The Book of the Crowman (18 page)

The trees darkened around him.

Out of sight but somewhere nearby a coven of startled rooks took flight from the trees, their wingtips slapping the branches as they hoisted for the sky. Their cawing was like knowing laughter in the twilight. Gordon felt them, circling high overhead, far above the tops of the trees, watching as the humans below made their awful mischief. Their strength descended to him, though, filling him with raw black power and rage. His own coat of feathers seemed to sing with the voices of crows, the rattle of magpies, the chawk of jackdaws, the chuckle of ravens. The short blade at his hand was just another feather, sharp and silvery.

By the time he reached the camp he was a trembling silhouette, a man-shaped pool of darkness. Four other men had joined the group now and meat was being passed around. They ate it with their hands, burning their lips and fingers as they tore into the roasted flesh.

The girl lay in the dirt near the fire, bound in rope at her ankles, knees, wrists and elbows. She was gagged with a filthy remnant of corduroy, also held in place with rope. They’d dropped her within sight of the fire and the butcher’s workplace and her eyes flicked, wide and unblinking, from horror to horror and thence to the faces of her captors. Tears made dirty rivers on her cheeks. He wasn’t sure if she reminded him of Jude or Flora. Perhaps she represented all that was precious and innocent and full of the future. Perhaps he was just looking for a way to deepen his rage.

These men and women who, perhaps only two or three years ago, had jobs and families, went to work in the mornings, slept in beds at night in centrally heated houses, made love to their spouses in the safe, private warmth of those beds, drank wine and ate food and chatted to their friends and wept at the passing of their loved ones; these people who had so recently been human were now not fit to be considered animals.

Their voices and laughter came to him in snatches:

“–don’t have to kill her yet, do we?”

“–so sweet I could eat her
before
I eat her.”

“–meat we’ve got will keep us going for a few more days.”

“–keep her alive for a while? Pass her round, eh?”

Gordon pressed the knife flat to his wrist and stepped out of the trees. Only the little girl saw him at first. He winked at her. He walked among them, tall and calm, his manner so assured they didn’t notice him for several moments. He took the time to turn to the girl and raise his eyebrows in mock surprise that he’d got so far without detection.

Then one of the bald men said:

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the law of the land.”

He slipped his arm around the nearest head and opened its neck with his knife. The woman, trying to seal the wound with both hands, stumbled away and fell face first into the fire pit. Her blood boiled and smoked. She didn’t get up. The closest man tried to run when Gordon’s eyes fell upon him. Before he could even turn, Gordon lashed out backhanded, cutting his throat so profoundly both his trachea and oesophagus were severed along with his arteries. The man collapsed to his knees, lungs and stomach filling with his own blood. Gordon stepped back to avoid the spray.

Around the camp, skinheads were finally pulling out their weapons but none of them advanced, the shock of their losses plain on their faces. Gordon walked up to the nearest of them, a huge man who would have been even heavier in the days of plentiful food. The man flexed his knees ready to counter or avoid a slash. It didn’t come. Gordon stood in front of him, arms folded, casual. The man, apparently unarmed, backed away to a safe distance. On all sides the skinheads had either found something to fight with or taken cover.

Gordon waited. He glanced at the girl. She lay abandoned near the fire pit. He caught a movement on the far side of the fire, saw a shimmering and heard something spin through the air. He stepped to one side. The meat cleaver hit the ground where he’d entered the clearing, kicking up black dirt before coming to rest. The burly, unarmed skinhead ran to retrieve it and advanced on Gordon.

“Get around the back of him,” he shouted to the others.

The stunned skinheads began to pull together, some circling around the far side of the fire, others coming straight for Gordon. The burly man lunged while Gordon was assessing the advance. His cleaver came down from on high in a heavy butcher’s stroke. Gordon’s left hand stopped the descending wrist mid-swipe, leaving the man unguarded. Gordon moved in, his blade hand flashing momentarily in front of the man’s eyes. The cleaver fell from his hand. Uncomprehending, he stared at his empty hand and the fallen weapon. A moment later, blood began to course from his upper arm, just below his armpit. When he clamped his left hand to the gushing wound, Gordon turned to face the others.

Once again, his eyes flicked to the girl. This time one of them saw the glance and Gordon knew his weakness had been revealed. He and the skinhead who’d caught his look lunged for the girl at the same time. The skinhead was closer. As the skinhead grabbed the girl’s feet, Gordon struck out with his boot catching the man right on the chin with his toecap. The skinhead flopped to the ground beside the girl, unconscious and quivering; a deep snoring vibrated in his throat. Gordon knelt beside the girl and picked her up in his left arm. Bound like this, she was a dead weight. He only had time to cut her elbow and wrist restraints before two more of the skinheads, spotting his moment of distraction, came at him together empty handed.

He spun at the attackers, both women, knife hand arcing out as he stepped directly between them and the girl. The blade caught the upper arm of the first woman, parting stained fabric like tissue, slicing toward bone and exiting below her collarbone. Much of the momentum of the strike was gone but the sweep continued, opening the second woman’s right breast and tearing through her nipple. Of the two, she was the one to squeal loudest. The damage was enough to discourage them for a few moments but four more skinheads pushed through to take their place. Three wielded machetes, the fourth a hatchet.

Gordon had enough time to glance at the girl again. Unconcerned about her gag, she was working the knots which held her knees and ankles. He could see how easy it would be to slip the bonds free but in her frantic desperation to release herself, the girl was merely pulling them tighter. Her breath rasped fierce at her nostrils, forcing mucus out and sucking it back in again so fast Gordon thought she must be close to suffocation.

Movement drew his attention to a new attacker – the man with the small axe. Mid-arc, the hatchet cut through the air near his neck. He shrank from the blow and the blade whispered across the feathers of his jacket. There was no time to use his knife but Gordon stepped into wake of the blow, trapping the hatchet against the man’s body as it reached the nadir of its swing. He smashed the point of his left elbow into the hatchet man’s exposed throat and felt the cartilage collapse under the strike. He let the man drop at his side to asphyxiate in the dirt.

As the weapon fell from the man’s hand, Gordon grabbed it in his left hand. Backhanded, he let the hatchet fly as though he was throwing a Frisbee. It was a poor throw, coming as it did from his weaker side. Rather than sinking blade first into a neck or head, the flat, heavy back edge of the hatchet caught one of the three as yet unharmed skinheads on the ear. The sharp-cornered lump of steel cut through the ear and scalp, making solid contact with the man’s skull near the mastoid bone. It wasn’t enough to rob him of consciousness but it put him out of the fight.

The rest of them stood their ground, unwilling to tangle with a man who’d more than halved their numbers. Then he saw them grin at something behind him and he turned, wishing he’d held on to the hatchet. At least then he’d still have had something he could throw. The girl had managed to release her knees but the skinhead he’d kicked in the chin had regained consciousness and crawled on top her. He had her pinned down. Even as Gordon watched, the skinhead retrieved a small penknife from his pocket and hauled the girl to her feet. He made himself small behind her and put the blade to the girl’s throat.

“This what you came for, birdman? Eh? Is it?”

The skinhead sawed at the girl’s neck opening her unprotected skin. Blood flowed freely but it wasn’t the death stroke. Not yet. Her captor leaned down and licked the wound, coming away red-chinned. Now the girl’s wide eyes were squeezed shut. Her entire body shook and Gordon could see a dark stain spreading at her groin.

He stepped toward them.

“Oi! One more step and she’s meat.”

Gordon raised his blood-tainted blade and held it high. He showed it to those who still stood ready to attack, turning it like a talisman or an object of mesmerism.

He moved another step closer to the girl.

“What are you going to do
after
you’ve cut her throat?” he addressed the question to all of them. “Have you thought about that? Do you think I’m going to walk away? And do you know,” he asked, letting his eyes meet every gaze in the group, “do you have any idea how many lives I’ve already ended? What makes you think I’m going to leave a single one of you alive?”

He took another steady step. The skinhead tightened up ready to snap.

“No closer, man. I mean it.”

The hand that held the penknife was shaking now, gradually sinking deeper into the flesh of the girl’s throat.

“Let her go,” said Gordon. “I’ll have to tend that wound of hers. It’ll give you a head start. That’s the best offer I can make.”

Each of those still standing looked around, took in the carnage wrought by the single interloper. They looked at each other. There were still six of them. Together they could run, get away. Survive a little longer. But if they killed the girl they would have to face this tall, dark man right now.

“Shit, Malc. Let her go,” said the man with the head wound. He had his hand pressed to his ear but blood had already soaked one half of his jacket.

The women agreed.

“Do what he says, Malcolm. Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

“What? Leave because of this bloke? This feathery fucking queer?”

The rest of them backed away.

“Fine, you stay if you want,” said the one with the blood-soaked jacket.

“You fucking cowards. We’re meant to work together. That was the agreement. Not fucking disappear when things get difficult. That was the whole
point
.”

Without his support group, Malcolm was out of options. He let go of the girl and backed away. The girl slid slack-bodied to the ground and lay there pale and limp. The wound in her neck flowed freely but she hadn’t lost enough blood to make her faint. The stress and shock of her ordeal had caused it. When Malcolm was far enough away, Gordon knelt beside the girl. The skinheads were grabbing items they felt they couldn’t live without and running out of the camp.

Gordon inspected the cut in the girl’s neck. The blood flow had stopped. He checked her pulse at the wrist. There was no movement beneath her skin. He listened to her chest. No breath. No heartbeat. He prayed for the Black Light, willed it to his fingertips.

Nothing came.

“Why?” he whispered.

There was no time for wondering. He thumped her hard on the chest and breathed into her slack mouth. Neither action revived her. He began heart massage, pumping down hard and fast and then breathing for her again.

“Come on, kid. This isn’t the end.”

Pressure and breath, pressure and breath. Her body remained doll-passive beneath his ministering hands.

“There’s a future for you, I promise. A bright future. I’m working on it.”

He pumped faster, working himself into a sweat.

“I’m working on it. It’ll be there. All you have to do is breathe.

“Just breathe.

“Breathe!”

The girl died as the sun went down. Of terror; that was all Gordon could think. Perhaps her heart had been weak to begin with. Or maybe her mind had been strong enough to end her life before the skinheads did it their way, with gang rape and butchery.

As darkness gathered he cleaned the girl as best he could and made a resting place for her at the centre of the skinheads’ clearing. Once she was buried he used a pair of steel tongs to break the circle formed by their fire pit. He used the hot stones to build a cairn over her body so that her grave would always be visible. He buried the remains of the man and woman hanging from the timber A-frame near the girl and placed a single stone at the head of each of their graves.

When he was done, he strode into the night.

Before dawn, Gordon had tracked and captured all of them by ones and twos, returning them to their camp. Some stumbled at knife point, hobbled by ankle ropes. Others came back slung over his shoulder. He bound them the way they’d bound the girl, like animals restrained for slaughter, and staked their ropes to the ground.

They were all alive and conscious when he strung the first of them up on the A-frame at first light. Alive, bound and facing the workplace where they’d turned other humans into meat. With a deft act of surgery to their eyes, akin to circumcision, Gordon ensured none of them would miss a single nuance of his performance.

He used the one with the injured ear first – the wound had swollen and suppurated and the man had begun to run a fever. Gordon cut his clothes away and hauled him up, feet first, to hang from the A-frame. Whilst those who waited were gagged, the hanging man was free to plead and scream all he wanted. Gordon stripped himself naked. Then he went to work on the hanging man, whose watery shit ran from his buttocks to the top of his head and whose piss dribbled into his own face.

Gordon whetted his knife blade against his river rock for all of them to see. He tested it on the man’s thigh, a single delicate stroke opening his flesh deep into the quivering muscle below and sending streaks of blood from his groin to his shoulder.

He addressed his audience and fellow player:

“What you do to this world, to its people, you do to yourself. You do to
me
.”

Blade-led deconstruction of the human form absorbed Gordon utterly. He lost count of the hours but the direction of the light had changed considerably by the time it was done. The hanging man was alive until the very end. He managed only one more that day before using one of their tents to bed down for the night. He was exhausted.

The work took two more days. Malcolm, last to be lifted from the earth, was insane with waiting by then. When it was complete Gordon washed himself in a nearby brook, dressed once more in his coat of black feathers and walked back to the canal.

He left the pieces for the rooks.