A Plague Of Crows

'The guy controlled the crows?' I say. This has got a bit of life back into me. This is too weird to be real. 'That's like some sort of Steed and, what's her name, Emma Peel, kind of shit.'

'No, don't think so,' says Taylor. 'It's not the Avengers. He tied the victims up, stuck them out there in the wood, removed the scalp in situ, and then left them to it. Exposed brain. Almost an experiment to see how they'd go. The most obvious way would have been that they'd've bled to death. But as I said, he'd done a good job, made sure that wouldn't happen.'

'Why didn't they do something? Topple the chairs over, crawl through the wood. Something…'

'He cemented them into place.'

'Fuck.'

'Cemented them into place and left them there. I suppose he took the chance that they could be found and rescued, but as it was, they were found by birds. Glistening live brains proved to be too much of an attraction.'

'But they wouldn't feel the brain getting eaten, right?'

'Probably not. They were facing each other. They would have been able to watch as it happened to the other two, and they'd know it was happening to them. Who knows what part of the body went first.'

'Well, they could watch if their eyes didn't go first. I presume that was the crows too.'

Taylor nods. I hold his gaze for a moment and then look down at my coffee. Suddenly don't feel so much like drinking. I'd already given up on going back to the fresh air and the solitude of the side of a Scottish mountain, but now that reality strikes firmly home. Back on the job, and at a hundred miles an hour.

'So I'm cleared by Sutcliffe,' I say.

He shakes his head.

'No. You need to go back and see her first thing tomorrow morning.'

'What?'

'And you need to talk to her. I don't care what you say, just be… normal.'

I continue to stare across the table. This is bullying, right? This is new millennium Britain, and he's bullying me into coming back to work when I'm not ready. I could sue him. Right now. I could make a phone call and have a lawyer wedged a foot-and-a-half up Taylor's arsehole before he leaves the café.

'Whatever,' is all I can manage.

*

We don't talk for a while sitting on the train on the way back up to Glasgow. My tent is still up and waiting for me at the bottom of Ben Vorlich, in the lee of some trees. Some part of me still thinks I'll be going back there, but the further the train gets from Helensburgh, the closer we get to Glasgow and on our way to Cambuslang, the more I know that I won't be going back.

Not sure what happens to tents that are just left lying. Maybe someone will report me missing and there'll be hundreds of people searching for me for months. It'll be on the news, and I'll be watching it, thinking, miserable fucker, you deserve to be lost.

I should probably call someone about the tent.

The warm afternoon passes by. At all the stations there are women in summer clothes.

'So you've been hill walking?' says Taylor after a while.

'Aye.'

I answer without looking round. Watching the world go by, like a kid on his way home with his dad. Black Crow Blues has started playing in my head.

'Where were you staying?'

'In a tent.'

'You've been living in a tent for four months?'

'Aye.'

'Jesus. Thought you'd smell worse.'

'Had a shower today at the gym.'

'What've you been eating?'

'Rabbits and shit.'

'You've been catching rabbits?'

Look round at last. Shrug.

'You've been catching rabbits?' he says again.

'Aye.'

'Eating them raw, cooking them?'

'Cooking them.'

'Jesus, Hutton.'

He shakes his head and looks out the window.

'What does rabbit taste like?' he asks eventually.

'Don't know. Rabbit.'

'Thought it was supposed to taste like chicken.'

'Doesn't taste like chicken.'

He glances at me again, and then we both look out of the window as the warm summer's day passes by. All we can see are the banks of the railway line.

'Are you sure they were rabbits?' he says.

3

I have three MP3s on the go. One for studio Bob, one for live Bob, one for bootleg and miscellaneous Bob. (Bootleg and miscellaneous Bob is naturally largely live too, although it does include some of Bob's songs performed by other artists. I know, I wasn't sure about that either. It felt like I was debasing the MP3, or that I should have a completely separate fourth MP3 to accommodate them. But really, it's just versions where the artist has done a solid stand up job, like Tim O'Brien's Farewell Angelina or George's I Don't Want To Do It. Don't go thinking I've got that woman singing Feel My Love or any shit like that.) I had no way to charge them when I was out on the hills other than when I came up to town every week for my psych, gym and dinner afternoons. I'd get them charged while I was there, then listen to them at will over the next few days, then start to ration myself as it got closer to the town trip and the charge started to run low. I bought one of those Ray Mears books, but there was nothing about how to charge your MP3 whilst living wild.

I tried building a shelter one day, thought that would be a natural extension of what I was doing. Do away with the tent. Had even begun to imagine that I might be there, trying to see myself through the winter out in the wilds, even though the winter was some way off. Anyway, my shelter was shit. I slept under it a couple of nights, but that was only because it wasn't raining and the wind wasn't blowing. As soon as some weather happened I was back in the tent.

Suppose I could have stuck at it, but I was too busy catching rabbits.

It's 7.30 in the morning, Taylor and I are heading up to the woods to check out the site where the bodies were found. It's been closed off to the pubic for three days, will remain so for quite some time. Eventually they'll have to let it go — for no other reason than we won't have the manpower available to keep people away from it — and then the tourists will arrive, the great ghoul collective who like to visit murder sites. Weird bastards the lot of them. I mean, I get stopping to stare at something as you drive by or if you just happen to be walking down the same street on which someone got gunned down. But going out of your way, and in some cases a long way out your way, to check out where someone got stiffed…

It's a short drive. He needs me to speak to Sutcliffe again before I get authority to come back to work, but she's not free until ten. He can't wait. I'm just an observer for the moment. If we come across any other crime while we're out there, I'm not allowed to produce my I.D. and nick some bastard.

Bob's playing on the CD. Another Side Of. I once had a girl… Never liked that song, although it might be just because I read somewhere that Bob wished he hadn't written it. If that's what Bob thinks then, subconsciously or otherwise, that's what I think. I also wish he hadn't written it. Whatever. It'll be over in eight minutes.

I know Taylor doesn't like it either, but he doesn't believe in skipping tracks.

Had a quick look through the folder, got an outline of the case. Three victims. One police officer, Constable Goodwin from Royston. 33 years old, divorced, no family. The journalist, a staffer on the business pages of the Herald, Morris Tucker, 29, degree in business from Stirling University, no kids, one girlfriend. Due to get engaged next year, she said. I've been married three times without being engaged once. If you're going to do it you might as well just get on with it. These two, they were engaged to be engaged. That's just spinning it out for the sake of attention and presents. Well, if the lassie got any pre-engagement presents, she might as well give 'em back. The third was a social worker from the centre of the city. Lived in a small flat not far from Bridgeton. Nothing noticeably to connect him to the other two, just as they weren't connected to each other. Angus Sparing, 42. Wife and kids. Three of the little bastards. Given how shittily social workers get paid, it might not make that much difference to the family household him not bringing any money in.