Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(51)

The police searched the house and the brick garage from which Father ran his car repair business. They searched the open country to the south and the woods to the north and after a week they stopped. They said she must have left of her own volition. There was no evidence to the contrary, and so little more they could do other than to keep her listed as a missing person.

I don’t recall much of what I felt at that time. I thought perhaps it was a game and that she’d turn up any day and laugh at what a big fuss we’d all made about nothing. Or maybe that she’d scold us for not making more of an effort to find her. One afternoon, shortly after the search was called off, I managed to escape the fretful concern of Aunt Mary and set off into the forest. I knew parts of Glasfynydd well from frequent explorations with my sister and had no fear of getting lost. I headed west with the ground rising steadily, until I came to the crest of a steep, wooded gulley. Dusk was in the air and I was about to turn for home when I heard a squabbling in the dense pines below. I scrambled down the slope, struck by a strong, sickly smell. Covering my mouth and nose I pushed through the undergrowth and saw a dozen or more large crows fighting over what I took to be an animal carcass. Moving closer I saw the familiar blue dress, all torn and dirty. And yet, I still didn’t fully understand what I was seeing, not until I stepped closer again and saw the open chest and pale, shredded ruin of my mother’s eyeless face.


Time contracts and expands without regard for reason. The events of childhood seem more recent than things that happened a few short weeks ago. I was busy defleshing a crow when a tapping at the window disturbed me. Looking up I saw Blyth perched on the sill. He ruffled his black feathers and called out kaaaarr, alerting me to the presence of a car driving toward the house. Though a somewhat unpleasant task, I found the removal of the organs and the sectioning of the body a welcome distraction from the more rigorous demands of my real research. I set the bird aside, washed my hands, and went out in time to see the police car turn in through the open gate. A policeman of medium height and stocky build got out. He was jacketless, with his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. “Wil Blevins?”

“Yes?”

“PC Carroll,” he said. “David Carroll.”

“So?”

He took off his cap and wiped perspiration from his forehead. “You don’t remember me, do you? We were in the same school.”

“No.”

“No matter,” he said good-naturedly. He looked past me, his gaze taking in the brick workshop and the stand of rowan and sycamore beyond. “You escaped, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Made it out of Cray. One of the lucky ones, went off to university. Biochemistry, wasn’t it?”

“Zoology,” I corrected him. “How do you know all this?”

“Your sister. We were in the same year. She told me you were home. You’ve been back . . . two years?”

“Three. Is there something . . .”

“Sorry. I don’t know if you’ve heard. About a boy gone missing.”

“No.”

He scratched the side of his face. “Seven-year-old named Jon Walters. Disappeared yesterday afternoon, in Glasfynydd Forest.”

“He was alone?”

“No. Three families on holiday. Spent the day at Usk reservoir. Kids went off exploring in the forest. When they got back to the lake, they noticed the boy was missing.”

“That’s terrible.”

“You know the forest well?”

“I guess.”

He took a photograph from his shirt pocket. A young, fair-haired boy with a red baseball cap worn backwards. “That’s him.”

I stared at the picture. “Poor kid.”

“Any chance you were in Glasfynydd yesterday?”

I shook my head.

“When were you last there?”

“I don’t know—a few days ago.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching birds.”

“Birds, yes. Sara used to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?”

He gave me an odd look, then smiled. “Just that you always had this fascination with birds. You study them, right?”

“She talked to you about me?”

“We went out together, for a short while. We were eighteen. Then she went off to university, and I went off to work.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“We stayed in touch.” He gestured in the direction of the house. “You don’t mind living out here now, on your own, I mean?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I did,” I said, resenting the implication. “I’ve been managing for three years.”

“Well, it’s good you’re back. How’s your dad? Haven’t seen him in—”

I flinched. “I have nothing to do with him.”

He seemed surprised. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be.”

He showed me the photo again. “You’re sure you don’t recognise him?”

“I’m good at faces,” I said.

“I guess you have to be. Well, thanks anyway.” He stuck out his hand and we shook.

As he got in the car, I said, “What you said, about escaping—did you ever leave?”