Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(3)

“You make more of a fuss of the cat than you do of me—these days,” Andrew said.

Gwen gave him a look and he smiled weakly.

“Sorry,” he said.

“What do you want to eat?” she asked him.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, Duffy knows what she wants, don’t you, Duffy?” she said, as if speaking to a baby.

The cat closed her nutcracker jaws around the mouse’s head and bit down with a sustained audible crunch. They both watched as Duffy worked on the mouse, tearing at the skin and cracking its tiny bones. After a short while, the remains on the kitchen floor were no longer identifiable. Gwen wondered if Duffy would leave the guts and the legs and the tiny feet, but she swallowed every last shred, the bristly tail slipping down her throat last of all. Gwen realised she was grimacing; she felt a little sick. Previously when Duffy had brought in birds or mice, either Gwen or Andrew had taken them off her and, if they were still alive and not too badly damaged, freed them outside.

Knelt down next to her, Andrew turned his head through ninety degrees to look directly at Gwen. His black eyes were expressionless.

Gwen rose to her feet, knee joints popping. She went to the fridge and got out a plastic container of leftover homemade soup.

“We’ll have this,” she said, and pressed the button to open the door of the microwave. She gave a small cry and dropped the container of soup. It landed on its corner, dislodging the lid, and most of the soup splashed out on to her stockinged feet and on to the floor, quickly spreading.

“What the fuck is that?” she shouted, pointing inside the microwave.

“Ah, sorry,” Andrew answered, grabbing a roll of kitchen paper and a couple of tea towels, and mopping ineffectually at Gwen’s feet. “That’s an owl pellet.”

“What the fuck is an owl pellet and what is it doing in the microwave?” she yelled.

“Owls regurgitate the parts of their prey they can’t eat. Bones and fur and stuff. It all comes out in a little bundle, all carefully wrapped up like that. It’s called an owl pellet.” As he explained, Andrew wiped the floor. He filled a bowl with soapy water and started scrubbing.

“Why is it in the microwave?”

“Oh, because if you want to dissect one you should sterilise it first and the best way to do that is in the microwave. Otherwise the pellet can still be carrying rodent viruses or bacteria.”

“Jesus!”

Gwen left the room.

Dinner that night was a strained affair. Afterwards they sat at opposite ends of the sofa watching something on television that neither of them wanted to watch. As soon as it was over, Gwen announced she was going to bed.

“It’ll give you a chance to dissect your owl pellet,” she said. “Where did you get it, anyway?”

“In the cutting. I climbed over our back wall and had a bit of a look around. It’s amazing. It’s completely overgrown. There must be so much wildlife there that will all be left homeless when they clear everything for the tram tracks.”

“It was a railway line in the first place.”

“I know, but that was forty or fifty years ago and an entire ecology has grown up there since, and now that’s going to be destroyed, for what? So that we can take the tram to Chorlton? No one’s going to use it to go all the way into town. It’s a long and roundabout route. It’ll take forever and cost a fortune. They should have had the bottle to take it up Wilmslow Road and get rid of all those awful buses.”

She looked at him and shrugged her general agreement with his argument.

“I found the owl pellet at the base of one of the trees. There must have been an owl roosting there.”

“Right,” she said, softening. “See you later. Will you look in on Henry?”

“Yes, of course. Goodnight.”

Gwen fell asleep straight away. Some time in the night, she was aware of the duvet being lifted on Andrew’s side and cold air wafting over her arm. Then the draught was shut off and she felt the warmth of his body next to hers. As she started to drift back to sleep, she heard him softly speak.

“It’s because of the serrations on my remiges.”

“What?” she said, confused, half-asleep.

“That’s why I move so silently. From room to room.”

“Go to sleep, Andrew. Please.”

He fell silent.

Gwen woke again and felt anxiety’s talons seize her immediately.

Andrew’s side of the bed was cold, empty.

She got up and walked on to the landing. The darkness told her it was still night-time. She checked her watch; it was almost three A.M. She opened the door to Henry’s room. She saw his blue-and-white-striped BabyGro stretched out in the cot. Andrew was not in the room. The door to Andrew’s study was open; he was not inside. Slowly she descended the staircase and turned left at the bottom to stand in the kitchen doorway. Andrew was standing in front of the sink staring out of the window. She took a step forwards and one of the wooden boards creaked. Andrew’s head started to turn.

And continued to turn. It turned through ninety degrees and kept turning.

She stood absolutely still, scarcely breathing.

Andrew had not turned his body from the sink, but his gaze was now directed towards the fridge just to her left. Another few seconds and he would have twisted his neck through a hundred and eighty degrees.