Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(52)

He stood there, half in, half out of the car. “As a kid I used to dream about leaving Cray. Making a new life in Cardiff or London. I did for a while. Never thought I’d come back but, I guess this place, the Black Mountain, it gets a hold on you, calls you back.”

I nodded. “I had that same dream.”

“Don’t feel bad about it.” He got in the car and drove away.





It’s been three years since I returned to Cray. After my discharge from Redlands, I lived with my sister in Cardiff for six months. Sara was three years older than me, married with two children. It was a new experience, spending time with Molly and Rhodri, my young niece and nephew. Being around them helped me rediscover the curiosity and drive I thought I’d lost. As time passed I began to feel a need to reconnect with my own childhood and the place that shaped who I had become.

In the years since my father had left Cray to shack up with a woman half his age in Llandovery, the house had fallen into some disrepair. While I continued my recovery, Sara organised a local contractor to carry out the necessary remedial work. By the time it was completed, I was excited about going back home. Yet, when the day came and we drove north through Powys, I felt a sudden apprehension about returning to the place I’d spent most of my youth trying to escape. It rained that morning, but as the road wound up into the higher country the sky cleared and sunlight sparkled off the hills and trees. After she’d helped me unpack and we were stood in the yard saying our good-byes, a black Land Rover turned in from the lane. A man I didn’t know got out.

Sara waved. “Edward,” she said. “This is my brother, Wil.”

The man came to us and shook my hand. He wore a blue baseball cap over shoulder-length brown hair. His eyes were blue and his grip was strong. “How do, Wil,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Sara said, “This is Edward. He did the work on the house.”

“I hope it’s up to scratch,” he said.

“I’m grateful to you,” I said.

“I save my best work for your sister.” He gave her a grin. “I’ve come to fetch my ladders.” He walked off around the side of the garage.

“You don’t remember him, do you?” Sara said.

I shrugged.

“Edward Owens. He was in my class in school. We went out for a bit. He lives over in Llanddeusant now.” She kissed me on the cheek and got into her Volvo. She spoke through the open window. “He said you can call him if you need anything doing. I’ve left his number in the kitchen.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Sara reached through the window and squeezed my hand. “Listen, Wil—he could be a friend to you.”

The man came back into sight carrying an aluminum extension ladder on one shoulder. He hoisted it up on the roof rack of his vehicle and tied it down. I watched as Sara drove out of the yard. A minute later, the man got in the Land Rover. As he pulled away he turned and raised a hand, giving me a thumbs-up.

It took time to get used to being home, in the shadow of the Black Mountain. I was twenty-four and hadn’t lived in the house for nearly six years. Leaving for university I was sure I’d never return. I’d stayed on in York at the end of each academic year taking whatever work I could find. After my masters’ I’d applied and failed to obtain funding for a PhD. It was this that had, in part, precipitated my breakdown. That, and my landlord’s discovery that eight crows shared the flat with me. I tried to explain that they were essential for my research. He found it unacceptable, and when I refused to remove the birds, he called the police. Consequently, I was sectioned for the third time and spent four months in Redlands.

I’d had episodes of mental instability before. At seventeen, Wyn Blevins accused me of trying to murder him in his bed. I don’t recall what happened, though I believe that if I had harmed him, there must have been some provocation on his part. I argued my case when they came for me, but, as a consequence of previous episodes, when it came down to his word or mine, his lies won the day. The first incident occurred when I was fourteen and had attacked a classmate I’d witness kill a magpie with an air rifle. In the ensuing fight I’d bitten off half his right ear. I spent three weeks in the children’s wing of a mental hospital for observation and assessment.

Every one of the clinicians and therapists I have spoken to over the years has assumed that my episodes of mental fragility stem from the discovery of my mother’s body. This was a reasonable assumption but it wasn’t right. Though saddened at the loss of my mother, it would be a lie to say I was greatly stricken or traumatised. Following her suicide, I had to endure months of counselling that served only to keep the sight of her body fresh in my mind. The sessions continued until it dawned on me that what was needed were expressions of sorrow and pain. After acting out these emotions over two or three sessions, I was deemed to have finally processed my grief.

The thing I never talked about in those sessions was what had happened the night after Mother’s funeral. Disturbed by some noise, I’d crept downstairs, bleary-eyed and half-conscious, and walked into the living room where Wyn Blevins, drunk as hell, sat on the floor with Mickey in one fist and Icarus in the other. Their eyes were black with fear. I tried to speak but my tongue was paralysed. He told me he knew what they’d done to her. Said there’d be no more birds in his house. I stood and heard the crack of bones as he crushed the life out of my canaries.