A Murder of Crows

by Ian Skewis

  Bessie started barking so furiously that Jerome fought hard to control her. He noticed that she was sniffing the air and Jerome thought he detected a strange smell, like something metallic. He calmed her and looked around. He had the odd notion that he was being watched, as if the natural world around him had become preternatural somehow. There was total silence. It was then he realised that his cockerel hadn’t crowed. Alarmed, he hobbled quickly to the hen coop and found that his pride and joy was dead. He kneeled down to take a closer look. It had been partially devoured. He knew immediately from the bite marks what animal had done it – a fox.

  Jerome was livid. Shaking with fury, he threw down his walking stick, went over to the wood pile and pulled the axe from the tree trunk. Ordering Bessie to stay where she was, he stumbled into the woods in search of his son.

  ‘Scott!’ he shouted, his bloodshot eyes wide with hate. ‘Daddy’s coming!’

  Chapter Eleven

  September 1st

  Alice suddenly woke up from her afternoon nap.

  Something’s wrong, she thought, and looked about her. It was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. The air was still and hot. She got up from her armchair and went into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water and drank it down in one go. The atmosphere in the house was oppressive, as if about to ignite, and the clock seemed to be counting down to something explosive.

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ she whispered and clucked her tongue at her overwrought imagination. Hard to believe I used to be a teacher, she thought scornfully, and put the kettle on. Feeling hot and suffocated, she decided to go outside for some fresh air.

  It was even worse outdoors. The air felt thick and heavy. The sun was hidden behind a haze of heat and the blue sky looked dirty, tinged with a strange colour, almost green, like verdigris. She breathed deeply and wondered, What’s that smell?

  She looked at the seagull beside the front steps. It hadn’t been dead long enough to give off an odour, despite the heat, she concluded. This was something else, something coppery. It permeated the air around her.

  Better get rid of it soon, though, or it’ll attract flies, she told herself, and glanced at her watch, which read 3.05pm. Alice wore it all the time now to try to keep track of things in case she suffered another fugue. She checked the watch against her grandfather clock and realised that it should have chimed by now, but its pendulums had mysteriously stopped. She picked up the phone and was about to dial the speaking clock when she heard an odd tone – the line was dead.

  The kettle started screaming.

  When she came back out with her cup of Darjeeling, she stood at the front steps and left the door open. It struck her that the air smelled almost exactly like the inside of her kettle. She heard seagulls screeching overhead, looked up at the now darkening sky, and watched as they flew away from a bank of brooding cloud that had materialised in the distance. There was a flash of light – she knew this was no window being opened.

  ‘Looks like I won’t need to find that watering can after all,’ she said to herself with a smile.

  Chapter Twelve

  September 1st

  Scott had been spending his time in the woods, pottering about, happy with his freedom from all that the blunt instrument that was his father had held dear and which he despised. He was alone with his favourite tree – a 700-year-old oak. Thanks to his mother, and the natural history books that she had provided him with, he knew its real name:

  Quercus robur.

  And he knew the name of the bird that had built a nest there – the Eurasian jay:

  Garrulus glandarius.

  And the rodent that lived inside it – the red squirrel:

  Sciurus vulgaris.

  And that of the plants that grew below it – liverwort:

  Conocephalum conicum.

  And reindeer moss:

  Cladonia rangiferina.

  Under this tree he had grown from a precocious little boy to an inscrutable young man. He had played and daydreamed and slept under its protective branches. He had cried under its canopy of leaves when his mother had passed away. Scott knew the contours of its surface and its blemishes as intimately as a lover. He climbed its reassuringly thick arms and when he got to the top he could see for miles around: his father toiling on the farm, looking so small and distant, like an ant that he could crush between forefinger and thumb, his beloved Bessie investigating every interesting smell in the vicinity, and the fields beyond that swept to the horizon where a premature twilight seemed to be descending.

  That’s when he noticed it. Everything was still and hushed as if in anticipation. The birds had been strangely silent all day and their silence now seemed to intensify. The air was stifling. Something down below caught his eye – his father coming towards him, but at such surprising speed that it took him a moment to realise that his walking stick was gone and in its place there was something sharp and shiny, which he was swinging back and forth in his hand.

  Then he saw what it was.

  As if in league with his thoughts, the birds sounded the alarm. To the untrained ear this would have been but a random chorus of chirping and chattering, but Scott knew better. He had observed their behaviour and listened to their songs for years. They were warning of something approaching.

  But it wasn’t his father, or some other predator.

  From high in his treetop he looked to the sky. And he saw the birds flying back to the safety of their nests because something was coming from the west. A strange mountain was forming on the horizon.

  ‘Cumulonimbus,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Storm clouds…’

  *

  As Jerome made his way through the dense undergrowth, his blood was racing from the whisky and all the indignities he’d suffered at the hands of his own son. The snares tripped. The work never done. And that insolent silence.

  ‘You fucking little bastard!’ he screamed, with a face the colour of beetroot juice, his voice almost hoarse with the effort. ‘You broke my back, you evil little cunt. I’m going to get you. I’m going to cut you in half!’

  He advanced through the trees, swiping branches out of his face, his heart thumping hard with the bitter memories of all those years he had spent harbouring doubts about his own conduct.

  ‘All that time I wasted, worrying that I hadn’t done enough for you, making excuses for you, when all the time you’ve been laughing behind my back whilst I sweat blood every fucking day to keep you in the manner to which you’re accustomed. You ungrateful little brat!’

  There in the dark he could see Scott perched up high in his favourite tree, illuminated by the curved arc of the moon above. He thought his son looked right at him for a moment, but then seemed to turn away, as if disinterested – his head, quite literally, in the clouds. Jerome snarled and advanced towards his quarry, tightening his grip on the axe that was swinging to and fro in his hand.

  He arrived at the base of the tree. ‘You think you’re untouchable up there, do you?’ he yelled. Then he smiled broadly, maniacally, and said matter-of-factly, ‘Well, Daddy’s here. And he’s going to cut you down to size…’

  *

  Alistair was driving through a tunnel of dark, towering trees, when suddenly an explosion jolted across the roof. Caroline screamed and Alistair put his foot hard onto the brakes, skidding the car to an abrupt halt. For a few seconds they both sat there looking at each other.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Caroline said breathlessly.

  Alistair didn’t reply. Instead he waited and listened. There was nothing, except for the rain being blown against the windscreen. He looked in the mirror to see if there was any sign of Matthew’s car. Nothing there. He made a move, ignoring Caroline’s protest, and signalled for her to remain where she was.

  Warily, he slid out of the car to investigate, craning his neck to see what had happened. He saw something resembling a hardback book lying on the roof, black and shiny, thrown with such force that it had created a dent in t
he metal.

  Before he could even begin to comprehend what it was or how he was going to explain the car’s damage to the hire company, another one flew out of the darkness. Alistair jumped back to avoid it, slipping and falling on the wet grass as the object shattered the front windscreen.

  Caroline gave another terrified yell, and he quickly picked himself up. He was about to run round to get her, but she had already climbed out of the car. He took her hand in his and considered what they needed to do next. They were exposed and being buffeted by the elements, but the car was no longer the safest place to be. His first thought was to take shelter amongst the trees, but another piece sailed past, narrowly missing his head, and landed with a whump in the grass verge. He ventured towards the thing and tentatively picked it up, turning it over in his hand.

  It was a slate from someone’s roof.

  He peered into the darkness to see where it had come from. As if in answer there came a deep, threatening growl of thunder, followed seconds later by a blue-white flare that lit up the trees ahead.

  Caroline squeezed his hand. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said.

  But Alistair wasn’t listening. He was speculating on what had caused the flare – he knew it wasn’t lightning…

  *

  From his vantage point Scott watched as the storm approached steadily – vast strata of clouds towering on the horizon, mushrooming into the shape of a blackened anvil. The outer layers of the cloud bank spread across the night sky, snuffing out the stars like celestial candles, one by one, creeping rapidly, like some gigantic and unstoppable organism, until it swallowed the moon.

  The silence became electric.

  Scott could detect the warm metal smell of ozone surging up from the earth, could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the humid, charged air billowed around him. A deep, ominous rumble sounded in the distance, followed by a flash of lightning that briefly lit up the skyline, startling him. He watched, hypnotised, as nature’s drama unfolded. Plump, warm drops of rain smacked heavily through the trees.

  Scott snapped out of his reverie when he saw that his father had arrived at the foot of the oak, and was screaming something incomprehensible. A moment later and the axe was embedded with a sickening thud into the trunk. Scott looked on dumbfounded as his father wreaked havoc, chopping furiously. With each slice it dawned on him that it wasn’t so much an attack on the tree itself, but rather an assault on all that he cherished. Each blow was a blow to his heart. He turned away, unable to watch any more. The wind began to howl and the rain grew torrential and the thuds continued; again and again and again, until they finally staggered to a stop.

  Scott looked down to see his exhausted father looking up at him in the rain. Their eyes met in a silent confirmation that Scott had won – king of a very peculiar castle. But as a victory it was meaningless. Scott watched with regret as Jerome hobbled away, the axe held limply in his hand. He felt pity for him. His father seemed so small, so utterly alone. And Scott, ever the optimist, climbed down the tree and called out to him.

  ‘Dad?’

  Jerome stopped and turned round. Scott saw there was a strange expression on his face, one he’d never seen before – a look of crazed hatred.

  ‘I’m not your dad, any more than you’re my son,’ he growled – and he raised the axe once more…

  *

  Alistair and Caroline watched numbly as another blue-white flash lit up the road ahead. The wind grew stronger, embarking on a dismal chorus, moaning and whistling through the tired limbs of the surrounding trees – as if the dark heart of the natural world were awakening from some ancient slumber and threatening to exact some awful revenge on mankind. In the midst of this orchestra of hell, there was a single note, barely perceptible, but steadily increasing, like the murmur of a swarm of strange electronic bees.

  Caroline saw Alistair was deliberating whether to go back to the car, but it was fast disappearing in a flurry of wet leaves and broken branches. So she tightened her grip on his hand and led him off the road and into the relative safety of the woods. The droning was much louder now and seemed to be coming from above. Another bluish flash lit up the trees, accompanied by a spurt of sparks.

  ‘I was right,’ exclaimed Alistair, and Caroline wondered what he meant. She followed his gaze and looked up to see an electricity pylon standing in the dark right above them, emitting an angry buzz as the wind tore at its cables.

  She felt Alistair tugging on her hand and turned to see him shouting something to her – but his words were lost in the wind. There was a sudden din of grinding metal from overhead and something scraped across the treetops, ripping branches off as it went, the debris falling around them. They both ran for cover. Caroline tripped, and with her arms in front of her face to break her fall, she landed awkwardly amongst some bushes, her fingers catching on the thorns. She realised she had lost her grip on Alistair.

  And when she looked back, he was gone…

  *

  Scott ran as fast as he could, away from the madman with his brandished axe and his bloodshot eyes, away from the murderous screaming of his name. Through trees and branches he stumbled, slipping on wet leaves underfoot, but moving apace and never looking back. He came to a river and saw a little humpback bridge, and he crouched underneath, panting like a frightened animal. He knew his father wouldn’t be too far behind – he was more able-bodied than he made himself out to be – and so Scott held his breath and waited.

  And then he waited some more.

  He could hear nothing except the storm.

  Perhaps he’s given up, he thought hopefully.

  He was about to come out from his hiding place when he heard Daddy stomping across the bridge, the sharp end of his axe striking and dragging the flagstones directly above Scott’s head…

  *

  Alistair was desperately trying to find Caroline. He cried out her name again and again, but there was no sign of her. His stomach lurched at the thought that she might be lying injured somewhere. He ran through the rain-soaked forest in search of her, and even when he realised he was lost, he kept going, up an incline, still shouting for her, until he came to a clearing. A farmhouse and a barnyard stood barely visible in the violence of the storm.

  He wondered if perhaps she might have taken shelter there. As soon as he was out of the woods and into the open air, the full force of the storm hit him hard. He was almost lifted off his feet, but he fought on, battered by the ferocious wind and the pounding sleet. He was assailed by a bewildering array of broken branches and snapped twigs and conifer needles, which flew towards him on their deadly trajectories. Nature had gone berserk, but heroically he stumbled on amidst the shrapnel, almost losing his balance in the wind and the slippery hailstones littering the ground. He could see the trees moving from side to side and their shadows dancing furiously on the roof of the barn. The wind was howling through the eaves and the cattle inside were braying and bellowing. Suddenly the barn doors were flung wide open and the panicked cows bolted; he had no option but to bolt with them. He was trapped between their heavy flanks as they stampeded into the forest, taking him with them.

  Alistair stumbled, and watched in abstract as the world seemed to turn on its axis. He was falling, tumbling breathlessly through the air, catching glimpses of treetops and dark clouds, and hearing the intimate muffled, crumpled sounds of his own body crashing through thickets, before landing with a thump on his back.

  For a moment he just lay there at the bottom of the incline, dreamily looking up to see how far he’d fallen. He began laughing uncontrollably when he saw the cows dispersing in an orderly fashion to take shelter in the trees, as if nothing was out of place.

  Above all this, in the night sky, he could make out the last remaining stars, like eyes that were now closing in shame at what was happening to the mortal world below. All the forces of nature seemed to conspire, creating a singular tempest, which was rising to a crescendo all around him.

  A sudden and
overwhelming sensation of anguish brought Alistair to his senses. He could hear water. There was a river nearby. He picked himself up, gripped as he was with the urgency of getting back up the slope to finish searching the farmhouse.

  Something was coming for him, from out of the shadows. He tried to escape, but it held him fast. A searing pain jolted into his side that made him cry out one last time for Caroline.

  And the storm raged. And the lights went out across Hobbs Brae.

  Alistair’s pain quickly subsided and he was overcome by seemingly insignificant thoughts: it was payback time; this was his punishment for not looking after his mum when his dad left; for his past life as a petty criminal. And the bitter irony that this is what he’d got for trying to stick to the straight and narrow, for he’d ended up off the beaten track again.

  As the ground rushed up to meet him, he was struck by the unfairness of it all – he didn’t stand a chance. He lay there on broken bracken and saw the debris of the gale flying over him, and he imagined Caroline’s beautiful face, and the unreal way her long, blonde hair seemed to writhe in the wind.

  Lost her again, he thought sadly. My story is ending.

  And then he saw her guide his hand to her belly and he was overwhelmed with desolation.

  I’ll never see my own child.

  As his synapses closed down and the river disappeared into darkness, he was inundated by once-forgotten memories: his father closing the garden gate behind him; his mother staring wistfully at the sea. And then one final, fleeting recollection of Caroline walking quickly away across George Square, and the sorrow he felt because he never did get to tell her about his special surprise…

  *