A Murder of Crows

by Ian Skewis

  I don’t expect the detective quite believed my story, but he has no evidence either way. I don’t think he particularly liked me either. Being good-looking and successful has made me some enemies and I certainly think that the Clements guy was gunning for me.

  But back to Alistair’s father and me. We would clock off from work and he would take me to Loch Ness. Just the two of us. It became a regular thing and to be honest I’m surprised that no one noticed that a couple of days were unsubstantiated. Even my parents didn’t realise. They thought I was still at work because he told me to tell them that. The first time was okay. He bought us some beer and we went out and did some fishing, and at night we would sit round the fire and he would tell me all his stories. He was quite a character, you see, and I was only young at the time. It was all perfectly innocent but… the next time he took me to the loch and… he forced me to… He said that if I told anyone then I would lose my job and my parents would disown me – so I never did. I know, I know, I was old enough by then to do something about it. Old enough to be termed an adult. But I wasn’t ready for the kind of assault that took place. He could be quite violent. Once, I came back to work with a black eye. Only once. He quietly apologised to me but I was beyond all that then. Something inside me had died. I no longer knew wrong from right. And that’s when it happened.

  A few weeks later, we were out in the middle of the loch again. I had no idea why I kept going there with him, lying to my parents and knowing full well what was going to happen. But by now I felt spellbound, totally under his control. I had no way of fighting back. Well I did, but I didn’t know it yet.

  Anyway, we were out in the middle of the loch and he tried to attack me again, but I just snapped. I hit him… I picked up one of the oars and I hit him with it. It struck the side of his head. There was blood, and I remember the look of shock on his face as he fell overboard… He never surfaced. I watched as the blood pooled out from under the boat. I felt sick. The blood seemed to fill the entire loch. I still dream about it even now.

  I knew what I had done. But I never looked for him. I was too scared. All I wanted was to go home.

  I never told anyone about it. How could I? I was terrified. And yet it’s strange. I realise now that without that horrific experience, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I was so desperate to shake off the feeling of shame, that I completely changed my image and left home to start a new life in Glasgow. Then I set up my own business. Then I met Caroline. All was well with my world. Until Alistair appeared – and the bad dreams returned.

  I have suffered constant guilt for all of my adult life because, in the years since then, I couldn’t help but wonder how William’s relatives had coped. I sometimes believed that I had effectively destroyed their little family. I accepted that responsibility for years but not anymore. William was a monster. I simply put a stop to him. I was barely out of school and repeatedly tormented by someone who was not only my employer, but bigger than me and old enough to be my dad. And my life almost completely ruined as a result.

  In fact, if I am being honest, and please believe me, I am, I still suffer even now. You may think that I’m a bit full of myself but don’t be tricked. My looks and my success hide an embarrassing secret. I think one of the reasons that Caroline went with Alistair is because my sex drive has been affected. I must say, I was very jealous when I found out that Alistair had given her a child. I can still see William in my mind’s eye leering into my face as he did those unspeakable things to me. The memories keep flooding back, time and again. Maybe Alistair was the better man. I don’t know. But how could I tell Caroline that I was raped repeatedly by a bloke? She would have dropped me like a hot potato, especially if her mother found out. And her mother finds out everything. I did despise her for two-timing me but I don’t blame her. Not anymore. After all, I had done the same to her, which was why she had left me the first time. She deserves to be happy. I realised that when she said her last goodbye in the garden that day at Alice Smith’s place. She was very mixed up. She doesn’t know what she wants really. I hope one day she finds peace. I really do.

  I did want Alistair dead for a time, but it was never a serious thought. And it now seems that someone else has beat me to it. I’m sorry to say that I even pictured Caroline lying dead. I imagined her sprawled on the forest floor, with Alistair beside her, and myself standing over their bodies. I was jealous, you see. But returning here has been cathartic. And in the end, what’s done is done.

  I suspected that there might have been some kind of agreement between Alistair and Caroline – that they had set me up for what I had done to his father – but I was being paranoid, I think.

  As for Jason Black, well that was a bit clumsy of me, but I have spent most of my adult life pretending to be confident even though I rarely feel it, so it seemed quite natural to take on somebody else’s mantle, albeit the mantle of a dead boy.

  Speaking of which, the ghost of William still haunts me even now as I sit watching the television with my mother and father. I glance at them nervously. I want to tell them what happened, and is still happening inside my head, but I can’t. I’m still tortured by that bastard even now. And so on it goes – the endless replays of his demise, until I begin to smile, for there is a certain satisfaction in the repeats of William Smith’s violent end.

  It’s all I can do to stop going mad.

  Maybe it’s better this way, for I know there was a very real risk that I might have done someone harm, perhaps even myself. A small part of me no longer cares. It’s why I couldn’t be bothered telling my supervisors where I was going. Sometimes I feel like ditching everything. I have this urge to build things up solely in order to knock them down again. My confidence is a frequently lost battle. And I know I’ve lost Caroline.

  But a man with nothing to lose has everything to gain. So why not go out with a bang, why not get back at the person whose father put me here? After all, he hasn’t been found. Perhaps he’s still out there somewhere, in hiding, thinking himself untouchable.

  But then again, so did William, and look what happened to him.’

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  September 13th

  Colin stood staring out of the bedroom window, a glass tumbler of whisky in his hand. The air outside was calm and still. Everything seemed at peace for the first time in ages. His wife and son were downstairs entertaining the guests, who were celebrating his promotion, but something about the festivities made him feel hollow. It was true that Jerome was safely out of the way and everything was peachy creamy, and yet something was missing.

  Perhaps it was the knowledge that he had not entirely earned his promotion through honest hard work and that Jack’s misfortune might have helped him a little. Or perhaps it was his growing guilt at the entirely unnecessary smear tactics he had allowed his wife to co-ordinate. Or perhaps it was because he had been trumped in the end by Rachel Russell.

  Maybe it was something to do with the fact that Alistair had still not been found and that he knew in his bones that Matthew whiter than White was still very much a suspect, despite the fact that none of the mud would stick.

  In the end, it was probably just the maudlin feeling he shared with Jack. Another thing we have, or had, in common, he thought sadly. He pictured him in the hospital, lying there, at death’s door. He wanted to do right by him. He wanted to make him proud, despite everything, despite the arguments and the subterfuge and the dirty tricks. The case of Alistair Smith was closing, not yet, but soon, he hoped. The case of his father, William Smith, remained open. It was odd how things had turned. Colin had known that Jack had messed up that one and he had thought to use it against him, but somehow real life took over and all his feelings of revenge disappeared and now he was the one working on the case. He recalled Jack’s words again. Crow’s Beak… But it was still as meaningless now as it was then. He exhaled heavily and took another swig from his glass.

  He heard his son downstairs laughing and it made him sad. His son was l
eaving to work in Glasgow. His first job. Colin didn’t want him to go, but he was following in his father’s footsteps and so he couldn’t help but feel proud. The party was as much for him as it was for Colin. Mrs Clements had been so keen to invite everyone they knew. A double celebration. A chance to show off.

  ‘Mr Clements, where are you?’ The shrill tone of his wife. I swear she can read my mind sometimes, he thought with a smirk.

  ‘Coming, Mrs Clements,’ he shouted back distractedly, for he had caught sight of something dark in the distance, above the trees. A smudge on the window. Perhaps a shadow or a cloud. In any case, he blinked and it was gone.

  As he turned to leave, he shouldered the thought that a pall had been cast on the celebrations from somewhere unknown. Perhaps it was simply his own unfathomable doubt, or because the medication was making him feel unsettled, but as he walked back downstairs he could not shake off the feeling that it seemed somehow as if this was the beginning of the end.

  Epilogue

  September 13th

  Alice Smith wandered outside to look at the stars. The sky in between was inky blue and she could see the moon hovering above the ocean. She thought of her late husband and of how he had led another life that she did not know about, and Alice recalled that she had erected something in the field to remember him by, though she couldn’t recall what that something was now.

  She felt a chill and knew that she had forgotten her coat, again. She started to walk back indoors. Then she realised that she was already wearing it. Alice pulled it tight around her and looked out across the stark, moonlit fields.

  The storm was long gone, it seemed, replaced by a much-missed cool night zephyr that teased at the wispy hairs on the nape of her neck. She sighed and watched the leaves begin to fall around her. The autumn was here, an invisible guest that had come to play in her garden, its refrigerated breath kissing her skin.

  She pulled her coat collar up. And she wondered. Where is he? Where is Alistair?

  Just then she noticed something on her dress. It was dark. A large bruise that covered the trim. On closer inspection she noticed that it looked like smoke damage. She lifted the hem to her face and smelled it. It is smoke. She had a vague recollection of a hot, sunny day. And there was a fire. And a blue cardigan. And then all at once it came to her…

  Alice had been in a particularly good mood that day, but she didn’t know why. She reasoned that it might have been because the sun was shining and the sky was azure blue, and so everything seemed as clear as a bell. Even the air coming in through the kitchen window was fresh and crisp, and as a result Alice seemed blessed with an unusual degree of clarity.

  She felt moved to do something constructive and made up her mind that she was going out, so she set off upstairs to get her things. But when she was halfway there, she seemed to quite literally switch off, and when she came to, she had to flex her fingers because they were stiff from gripping the banister so tightly. It was then she noticed that the light had changed, and it soon dawned on her that some considerable time had elapsed. Alice struggled to remember what she had intended to do and was deeply disconcerted by the fact that she could not.

  Her fugues were getting worse. Alice’s doctor had once more spoken to her about her memory and dementia – but it meant very little to her. Even less so the words of the carer, who explained with an expression of mild awe and a tone of deep concern of how Alice had been sitting immobile in her wicker chair and staring into space for a full 45 minutes. She couldn’t remember her carer’s name. Right now it didn’t matter. Alice was in too good a mood to let it get to her. She immediately saw the funny side, and as soon as she did so, she noticed Alistair’s old blue cardigan hanging on his bedroom door on the landing. And she remembered.

  She grabbed the cardigan and went briskly back downstairs, and, because it was getting noticeably warmer, she decided it would be a good idea to wear her coat. After much searching she found it by chance – in the fridge. Alice wasn’t sure if she had put it there by accident, but it felt quite right to be wearing a cold coat on such a warm day, and so she finally ventured outside. But the sun was already well past its zenith, the shadows lengthening like black blades. Everything was bathed in a warm orange glow. The sun and the last sweet stench of summer were retreating from the onset of autumn. The leaves on the trees turning russet and red, the wind rushing through them, mimicking the distant sound of the waves crashing on the shore. The sight of such beauty immediately lifted her spirits.

  Yet the splendour of it all was tainted by an acute sadness that she could not place. Alice could no longer remember what she had done that morning, or how the blue cardigan came to be in her hands. It disturbed her that she had lost so much time and did not know what she had done with it. But Alice knew that she had a purpose in coming into the garden. It’s just that she didn’t know what that purpose was. This was the cause of her sadness. She was losing something. She was aware of it sometimes, but it remained intangible and indecipherable, and so she was left with a persistent feeling of loss.

  Then her purpose came back to her. While she had all her faculties temporarily intact, she held tightly onto the cardigan and marched down the garden path. Just then, Alice was stopped in her tracks by a strange metallic rat-a-tat-tat sound from somewhere behind her. She turned and looked up to see a large black crow goose-stepping like a sentry across the gutter on her roof, but she could not be delayed, for she had important business to attend to.

  As she went through the gate and walked at a pace down the hill, the wind picked up and seemed to lift her senses. She beamed broadly, her face lit by the sinking sun, and she felt more alive now than she had in a long time. In her temporary lucid state, she knew her memory was being eroded. But Alice was aware that her illness was liberating her from time and all the usual constraints of her adult mind, which was now unburdened from such responsibilities and free to wander at large. She considered it a blessing in disguise.

  And it was then that she saw the old disused field.

  And the lone figure that stood at its centre.

  Tears of recognition welled up in her eyes and Alice increased her pace. She’d been meaning to attend to the scarecrow for a long time now. She could vaguely remember when they built it together all those years ago. There was herself, all officious and earnest in her endeavours to build it correctly. And there was that strange little boy – Moley, he was called.

  And there was her son.

  She stopped. Alice could suddenly remember holding him, and how tiny he was and how little he weighed. A precious little bundle in her arms. She could even smell him, and the olfactory memory took her by surprise. Alice clutched the cardigan to her breast in order to remind herself of the reason why she was here – to give Alfred some new clothes. But, more importantly, to remove the lingering memory of her husband William, because she believed he had betrayed both herself and her son. Alice felt deep-rooted shame, for she had been in denial for years and now it had finally bubbled up to the surface. It was time to redress the balance. The scarecrow would no longer be a memorial to William.

  It would be a beacon of hope for her son.

  The clouds had turned the colour of fire, and the cold sea in the distance was warmed to amber by the embers of the sky. Time was marching on and so she marched with it down the remainder of the hill until she arrived at the field. Alice made her way through the shoulder-height weeds, the yellow rapeseed and the dying sunflowers, blinking furiously with the effort of concentration and the heat from the sun-baked soil. She could just make out Alfred in the distance, but she soon lost sight of him as she travelled down an incline, and, as she did so, Alice became aware that the edges of the sky were turning ultramarine. She was running out of time. So she increased her pace, hurrying through the vegetation towards Alfred. Alice felt sure she was almost there. After a few moments, she came out from the other side of the incline and saw that the sun was beginning to settle on the horizon. Her heart was racing, for Alice
knew she was close because she could clearly hear the sea.

  And there he was: Alfred – only 20 feet away.

  She smiled with relief and negotiated her way through the thickening forest of dried flowers and twisted stalks that seemed to fasten themselves to her, but she swept them aside with the palm of her hand, the cardigan held tightly in her other. And then she stopped suddenly and looked around.

  The scarecrow was gone.

  Alice had only taken her eyes off it for a moment and was sure she’d walked the required distance. By her reckoning, Alfred should have been right in front of her. So Alice stood on her tiptoes and frowned when she saw that she had made no progress and that she was looking at him from a completely different angle. Alice clucked when she realised that she’d somehow managed to walk around him, and so she stumbled on. But it soon became clear that she was lost. Alice paused because she was no longer sure what she was doing. The reserves of her mind were running dry. The cardigan in her arms was rendered meaningless. She thought she could smell smoke, and stifled a cry of panic. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She opened them again when a breeze made its way across the field and rustled the weeds around her, sending a cold caress across her shoulders – and it was then that Alice realised that she had somehow lost her coat. So she gripped the cardigan tightly to her breast once more, and with a monumental effort she marched on, with her determination to succeed fuelled by the fleeting memory of her son.

  She could no longer picture Alistair and she wondered if she would even recognise him if she saw him, but Alice clung to her absolute belief that they would be reunited some day; he would be safe in his mother’s arms once more. This conviction kept her going, even though the light was fast disappearing and there was a strange mist forming all around her, and her memory was fading, her pace faltering…