King Crow

by Michael Stewart

  Smiler is sitting beside the stove smoking a roll up. He smokes roll ups inside but spliffs outside. He says it’s to do with his chest. When he smokes he coughs, sometimes this hacking goes on for as long as a minute until he works up some phlegm, which he shifts around his teeth and gums like a lozenge before spitting it into the belly of the stove or swallowing it back. I’m sorting out mugs for more tea. The kettle whistles. Smiler takes a towel and wraps his hand, takes hold of the kettle. It looks like a toy in his massive fist. I’ve calmed down now and so has Becky. The effects of the drug have completely worn off but some of the trauma attaches itself, in the same way as a shadow attaches itself – hardly noticed, behind you.

  —Out the road, Smiler says to me, as he takes the kettle over to the mugs. I move out of the way and Smiler pours the water into the mugs. —I’ve done everything in my time, but horse tranquiliser... He smiles to himself.

  He mashes the tea and throws the bags into the fire. He hands out the mugs.

  —How long you been here then? I say as Smiler sits down with his tea and a fag.

  —Getting on ten years now.

  —No way!

  —What’s so weird about that? Smiler re-lights his roll up. He takes a drag and coughs. He smacks his chest with his fist and the coughing rattles then stops.

  I pass Becky her tea and take a sip from my own. Me, Becky and Ashley sit around the table. Smiler sits in his rocking chair. —So what you doing here? he says.

  I look over to Ashley, Ashley shrugs. —Nothing, I say.

  —You’ve come a long way to do nowt.

  Ashley looks over to me, wondering whether we should tell Smiler the truth. It would probably be ok. It might even help. But then I think, better be cautious until we get to know him. I shake my head.

  —We’re on holiday. I say.

  —What’s that, a breaking and entering holiday? Smiler says.

  He eyes us up. He holds the tobacco up to me and Becky and nods.

  —Thanks, I say, and he throws me the packet. I roll me and Becky a cigarette.

  —So why you really here?

  —It’s like he says.

  —Bollocks.

  —We’re looking for ravens, Becky says.

  Smiler is a little taken aback by this, but seems to believe it. —Old King Crow, eh.

  It’s funny him calling them that. That’s one of their folk names. They are also sometimes referred to as Odin’s bird or Odin’s companion. I ask Smiler if he’s seen any. He tells me that there are a few round here. There were a lot more but it seems that the farmers have shot most of them. He tells me that if we hang around long enough, we’ll see some. He rocks in his chair, drinks his tea and smokes his cigarette. He weighs the three of us up again.

  —So you’ve come all this way to see King Crow eh?

  Me and Becky nod. I look over to Ashley. Ashley just shrugs. Smiler must have noticed the bloodstained sports sock strapped around Ashley’s right hand. He must be wondering to himself, how he did that, he’s not daft. Ashley can tell him it was an accident but will Smiler believe him? I doubt it. He’ll weigh it up, he’ll narrow his eyes at him and the narrowing eyes will be like a fist squeezing a sponge – the truth will seep out of his pores.

  We sit in silence some more. According to the book, the ravens will be busy feeding their young at this time of year. The earlier broods should take to the wing before the end of April, but the majority fly in May. It would be great to see a young raven’s first flight, but I don’t think we’ll get chance to see that. It will just be nice to see the adults in the wild. The young adults, who are too young for parenting, should be pretty active on the social scene.

  —So what’s your story? Becky asks Smiler eventually.

  —It’s a long one.

  —Why do you stay here? Why don’t you live in the town?

  Smiler sucks in his cheeks then spits out some loose strands of tobacco. —Don’t like people. The further away I am from them, the better I feel.

  None of us respond to this. I’m wondering whether we count as one of those people, or whether we are different. I suppose we must be different or else he wouldn’t have agreed to let us stay.

  —I did a thirteen-year stretch. I was nearly fifty when I came out. He re-lights his roll up from the flames. —I wanted to go straight, but couldn’t get a job.

  —What you do thirteen years for?

  —Armed robbery.

  —That’s a long time to be locked up, I say. Just to say something.

  —You get used to it. I’ve been in and out all my life.

  —Is it not so bad then?

  —It’s a state of mind. You against them. First time you go in, you find the biggest bloke in the place and knock him out. It’s ok after that. It was easy for me. He throws his butt into the fire and stares into the flames.

  —Why’s that then? Becky says.

  —Street fighting. Bare knuckle. Started when I was fourteen. My mum kicked me out. I was living in Blackburn. I was born there.

  He lifts up his trouser leg to reveal a football sock.

  —Blackburn Rovers. The golden era. Ronnie Clayton, Matt Woods... The legendary Tommy Briggs. I still remember that header against Charlton just before Christmas 1957. I was nine years old. We beat Everton, Liverpool... We were unstoppable. Five nil against Bristol. Wembley for the FA cup final against Wolves in 1960.

  He stares into the flames again, as though the flames were illuminating that period from his childhood. —I went down to London. In them days, that’s what you thought. London, jobs.

  —And could you make any money out of it?

  —I was in a pub in Bethnal Green. It kicked off. I came out of it without a scratch. Bloke came up to me after, bought me a pint. He said ‘Can you do that again?’ Told me to meet him there the next night. He lined me up with a fight. Thirty quid. That was a lot of money in them days – a week’s wage. I messed the bloke up pretty bad.

  I look at his hands. His knuckles have been smashed so many times that they have grown back like swollen lumps. There are scars across his shaven head, where no hair grows, and most obviously the scars either side of his face.

  —Did you make much money then?

  —The ones doing the promoting, they’re the ones making money. Took me a long time to figure that out. That’s when I moved into organised crime. That’s where the real money is.

  —What did you do?

  —I got in with the Krays.

  The Yeoman Warder at the Tower of London mentioned them being locked up there.

  —You didn’t mess with them. But if you were handy, they could always find something for you to do. It’s just how it went on then.

  —Were you rich?

  —I had money to burn. Cars, casinos, rings that big. He holds out his thumb and index finger to indicate. —The best things. Women. Fuck me, there were some women back then.

  He stares into the flames again, lost to his thoughts. I look over to Ashley – he’s hanging on to Smiler’s every word. I’ve never seen him show so much interest in what someone was saying. He is leaning over the table, towards Smiler. Smiler comes out of his trance and addresses me. —Listen, you want to go to the top, there’s only one way.

  I don’t want to go to the top, I’m thinking, it’s Ashley that wants to go to the top, I just want to find some ravens and be with Becky. —What’s that then?

  —Fear. You’ve got to be the most feared. He stares into the flames once more. I think I see sadness in his eyes, but perhaps it’s just the light. —I carry the mark of Cain, he says.

  —What’s that then?

  —I killed a man. With my bare hands. He holds his hands out, offering his cracked and calloused palms towards us. His skin has the texture of tarmac. He seems lost to us again.

  —And do you know what?

  —What?

  —I enjoyed it.

  Ashley smiles. He seems impressed by this. Becky gives me a look: is this man for real? I shrug. I
feel nervous around this man, whether what he is saying is true or not. Smiler gets up.

  —That fire needs more wood. Smiler picks up an axe from the wood box. —You’ll have to sleep on the floor. There’s some blankets in there. He kicks a box next to his mattress. He points to me. —You chop some wood. Then at Becky, —You peel them spuds. Time for supper. Ashley gets up. Smiler wants him to go with him.

  Ashley looks over to me. I’m not sure about this but don’t say anything. Smiler hands me the axe and leads Ashley out of the door. Becky waits until they have gone then she turns to me.

  —Where do you think he’s going?

  I don’t know, but I tell Becky I’m off to chop wood. Outside I go to where the logs are, take one to the chopping block, but as I do, something is drawing me in the direction of Smiler and Ashley. I can hear Smiler’s heavy clomping footsteps diminish. The branches form a spiral disappearing into blackness where he has gone. The branches are encrusted with silver moss. I approach them. The dark hole in the centre of the branches is like a black surface, like the film on a stagnant pond. I reach out my hand and immerse the fingers into the darkness.

  Then I am on the other side, following them, I’ll see what this Smiler wants with Ashley. I head in the direction they went, careful how I walk so I don’t make any noise. I walk so softly I am almost floating on the surface of the forest. I’m not sure my idea was a good idea, it’s cold and dark outside and I don’t think Smiler will be too pleased if he catches me following them. At the very least we’ll be without a roof for the night, at worst.......

  Blackness. The cool air prickles my skin, I don’t have a torch but my eyes soon adjust and the light from the window casts a pale grey rectangle onto the ground. I listen to Smiler’s feet tramp the earth. I wait until they fade, then go towards more darkness.

  Vultures

  We were in the car. Me and my sister. In the back of the car. Mum had a job then. Not for long. I was six, maybe seven. Mum was driving back from the weekly shop. I was looking out of the window. On one side, the road – the hypnotic slash of traffic. Reds, blues, speed smudging the colour. There was something violent about it, better to let the lines slip and blur.

  On the other side, the verge. Then there was a bird, a kestrel, hovering above the road. It was the first time I’d really noticed a kestrel hover. Like it was painted on the sky. Like it was part of the sky. Everything else was moving and there was just this kestrel acting as a fixed point. The whole world blurring and swirling but the bird was indifferent to it. The wind was making the branches of the trees sway and the telegraph wire wobble, but the kestrel was as still as a photograph.

  We’d both broken up from school. We’d started hanging out in this wood. It wasn’t really a wood just a wild patch of land where the old railway track dissolved into the industrial estate. But to us it seemed magical. There were trees – sycamores mostly – and big bushes. There were flowers too, bluebells. We’d collect them for mum, put them in a milk bottle, try and cheer her up. It seems daft now but this boy called Phillip Murphy said it was haunted by woodland spirits and I believed him. I don’t think my sister did. But I’d told her I’d seen them. I hadn’t but I had convinced myself I had, so that it didn’t feel like lying. I convinced myself I’d seen strange shapes mutate from branches. That I’d seen creatures creep from the base of old trees.

  The car came to a halt. I looked up. We were home. It had been maybe three years since dad left but I could still feel his absence. Not the same place. And mum – she had changed. She didn’t seem to have any time any more.

  We helped mum get the stuff out of the boot. Helped her put it all away in the kitchen. There wasn’t much room and we had to pile stuff on top of stuff while mum sorted out the fridge. Things were going off. Rotting carrots and sour milk. Mum was in a foul mood. She’d had a problem at the checkout. The card she was using hadn’t worked. The man on the till had handed it back. She had to go through her purse but didn’t have enough notes to cover it. She had to go through it all – put some of it back. There was a big box of wine I’d suggested she put back. Mum snapped at me, she gave me a crack round the head. It wasn’t a hard crack but I cried anyway. She didn’t put the wine box back, she put back soap, shampoo and make-up. Other people waiting behind us were getting frustrated. They kept giving mum dirty looks. But when they looked down at me and my sister they smiled at us.

  Mum was rushing around shouting at me and my sister for letting the milk go off. Why hadn’t we drunk it? We were wasters. So many people dying in Africa of starvation. There were yoghurts also past their best and she was getting annoyed about that, about how ungrateful we were. I didn’t dare tell mum that I’d gone off them weeks ago. I’d been throwing them in the bin – hiding them under other rubbish. It was easier that way. Only, I’d forgotten this time. I said that it was dad that used to drink all the milk, not us. This seemed to make her more annoyed. I got another crack. I cried again. She was ramming veg into the salad box. There was too much of it to fit, but she wouldn’t give up. She was forcing it in and then the side of the box split and she swore.

  I was trying to reach up with the eggs but mum knocked me with her elbow and they fell. The yolks broke, began to seep from underneath the cardboard – the whites and yellows stretching across the lino. Mum went down on her hands and knees. Picked up the box. It dripped with egg gloop. She held it in one hand and stared at it. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the distance. Time stopped for a moment, then more gloop dripped out and it started up again. Her hand went limp and the box smashed back onto the floor, splashing the egg slime further across the surface. We were all sobbing now. The splash of tears joining the spilt yolks.

  Then I was at the door, signalling my sister to join me. She did. We made our way up to the woods, leaving mum crying, on all fours. I thought it best to not be there when mum was upset, it only seemed to make her worse.

  We’d come out without our coats, but it didn’t matter. We made our way along the road, cutting across the field towards the old railway track. There were some brambles and I got a stick and cleared a path, thrashing the stick, liking the sound it made as it whipped the air. It was nice having my sister follow me. We didn’t really play together. There was an abandoned hut I’d found some time ago. I think it was an old chicken coop. We’d been there a few times. It still had a roof and you could play games in it. You could even stand on the roof.

  Before we even reached it, though, I could smell smoke and then I could see smoke in the distance. As we approached the hut we could see a man huddled over a small fire. I remember being annoyed about this. After all, I’d discovered the hut. It was mine. I moved towards the man, brandishing my stick.

  —What you doing in our hut? I said to him.

  The man seemed startled, but then he smiled.

  —This isn’t yours.

  —What are you doing here?

  —Warming my hands.

  He was too. His hands were huge, the knuckles like skulls. There was thick dark hair growing from his fingers. I moved closer.

  —How did you make that fire?

  The man smiled at me.

  —That’s a secret.

  —We’ve got a secret. He didn’t say anything so I said, —If you tell us how you made that fire, we’ll tell you our secret.

  I was sitting next to the man now, looking him up and down. My sister sat next to me. It was a neat little fire. I liked the way the twigs were arranged. But there were no matches to light it. The man had a stack of twigs he was adding to the fire bit by bit.

  —You tell me your secret first. I’ll have to decide if it’s worthy of my fire.

  I looked over at my sister and she shrugged. —I’ve seen creatures in these woods. Little men and women that came out of the trees when I was hiding from them.

  The man nodded and smiled to himself. He looked at my sister, —Have you seen them?

  —Not yet, but I don’t come to the woods as much as him.


  Then I had a thought. —Are you one of them? I said to the man.

  The man laughed, but then he went serious. He looked at my sister and then at me. He stared deep into my eyes. —Yes, I am. I’m an ogre.

  I thought about this. He was a big fat man with an overcoat. He wore boots and his hands were thick and coarse. He had a beard and a hat. He had a strange smell. He could be.

  —You’re not an ogre, I said at last. —Ogres live under bridges.

  The man laughed again. —Who told you that load of old nonsense? Of course we don’t, we live where we want.

  Then I had another thought. —But don’t ogres eat children?

  The words came out before I meant to say them. I was scared now, but the man just chuckled.

  —Of course not. Is that what your mammy tells you? It’s something that parents say to keep you away from us.

  —Why would they want to do that unless you were bad?

  —It’s because they don’t know what they’re talking about. Only children can see us, and that makes adults suspicious. If there was an adult here now, they would think you were talking to yourselves.

  I remember being comforted by this. —So are ogres friendly then?

  —Oh yes. You have nothing to fear from an ogre.

  —Where do ogres live then? Where do you come from? my sister said, but I don’t think she believed he was an ogre.

  —We live in the woods, but we can go anywhere we want. Most of the time we’re invisible you see. You two caught me by surprise, I didn’t get chance to make myself see-through like I normally do.

  I imagined him fading so that he was like the raw egg whites.

  —Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered if you’d been adults.

  —So do you know the little men and women I saw then?

  —Oh yes, elves, gnomes, fairies. We’re all friends. We help the trees to grow you see. The gnomes work the soil and look after the roots. The fairies tend to the birds and the buds, the leaves and the insects...