his head.

  ‘I’m not having any son of mine being brought up to expect an easy life. I never had one so why should he?’ Jerome had said this with rather more vehemence than he had intended, and as soon as he saw the look on Elspeth’s face he instantly regretted it. His late wife had stared at him long and hard, her right eyebrow hoisting itself upwards as if pulled by an invisible thread – always a sign that a torrent of retribution was on the way.

  ‘You never had an easy life? And what about me? Do you think I have it easy? No, I don’t. But do I ever complain? Do I make your life a misery because of it? Of course I don’t. I just get on with it. I get up well before you every morning. I cook your breakfast. I milk the cows and collect the eggs. I clear out the barn. I send Scott to school. You do remember that he’s still at school, don’t you?’

  Jerome shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘Of course I do, but I don’t think that means we should be—’

  ‘I’m not making his life easy,’ she continued over him. ‘I’m treating him as he should be treated – he’s still a child. And given that the farm is doing well under my supervision – we’ve got plenty of food and money to spare, almost entirely thanks to me, then I get a say in how things are run here and that includes my son – and I say he can have a day off every now and then. God knows one of us should.’

  ‘He has every day off,’ Jerome grumbled, but Elspeth shot him a look and he slinked off outside. He’d been scolded enough for the time being.

  As he sat in front of the hearth, absentmindedly stroking Bessie’s ears, he felt a pang of regret, for he knew that Elspeth had been quite right in her assertions; the farm was in better hands when she was in life. He smiled fondly at the memory of her formidable skill in dealing with the daily stresses of running the business – rising before dawn and getting on with it, all without complaint; balancing the accounts and completing the necessary correspondence late at night. Elspeth Jennings had been a one-woman powerhouse. She had more than earned her stripes.

  Unlike our son, thought Jerome, and he felt his blood pressure rise as he pictured Scott sullenly doing nothing. I tried to warn her but she never listened. He took another impatient draw from his spliff as he recalled how Elspeth did everything for their only child.

  ‘That boy’s turning lazy. He’s a daydreamer.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with dreaming,’ replied Elspeth sharply. ‘That’s how all successful people begin.’ Jerome felt slighted once more as she affectionately ruffled Scott’s hair and they both looked at him with that same dull-eyed defiance.

  Jerome regretted that he hadn’t put his foot down and showed the pair of them who was in charge. He was painfully aware of just how much he was paying the consequences for his own lack of assertiveness. Elspeth had ruled the roost and Jerome watched disapprovingly as his son became more and more indolent.

  ‘We’re blessed to have a boy like him,’ Elspeth had said defensively.

  ‘Oh, he’s blessed all right. Blessed with the knack of disappearing whenever a job needs doing.’ Jerome walked out in disgust and stared long and hard into the woods. And no amount of shouting his name seems to bring him from out of the undergrowth, he concluded.

  As he sat in his chair, his physical discomfort manifested itself in his thoughts. There’s something else. It’s not that Scott doesn’t touch the breakfasts I cook for him anymore – that’s not what bothers me. Nor is it that his disobedience seems much more blatant, again that’s not what bothers me.

  What bothers me is the silence.

  Scott has always been on the quiet side. That’s not a surprise. We’ve spent our entire lives isolated on our small farm on the edge of Hobbs Brae with only our livestock for company. Our nearest neighbour, Alice, is over a mile away. Elspeth spoke to her on occasion but neither myself nor my son ever made the effort. In fact, Scott and I rarely speak to anyone. I used to think that was the explanation, that perhaps the silence was simply a trait that Scott had learned – a case of like father, like son. Or perhaps it was because Scott had no brothers or sisters to talk to. These explanations would have been so wonderfully normal and therefore easier to deal with, but none of them seemed to fit. Since approaching adolescence, Scott’s wall of silence has become insurmountable. I used to think he was simply at that awkward age when kids’ hormones go haywire, but as time has gone on and Scott has reached his nineteenth year, I can no longer find excuses for his conduct.

  I worry that it’s increasingly unlikely that Scott will want to take over the farm when I grow too old and infirm to work on it myself – and that day is approaching much faster than I anticipated. Scott’s growth into maturity has resulted in a struggle of wills between us, putting the family business in jeopardy.

  Jerome shook his head and made a concerted effort to try and stop thinking about it, fearing that the cannabis was making him paranoid. He flicked the remainder of the spliff into the fire. He sat further back in his chair. Soon, he felt becalmed and his mind began to wander, making its way down to the cemetery, where Elspeth’s grave lay in the shadows of the old abbey. In his relaxed state he could smell the fresh breeze from the North Atlantic that wafted in through the ruins. He smiled at the amusing sight of Bessie darting in and out of the tombstones and sniffing at the decaying bouquets of flowers. He could see everything as clear as day, could feel the sun on his weather-beaten face. All at once Jerome was euphoric.

  ‘Plenty of old bones for you here, girl,’ he shouted happily to Bessie, then felt guilty for speaking out of turn, amongst the dead, and in the presence of the one person who had made his life bearable. Jerome composed himself and sat down, resting his head on her gravestone.

  ‘I don’t know what to do about our son, Elspeth. Ever since you left I’ve tried so hard to be a good father to him and in return I would have expected some loyalty, a vested interest in our livelihood, but there’s been nothing.’

  He looked around helplessly. The wind whistled through the gaps in the ruins where the stained glass windows once stood, and he could only imagine what her response would be.

  Jerome wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he came out of his chair-bound reverie, but he could feel his mood begin to bruise once more, the old anxiety arriving like the spectre at the feast. He watched Bessie rest her chin on her front paws and give out a loud sigh. He could see that she was getting old and it saddened him because it was beginning to feel like the end of an era. He wondered if his life’s work would be forgotten. I don’t know what the future holds. When Scott is asleep upstairs I quietly despair. I still can’t find a motive for his behaviour. I’m no good at this. I can’t keep second guessing anymore.

  He winced as the pain in his spine began to recur. He tried to turn his attention to something else and dreamed of a period when he was more able-bodied. I was too busy to worry about anything back then. All I did was work. Now I have to rest all the time and all I do is worry. He thought about the bare facts of his predicament: he and his son were as strangers and they had barely spoken in months. Something was wrong with Scott and it infuriated Jerome that he could not figure out what. He couldn’t rid himself of the idea that his son was planning something. There was no proof, nothing tangible. It was
just a feeling he had. Yet the clues were there in his actions: the long absences, the uneaten breakfasts – and the wilful destruction of the snares.

  Jerome had been trying to catch a fox that had been attacking the hen coop. Feeling positive, he had hobbled quickly through the grass with Bessie trotting alongside him. His hopes were dashed, however, when he found that his snares had been deliberately destroyed. Each and every one. Jerome was furious and stomped back to the house to confront Scott, for he knew that his insolent son was responsible. But then something happened that changed everything. When he flung open his son’s bedroom door, he saw the fox lying there in a cardboard box, being looked after like some sort of pet. Jerome’s face flushed with shame when he saw that one of its hind legs was bandaged. Scott glared at him with such hatred that Jerome lost his words and hobbled silently back down the stairs, all the while blaming Elspeth for his predicament. Wrapped in cotton wool, he reminded himself. Either way, the message was clear: his son resented him and would do anything to spite him.

  Not bad for someone who doesn’t talk, Jerome mused, attempting to see at least some humour in the situation, but what did I do wrong?

  The question was loaded with implications he dared not think about. Instead, he turned his attention to the sky. It seemed to be ablaze. It reminded him that tomorrow was the beginning of the field-burning season. Every September he would set fire to one of his crops in order to germinate new growth for the following spring. He tried to imagine Scott helping him, but found he could not conjure up such an unlikely work of fiction. He smiled ruefully at this and watched as the bloodstained clouds threaded their way across the horizon.

  Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight…

  Elspeth had rhymed off that old proverb on many occasions. So tomorrow will be a nice, dry day, he thought. Ideal for burning the field. But as night fell, and the first chill of autumn approached, his fears seemed to intensify. Jerome Jennings drifted off to sleep in his chair, dreaming darkly of what the season’s yield might be.

  Chapter Seven

  September 1st

  I’m going to be a dad!

  As he waited to buy some coffee to keep them going on their long journey, Alistair couldn’t help but feel excited. The queue seemed to be taking ages and he kept glancing nervously at Caroline sitting at a table, texting on her phone. He was fuelled with the irresistible urge to abandon the coffee and go straight back to her, sit with her – guard her.

  But from what?

  He watched as she sat there, innocently messaging her friends. From his vantage point she did not look any different from any other person in the café. Her downturned face partially hidden by her hair, concealing her beautiful regard, and making her seem almost anonymous, almost but not quite ordinary. He glanced across the room. People were sitting at their tables chatting or texting, drinking coffee, eating. Just a typical afternoon. And yet every fibre of his being told him that today was anything but, for his heart was filled with pride because he was going to be a daddy. And there in the middle of the room was the whole reason, his touchstone. Only he knew how truly special she was. It was a delicious secret between them that was hidden in the humdrum of café life. The course of his life had now changed forever. And it was all because of her. He peeked over his shoulder at his girlfriend yet again as the line in front moved like a viscous river; he longed to be beside her, protecting his own. Yes, he was most definitely a father now. Who would have thought?

  *

  He had come a long way in the past year or so. Ever since that first day he had been drawn inexorably off course, away from the lanes and alleys where crime was a currency, and onto the busy pavements where the good people walked, the ones who paid their taxes and obeyed the rules. It was as if he had been summoned from darkness into light.

  Alistair wondered at how things had turned out. That first sight of Caroline walking quickly across George Square: the books clutched to her breast; the long winter coat; the calf-length boots; the long blonde hair that flowed behind her pale face; the troubled brow and the shadows under her startling blue eyes, giving her the demeanour of someone on an important mission, sleepless and secretive, mysterious, perhaps vulnerable – and distinctly out of his league. Unapproachable. And now she was sitting only a few tables away, carrying his child. Whatever had happened between these two states blew his mind.

  He remembered how cold and sunny it had been that day. He had lost her in the glare and was forced to wait impatiently at the traffic lights, shielding his eyes with the back of his hand, peering anxiously through the moving buses and cars, trying to find her again. Then she reappeared, further away, walking quickly through a flock of pigeons that rose up uniformly into the air, making way for her. His heart thumped as he saw his chances receding with her slender form. And he just stood there, unsure what to do next, held fast by inhibition, so that by the time he had weighed one option against the other, by the time he had plucked up some courage, the traffic lights had changed again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And though he kept returning to the same spot at the same time, it was now several days too late and she had long since disappeared; forever, it seemed. He was furious with himself. He’d blown it. But in time he got used to the fact and kidded himself that maybe she wasn’t so special after all. It was the hard-hearted rationale of someone who had made up their mind that they would never have that chance again.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, their lanes crossed.

  He was entering a newsagent for some cigarettes when a purse dropped right at his feet. He instinctively bent down to snaffle it but when he stood up she was there.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the purse from him, and he just looked at her, dumbstruck. She smiled politely and left. And that was that. He bought his cigarettes on autopilot and went outside, cursing himself.

  And there she was, waiting for him.

  She smiled again and he nervously smiled back. With a sudden surge of confidence that came from nowhere, he adjusted his baseball cap and started to walk towards her when the look in her eyes stopped him. Her gaze was fixed on something behind him. He was about to turn round to see what it was, when a tall, handsome man with a deep suntan and a whiter-than-white smile marched quickly past him, said, ‘Sorry I’m late,’ and kissed her on the cheek. Alistair’s stomach sank as they both disappeared around the corner, hand in hand. He could see those damned traffic lights again, could see his chance receding fast into the distance. But in an instant he was being propelled into forward momentum, and before he knew it, he was following them as they walked down the street, observing how the couple were matched in terms of height and wearing mutually expensive clothes.

  West-Enders, he thought.

  And he was right. They went into a restaurant on Byres Road called the Glasgow Grand, and he waited outside, nervously fixing his baseball cap and trying not to feel like some kind of mad, jealous stalker. Of course, he was fluorescent green with envy but he didn’t want to lose her a second time, such was the strength of his feeling.

  There’s always a chance, he told himself. She can either say yes or she can tell me to fuck off. At least I’ve tried.

  Emboldened, he turned to look through the restaurant window, when he saw the boyfriend coming towards him and he darted back out of sight. He heard him call in a posh, private-school accent, ‘See you tonight – and I promise I won’t be late again.’ Alistair watched with a predator’s eyes as the boyfriend hurried out with an air of unbridled confidence and swaggered down the street, disappearing around the corner. Alistair deftly caught the restaurant door just as it was swinging shut. The moment seemed providential.

  Why not? he thought, and ventured inside. The Grand was warm and filled with the aroma of coffee and the industrious chat of people who, judging by the sharp suits and Prada bags on display, all had top-tier jobs. He furtively scanned the room for any sign of her, but all he could spy were customers sipping their sparkling mine
ral waters and nibbling on their salads. Two attractive young waitresses were bustling up and down with bread baskets and fine wine. He couldn’t see her. Maybe she’s in the toilet, he reasoned. I could always wait – and he wondered if he had enough money for a cup of tea. He was about to finger for some loose change in his jeans when he caught sight of her, but she was dressed differently. Then he realised.

  ‘She works here,’ he blurted, then self-consciously placed a hand over his mouth. He watched in awe as she manoeuvred gracefully through the tables and chairs, her hair tied back and an apron around her petite waist. He thought to raise his hand to catch her attention, but he felt inhibited, and could only watch helplessly as she sashayed through the door and disappeared into the kitchen.

  *

  ‘Next please!’ someone shouted, and Alistair looked up to see he was now at the front of the queue and a member of staff was waiting impatiently on him.

  ‘A latté and a cup of tea,’ he said, and turned to see Caroline watching him from her table. He gave her a nod and she gave him a little wave back. Moments later he was seated in front of her, wishing he had bought something cold to alleviate the stifling heat.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked distractedly, referring to her phone.

  ‘Nothing much,’ she said, stifling a yawn and putting the phone back in her bag. He watched as she leaned forward and cupped the latté in her hands. ‘I think I felt him kick,’ she said quietly, and gave him an impish smile.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You’re only a few weeks gone. You can’t feel it that early. Can you?’

  He waited keenly as Caroline looked from side to side conspiratorially, as if about to tell him a secret. ‘No, of course not,’ she laughed, her blue eyes bright and watery. Then she fished out her mobile again and went straight back to texting. Alistair watched as her fingers flicked rapidly across the phone, the very same phone she had used to tell her posh boyfriend that she wouldn’t be seeing him anymore and that she was with someone else. Alistair relived the moment when Caroline had told him about it, the thrill that went through his heart when he learned that her fancy man was history.