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The Crow Talker
Copyright
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2015
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
HarperCollins Publishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Ferals: The Crow Talker
Text © Working Partners Ltd 2015
Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers, 2015
Cover art © Jeff Nentrup, 2015
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007578528
Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007578535
Version: 2015-01-20
With special thanks to Michael Ford
“Some of the victims were found with tooth marks on their bodies. Others had been dropped from great heights or were bloated with poisons found in their blood. To this day, no one knows what – or who – was behind the strange series of murders that swept through Blackstone that fateful summer.”
The Mystery of the Dark Summer by Josephine Wallace, Head Librarian, Blackstone Central Library
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Publisher
Blackstone sprawled like a bacterial growth on all sides. Caw took in flashes of the city – skyscrapers rising to the east, and to the west, the endless slanting roofscape of the poorer districts and the smoking chimneys of the industrial quarter. In the north loomed abandoned tenements. The river Blackwater was somewhere to the south, a roiling sludge carrying filth away from the city, but never making it any cleaner. Caw could smell its fetid stench.
He skidded up against the dirty glass panel of a skylight. Laying his hands softly on the glass, Caw peered into its soft glow. A hunched janitor wheeled a mop and bucket through the hallway below, lost in his own world. He didn’t look up. They never did.
Caw took off again, startling a fat pigeon and skipping around an ancient billboard, trusting his crows to follow. Two of the birds were barely visible – flitting shadows black as tar. The third was white, his pale feathers making him glow like a ghost in the darkness.
I’m starving, muttered Screech, the smallest of the crows. His voice was a reedy squawk.
You’re always starving, said Glum, his wing-beats slow and steady. The young are so greedy.
Caw smiled. To anyone else, the crows’ voices would merely sound like the cries of regular birds. But Caw heard more. Much more.
I’m still growing! said Screech, flapping indignantly.
Shame your brain isn’t, Glum cackled.
Milky, the blind old white crow, drifted above them. As usual, he said nothing at all.
Caw slowed to gather his breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. He took in the sounds of night – the swish of a car across slick tarmac, the thump of distant music. Further away, a siren and a man shouting, his words unclear. Whether his voice was raised in anger or happiness, Caw didn’t care. Down there was for the regular people of Blackstone. Up here, among the skyline silhouettes … was for him and his crows.
He passed through the warm blast of an air-conditioning vent, then paused, nostrils flaring.
Food. Something salty.
Caw jogged to the edge of the rooftop and peered over. Down below, a door opened on to an alley filled with rubbish bins. It was the back of a 24-hour takeaway. Caw knew they often threw out perfectly good food – leftovers, probably, but he wasn’t fussy. He let his glance flick into every dark corner. He saw nothing that worried him, but it was always risky at ground level. Their place, not his.
Glum landed next to Caw and cocked his head. His stubby beak glinted gold, reflecting a streetlight. You think it’s safe? he asked.
A sudden motion drew Caw’s gaze; a rat, rooting in the rubbish bins below. It lifted its head and eyed him without fear. “I think so,” Caw said. “Stay sharp.”
He knew they didn’t need the warning. Eight years together, and he could trust them better than he could himself.
Caw swung a leg over the lip of the roof and landed softly on the platform of the fire escape. Screech swooped down and perched on the side of a bin, while Glum glided to the corner of the roof, overlooking the main street. Milky dropped on to the fire escape railing, his talons scratching the metal. All keeping watch.
Caw crept down the steps. He crouched for a moment, eyes on the back door of the takeaway. The smell of food made his stomach rumble violently. Pizza, he thought. Burgers too.
Caw fished inside the nearest rubbish bin, and found a yellow polystyrene box, still warm. He cracked it open. Chips! He shovelled them into his mouth. Greasy, salty, a little burnt at the edges. They were good. The acid vinegar caught in his throat, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t eaten for two days. He swallowed without chewing and almost choked. Then he crammed more down. One chip fell from his hand and Screech was there in a second, attacking the scrap with his beak.
A hoarse cry from Glum.
Caw flinched and cowered beside the bin, eyes searching the darkness. His heart jolted as four figures filled the end of the alley.
“Hey!” said the tallest. “Get away from our stash!”
Caw scrambled back, holding the box to his chest. Screech took flight, his wings slapping the air.
The figures stepped closer and an arc of streetlight caught their faces. Boys, perhaps a couple of years older than him. Homeless by the looks of their tattered clothes.
“There’s enough,” said Caw, nodding towards the rubbish bins. He felt awkward, talking to other people. It happened so rarely. “Enough for all of us,” he repeated.
“No, there’s not,” said a boy with two rings in his upper lip. He walked ahead of the others with a shoulder-rolling swagger. “There’s only enough for us. You’ve been stealing.”
Shall we get them? said Screech.
Caw shook his head. It wasn’t worth getting injured over a few chips.
“Don’t shake your head at me, you filthy little thief!” said the tall one. “You’re a liar!”
“Gross – he stinks, too,” said a smaller boy, sneering.
Caw felt his face getting hot. He took a step backwards.
“Where do you think you’re going?” asked the boy with the lip rings. “Why don’t you stay a while?” He stepped up to Caw and shoved him roughly in the chest.
The sudden attack took Caw by surprise and he fell, landing on his back. The box flew from his hands and chips spilled over the ground. The boys closed in.
“Now he’s throwing them on the floor!”
“You gonna pick them up?”
Caw scrambled to his feet. They had him trapped. “You can have them.”
“Too late for that,” said the leader. He ran his tongue over his lip rings. “Now you gotta pay. How much money you got?”
Caw turned out his pockets, his heart thumping. “None.”
The glint of a blade, emerging from the boy’s pocket. “In that case, we’ll take your thieving fingers instead.”
The boy lunged forward. Caw grabbed the edge of the rubbish bin and vaulted up on top of it.
“He’s quick, isn’t he?” said the boy. “Get him.”
The other three surrounded the bin. One swiped at Caw’s ankle. Another started to shake the bin. Caw staggered for balance. They were all laughing.
Caw saw a drainpipe three metres to his left and jumped. But as his fingers caught the metal, the piping broke from the wall with a burst of brick dust. He fell and hit the tarmac on his side, the air exploding from his lungs. Four grinning faces closed in.
“Hold him down!” said the leader.
“Please … no …” Caw struggled, but the boys sat on his legs and pulled at his arms. He was spread-eagled as the one with the knife loomed over him. “Which will it be, boys?” He pointed the tip of the blade at Caw’s hands in turn. “Left or right?”
Caw couldn’t see his crows. Fear pumped through his veins.
The boy crouched down, resting his knee on Caw’s chest. “Eeny, meany, miny, moe.” The knife’s tip danced from side to side.
Watch out, Caw! called Glum. The boys all looked up at the crow’s piercing cry. Then a hand reached down from above and gripped the knife-wielder by the back of his collar. The boy yelped as he was jerked away from Caw.
There was a smacking sound – skin against skin – and the knife clattered to the ground.
Where’d he come from? said Screech.
Caw sat up. A tall, thin man was holding the boy by the back of his neck. Brown wiry hair protruded from beneath the man’s stained woolly hat. He was wearing several layers of dirty clothing, including an old brown trench coat fastened around his waist with a belt of frayed blue cord. A tufty beard coated his jawline in uneven patches. Caw guessed he was in his mid-twenties, and homeless.
“Leave him be,” said the man, his voice rasping. In the semi-darkness, his mouth was a black hole.
“What’s it to you?” said the boy holding Caw’s left arm.
The man shoved the boy with the lip rings hard at the bin, letting him go.
“This guy’s crazy!” said the boy holding Caw’s legs. “Let’s go.”
Their leader picked up his knife and brandished it at the homeless man.
“Lucky you’re so filthy,” he snarled. “Don’t want to get my knife dirty. Come on, fellas.” The four attackers turned and tore out of the alley.
Caw scrambled to his feet, his breath coming hard. Looking up, he saw his crows perched together on the fire-escape railing, watching silently.
After the gang had rounded the corner, another smaller shape slipped from the alley’s darkness to stand close beside the man. It was a boy of about seven or eight, Caw guessed. His narrow face was pale and his dirty blond hair stood on end. “Yeah, and don’t come back!” he shouted, shaking a fist.
Caw darted towards the chips scattered on the ground. He started dropping them back into the box. No need to waste a good meal. All the while, he felt the gaze of his rescuer and the boy on his back.
When he’d finished, he stuffed the box inside the deep pocket of his coat and hurried to the fire escape.
“Wait,” said the man. “Who are you?”
Caw turned to face him, but kept his eyes on the ground. “I’m no one.”
The man snorted. “Really? So where are your parents, No one?”
Caw shook his head again. He didn’t know what else to say.
“You should be careful,” said the man.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Doesn’t look like that to us,” said the boy, tilting his chin upward.
Caw heard the crows’ claws shifting on the railing above him. The man’s eyes flicked up to them and narrowed. His lips turned in the ghost of a smile. “Friends of yours?” he asked.
Time to go home, said Glum.
Caw started up the steel ladder without looking back. He climbed quickly, hand over hand, his nimble feet barely making a sound on the fire escape. When he reached the roof, he took one last glance and saw the man watching him as the young boy rooted around in the bins.
“Something bad’s coming,” called the man. “Something really bad. You get into trouble – talk to the pigeons.”
Talk to the pigeons? Caw only talked to crows.
Pigeons! Screech said, as if he’d heard Caw’s thought. You’d get more sense out of a brick!
Probably off his rocker, said Glum. A lot of humans are.
Caw heaved himself on to the roof and set off at a jog. But as he ran, he couldn’t shake the man’s parting words. He hadn’t seemed crazy at all. His face was fierce, his eyes clear. Not like the old drunks who stumbled around the streets or squatted in doorways begging for money.
And, more than that, he had helped Caw. He’d put himself at risk, for no reason.
Caw’s crows flew above him, wheeling around buildings and circling back as they made their way to the safety of the nest. Home.
Caw’s heart began to slow, as the night took him into its dark embrace.
He’s back at his old house. The bed is so soft he feels like he’s lying on a cloud. It’s warm too and he longs to turn over, pull the duvet tight to his chin and fall back asleep. But he never can. Because the dream isn’t just a dream. It’s a memory.
Hurried footsteps on the stairs outside his room. They’re coming for him.
He swings his legs out and his toes sink into the thick carpet. His bedroom is in shadow, but he can just make out his toys lining the top of a chest of drawers and a shelf stacked with picture books.
A crack of light appears under his door and he hears his parents’ voices, urgent and hushed.
The door handle turns and they enter. His mother is wearing a black dress, and her cheeks are silver with tears. His father is dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a shirt open at the neck. His forehead is sweaty.
“Please, no …” Caw says.
His mother takes his hand in hers, her palms clammy, and pulls him towards the window.
Caw tries to tug back, but he’s young in the dream, and she’s too strong for him.
“Don’t fight,” she says. “Please. It’s for the best. I promise.”
Caw kicks her in the shins and scratches at her with his nails, but she gathers him close to her body in a grip of iron, and bundles him on to the window ledge. Terrified, Caw fastens his teeth over her forearm. She doesn’t let go, even when his teeth break her skin. His father draws back the curtains, and for second Caw catches sight of his own face in the black shine of the window – pudgy, wide-eyed, afraid.
The window is flung open and the cold night air rushes in.
Now his father holds him as well – his parents have an arm and a leg each. Caw bucks and writhes, screaming.
“Hush! Hush!” says his mother. “It’s all right.”
The end of the nightmare is coming, but knowing that doesn’t make it any less terrible. They push and pull him over the ledge, so his legs are dangling, and he sees the ground far below. His father’s jaw is taut, brutal. He won’t look Caw in the eye. But Caw can see that he’s crying too.
“Do it!” says his father, releasing his grip. “Just do it!”
“Why?” Caw wants to shout. But all that comes out is a child’s wailing cry.
“I’m sorry,” says his mother. That’s when she shoves him out of the window.
For a split-second, his stomach turns. But then the crows have him.
They cover his arms and legs, talons digging into his skin and pyjamas. A dark cloud that appears out of nowhere, carrying him upwards.
His face is filled with feathers and their earthy smell.
He’s floating, up and up, carried beneath their black eyes and brittle legs and snapping wings.
He gives his body to the birds and the rhythm of their flight, prepares to wake …
But tonight, he does not wake.
The crows descend and set him down lightly on the pavement, looping back towards his house along a pale driveway running between tall trees. He sees his parents at his window, now closed. They’re hugging, holding each other.
How could they?
Still, he does not wake.
Then Caw sees a figure, a thing, materialising from the darkness of the front garden, taking slow deliberate strides to the door of the house. It’s tall, almost as tall as the doorway itself, and very thin, with spindly limbs too long for its body.
The dream has never continued like this before. This is no longer part of his memory – somehow Caw knows that, deep in his bones.
By some trick, he can see the thing’s face, close up. It’s a man – but the likes of which he’s never seen. He wants to look away, but his eyes are drawn to the pale features, made paler still by the blackness of the man’s hair, which sits in jagged spikes over his forehead and one eye. He would be handsome if it weren’t for his eyes. They’re completely black – all pupil, no white.
Caw has no idea who the man is, but he knows that he is more than just bad. The man’s slender body draws the darkness to him. He has come here to do harm. Evil. The word comes unbidden. Caw wants to shout, but he is voiceless with fear.
He is desperate to wake, but he does not.
The visitor’s lips twist into a smile as he lifts a hand, the fingers like drooping arachnid legs. Caw sees that he’s wearing a large golden ring as his fingers enfold the door knocker, like a flower’s petals closing. And now the ring is all he sees, and the picture inscribed on its oval surface. A spider carved in sharp lines, eight legs bristling. Its body is a looping single line, with a small curve for the head and a larger one for the body. On its back, a shape that looks like the letter M.
The stranger knocks a single time, then turns his head. He’s looking right at Caw. For a moment the crows are gone, and there is nothing in the world but Caw and the stranger. The man’s voice whispers softly, his lips barely moving.
“I’m coming for you.”
Caw woke up screaming.
Sweat was drying on his forehead and goose pimples covered his arms. He could see his breath, even under the cover of the tarpaulin that stretched between the branches overhead. As he sat up, the tree creaked and the nest rocked slightly. A spider scuttled away from his hand.
A coincidence. Just a coincidence.
What’s up? said Screech, flapping across from the nest’s edge to land beside him.
Caw closed his eyes, and the image of the spider ring burned behind his lids.
“Just the dream,” he said. “The usual one. Go back to sleep.”
Except tonight it hadn’t been. The stranger – the man at the door – that hadn’t really happened. Had it?
We were trying to sleep, said Glum. But you woke us twitching like a half-eaten worm. Even poor old Milky’s up. Caw could hear the grumpy ruffle of Glum’s feathers.
“Sorry,” he said. He lay back down, but sleep wouldn’t come, not with the dream throwing its fading echoes through his mind. After eight years of the same nightmare, why had tonight been different?
Caw threw off his blanket and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The nest was a platform high up in a tree, three metres across, made of scrap timber and woven branches, with a hatch in the floor he’d made using a sheet of corrugated semi-transparent plastic. More branches were knitted together around the nest’s edge with pieces of boarding he’d scavenged from a building site, making a bowl shape with steep sides about a metre tall. His few possessions lay in a battered suitcase he’d found on the banks of the Blackwater several months ago. An old curtain could be pinned across the middle of the nest if he wanted privacy from the crows, though Glum never quite got the hint. At the far end, a small hole in the tarpaulin roof offered an entrance and exit for the crows.
It was cold up here, especially in winter, but it was dry.
When the crows had first brought him to the old park eight years ago, they’d settled in an abandoned tree house in a lower fork of the tree. But as soon as he was old enough to climb, Caw had built his own nest up here, high above the world. He was proud of it. It was home.
Caw unhooked the edge of the tarpaulin and pulled it aside. A drop of rainwater splashed on to the back of his neck and he shuddered.
The moon over the park was a small sliver short of full in a cloudless sky. Milky perched on the branch outside, motionless, his white feathers silver in the moonlight. His head swivelled and a pale, sightless eye seemed to pick Caw out.
So much for sleep, grumbled Glum, shaking his beak disapprovingly.
Screech hopped on to Caw’s arm and blinked twice. Don’t mind Glum, he said. Old-timers like him need their beauty sleep.
Glum gave a harsh squawk. Keep your beak shut, Screech.
Caw breathed in the smells of the city. Car fumes. Mould. Something dying in a gutter. It had been raining, but no amount of rain could make Blackstone smell clean.
His stomach growled, but he was glad of his hunger. It sharpened his senses, pushed back the terror into the shadows of his mind. He needed air. He needed to clear his head. “I’m going to find something to eat.”
Now? said Glum. You ate yesterday.
Caw spotted last night’s chip container on the far side of the nest, along with the other rubbish the crows liked to collect. Glittering stuff. Bottle tops, cans, ring pulls, foil. The remains of Glum’s dinner were scattered about too – a few mouse bones, picked clean. A tiny broken skull.
I could eat too, said Screech, stretching his wings.
