Boneland (14 page)

‘There.’

‘Oh, great,’ said Meg. ‘Terrific. You’ve made my day.’

The black stone lay on the white linen.

‘Look at it,’ said Colin. ‘Don’t you see what it is?’

‘Yes,’ said Meg. ‘I see it. I see a pebble.’

‘Meg!’

‘OK. A big pebble.’

‘Meg!’

‘OK. A big black pebble.’

‘Meg!’

‘OK. A chipped big black pebble. A lump of rock.’

‘Meg! Look! It’s a Lower Palaeolithic Abbevillian hand axe!’

‘It is? You astound me, Colin.’

‘Hold it. Feel it. Look at it. But keep it over the cushion.’

Meg took the stone in her hand.

‘Turn it. It’ll tell you.’

Meg moved the stone around in her palm and fingers.

‘Good grief. It’s alive.’

‘It is! You can feel it!’

The stone fitted her hand. The smooth curves were against her skin. The rough serrations were outside her thumb and fingers, and the fluted point below.

‘Is it human?’ she said.

‘Hominin. Just about,’ said Colin. ‘
Homo erectus
, perhaps, or
Homo heidelbergensis
; but definitely not
sapiens
or
sapiens sapiens
.’

‘Lower Palaeolithic?’ said Meg. ‘So how old are we talking here?’

‘About half a million years.’

‘“About”?’

‘It’s impossible to be more accurate. There’s no context.’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘I didn’t. R.T., the Director, he dug it up when he was planning the telescope. It was directly beneath where the light of the focus would be when it’s in the zenith.’

‘Mm. That is remarkable,’ said Meg. ‘It is amazing. I agree.’

‘You don’t know how much,’ said Colin. ‘It’s half a million years old, but he found it under the turf, on top of soil that’s only ten thousand, at most.’

‘How do you account for that?’

‘I can’t. It shouldn’t have been there.’

‘Let’s get real,’ said Meg. ‘I grant you it handles as if it’s a tool, but are you sure it’s not natural?’

‘I’m positive. It’s a cobble made from a flake. It has smooth natural facets and naturally rounded butt, all showing derived features, which means at one time it was rolling around in water; a brook or river, say. Then someone picked it up; chose it; worked it. The end has been pointed, by pressure or indirect percussion, though that, I must say, is unusual, and a sinuous edge has been formed through bifacial chipping and step flaking to give a triangular section. The opposite edge has been heavily blunted. All the flake scars appear to be contemporaneous and non-derived. Secondary silication of the scars is uniform and complete. Somehow it has been protected from the Anglian and subsequent glaciations. It shouldn’t be possible for it to have survived here. Yet it has. Of that there can be no doubt.’

Meg turned the stone over and over in her hand. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I don’t get the technical malarky, but it sits one way, and one way only, and right.’

‘I told you it would tell you,’ said Colin.

‘Yep. I wasn’t tuned in. I am now. You’ve converted me. “This stone is poor, and cheap in price; spurned by fools, loved more by the wise.”’

‘Sorry?’ said Colin.

‘I’m translating. You say you’re crap at Latin. Well, this asks the Grail Question. And, come to think of it, the Grail can be a stone, too.’

‘I don’t understand what it is you’re saying.’

‘You don’t understand? That’s a relief. I was beginning to feel a bit of a bozo.’

‘I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know what it is,’ said Colin. ‘The Question.’

‘“What is this thing? What does it mean? Whom does it serve?” If those mediaeval retarded adolescents of the Round Table hadn’t been so anally retentive but had asked the Question straight off, a lot of knights would have been out of a job quick smart.’

Meg turned the stone.

‘That’s just what R.T. used to do,’ said Colin. ‘He found it comforting. But he couldn’t see that it was anything more than what he called “tactile”.’

‘I know what he meant,’ said Meg. ‘It’s a feely. Yes. Better than worry beads, any day. There could be quite a market. The way the smooth goes into the sharp and out again; and the ripples in the scars; like sea shells.’

‘That’s the conchoidal fracture,’ said Colin.

‘And how’ve you come by it?’ said Meg.

‘R.T. gave it to me.’

‘Gave it to you? Why?’

‘He said I had more need of it now than he had.’

‘Oh? How’s that?’

‘I resigned from my post.’

‘Shit and derision. Colin? What did I tell you? I can’t be doing with martyrs. Is this how you fail better? Have you not got one single ounce of gumption in you?’

‘I know. But I felt I must. Had to. Immediately. But he wouldn’t accept it.’

‘I should think not. You prannock. You total pillock.’

‘He gave me this instead.’

‘Good on him. Did you tell him what it was?’

‘I tried to tell him, but he didn’t seem to be interested.’

‘Wise man.’ She turned the stone. ‘How black is that?’

‘Black blacker than black,’ said Colin. ‘Black as carbon; though it is probably a silicate. But when you look, it’s got some tiny inclusions. If you look long enough it feels as if you’re staring into it, not at it; into. But that’s me. I would, wouldn’t I?’

‘Mm. Perhaps. Then perhaps not.’

Meg laid the flat side in her palm and weighed it.

‘This way, it’s a heart,’ she said. ‘But if you turn it this way, the profile is more like that of a car.’

‘A car. It is. It is,’ said Colin. ‘One of those tinted-windowed things they drive round here.’

‘Ah, drivers,’ said Meg. ‘“The bimbos of Lower Slobovia,” as I’ve heard tell. I know what you mean. They don’t take kindly to being carved up by my bike; not one bit they don’t.’

‘I’ve been in a ditch many a time on their account,’ said Colin. ‘What are they hiding that’s so important?’

‘Cotton-woolled kids, mainly. But I do agree.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Colin. He took the stone from Meg’s hand. ‘There’s something else. Wait a minute.’

He held the stone sideways on. ‘No.’ He put the stone down on the cushion and sat back, his hands behind him.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Meg.

‘No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.’

‘Oh, cripes,’ said Meg. ‘Colin, I thought you said this was social. Come on. Oi. Off. Shift your bum. Move. Over there. Now.’

Colin went wide round the table and sat in the chair, watching the stone.

‘What is it?’ said Meg.

‘Crow. Upper mandible. Crow. Carrion crow.
Corvus corone corone
. You know. Corneille noire; cornacchia nera; frân dyddyn; varona chernaya; wroniec; nokivaris; Rabenkrähe; svart kråka …’

‘Right,’ said Meg. ‘And not before time. Colin, what is it about crows with you? Eric put in his notes that when he suggested you came here you asked whether I was a witch. Now that’s something I get, in one form or another, nearly every time, especially from goofed-up males and loud-mouthed honking know-alls. I’m used to it. But then you asked if I liked crows. It was the first thing you asked me. Did I like crows? So what is it?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry, but Yes. The stone’s trying to help you. Listen to it. What’s it telling you? What is it you see?’

‘No.’

‘Colin. You’re not your ordinary anorak routine twitcher with binoculars round your neck and a notebook in your hand. And you don’t collect train numbers on Crewe station. You’ve published; and published damned well, from what I’ve read about you. So why do you get spooked when it comes to crows?’

‘Co-authored,’ said Colin. ‘Mainly the raptors, especially kestrel,
Falco tinnunculus
, commonly windhover. Its usual prey is the smaller mammals, such as mice and voles; even young rabbits. I did not write the chapter on the
Corvidae
.’

‘Why not?’

‘Meg. Please.’

‘Go there. Tell me. Now’s your chance. The stone’s on your side.’

‘Please. I can’t.’

‘You can. Come on, chuckles. What’s up with crows?’

‘And witches. I can’t tell them apart. Fact from metaphor. They’re every part alike the same to me.’

‘Really? I did wonder what all that was about.’

‘What all what was about?’

‘I was wondering whether you’d say without being shoved.’

‘Say what?’

‘Eric said that before you went in to see him you’d caused quite a stramash in the waiting area when you shouted at a small kid and his granny.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘Oh, yes, that. What got into you?’

‘She was reading a story to him,’ said Colin. ‘About a boy going to a witch’s house. And I had a flashback. I couldn’t help it.’

‘Was it a flashback of something that happened or of a dream?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can’t you remember? Can’t you tell the difference?’

‘Usually I can. But this was so clear. So vivid. It felt that it had happened. Happened to me. Once.’

‘Is it a retrieved flashback from before you were thirteen?’

‘It must be.’

‘Can you see it now?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘It matters, Colin. It matters a lot. I don’t mock witches.’

‘I’m in a room in a big house. I don’t remember how I’ve come to be here. Crows are perched on the windowsills outside. And there’s a witch, she’s standing over me. I know she’s a witch. She’s all in black, with a cord round her waist. I’m lying on the floor. I can’t move.’

‘Does she look like me?’ said Meg.

‘—No. She’s older. Fatter and older.’

‘You hesitated.’

‘Only because you asked. Though sometimes you do have that look about you. When you scare me.’

‘Go on,’ said Meg.

‘She has a wide mouth, thin lips, and her head is sitting on her shoulders as if she hasn’t got a neck, and her eyes are close together. Her legs are thin, too. She looks like a crow: a big fat crow. And she goes out of the room and locks the door. I’m alone, and the crows are watching me. But I know she’ll be back. She’s said she’ll eat me. And I’ve wet myself. And it’s all going to happen again to the boy at the doctor’s. I’ve got to save him. I’ve got to stop the story.’

‘Is that why the flashback’s so clear?’

‘I’ve had it before. All my life since the flashbacks began. It’s the worst of them. Sometimes I dream it and wake and it’s still there and I have to go on watching it.’

‘How does it end?’

‘It just ends. Until the next time, when it starts all over again. But the crows are real. They peck on the windows and the door of the Bergli in the night. I hear them, though I don’t see them.’

‘At night?’ said Meg. ‘You’ll tell me if I’m wrong, but crows aren’t nocturnal.’

‘They’re not,’ said Colin. ‘But these are. They must be. That’s why I’m terrified of crows. It’s selective ornithophobia. I love birds; but these are different. They’re witches. They know.’

‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ said Meg. ‘Come on. Now. It’s now, Colin. I don’t want to have to crank you up to this pitch again.’

Colin stared at the profile of the stone. He shook. Meg was still.

‘Help me.’

Meg was still.

‘Help me.’

‘The stone, Colin. The stone.’

‘Yes. All right. No.’

‘The stone.’

‘Yes.’

He clenched his fists on either side of his face and shut his eyes.

‘I’m at school. Walking. By myself. On a path. Through the fields. By a wood.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirteen years ten months and six days.’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s something fluttering. In the grass. I go to look. It’s a crow. A carrion crow.
Corvus corone corone
. Caught in a mess of barbed wire. I don’t know what to do. I can’t leave it. I’ll have to touch it. I’ve got to touch it. I’ve got to touch the witch. Pick it up. I reach down. Its feathers and scales. I try to free it. It pecks me. Makes me bleed. I try again. It’s tangled in the wire. I get it free. It’s broken a leg and a wing. I don’t know what to do. There’s no one else. Just me. It’s in pain. I can’t save it. I have to kill it. I must. It’s the only thing. But I don’t know how. Wring its neck. That’s quickest. Kindest. I don’t want to hurt it. I don’t want it to suffer. I want to help. It’s still a bird. I must help; even when it’s a witch. It’s still a bird. I must help the bird. I try. But I can’t. I can’t do it properly. I don’t know how. It croaks. It cries. I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough. And I’m bleeding. Red. Blood. I hold it by the throat with both hands. I hold it out. In front of me. I squeeze. I’ve got to choke it. Strangle it. It flaps its wing and claws my wrists with its leg. It’s looking at me. Its eye. It’s looking. I’m squeezing. As hard as I can. My arms hurt. I can’t feel my hands. It flaps its wing. It’s clawing. I don’t let go. I can’t. I’m crying. Its eyelid half closes. And opens. I mustn’t let go. Not now. The lid closes. Opens. Half closes. Opens. It’s looking at me. Closes. The claws stop. The wing flaps. I hold. Tight. Tight as I can. The body’s jerking. I walk back to school. Holding. The crow’s still. I’ve killed the bird. Have I killed the witch? Have I? Have I? Teachers see me. They’re shouting. They throw the bird away. Won’t let me bury it. I’m—’ He opened his eyes.

‘OK, Colin. Rest, love.’

‘No! That’s the start. Only the start. Ever since. They’ve known. The crows have known. They know what I did. They know it was me. They know. They wait.’

‘Shut your eyes again,’ said Meg. ‘Is the crow still hurting?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I want to stop it.’

‘Stop what?’

‘Stop the hurt.’

‘How are you going to do that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re a big boy now. Squeeze harder.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Try.’

‘How?’

‘First of all,’ said Meg, ‘you must stop blaming yourself. The crows do not know. They really do not. You only think they do. They are not waiting. They do not come to you at night. You want them to. So that you can go on hurting as well.’

‘Meg. Please. No. Please.’

‘Look again, Colin. You’re holding the crow. What’s the worst part?’

‘I can’t look.’

‘You can. Look. What’s the worst? The very worst.’