King Crow

by Michael Stewart

  I’ve seen this a lot now. The kids who do really well at school are those who want to please the teacher. It means something to them. They are like dogs that will keep bringing the stick back as long as you give them a stroke. There’s a story Ratcliffe tells about some red grouse researchers. Apparently they started marking the nests with sticks but had to stop because pretty soon the ravens realised what they were up to and started to feast on the nests.

  For some reason ravens collect golf balls. Perhaps they like the look of them. They can’t be collecting them to play golf and they have no value to the bird at all as far as I can make out. I don’t know why they do it. I like to think that the real reason is to annoy golfers. I used to do the same thing myself. I’d actually run on to the putting green and nab the balls. The nearer they were to the hole, the more fun. You can always outrun a golfer.

  As we approach the shack, Becky stops and turns. She grabs my hand and kisses me.

  —We’ll give it one last go tomorrow.

  —Yeah.

  We walk on in silence for a while, the shack now visible.

  —What we gonna do about Dave?

  —Stop worrying about him, she says.

  I put my arm around Becky. We haven’t made love since that time in her bedroom and I’m eager to do it again. But we’re too close to the shack now. I should have tried it on before, up on the moors, but the whole thing with Ashley distracted me. And the squirrels.

  When we get to the shack, there’s no sign of Smiler or Ashley. Smiler’s left about eight or nine empty beer bottles near his rocking chair but that’s the only sign he’s been here.

  —No one home. Becky says. She walks over to the stove. —Fire’s still going. Let’s make something to eat.

  I look around the kitchen area. I find the pan of stew from last night. There’s quite a bit left, should be ok if we heat it up. I put the pan on top of the stove. Becky fills the kettle. She puts it on the stove next to the pan. She takes two mugs and swills them out in the sink. She finds some teabags and puts one in each mug. She puts the mugs down on the table. She sits down. I take some wood from the pile in the basket and throw it into the belly of the stove. I sit down next to her.

  The kettle boils, I mash up the tea. We eat the stew, drink the tea. I wash up the bowls and the mugs. We’ve left enough stew for Ashley and Smiler. We sit and chat and laugh, but all the time I’m getting this growing sense of unease. He’s been gone four hours now.

  —How’s your head?

  I lean over and she has a look at the cut. She tells me it’s not so bad. It’s stopped throbbing now. Something’s not right. I can’t put my finger on it, but something feels wrong. We chat some more, although not about tomorrow, I’m trying not to think of Becky leaving, I’m trying not to think about that. Suddenly, in walks Ashley.

  He looks at both of us, but I can’t read his look. He walks across the room then sits in Smiler’s seat. He stares at the flames. Becky gives me a look, what’s the matter? I shrug. Eventually I say, —You shouldn’t have done that. He doesn’t respond, just stares deeper into the flickering flames.

  —Who are you talking to? she says.

  There’s this silence which seems to build up, like it’s getting heavier, until I say,

  —Where’s Smiler?

  Still staring into the flames, Ashley says —He went out.

  —Has he eaten?

  —He’s gone into town. Meeting a mate. Said he was going to eat in the pub.

  Becky gives me a look, then says, —Are you alright, Paul?

  —Well he has, right. Since when were you an expert on Smiler? For the first time since he walked in, Ashley turns round to look at us. Then he turns back to the fire. I look over to Becky and shrug. The silence builds again, until I say —We left some stew for you. It’s still hot.

  —Not hungry, he says, not looking up. Eventually he says, —I’m off first thing in the morning.

  —Good, I’m glad. Why don’t you go now? I say.

  —I’ll go when I want.

  —So what’s keeping you?

  —What the fuck’s it got to do with you? Why don’t you and that fat slag there keep your noses out? He stands in the shadow so I can’t see his eyes. —Are you gonna come or not?

  The truth is I don’t want to go anywhere with him now. Whatever it was I saw in him has gone, and yet I feel responsible for him somehow. I want to go with Becky. I’ve tried to persuade her to come with us but she rightly pointed out that her parents will call the police if she doesn’t go home, and we’ll be in even more trouble. Can we be in even more trouble? I suppose it is possible. I can’t think straight. We can’t go to Kendal, in case Dave is there and we can’t go back to Salford. Where can we go? Ashley gets up and takes the axe out of the basket. He goes outside.

  I look over to Becky who’s giving me a strange look.

  —Seriously Paul, are you sure you’re alright?

  I manage to smile. She puts the palm of her hand on my forehead.

  —You’ve not got a temperature.

  We sit in silence for a bit. Then she says, —I got a text off my mum, I’m going to have to go first thing.

  —You can’t just abandon me.

  —I’m not abandoning you Paul. This has been fun, but-

  —But what? It’s over, is that what you’re saying?

  Becky shakes her head. She’s not convinced, I can see that. She gets up and looks out of the window watching Ashley chop wood. I don’t know why he’s chopping wood, there’s plenty in the basket. All around, dusk. The gradual dimming of the light. I stand next to her and watch Ashley chop.

  —I don’t want you to go home, I finally manage to say. —Come with me.

  —Why don’t you come with me? she says. —You’ll be safe there.

  In the distance I can hear the rooks’ roosting calls, although the usually soothing sound of their ‘kaw kawing’ today sounds harsh and unwelcoming. As it builds I can feel it digging and digging into the back of my head.

  Owls

  I can’t get to sleep. I’m thinking about storks again. I know if I close my eyes I will see them and I will see Dave. How close is Dave to us now? If he has found the car, he could be wandering these moors right this moment. I try not to think about it. Block it out. Smiler hasn’t come back. It’s late. Maybe there’s been a lock-in down the pub, or maybe he got so drunk he fell asleep on a park bench or under a bush. I’m on the floor with Becky under thick musty blankets. I can feel the warmth of her body next to me, my hand on her tummy, I can feel it rise and fall like bellows.

  I was reading about a study which was carried out in Scotland by some society or other and it recommended reintroducing wolves to Scotland. It’s been over two hundred years since the wolf roamed the moors of Scotland, before they were hunted into extinction. It was something to do with solving the problem of deer numbers. You need about five hundred wolves apparently to bring the population of deer down to a desirable amount. I can’t see farmers going for it though, or ramblers for that matter, but I bet the ravens would like it. For once they wouldn’t be the only outcasts, and they would also benefit by being able to feast on the deer carcasses once the wolves had had their fill.

  Surely the main problem though would be sheep.

  Why chase a perfectly fit deer when you can easily outrun a sheep and get just as good a meat? That would be the wolf’s logic. And I bet that’s why they became extinct here in the first place. Besides, it seems to me there are plenty enough wolves in this world already. Right now I feel like a little pig waiting for one to come and blow this shack down. At least if Smiler was here I wouldn’t feel quite so scared. Not that he could stop a bullet, but I bet he’d give one a run for its money. Would a bullet even penetrate that lumpy thick crust of skull?

  Try not to think about bullets. Try not to think

  about wolves. Or skulls. Think about something nice. I think about Becky, her naked body. But then I think about Dave coming for Becky. I see An
dy’s crumpled body. I see blood. I see Dave staring back at me. I see Dave with his hands round Becky’s throat. A ring ouzel. I saw one when we were in Scotland. We stayed in this farmer’s cottage in Dumfries. We hired it for a week. Mum’s medication had really straightened her out and, although the cottage wasn’t very nice and was surrounded by about three foot of cow shit, we actually quite enjoyed it.

  I went for a walk away from the farm one day. I was watching some birds by a hay storage barn. There was a wren hopping low down in the stonework, looking for spiders. There were some jays and some thrushes under some hawthorn eating some berries. From the back I thought it was a blackbird, but then it turned to face me and I saw its white breast. The first and only time I’ve seen a ring ouzel. Lovely that was. Then there was

  that time I saw a firecrest in a tree in Wales – first and only time I’ve seen a firecrest. So small and fidgety, but so brightly coloured.

  I press the nightlight on my watch, nearly two o’clock. I’m wondering what time do they do lock-ins round here till? Who’s to say, it’s not as if they can get many police checking up on them. Police. Don’t think about police because that will make you think of Dave. Now you’re thinking of Dave again. All roads lead to Dave. Maybe not, but there was only one road leading to Kendal. He must have made it to Kendal, despite what Becky says, there’s no question about it. Maybe I should ring my mum. She keeps ringing me and texting me, so it seems a bit mean not to contact her, but what’s to say? Maybe I should just text her and say everything is fine. But everything isn’t fine. Still, it will make you feel better and then perhaps she will stop ringing you. What if Dave is in the pub now with Smiler enjoying a pint and talking about criminal things they have done. What are you doing up here? Smiler will say, and Dave will say he is looking for us. Would Smiler dob us in? Maybe not, but what if Smiler tells Dave about us, before he knows Dave is looking for us? That’s possible. Dave might say something like, so what brings you to the pub, and Smiler might say his shack has been taken over by two lads and a lass on the run.

  I rub my chin with my hand and feel stubble. I’ve only been shaving for just over a year. I can’t grow a full beard yet, just sideburns and some hair above my top lip and on my chin, but it’s getting long. Need to shave it off. Becky might not fancy me with stubble. Some girls like stubble but best not take the risk. Smiler’s got a razor, I’ve seen it by the sink. Ashley’s asleep in Smiler’s chair. He drank a lot of whisky and smoked himself into a stupor, crashed out really early. Didn’t say hardly a word to us. Can he be that jealous?

  Well, yes, I suppose is the simple answer. Maybe he’s thinking about Dave as much as I’m thinking about Dave. Thing is, he’s really what Dave is looking for, not me. I’m just part of the general package, not that I think that’s going to save me if and when Dave catches up with us. We are both in the shit, no two ways about it. Think nice thoughts. ‘If’, what am I talking about ‘if’ for? It’s ‘when’. How long can we keep on going for? He’s not going to stop until he’s hunted us down. Nice thoughts. The twite – no that’s actually a rather small dull brown bird. Not nice at all. Why did you think of a twite? Of all the birds you could picture in your head you had to picture one of the dullest.

  How about a swan, a lovely swan, or one of the terns? God, there are so many terns. Why are there so many terns? You don’t stand a chance with terns. I’ve even got a poster of them on my wall to help me out. But they all look pretty much the same. Start with Arctic, nice black head, but so has the common tern and the roseate. And the gull-billed tern. Thinking about it, so does the whiskered and the little tern. They’ve all got black caps more or less, what are you thinking about. Forget the heads, focus on the bills. It’s the bills of terns that you need to learn in order to recognise them. They’re all a bit different. But, Christ, how close do you have to get to them before you can use bills for recognition?

  Ok, don’t think about terns, that’s just winding you up, making you feel stupid, think about something more reassuring. How about owls? Christ, you love owls and you’ve not thought about them for ages. So I lie there in the dark, with one hand on Becky’s soft tummy and one hand on my chin stubble and I picture owls in my head. Their fat heads and no neck. Their liquid amber eyes. The way they turn their head, like twisting the head on that bubble bath figure you used to have. Twist the head so it is facing the other way round. Their feathers. The barn owl with flight so soft, so silent.

  The drains on the estate. The leak. It was coming through the living room ceiling, like a tap left running. And there was no dad. No dad to go up on the roof and fix it. We were telling mum to ring the council. My sister picked up the phone. She didn’t know any numbers. She got through to someone. I don’t know who, but this led to another call then another. The rain was pouring down and pouring through our house. Eventually, two men came from the council. One of the drains on the roof was blocked. He told us it was blocked with bones and fur and little skulls of voles and mice and shrews. A barn owl probably, was using our roof as its supper table. And my sister was shouting at mum. —It’s your fault, it’s your fault. It’s your fault dad went. Mum wasn’t doing anything, just standing there. The man looked embarrassed. He left. But my sister was still screaming at mum about dad. Try not to think about dad. More owls.

  The barn owl. The scops owl, snowy, eagle, little owl, pygmy, tawny, hawk, long-eared, short-eared, the lot.

  The Raven

  We wander across the moors. We approach a crag. I think I see a raven nest but when I look through the binoculars, it has been abandoned. Still, it shows that this is a suitable area. We carry on walking. Ashley is some way behind us. He has hardly said anything all morning. The sky is overcast, and there are dark clouds in the distance, but they look too high up to rain. The Lake District has one of the best-documented raven populations in Britain. Tree nesting is uncommon though, so we have more chance spotting a crag-nest. The rocks poke out like fractured bones, casting dramatic shadows.

  The unevenness of the ground and the frequent sheer drops along the path suggest to me that this is quite treacherous walking for sheep and I imagine lots of sheep have fallen down a ravine and either died on impact or broken their legs and died of starvation later. All good carrion opportunities. There are lots of sheep about, some of them in precarious positions, perched at the edge of a drop munching away at the tough grass. We find sheep bones picked clean of the meat. We come across a whole carcass, with the head detached and lying a few feet away. It is early for lambing season but we see one or two very young lambs that can’t be more than a day or two old.

  We watch them as they huddle up to their mothers for protection. Their legs hardly strong enough to bear their weight. How different a lamb seems to a full-grown sheep. We see other sheep that are plump with unborn lambs and must be due to give birth any day. Lambing season is feasting season for ravens. There are many casualties, still births, fatigued mothers, weakling offspring unable to make it to their feet and always the afterbirth, the placenta, which is good nutritious food. Many ewes after giving birth are too weak to rise. Then there’s foot-rot and other ailments. A harsh spring is good and will increase the casualties.

  The foxes, buzzards and eagles, even red kite will be the first at the table, opening the carcass up and exposing the innards. They will eat the tastiest meat, the prime cuts, the neck, the breast, the shoulder, the leg, the scrag and flanks, leaving the less appetising entrails for ravens. Once the ravens have finished, the scraps left will be eaten by crows and maybe even magpies. The last inedible bits will provide fly maggots a start in life, and these maggots in turn will be food for other birds, and these birds will be preyed on by raptors. And so it goes on, life eating life eating life.

  Like birds of prey, ravens produce a pellet of undigested material. We find a small grey bundle that could be a raven pellet. I break it up with my fingers. It disintegrates leaving a grey powder of wool and fur and bone fragments. A pellet left out in the open lik
e this would soon break down, so this must be a fairly recent casting and could indicate that this is a favourite eating area. I’m getting excited. Perhaps the raven used the sheep’s skull as a perch, keeping watch as it picked at the flesh.

  The raven’s powerful bill is ideally shaped for tearing at flesh. Despite the fears of many a shepherd it seems it is highly unlikely that a raven will attack a healthy ewe or ram. If the animal is sick, then it’s a different matter. In which case the raven is likely to give a helping hand, driving them over a ledge to their death. Basically, speeding up the process. According to this morning’s reading though, I was wrong about lambs it seems, a lamb is a different matter, and although nothing like as widespread as paranoid farmers seem to think, a raven will sometimes attack and kill a lamb. So I was wrong, ravens are killers.

  Looking at the sheep around me, they seem lifeless and dull. All they do all day is chew tough tasteless grass. In a way, the raven is saving the lamb from its dreadful fate – to become a boring adult. I like lambs but by the time they get to adulthood, I’ve really gone off them.

  One of the problems the raven has got, though, is the way it eats. It seems it has bad table manners. It will usually begin on an ailing animal by pecking out the eyes. Then the tongue. It may seem revolting but eyes are very nutritious and easy to pick out. It’s also rather clever if you think about it. The action of pecking out the eyes, secures the food supply. An animal which is blinded is as good as dead. Sometimes a sheep will roll on its back and be unable to right itself. It’s a bit sneaky, but it’s a good opportunity to get in there and peck. Then the sheep will die and you’ve got your grub sorted out for the week. Maybe even two weeks. The raven has its own young to feed.