Read Online Black Feathers by Joseph D'Lacey - Free Book Online
Authors: Joseph D'Lacey
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parts of the city, the graffiti covering them not merely profane but hallucinatory and prophetic. Each time she opened the bureau, memories from that day resurfaced, especially the defacing of derelict buildings and chipboarded windows: scrawled murals of bloody combat overseen by a screaming black angel and the strange poetry that accompanied the images. All of this so similar to the tokens which now filled the writing bureau’s secret compartment.
Police had been everywhere but none had come to help them. Instead, they loitered in groups on street corners or in alleys, looking more like gang members than protectors of the public. Among these menacing coteries, she had glimpsed for the first time figures in long grey coats and broad-brimmed hats – now the Ward were everywhere. Bristol had smelled faintly of excrement that morning, the occasional waft making Sophie and Amelia wrinkle their noses. A few days later, following record rainfall in the South West, the sewers had backed up and Bristol suffered an outbreak of typhoid.
Sophie touched the compartment in the bureau, almost needing to check that the collection of strange gifts was real. But of course it was. She knew what she would see if she opened that cleverly crafted recess in the wood – what she and Louis privately referred to as the Crowman’s coffer. Years of stored-up evidence that there was something different about her pale, sensitive little boy. Something strange. Something foreshadowed . Sophie drew her fingertips away, squeezing back tears of apprehension and fear. She folded the writing bureau’s panel shut, locked it and replaced the key in its vase. Turning back towards the hallway, she screamed, her hands flying to her mouth.
Gordon stood there, still wearing his party clothes – blue shorts, and brown leather shoes now scuffed and muddy, a white shirt and small tie under a sleeveless green pullover. He held his hands out to her. In them he offered up the slack body of a jackdaw, its head lolling, its eyes glazed, its feathers dappled with tiny rubies of blood – Gordon’s or the bird’s, she couldn’t tell.
“They’re all dead, Mum.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t me. I found them.”
Sophie’s hands came away from her mouth.
“Take it outside, Gordon,” she whispered.
Her boy turned away from her and she followed him into the hallway.
“Louis?” She shouted up the stairs. “Louis, come down. Quickly.”
By the time they reached the back terrace, Louis had caught up and the three of them stared at the bodies of four other jackdaws, neatly arranged on the grey flagstones.
Gordon’s face was ashen with guilt.
“I didn’t do it. They were just here.”
Louis reached out a gentle hand, intending to bestow comfort on Gordon’s back, when they heard the door in the garden wall creak. The hand never made contact. A figure slipped out of their property and pushed the old door closed behind it. All they glimpsed were the drabs of a hunter or poacher, probably a man.
“Jesus Christ, who’s that?” He took a couple of steps into the garden. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is private property!” There was no response. “Right, fuck this.” He turned and ran into the house. Gordon and Sophie heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs and running down again moments later. He ran past them with his shotgun, heading for the end of the garden. “Stay right there,” he shouted back.
Ten minutes later, he returned.
“Did you see anyone?” asked Sophie.
Louis shook his head.
“Whoever it was is long gone. I couldn’t even see which way he went.”
He knelt down in front of Gordon.
“I don’t want you coming out in the garden for a while, OK?”
“Why, Dad?”
“It’s just for a while.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“I know you didn’t. I just want you to be safe.”
Gordon began to cry.
“None of that. Come on, let’s get rid of these birds.”
Louis stood, broke his
Police had been everywhere but none had come to help them. Instead, they loitered in groups on street corners or in alleys, looking more like gang members than protectors of the public. Among these menacing coteries, she had glimpsed for the first time figures in long grey coats and broad-brimmed hats – now the Ward were everywhere. Bristol had smelled faintly of excrement that morning, the occasional waft making Sophie and Amelia wrinkle their noses. A few days later, following record rainfall in the South West, the sewers had backed up and Bristol suffered an outbreak of typhoid.
Sophie touched the compartment in the bureau, almost needing to check that the collection of strange gifts was real. But of course it was. She knew what she would see if she opened that cleverly crafted recess in the wood – what she and Louis privately referred to as the Crowman’s coffer. Years of stored-up evidence that there was something different about her pale, sensitive little boy. Something strange. Something foreshadowed . Sophie drew her fingertips away, squeezing back tears of apprehension and fear. She folded the writing bureau’s panel shut, locked it and replaced the key in its vase. Turning back towards the hallway, she screamed, her hands flying to her mouth.
Gordon stood there, still wearing his party clothes – blue shorts, and brown leather shoes now scuffed and muddy, a white shirt and small tie under a sleeveless green pullover. He held his hands out to her. In them he offered up the slack body of a jackdaw, its head lolling, its eyes glazed, its feathers dappled with tiny rubies of blood – Gordon’s or the bird’s, she couldn’t tell.
“They’re all dead, Mum.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t me. I found them.”
Sophie’s hands came away from her mouth.
“Take it outside, Gordon,” she whispered.
Her boy turned away from her and she followed him into the hallway.
“Louis?” She shouted up the stairs. “Louis, come down. Quickly.”
By the time they reached the back terrace, Louis had caught up and the three of them stared at the bodies of four other jackdaws, neatly arranged on the grey flagstones.
Gordon’s face was ashen with guilt.
“I didn’t do it. They were just here.”
Louis reached out a gentle hand, intending to bestow comfort on Gordon’s back, when they heard the door in the garden wall creak. The hand never made contact. A figure slipped out of their property and pushed the old door closed behind it. All they glimpsed were the drabs of a hunter or poacher, probably a man.
“Jesus Christ, who’s that?” He took a couple of steps into the garden. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is private property!” There was no response. “Right, fuck this.” He turned and ran into the house. Gordon and Sophie heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs and running down again moments later. He ran past them with his shotgun, heading for the end of the garden. “Stay right there,” he shouted back.
Ten minutes later, he returned.
“Did you see anyone?” asked Sophie.
Louis shook his head.
“Whoever it was is long gone. I couldn’t even see which way he went.”
He knelt down in front of Gordon.
“I don’t want you coming out in the garden for a while, OK?”
“Why, Dad?”
“It’s just for a while.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“I know you didn’t. I just want you to be safe.”
Gordon began to cry.
“None of that. Come on, let’s get rid of these birds.”
Louis stood, broke his
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