A Kestrel for a Knave (15 page)

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Home, straight home, and straight down the garden to the shed. He looked between the bars, clicking his tongue. The hawk lobbed off her perch, and with one wing flick reached the shelf behind the door. Billy tapped the bars, then hurried back up the path to the garage.

Inside, on a bench built across the back, was a round board with BREAD carved in relief round its perimeter. The wood was scrubbed white, and hundreds of knife cuts had criss-crossed the surface into tiny geometrical figures. Across the board lay a knife, its blade gleaming stainless, in contrast to the ground steel of its teeth. Two brass rivets secured the handle, which was as smooth and dead as driftwood. Beside the board lay a leather satchel, and a scrubbing brush, bristles up.

Billy lifted the flap of the satchel and took out a greaseproof paper packet. When he opened it a few pieces of beef were stuck to the paper like Elastoplast. He sniff-sniffed the beef, then placed it on the board and went outside.

He crossed to the kitchen door, unlocked it, and walked straight through the kitchen to the living-room. It was cold and quiet, and darkness shaded the corners. Articles of clothing littered the furniture, their shapes determined by the weight and textures of the materials; woollen clumps, cotton spreads, and a nylon slip slithering over one arm of the settee. On the table used crockery was grouped about the checked cloth like the pieces of an abandoned game. Billy knelt down and felt under the settee. He came up with an air rifle, then crossed to the fireplace and reached up to a Toby Jug, looking pleased with himself at one end of the mantelpiece. He was full of lead pellets. Billy tipped him up and a soft stream of lead poured out of the black hat into his palm. Then, as he was replacing the jug, he noticed the two half-crowns holding down a folded slip of
paper next to the clock. The coins fitted perfectly, their bevelled edges corresponding to form one thick crown. He paused, his fingers still round the jug. Then he turned and walked away, stopped, and looked back at the mantelpiece. He broke the rifle open and fitted a slug, frowning and nibbling his bottom lip, and patting at the slug with his thumb long after it had snugged into position. A smear of grease stained the end of his thumb. He studied it, then lubricated the tip of his forefinger by rubbing finger and thumb together.

The gun was .22 calibre, fitted with telescopic sights.

‘Right then, odds I take it, evens I don’t.’

He raised the rifle and aimed at the clock, the hairlines of the sights dividing the face like a hot-cross bun. He panned across to the Toby Jug, sighting the grin, the belly, the beer mug, then brought it back across to the money and squeezed the trigger. The top coin spun up as though tossed by a thumb, reaching its zenith as the bottom one bounced out of the hearth on to the rug, heads, while the top one rattled and settled on the mantelpiece Re Re Re Re Rrrrrrrrrr, tails, and the betting slip zig-zagged in ever-increasing arcs out under the table. Billy ran across to discover his luck.

‘Shit!’

He dropped the coins into his jacket pocket and crouched under the table for the betting slip. As he stood up he unfolded it.

5/- DOUBLE.

CRACKPOT

TELL HIM HE’S DEAD.

_____

He refolded the slip and stuffed it into the same pocket as the money, then left the house and shut the door behind him. The noise made a starling fly off the gutter, making Billy glance up as he locked the door.

He entered the garage, opened the back window, the side window, then placed a stool over a chalk X, drawn in a position where he could see squarely through both windows by merely turning his head. He settled down on the stool to wait. Nothing happened. He sat with the rifle across his thighs, whistling softly and rocking his feet silently in tune. He stopped whistling and rocking when a house sparrow landed on top of the kestrel’s hut. He crept to the back window. When he raised his head the sparrow had gone. So he crept back to his stool and settled again.

There was a continuous
CHIP CHIP
of sparrows, but the only ones in view were out of range specks on chimney turrets. Then a cock sparrow landed on the gutter above the back bedroom window. It stood on one leg and scratched its beak with a high speed shuttering of the other foot, roused its feathers and settled, its fluffed body curving up over the gutter like an egg in a cup. Billy slipped off his stool to the window and eased one eye round the frame. Still there. He lifted the rifle and slowly poked it out, angling and swivelling it in the sparrow’s direction. The sparrow stopped chipping and looked about, its feathers slicking to its body, revealing its true thin shape. Billy froze. Pause. The sparrow relaxed, and continued its song, chip. chip. chip. Billy scroamed into a comfortable kneeling position, and, jacking his left elbow on the window ledge and steadying the barrel on the side of the frame, brought the sparrow into sight. A grey pom-pom with a black bib; a grey capped head turning in profile to silhouette the tiny beak splitting wide at each utterance.
A well defined study, edged black against the slate background. Billy adjusted the sights just a shade to pinpoint the intersection of the hairlines on to the bib. Hold it. Squeeeeze. The kick back made him jump and blink and open both eyes in time to see the sparrow plumping head first wings out down the back-cloth of brick. Reloading the rifle he ran out to where the sparrow lay on the concrete. He touched it with the barrel tip, then carefully turned it over. It lay still. So he bent down and picked it up. Both eyes were closed. A thin line of blood emphasised the division of the beak, but there was no further sign of violence. Billy scuffed the plumage on its breast, and fanned its wings to look underneath them. But there was no mark where the slug had entered. He smoothed the feathers and refolded the wings, then held the rifle out at arms length and fired it down into the soil near his feet. No earth flew, and there was no sign where the pellet had entered. Just the same still formation of sods and pocked earth.

He took the sparrow back into the garage, put it into the satchel, and took out the lure. He tied a scrap of beef to each side of it, then replaced it and checked the contents of the satchel; front pocket – penknife, whistle, creance; back pocket – swivel and leash, lure, sparrow – and beef scraps. He put the satchel on, took his gauntlet down from a nail above the bench and left the garage.

The hawk was waiting for him. As he unlocked the door she screamed and pressed her face to the bars. He selected the largest piece of beef, then, holding it firmly between finger and thumb with most of it concealed in his palm, he eased the door open and shoved his glove through the space. The hawk jumped on to his glove and attacked the meat. Billy swiftly followed his fist into the hut, secured
the door behind him, and while the hawk was tearing at the fringe of beef, he attached her swivel and leash.

As soon as they got outside she looked up and tensed, feathers flat, eyes threatening. Billy stood still, whistling softly, waiting for her to relax and resume her feeding. Then he walked round the back of the hut and held her high over his head as he climbed carefully over the fence. A tall hawthorn hedge bordered one side of the field, and the wind was strong and constant in the branches, but in the field it had been strained to a whisper. He reached the centre and unwound the leash from his glove, pulled it free of the swivel, then removed the swivel from the jesses and raised his fist. The hawk flapped her wings and fanned her tail, her claws still gripping the glove. Billy cast her off by nudging his glove upwards, and she banked away, completed a wide circuit then gained height rapidly, while he took the lure from his bag and unwound the line from the stick.

‘Come on, Kes! Come on then!’

He whistled and swung the lure short-lined on a vertical plane. The hawk turned, saw it, and stooped….

‘Casper!’

He glanced involuntarily across the field. Mr Farthing was climbing the fence and waving to him. The hawk grabbed the lure and Billy allowed her to take it to the ground.

‘Bloody hell fire.’

He pegged the stick into the soil and stood up. Mr Farthing was tiptoeing towards him, concentrating on his passage through the grass. With his overcoat on, and his trousers pinched up, he looked like a day-tripper paddling at the seaside. Billy allowed him to get within thirty yards, then stopped him by raising one hand.

‘You’ll have to stop there, Sir.’

‘I hope I’m not too late.’

‘No, Sir, but you’ll have to watch from there.’

‘That’s all right. If you think I’m too near I can go back to the fence.’

‘No, you’ll be all right there, as long as you stand still.’

‘I won’t breathe.’

He smiled and put his hands in his overcoat pockets. Billy crouched down and made in towards the hawk along the lure line. He offered her a scrap of beef, and she stepped off the lure on to his glove. He allowed her to take the beef, then he stood up and cast her off again. She wheeled away, high round the field. Billy plucked the stick from the ground and began to swing the lure. The hawk turned and stooped at it. Billy watched her as she descended, waiting for the right moment as she accelerated rapidly towards him. Now. He straightened his arm and lengthened the line, throwing the lure into her path and sweeping it before her in a downward arc, then twitching it up too steep for her attack, making her throw up, her impetus carrying her high into the air. She turned and stooped again. Billy presented the lure again. And again. Each time smoothly before her, an inch before her so that the next wing beat must catch it, or the next. Working the lure like a top matador his cape. Encouraging the hawk, making her stoop faster and harder, making Mr Farthing hold his breath at each stoop and near miss. Each time she made off Billy called her continually, then stopped in concentration as he timed his throw and leaned into the long drawing of the lure and the hawk in its wake, her eyes fixed, beak open, angling her body and adjusting her flight to any slight shift in speed or direction.

She tried a new tactic, and came in low, seeming to flit within a pocket of silence close to the ground. Billy flexed at the knees and flattened the plane of the swing, allowing the lengthening line to pay out before her.

‘Come on, this time, Kes! This time!’

She shortened her stoop, and counter stoop, which increased the frequency of her attacks, and made Billy pivot, and whirl, and watch, but never lose control of the lure or its pursuer. Until finally the hawk sheered away and began to ring up high over the hawthorn hedge.

‘Come on then, Kes! Once more! Last time!’

And she came, head first, wings closed, swooping down, hurtling down towards Billy, who waited, then lured her –
WHOOSH
– up, throwing up, ringing up, turning; and as she stooped again Billy twirled the lure and threw it high into her path. She caught it, and clutched it down to the ground.

He allowed her to take the remaining beef scrap from the lure, then took her up and attached the swivel and leash. She looked up sharply at a series of claps. Mr Farthing was applauding softly. Billy started towards him and they met half-way, the hawk fixing the stranger every second of their approach.

‘Marvellous, Casper! Brilliant! That’s one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen!’

Billy blushed, and there was silence while they both looked at the hawk. The hawk looked back, her breast still heaving from her exertions.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Do you know, this is the first time I’ve ever been really close to a hawk?’

He raised a hand towards it. The hawk pecked and clawed at it. He withdrew his hand quickly.

‘Goodness!… It’s not very friendly, is it?’

Billy smiled and stroked her breast, rattling under her wings with his fingers.

‘Seems all right with you though.’

‘Only ’cos she thinks I’m not bothered.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well when she used to peck me I kept my finger there as though it didn’t hurt. So after a bit she just packed it in.’

‘That’s good. I’d never have thought of that.’

‘You’ll notice I always keep my hands away from her claws though. You don’t get used to them striking you.’

Mr Farthing looked at the yellow scaled shins, the four spanned toes, the steely claws gripping the gauntlet.

‘No, I’ll bet you don’t.’

Billy produced the sparrow from his bag and pushed it up between the finger and thumb of his glove. The hawk immediately pinned it with one foot and with her beak began to pluck the feathers from its head. Plucking and tossing in bunches, left and right, sowing them to the wind. Baring a spot, then a patch of puckered pink skin. She nipped this skin and pulled, ripping a hole in it and revealing the pale shine of the skull, as fragile and delicately curved as one of the sparrow’s own eggs. Scrunch. The shell crumpled, and the whole crown was torn away and swallowed at one gulp. Another bite and the head was gone; even the beak was swallowed, being first finely crushed into fragments. Billy eased the sparrow up between his fingers, revealing most of its body. The hawk lowered her head and began to pluck the breast and wings. The breast fluff puffed away like fairy clocks; the wing quills twirled to the ground like ash keys. Occasionally the hawk shook her head, trying to dislodge feathers which had stuck to the blood on her beak. If this failed she scratched at them
with her claws, the flickering points passing within fractions of her eyes, wincing as though half in enjoyment, half in pain, like someone having a good scratch at a nettle rash.

She cleared most of the breast, then pierced the skin with her beak and tore it open, exposing beneath the wafer of breast meat the minute organs, coiled and compact, packed perfectly into the tiny frame. The hawk disturbed their composition by reaching inside and dragging the intestines out. They swung from her beak, with the stomach attached like a watch on a chain. Then she snuffled and gobbled them down in a slithering putty-coloured pile.

‘Uh!’

‘Full o’ vitamins them, Sir.’