King Crow

by Michael Stewart

  —It’s made out of brick.

  —That’s nice, she says. She messes with the door handle, making it click.

  —I hate to do this to you, you do know that?

  I nod, but I don’t really know what she’s talking about. I’m getting concerned about the door handle now. What if it snaps off? I won’t be able to close the door.

  —It’s just, sometimes you have to move... You’ll understand when you’re older. Things happen and… She starts to fidget with the door again. Click, click, click. —Then you have to go.

  —It’s alright mum.

  Stop messing with the handle, I want to say. Get off the handle.

  —I do think about you.

  Click. Click. Click.

  —I know... I know you do.

  Take your hand off that handle. Before it breaks.

  Click. Click. Click.

  —And everything’s ok?

  No, everything’s not ok. You are going to break the handle. Why does she do that? Why does she keep asking the same question? Does she think if she asks it enough I’ll give a different answer? Perhaps if I give her a different answer she’ll stop asking and get off the handle.

  —I’ve got a friend.

  —A friend?

  —Yeah.

  Her eyes light up. —Really? That’s great. Who is he? Is it a he?

  —He’s called Ashley.

  —That’s a nice name. What’s he like?

  —I’ve not decided yet mum. I think he’s one of the corvids.

  Her look changes. She doesn’t like me talking about birds.

  —Well, I’m glad you’ve found a friend, Paul. Invite him round, he can stay over if he likes. I’d really like to meet him.

  Is it a raven that Ashley most reminds me of or just a carrion crow? Mum lingers again and fiddles with the door handle. Then the beep-beep of the taxi outside.

  —Look, I’ve got to go. You’ll be ok on your own won’t you?

  —You go and have a good time.

  Her and Tina go out most nights. It was the same with Heather, for the first six months. Then they used to sit on the sofa together drinking wine and watching soaps. Then Heather started going out by herself. We used to have nights in together then, which was nice. But sometimes mum would get upset and start to cry.

  I can hear Tina stomping around downstairs. She will no doubt be looking for her keys or her phone. She always seems to lose them as soon as she puts them down.

  —We won’t be late, she says and I nod again.

  Mum leaves the room when the taxi beeps again. I hear them walk to the door and the sound of the door as they close it. I check the door handle to make sure it’s ok. Luckily the door still closes. I go downstairs and open the freezer. There’s a pizza. I put the oven on and get one of Tina’s lagers. It will only take about fifteen minutes for the pizza to cook. I take the can with me back to my bedroom. Only one box to sort out now.

  Rummaging through the box, I come across some old photographs. One of me aged about three. I’m standing on the beach with mum and my sister, so it must have been my dad that took it. I’m holding an ice cream. I think it was Southport beach because there is no sea, just a lot of sand, like a desert.

  There are no pictures of me as a baby, although there are hundreds of my sister as a baby, all more or less the same picture over and over again. Claire lying on her back in a stripy pink and white sleepsuit looking into the camera, Claire lying on her back in a stripy pink and white sleepsuit looking away from the camera. There are probably about thirty variations of this. There’s also a whole sequence of Claire in a pram wearing matching red hat and mittens, and another sequence of near-identical pictures of Claire in a high chair wearing a towelling bib with a rabbit on the front. If you put them altogether and flick through them like a flicker book, it creates the impression that Claire is moving and breathing. I’ve often wondered why there are so many pictures of Claire and none of me.

  I sort through some more until I come across the photograph I was looking for. Me with my dad. He’s holding a raven, in mock-horror, a stuffed raven. I’m holding my dad’s hand and my dad is holding the bird so it looks as though it is swooping down to get us. I think we were on holiday. It looks like the inside of an antique shop. There are other stuffed animals in the background, a badger, a fox, a pheasant, and some old furniture. I know this photograph very well, visiting the Tower of London yesterday reminded me of it. There’s a message on the back, but I know what it says and I don’t want to read it. In fact, I make a point of not reading it. This is the first photograph of me, aged three. It must have been the last holiday we had as a family.

  Where to put the photograph? I pick up my bag and take out the book on ravens. I open it and flick through a few pages. I skim the writing until I find an appropriate passage:

  The raven is a striking creature, largest of all the crow tribe, with a heavy pick-axe bill. In the rugged Lakeland fells it is largely a matter of searching the obvious crags one by one until all the nesting places are found. You will be glad to hear the croak of the raven that tells you, you are not alone...

  I place the photograph underneath and close the book.

  I think back to a warm August afternoon. I’ve not started school yet but I know school is something that is going to happen to me soon. In my mind it seems exotic. Full of new people, new things, a new world. I’m in the park in the centre of the estate. Our house overlooks it. Nearly at the top of the climbing frame. My sister is on the swings. She’s four years older. She’s with a friend from school.

  I don’t like my sister but I’m happy and it doesn’t matter. The climbing frame is lime green and acid yellow and candy floss pink and sky blue. And I’m trying to imagine what my first day of school will be like. You go there to learn things. What do you learn? My sister has homework. She has to wear a uniform. I don’t like the sound of that. But she is always full of chatter, about her friends. What they said. What they did. We have a cat called Wolf and it is sitting on the bench watching us and watching some birds in the tree. Wherever we are the cat is usually close by.

  I get to the top of the climbing frame, higher than anything else or anyone else in the park, on the same level as my bedroom. I look down at my sister. It feels good to tower over her. In my own mind I’m a giant. And walking through the estate people run away from me in fear. I look over to my house again. King of the castle. I can see my dad at the front window. My dad is watching me. It feels good to have a witness. I’m happy that my dad has seen me at the top of the climbing frame. It’s the first time I’ve done it. For a moment I’m scared. Will I get told off? But no one told me I couldn’t climb to the top. It’s my sister who will get told off, because my mum told her to look after me.

  My sister is ignoring me. That’s fine by me. She shows off in front of her friends and makes jokes, about me. They are playing hopscotch. I can’t see the point of hopscotch. I look at my dad again. My dad is still watching me. I wave at my dad and my dad waves back. I am happy. It is later, when I get home, that I find out my dad wasn’t waving hello.

  Now it is raining. We’re watching television. Me, my sister and my mum. The rain is beating at the window. And my dad is at the window. My dad is knocking at the window. I look at my dad. My dad is pleading with me. Pointing to the door and mouthing words I can’t hear. His hair is plastered to his face and water drips from it. My sister doesn’t look at my dad. She stares at the television. My mum tells me to stop looking at my dad. Watch the television. She turns up the volume. But I defy her and look at my dad again. My mum screams at me. Watch the television. I do as I’m told. The knocking goes on for some time. Eventually it stops.

  My dad has gone.

  Black-Headed Gulls

  I’m standing away from the crowd towards the all-weather pitch. You get a good view of the gulls from here. Most of the gulls you see in Salford are black-headed gulls. In fact, for some of the year a black-headed gull has a white head. There was
a boy at my last school who was called Blackhead, but he didn’t have a black head, his hair was more the colour of soot, which is dark grey rather than true black. Although a sea bird, the black-headed gull is not really found by the coast any more, where herring gulls and other large gulls tend to dominate. No, the black-headed gull has made our inland cities its home. Salford is ideal for black-headed gulls because of all the concrete high-rise buildings. To a black-headed gull the side of a council flat must seem like an improvement to the side of a cliff. Gulls are essentially scavengers.

  One thing that really irritates me is people who say ‘seagulls’. I’ve got tired of the amount of times I’ve had to explain to people there are no such things as seagulls. There are black-headed gulls and herring gulls, lesser-black-backed gulls, common gulls, little gulls, laughing gulls, great black-headed gulls, slender-billed gulls, ring-billed gulls, ivory gulls, kittiwakes... But no seagulls. There never has been and there never will be a seagull.

  I notice Ashley standing near to a group of girls. He watches them and then looks over to me. He looks at them again and then at me. Then he shrugs. What do you think? He seems to be saying. The girls are lovely; there are some really developed ones who seem to burst out of their blouses. We both watch as they chatter together, teasing each other. One of them laughs and holds up her hands in mock-surrender. Ashley looks over to me. I let him know I’m staring at him this time. Why not? He holds my gaze for a few moments, then looks away. But in that gaze he has admitted he has found me, he has sought me out through the crowd. He must have received a text because he takes out his phone and reads it. He looks at it warily but tries not to show concern in front of the girls. He walks over to me.

  —Here, come with me.

  —What for?

  —You’ll see, he says, and leads the way.

  We walk across the all-weather pitch, looking round to make sure no teacher is watching.

  —Yesterday, you saw me give a bag to that bloke in that car, right?

  He seems agitated. —What’s the matter? I say.

  —Never mind that, you just back me up.

  I nod and we carry on walking. —Where are we going? I say.

  —He’s called Dave. Don’t say anything unless he asks you, right?

  We make our way over to the fence. Ashley is looking around nervously, making sure no one has seen us. We’re not supposed to cross the all-weather pitch. A red car approaches, it pulls up close to the fence. Ashley gives me a stern nod, as if to say, get ready, or something like that. A man gets out of the driver’s side.

  —That’s him, Ashley says. —That’s Dave.

  Another bloke gets out of the passenger side, who looks a bit like Dave. He has the same small pale eyes and thin lips, although he is younger, not as stocky. They walk over to us. They don’t seem happy. They both look as though they could pull arms off babies and not give it a second thought.

  —You sorted? Dave says to Ashley.

  —Job done, Ashley says.

  —Where’s my money?

  —Didn’t get it, Ashley says.

  —What you talking about? His eyes look kind of mad.

  —I had to drop it from the tower, Ashley says. —I couldn’t get to him.

  —Is that right? Dave doesn’t look like he believes Ashley.

  —Yeah. He saw me.

  He points to me, nudges me. I nod.

  —What did you see? Dave asks me.

  —He gave it to him. I say.

  Dave weighs us both up. The other bloke just stands behind him staring at us.

  —Come here, both of you. He leads us to where there is a gap in the fence and we crawl through it. The two men walk in front, we walk behind. Ashley turns to me with an expression on his face I have never seen before. Scared. He takes out a bundle from inside his jacket and hands it to me. It’s very heavy but I don’t have time to ask what it is. I hide it before the two men see us.

  Twenty minutes later I’m standing outside a slate-grey shed at the back of an abandoned industrial estate. I pace around, not really knowing what to do. There are tufts of yellowing grass growing from the base of the shed. Coke cans and crisp packets are scattered everywhere. There’s a half-empty bottle of Fanta and a dirty nappy. There’s an off-cut of razor wire lying coiled like a snake nearby. I peer through the window and I see Ashley. He is strapped to a chair with gaffer tape wrapped tightly around his mouth, and the other bloke, who I have now learned is Dave’s brother Andy, is holding a pair of long-nose pliers. The pliers remind me of the bill of a great snipe or perhaps a woodcock – long and sleek and straight. I don’t know what to do. I look away. I try thinking about snipes. Snipes. What do I know about snipes? Not that much really. They are easy to spot by their zigzag flight and their hoarse rasping cry. They live in marshes, water-meadows, sewage farms, boggy moors – places like that.

  It’s my job to keep a look out or else. Or else what? I should have asked, or maybe not. I look in the window again. Dave is talking to Ashley. Andy takes Ashley’s little finger and he pulls off the nail with the pliers. Ashley’s eyes are bulging. Snot bubbles from his nostrils. I can see the veins in his neck protrude. Blood drips from his finger. I look away. Gulls fly past, shrieking. They seem to be saying, ‘Claire, Claire, Claire...’ Claire is my sister’s name. I try and think of birds, but I can’t think of anything.

  Fears. I think about my fears. What am I afraid of? I am afraid of blood tests, people with small eyes, masks, my mum’s older brother Tony, finding hair in food, my sister’s ornamental dolls, being in the spotlight, swimming in water which isn’t completely clear, tinned tuna, beetroot, ventriloquists’ dummies, being sent to prison, being kicked out of home, storks, being trapped in a tunnel in a cave 1000 feet beneath the ground, being trapped in a lift, gangs of men who seem to be having a laugh but could easily tip over at any point, girls, the police, falling into a pit full of ravenous rats, losing my mum, eventually meeting up with dad only to find that he doesn’t like me, going blind, being caught by my mum masturbating, being caught by my sister masturbating, being caught by Tina masturbating...

  I have an idea. I turn back to the window. Andy holds Ashley’s finger. He is about to pull off another fingernail. I bang on the window, Andy and Dave turn to me, and I mouth the word: ‘police’. They look to each other, Dave gives Andy a nod and then they run off. I watch them leave the scene. I hear them start their car and drive off. I go round the front of the shed and go inside. I unwind the gaffer tape from around Ashley’s face. He gasps with relief. He gives me a look of gratitude. I start to untie his hands. There are red track marks where the twine has scorched his skin. Some of his skin has broken and there are traces of blood speckling the track marks.

  We don’t go back to school. Instead we find some wasteland on the estate where Dave won’t be able to find us. We sit on a half-demolished wall. Ashley has his shoe off and is bandaging his bleeding hand with his sock. He finishes the job and puts his shoe back on, but the white sock is already turning red with his blood. Ashley’s phone bleeps as he receives a text. He takes it out of his pocket. It’s from Dave: we avnt finished with u. Ashley sort of shrugs this off and puts his phone back in his pocket.

  —Let’s go back to school, I say.

  —What for?

  I’m thinking that at least we’ll be safe there. It’s the one place Dave can’t get us. But Ashley shrugs again. I look around. There are rooks circling above us. I watch their widening gyre as they rise on the thermals. I see Dave’s red car pull up and I grab Ashley and we duck down behind the wall. We wait for the car to drive on and then we run in the opposite direction. We run until we reach a bit of scrubland with some trees and bushes. We sit on an upturned supermarket trolley and get our breath back.

  —What we going to do?

  —I’m thinking, Ashley says.

  I watch him and wait for an answer, but there’s no response. I try again.

  —We can’t go back there.

  —No kid
ding, he says.

  The full weight of the trouble we are in begins to press itself on top of me.

  —Why don’t you give the bag to Dave? I say.

  —Cos I’ve already sold half of it, he says.

  —What d’you do that for?

  We both sit in silence for a while. I look around. There’s an abandoned tyre covered in moss. Then I have an idea.

  —We could go up to the Lakes.

  —Where’s that?

  —Cumbria.

  —Where?

  I take out my book on ravens and hand it over to Ashley. He flicks through it.

  —I’ve been reading this, I say.

  —What is it? He flicks through it some more. —This the book you nicked?

  —Yeah.

  Ashley throws it back at me. I catch it.

  —Crap, he says.

  The nearest place from Salford where ravens breed in any significant number is Cumbria. They’re the only corvids native to Britain that I’ve not seen in the wild. There’s a nest in Helvellyn that’s been there over fifty years. This is a good time of year too – mating season.

  I’m thinking back to the Tower of London and that thrill, a wave travelling through my body. Ravens, so black and shiny and beautiful.

  —It will be a laugh, I say, trying to convince Ashley.

  —Nah.

  —Well, what then?

  —Come on, he says, and gets up.

  I follow him. We walk through a sort of wood. Bluebell stems like maggots inch their way out of the earth. The first signs of spring.

  —What is it you’ve got anyway?

  He doesn’t answer me at first, but then he stops and says, —You mean what you’ve got.

  Then I remember the bundle. I reach in and feel.

  —What is it?

  —A few hundred Es, some skunk, a blotter sheet of acid, some coke and some ketamine, he says.

  I’ve heard of these things from The Met, but I’ve never tried them or even seen them before. I know that they must add up to a lot of money though, just off Dave’s reaction. Ashley takes the bag. He opens a packet of Regal and offers me one. I don’t really smoke, I’ve had a few of my mum’s though, and it seems impolite to refuse. He lights it for me, he lights his own.