It’s only a shade from eight o’clock when we pull into the school grounds. With a last painful tug and with the aid of some Aloe Vera that Astra stores in her car, she slides her wrist through the manacle.
The track is windy and is nearly half a mile in length.
Jacobsfield High is an amalgamation of new and old. For the most part, it has the look and feel of a large, old, gothic building. Despite, new and modern extensions, it still casts sinister shadows along the grounds when the sky is overcast. Blue police tape hangs over the entrance, but there are no police cars - all being called out to St. Harold’s judging by the number of them passing us on our journey here.
A little way behind, is another building, commonly referred to as the ‘Old School’.
It was built in the early nineteenth century and it looks even more gothic and foreboding than its successor. It has been out of bounds for years; a curious oddity - a folly, if you like. There’s always been something ‘other’ about it, and now that I know it was built by a certain Harley, Snarlington and Boule, I understand why.
Malachi Jacobsfield built the school that I attend. He built that sometime afterwards and I’d take time to explore its history, if I wasn’t certain that I’d meet an untimely end this very evening.
The old school is guarded vociferously by an Italian premises keeper and his strange son, who live in an old cottage next door. They rigorously maintain it. Whenever my acquaintances at school have tried to sneak closer to get inside and have a look, they have always appeared at the right time to foil their attempts. None of the pupils know about the secret entrance from the forest used by Astra and Alan in order to deposit books.
As the Robin Reliant bounces up and down on the muddy school track, I notice in the distance that the caretaker’s car isn’t in his drive. I move past Jacobsfield High and follow a ramshackle and neglected track into restricted territory.
On and on we bob, until the mud-track peters out at an archway with a steep triangular crown. The passageway is blocked by a timeworn and sturdy black gate speckled with iron bolts. Remnants of a wall stretch out and encircle the school on either side.
‘Do you think they’re in there?’
I heave the steering wheel clockwise and with amateurish over-revving, force the car off the track onto the grass as I consider my reply.
‘Astra mentioned another entrance at the back, next to the forest.’
The hatchback struggles over the new surface and I’m too heavy on the accelerator on some occasions, and not enough on others, causing frequent stalling. It’s not the most secretive of approaches.
We finally move round to the south west wing, with the thick, dark, menacing woodland to our right.
It’s as we reach the end of this section I notice a small gap between two large Sycamore trees; just small enough to allow an old horse and cart through. I grind to a halt and wind down the window. On the ground, between this forested aperture and the side of both trees are small indentations in the ground. The grass has covered these grooves made by ancient cart-wheels. I see they lead straight to another thickly clad, bolt-laden door, within the surrounding wall.
This door is open.
Beyond the fringe, a solitary car.
The Crow must have flown here. Elvis must have driven a car belonging to one of the bell ringers.
‘We’re here.’ I whisper. ‘They’re here too.’
Camille looks nervous. ‘What do we do?’
I turn off the engine.
‘We’ve got to call for assistance.’
I pull out my mobile phone and repeat the same shenanigan conversations I had earlier with a police operator about postcodes! It culminates with me imploring them to send police to Jacobsfield High this time, to rescue kidnap victims. I hang up.
‘They’ll be ages; they weren’t very helpful.’
Opening our doors in unison, we exit our rusted tin chariot.
Creeping slowly through the opening in the wall, we carefully head in towards the old school.
The main door leading into the school is closed.
It has a huge black knocker on it. Camille addresses my thoughts directly.
‘How on earth do we open this without them hearing us?’
I still feel supremely confident, almost past caring. I take the huge handle and turn it anti-clockwise, hoping that I am turning it in the right direction. I turn it as slowly as I can. There’s no creaking, or grating, only the sound of a latch being lifted as I pull it round to the ninety degree mark. I pause.
‘I’m only here for Elvis...’
I glance back at Camille.
I guess if love is blind she needs a cane.
She winces as I gently push the door ajar and peer inside. The room is large, dirty and dusty. It’s an old reception area and in an alcove beyond, shadows move; voices speak; many, many voices.
I step through the threshold ignoring Camille’s urgent pleading behind me, begging me to wait.
I keep going.
Looking down now at the gnarled wooden floorboards, wet footprints are clearly visible. They lead all the way to what seems to be a large room beyond – The charity store room, I’m guessing.
It’s obvious from the age of this place that the floor will creak, and so I decide to make my way gently along the perimeter where the panels will be their sturdiest.
Camille follows me, my hand gestures keeping her quiet. She closes the door carefully behind her.
She’s as pale as a spectre.
We move slowly round the perimeter together using the giant empty bookcases that tower above us for support. We are as delicate as silk in our circumnavigation, before slowing to a halt, aware of many different voices from the room beyond.
There’s a plethora of shrill shrieking sounds: Disembodied, unearthly hollowing, threateningly baritone male voices, acidic high-pitched female voices and angry child-like squealing. Camille stops alongside me and grabs my arm. It’s an unusual sensation; once again, a role-reversal: She’s terrified.
‘Shelly, what’s going on?’ her plea is barely audible.
‘The Crow has your book...and my book. I think he’s trying to destroy mine.’
This is my best guesswork possible.
‘It’s got something to do with those holes on the back page, and possibly the gaps between the chapters…and more Whispers.’
‘Those voices....are they Whispers?’
Camille received the two minute resume of the last three days whilst we drove here.
‘I think my book and your book are of equal power, and now that he’s got them both…well, I can’t be certain. It’s like two chess Grand Masters battling it out.’
Camille gives me a bewildered look.
’You mean, my mum went mad, because she was possessed by something real inside the book?’
This strikes me quite hard for the first time. Miriam; Camille and Evelyn’s mother wasn’t up against a normal Whisper, she was up against the voice of the Carrion Crow. When she acquired The Last, Mass Hysteria of Mankind, it literally left her hysterical.
‘What do we do, Shelly?’
I am completely blank and at a loss as to what to do.
I turn away from her, not knowing what to say, as she whispers again. All I can think is: Where is the Cherub? Why isn’t she bothered about what is going on? Surely, the Carrion Crow is about to destroy the very story-book that she authored; all that effort and help she gave Harley, Snarlington and Boule...for what?
Strange lights flash back and forth from the room beyond, like fluorescent mist, containing sparkling pieces of glass, glinting yellow, burgundy and silver. It smells strange, like a cross between burned-out fireworks and mother’s Mulled wine at Christmas. As more of this vapour envelops the room beyond, a mix of male and female voices ring out:
‘Steal from his cart, covet his sow, there is none finer.’
‘Leave him in the mire, Cast him down and henceforth, leave. He is a wicked man. He did ind
eed lie to you.’
‘I am free, I have been released. I am freeeee….’
Then, the voices of children:
‘Poke her in the eyesss, stamp on her toes, poke her in the eyesss, stamp on her toes...break every nail. Stamp ‘til their black.’
‘Strip off his clothes - and tie him to the tree. Night draws forth - leave him there for all to see....’
Each taunt, each sentence and each rhyme has a feel of Olde-English, and is filled with hate, spat out with absolute urgency, venom and malice.
I edge a little further along, so that I can see further into the centre of the mist and for the first time, I see the outline of human shapes, possibly Astra’s, maybe even Evelyn’s, but then, my eyes are drawn down to the floor.
There are plastic sheets everywhere. Hundreds of books lay scattered and opened. The books Astra described.
Elvis hones into view. He’s opening more books and laying them on the floor. Slowly, like the vapour from a gently steaming kettle, mist starts to form on each of the opened pages. My eyes are drawn upwards to a swirling cloud containing many shimmering humanoid, and other strange unearthly outlines. The lights inside the haze are so bright that it is difficult to look at them directly.
Then, I see the Carrion Crow.
He stands, assured and in complete control of everything. He surveys the scene with ravenous iniquity. His beak; imperious. His whole body and posture; the epitome of unrivalled dominance. He jerks and pulsates. His black feathers ripple violently.
Strapped to his chest....I take a closer look....not quite comprehending or understanding this. No, hovering close to his chest is a giant book. It is open at the back. Like mine, it contains a spiked, open aperture. And then it dawns on me, that this is Miriam’s book; Camille’s book.
His book.
It’s about twice the size of mine.
Underneath his taloned, half-human, half claw-like, left foot, is my book. It shakes and vibrates sporadically, as if something is stirring inside.
The voices all around are rising to a thunderous crescendo; shrill and nearly inaudible with all the various pitches and tones.
I see Astra standing in a trance, and the Reverend on his knees some way behind, his head bowed. His mouth is moving slowly and he is shaking - so much for prayer. The noise is deafening.
The Carrion Crow speaks: His voice is velvet; his voice is authoritative.
‘Listen, this world has changed since you were last opened. Stay low inside your passages, learn the minds and will of your possessors; curb your desperation and desires. Be patient. It will be fulfilled.’
A voice spits back out of the mass,
‘Who are you? A miserly, withered serpent?’
The Crow almost looks as if he is smiling and answers.
‘Whether you accept it or not, you are doing my will, and my will is your will.’
Suddenly, the book attached to the Carrion Crows’ chest oscillates, and his head quivers in that inhumane way as he looks in our direction. I scramble out of the way, out of his line of sight, hoping he can’t see through the Whispers rising from the books on the floor. I bundle into Camille and push her back. She staggers, but remains upright.
Something’s not right. I turn to look at her.
She’s mouthing something quietly.
I stare at her.
‘What are you doing?’
She continues to mouth something in a trance.
I bend in close to her and listen.
‘...Stir up hate. Let it envelop and perpetuate the wrath in your heart...’
I smack her as hard as I can; It’s like she’s mouthing some of the words in those books. She stirs, but it’s too late. I realise that she’s repeating words from the Crow’s book that she once possessed and glimpsed fleetingly into.
I raise my arm to smack again, but my wrist is grabbed from behind in mid-flight.
I’m pulled backwards hard; my shoulder joint nearly pulled out of place. Another arm slivers round my neck, my breath caught in my throat.
‘Hello lovely, sister. How the hell did you get out of that tomb?’
Elvis puts me in a choke-hold and I am yanked off my feet and dragged backwards out of the alcove. I feel my forehead go damp as I enter the strange mist created by the Whispers and my mind is possessed with a myriad of emotions: Anger, hate and, strangely…bewilderment.
I try and brawl against the demonic emotions they generate in my mind.
Elvis is unaffected – they’re speaking his native tongue after all.
Their combined strength clouds my mind and ability to reason; their thoughts are becoming my own.
I try focusing on a segment of thoughts surrounding their puzzlement and disorientation at their new surroundings. As Whisper after Whisper comes to terms with the fact that each book they inspired has remained unopened for centuries and times have changed drastically, I am experiencing some of their denial - a feeling I know all too well. Somehow, their presence and power doesn’t seem to infiltrate my mind more than the amphibious creature that made Arthur and I attack each other at the Printing Press. These Whispers haven’t had their words read in over two hundred years; their power has been subdued.
Who did ‘feed’ that amphibian Whisper?
Elvis hauls me out of the cloud and throws me down before the Crow.
His head jerks down to look at me. I hear the strange disembodied breathing through his beak and stare into his gory, human-hating eyes; the violence that saturates them knows no bounds. He is in complete control. He hates everything.
‘I have been doing this for Millennia. It is a privilege for you to be addressed by me.’
I know he’s right. I can’t explain it – I just know it. We’re all totally screwed, but I ply my gabling mouth anyway in a vain attempt to disconcert him and say,
‘The Cherub will defeat you.’
Shrouded in his black shawl, the Crow doesn’t stir, not one single bit. His face is impassive. He studies me.
‘Why would it want to defeat me?’
His words are like a poisonous dart searing my heart, causing it to flood, swell and burn immediately, and I know it is true. Everything he says is true…because I’ve wondered the exact same thing about the Cherub myself.
I kneel at his feet, defeated by a single line of words. My pathetic attempt at fighting back smashed back into my soul, crushing it in an instant.
I stare over my shoulder at the Reverend who is now sobbing uncontrollably on the floor; Evelyn, standing just behind the Crow; she seems almost content and serene, like she’s come home. She’s tapping a knife with her foot.
Astra is in a stupor.
Behind the Crow, sits my bell, accompanied by an exact replica.
Suddenly, there’s a shout behind me as Camille rushes into the room, dislodged from her haze.
‘Elvis.’ She barks.
She’s a few feet away from me, ‘Please...we can make it...’ Elvis slowly turns and glowers.
‘Elvis, please don’t do this...’
This time it is Evelyn screaming back at her. ‘Shut-up, bitch.’
‘You’re dead, why don’t you just leave me alone, you’re not real, you...are...not…real.’
My mouth drops.
Oh...my...
‘He doesn’t love you. Look at you, you pathetic, lonely, screwed up cow!’
…I never found Evelyn’s bag in the classroom. Dezza didn’t know who she was….
‘Where’s your daddy, Camille? Where’s your daddy Camille? Ha Ha Ha Ha…’
…In the playground, when Camille was floored by Dezza, Evelyn scowled straight at Camille…and Camille turned away from her gaze…
I stand and pitch forwards, grabbing Camille by the arm as she continues to plead with Elvis.
The Crow watches.
‘Camille, Camille. You see Evelyn. Camille, listen to me.’
She half-turns; she looks puzzled. It’s like I’m a distraction.
&nbs
p; ‘You see her too?’
‘Yes!’
‘Shelly, I don’t know what you mean? How can you see her?’
‘I see her – she came with you to the cemetery tonight.’
Camille shakes her head in disbelief.
‘Shelly, she’s been with me for years, even though I knew she died, I didn’t accept that she was dead.’
‘She comes with you to school…’
She looks at me with utter astonishment, but then returns to imploring my brother.
‘Elvis, Please, Please...’
‘I see her too, Camille.’
‘I’m messed-up, Shelly, completely messed-up. How can you see her, Shel? She’s in my head.’
‘No, I thought she was in my head. You said you were at Astra’s house earlier. You were hiding. I didn’t see you. But…I saw Evelyn.’
Camille shakes her head again.
Evelyn has started to growl like a stray, lone wolf. The Whispers are all around us, chanting their sick mantras.
I think as quickly as I can. Got to understand this…
‘Camille. Please listen. Do you see Buddy?’
‘Yeah, your retar...your disabled brother.’
‘Miriam killed him the very same day she killed Evelyn.’
Camille looks blank. I struggle to rephrase.
‘On the same day, Miriam killed Evelyn, she killed Buddy too. He was the little boy by the river.’
Camille turns ashen. She stops calling to Elvis.
‘…that…little…boy…’
‘Yeah, the boy you taunt at school when you see him with me - the twelve year old – that’s Buddy.’
‘That’s not possible…’
‘It’s him. In the same way Evelyn has always been with you, he’s always been with me.’
The penny drops for her. She tries to respond.
‘In those old letters Elvis gave me. Mark asked your mum how Buddy was.’
‘That’s before he was killed. It’s the same Buddy you see, Camille.’
‘…But, how can I see him?’
‘In the cemetery, you said the letters told the truth about Buddy. What did you mean?’
‘I had a…he was my half-brother.’
‘That’s the same Buddy you see, Camille.’
‘But, I dismissed the letter. I thought I’d got the dates mixed up. How can the Buddy I see with you, be the same boy I watched die?’
‘Camille, how can the Evelyn I see, be the same Evelyn I saw killed by that stream? The point is: for some reason...we see them both.’
Camille hasn’t realised that the little boy she was introduced to on that fateful day was Buddy, and he was Miriam’s other victim. How could she? Mark had only just brought us all together on to the lawn for the very first time. None of us had met before...She’s only managed to conclude from Mark’s letters that he was her half-brother.
I stand back and stare at Evelyn who glares at us both.
Evelyn isn’t the trauma in my mind, imposing itself on the world: She’s the trauma in Camille’s.
That’s why she didn’t vanish, but Buddy did.
Evelyn is in the vicinity when Camille is around. At Astra’s house earlier...Camille was there…whenever I’m bullied by Camille…Evelyn’s there. Evelyn exited the classroom when I smashed the fire-alarm…Camille was with John Walker walking along the corridor…
I’m grateful for the Dutch Courage numbing this revelation, but I’m thinking very, very clearly.
The noise in the library is almost unbearable. The Crow is conversing with the thousands of Whispers streaming out of the books. Elvis stares at us both like we’ve lost our minds.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he snarls.
I ignore him.
So, why didn’t Evelyn disappear when Camille knew she was dead? Why did she appear at all?
‘Camille, did you know that Evelyn was really dead before Mark posted you his letter - not the ones Elvis gave you? Is that why I saw you kneeling over in the cemetery? Were you looking for her grave?’
‘I’ve known she’s been dead for years, but just couldn’t accept it. She just grew stronger and stronger. As I grew, she grew. I just couldn’t let go of her.’
I stare down at Camille’s wrists where the manacles and chains were bound tightly and I realise, that she just can’t let go of the past. It’s attached to her. She detests this world and while she feels that way, Evelyn will always be the expression of that.
The Carrion Crow turns to study me. The Whispers continue to spit out their questions.
Everything is kicking off all around me, but I can’t draw my mind off this: Why on earth do I see Evelyn though? She has caused me pain and fear more than any other over the years. Every time she goaded Buddy, it was like a knife in my own heart?
I guess, with our past traumas, our similar upbringing and our similar blood lines: I’m sensitive to Camille’s delusions, and she’s sensitive to mine.
Karrington and Clover: The delusional half-sisters.
I look back at Evelyn who has picked up the knife by her feet. (Is that even a real knife?) She mouths something at me, beckoning me to come closer. Come on have a go? I’ll show you how real I am.
But, she’s not real.
The Carrion Crow stares straight at me while communicating with the seething hoard of Whispers behind him. The brooding cloud expands while he instructs, counsels and even admonishes many of the Whispers inside.
I grab Camille. The Crow’s going to kill us both anyway, but at least she can beat her demon.
‘Tell her to go away, she isn’t real, you can do it. I had to do it with Buddy.’
Camille looks terrified.
‘I can’t Shelly.’
‘You were adopted by the Karringtons when Mark had a breakdown. You stopped being Camille Parker right there and then. Evelyn Parker died by the stream. I found her plaque in the cemetery.’
She shakes her head over and over.
‘No, I looked for her grave...I lost my mind in there…I couldn’t find it…’
‘I did though Camille; there’s a plaque with her name on it.’
Elvis looks confused. He’s been listening to us both. He looks over his shoulder, but sees nobody.
The Carrion Crow speaks.
His head jerks back towards Elvis and even though his face looks impassive there is increased intensity within his eyes. He questions my brother:
‘With whom do they speak and talk about?’
The Crow can’t see Evelyn either.
Elvis shrugs disconcertedly. ‘I don’t know. Nobody. They’re both mad.’
I presumed that Evelyn was on-board with the Carrion Crow’s game-plan all along, it made perfect sense, which is why she’s standing right next to him, but he can’t see her at all.
The Crow stares back at us.
‘Is that thing the Crow?’ Camille asks me. She’s utterly terrified.
‘It is.’
I turn back to him and ask the only question that matters,
‘What do you want?’
Through his nasally beak, slithers a low, gravelly reply,
‘I pick off the dead carrion in people’s minds. In this world, I could feast to the point of obesity.’
‘And you turn people against one another; whoever reads your book?’
He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to.
Instead he slowly takes his claw off my book, as the swirling fog of Whispers expands and the voices rise further.
My book springs open at the back page and the blades jerk and shift until there is a ‘clink’ and they remain rigid. Behind the Crow, the two bells, chime together.
The Crow stares down at my book, various Whispers, imploring him to cover it back up.
He gives them a commanding, ‘Shush’.
Nothing happens.
I expect the Cherub to pop up and out of the back.
The Crow blinks.
Elvis swivels left and righ
t - poised for action - he’s waiting too.
Unbelievable.
This little-winged Whisper has absolutely abandoned ship.
‘If you are looking for me, I’ve been here all the while.’
In the tiny space between Camille’s legs and mine, stands the wingless Cherub.
Her voice is chirpy, but she looks less divine…and more human. She’s wearing toddler clothes. She steps forward, showing off her blue dungarees; a white sleeveless top, and bright red shoes. An abundance of thick blonde curls sticks out, in and around her ears. Without her wings, and with her reaching only half way up my thigh, she looks every bit a delicate infant.
This isn’t going to go well.
‘I need your consecration.’ The Crow replies.
The Whispers all swivel towards and spit vile insults at her.
‘Spawn of evil, repressor of life, depart, depart...’
‘Thou has castigated us too long, vile betrayer.’
She holds her babyish arms up, palms out and her laugh is genuine.
‘I have no idea what you are all talking about. There’s no agenda here on planet earth, so why are you so hooked up on this world? You’re all feeding in the wrong place...’
She turns to the Crow,
‘You should know better than anybody. When did you get tired of waiting for restitution?’
‘There isn’t any....There never was.’
The Cherub stops, and looks down by his feet at the book she authored. She doesn’t speak for a while. And then;
‘We both know this isn’t part of the plan.’
‘The plan stopped ages ago. There is no plan.’
The Cherub looks disappointed. She gently rubs her cheek and considers what he is saying.
‘Well, if you need me to consecrate your actions, then I guess I can do that for you.’
I see something resembling a smirk appear on The Crow’s face.
‘What!’ I shout, stepping forward.
What is the Cherub thinking? To consecrate is to give a blessing – to give the Crow a blessing? For what?
I feel renewed courage and conviction, from out of nowhere. We’re being sold-out. We’re all being sold out! The authors trusted this wicked little angel in vain? I don’t know what it was about this Cherub; her babyish face, her cheeky smile; but something made me trust her. I’ve trusted in looks alone.
‘What! You gave this book – your book - to the Printing Press for a reason. They asked you for help!’
She turns and smiles, ‘Yes, that’s right, I did. And, they couldn’t accept it. It was too childish for them. I guess.... it needed to be published and put into the hands of a child for it to be of any use.’
The Crow’s wings briefly extend and flap once before resuming their rested position behind his back. He’s getting impatient? He hasn’t received what he wants from the Cherub.
‘Elvis, kill your sister.’
Elvis’ face hardens. He looks like he has no problem doing this.
‘...And get rid of the other one too. While she lives, her thoughts cloud the purity of my work.’
Elvis freezes. ‘I...I...’
‘Elvis.’ Camille’s voice breaks.
The Carrion Crow stands and waits. His face betrays no emotion. He waits for Elvis to end our lives.
‘He’s got a gun.’ Camille mouths at me; it’s barely a whisper.
‘Please, no.’
‘He’s got a gun. I put something in his pocket at the cemetery earlier on, and saw the gun stuffed in his belt.’
I stare at Elvis, who is now clearly engaged in a monumental personal struggle with devastating repercussions for us all. He looks pointedly to the Crow, searching for an alternative choice of action, a way out.
‘But, I’ve never killed anybody. I put her in the tomb earlier and was going to go back and get her.’
‘But you will kill...we both know this is your future. We have talked about this before.’ The Crow remains stoic. ‘When I mentored you at school, we discussed this day, I prepared you for it...All sacrifice leads to glorious opportunities. This is yours, right here, right now...I will not leave you like the others.’
Evelyn jumps up and down behind them screaming, ‘Kill them both. Kill them now.’
The Whispers congregate into one seething mass and holler similar cries. A moment of hate, a moment where - like crows - they too can feed off the carrion; the murders that are about to ensue. The brief taste of human influence they experienced over two centuries ago, when the books they inspired circulated the Island - that hunger is about to be satisfied once again.
They direct their words at Elvis, who staggers back, overwhelmed by the hate building inside him. His hand reaches into his belt.
‘Do something!’ I scream at the Cherub. ‘Bloody do something. This doesn’t make any sense.’
I charge at her, partly to put distance between me and my brother, but I just want to grab her and shake her into action. But instead, I stumble to my knees and before I know it, I’m begging her.
I’m pleading.
Tears well in my eyes as I sob and cry for help, with everything I am. Absolutely everything within me is begging for mercy. This is dead-end desperation. This is falling over the edge, arms flailing.
The Whispers now surround me and cloud my mind with their chants.
‘Death is sinnngingg…at the end of your bed, girl.’
‘Just seconds away from beautiful blood being spilled…’
My voice is so broken, I can barely speak. Every syllable cracks and disintegrates as they leave my tongue. I could never implore for anything so sincerely and helplessly as I do right now.
‘This doesn’t.....make sense. I…I...trusted you. Help us. Please, save us, please! I can’t take their voices in my head. I can’t take anymore. I’ve had voices in my head all my life. Please help me, please help this Island, Please help my mother…’
For the first time the Cherub looks troubled.
Her tiny face falls.
Within her tummy, I hear a groaning, not a physical sound, something other. She’s so fragile looking, and yet, even in this toddler’s body - without her wings, she’s something else, something powerful - I just know it.
‘Please’ I continue to beg. ‘Please...’ I repeat this word over and over again, there’s nothing else to say, no other word to sum it all up, or take its place. It comes from deep within me and I can’t stop it,’ Please, please, please, please...’
She reaches out and touches one of the tears on my cheek as the noise behind me clamours and changes, the shrieks increase in velocity and volume. Women’s voices curse. Children’s voices gloat. The screaming dirge synchronizes to form two words of revilement, spat out in unison with defiled hatred.
‘Kill them, Kill them. Kill them…’
There are cackles and laughter and malevolent anticipation. It’s like the atmosphere has electrified with living hate.
Elvis’ face contorts. His forehead twists and bulges, as he jerkily reaches into his belt and withdraws the gun. It hovers at his side for the briefest of fate-accepting moments, before he raises it and takes aim at his girlfriend. He’s shaking, but he won’t miss from this range.
‘Opportunities,’ he mouths.
‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ Camille shouts back with all her might.
She’s barely audible over the din. Two, three, four seconds...
Something hangs over the edge of Elvis’ pocket, dislodged by the gun.
It teeters and finally drops out. It flaps from side to side on its way down, like a delicate feather as it floats down to his feet.
‘I love you Elvis. I did this for you.’
His eye catches it.
From this distance, my own moistened eyes make it impossible to see what has caught his attention.
He stares at it.
He keeps staring.
He then crouches down and picks it up; a solitary piece of glossy paper, four by six
inches.
Something ignites in his face. He stares at Camille.
Camille shouts,
‘It’s Josie! It’s Josie!’
Elvis is dumbstruck.
‘I got her picture for you. She gave it to me, Ellen gave it to me. She wanted you to have it.’
Her hands are raised in frantic intercession, ‘Ellen’s sorry; she’s so sorry. I tracked her down. I went to see her. She gave me the photo of Josie and said...give this to Elvis.’
Elvis stares at the tiny photograph of his estranged little daughter. He looks at his arm; - Josie Forever - his daughter’s name forever tattooed into his body and into his soul.
He’s transfixed by it – distracting him from the Whispers and I can see that he’s physically shaken.
He looks around the room and screams incoherently. He drops the gun and falls to his knees. He rubs his face vigorously.
I guess, even for my tormented brother, everything is meaningless and relative…‘til you see a picture of your kid.
He tears his nails into his face while he stares at the photograph.
Evelyn screams at him.
‘Don’t forget to kill your girlfriend…before you kill yourself.’ She throws the knife from one hand to the other.
His hand suddenly reaches down and grabs the gun, and then drops it again.
Elvis is fighting. He’s fighting so hard, but the Whispers goad him more incessantly. He takes the gun and points it at his head.
This is it. He can’t handle anymore.
I turn to the Cherub, who instantly reaches again, to touch more tears on my face.
‘Why aren’t you doing something? Do something! Help him! Help us.’
I crouch and beg the wingless Cherub.
‘Where are your wings....Where do you hide your wings?’
She stoops close, placing her palms gently on each of my shoulders. She places her tender lips directly next to my ear, and whispers:
‘…I let you borrow them...’
Elvis takes the gun and points it away from his head towards the Whispers. He fires several shots at them that make no contact, smashing into the ceiling, causing centuries of aging wood to shower all over us.
‘I…can’t…do…this...anymore!’
He clasps the photograph of daughter, stands, swivels, and marches straight up to the Carrion Crow and from point-blank range, empties the rest of the barrel into his midriff. The Crow staggers backwards, blood and feathers exploding out from his body, splattering the ancient floorboards. His shawl puffs straight out, as bullets exit his back and smash into the book case behind him. He staggers backwards and jerks, but then suddenly rights himself and stands as still as a rock.
He laughs.
It’s not even a wicked, victorious cackle. It’s nonchalant and almost incidental. Nothing of any importance just happened.
‘You are still a piece in the game.’ His red eyes bore into Elvis’.
Sticking one of his clawed hands deep into his own chest, and, with a sickening squelch, he extracts one of the bullets.
‘Human tools...’
He pulls a clotted bullet out.
‘It would have been even more beautiful, so much more beautiful if you’d carried out your attack with reviling words. It’s a pity that you took the icing off the cake. There’s always a plan.’
He closes his eyes and sucks air through his beak. It’s a disgusting and deplorable sound; the sound of the aftermath of war and violence.
‘I don’t know if I’m disappointed in you or I’m grateful that you have just given me your....hate and fear.’
He sucks in another putrid breath through his beak.
‘It’s the latter...’ he finally says, smirking, ‘A nice snack. Thank you, Elvis.’
Elvis drops the gun. He stares at us anxiously and at an utter loss as to what to do, turns and tears out of the library as fast as he can, as the Whispers goad him once more.
‘The fool runs with fear as an ally.’
‘Stay and breed your hatred.’
He clasps his head and screams, running erratically as Camille shouts after him.
‘What must I do?’ I whisper at the Cherub. ‘I haven’t got your wings. What must I do?’
She smiles.
‘Think of your angel, Miss Shelly Clover.’
Evelyn curses Elvis, although he doesn’t hear her. He’s made it out of the library. She’s in a blind rage. She can’t hurt me, scare me, yes, hurt me – no.
‘Cherub, how can we stop this?’
‘Your angel can stop this.’
‘You’re my angel.’
‘Your angel, Shelly.’
‘I don’t und…’
I stop dead.
The Stone Angel.
‘Where is he?’
I look up, remembering where the gravestone had been cordoned off, probably what John Walker wanted all along, to stop people reading the words that gave the Stone Angel power; the pain filled grief of people that supplied his power.
Without warning, I’m jerked into the air.
The Crow takes hold of me and launches me across the room. I slide back along the floor into the centre of the hundreds of opened books. The Whispers immediately descend closer and closer to my face.
‘Kill thy neighbour.’
‘Let chaos and manifold loathing reign in this forsaken world.’
A child-like Whisper close to me bends and squeaks,
‘It only takes a second for love to become hate.’
I scrabble to get out of the throng, as the thoughts and ideas start to take hold of my mind. I fling myself out of the fog and tumble into a book case.
Both bells chime behind the Crow, as he stoops in front of the Cherub.
‘Are you going to relinquish you blessing now? This planet isn’t yours.’
‘All yours.’ She smiles.
The Cherub holds out her hands and takes a dainty step forward.
My bell starts chiming a beautiful tone. It’s like a fanfare, signalling the appearance of somebody regal.
I look around, hoping for the Stone Angel to appear. Nothing happens, nobody appears.
The Crow walks back to the Cherub’s book; it glitters and glows and fizzes and pops exuberantly. He lifts it up and turns to the first page, and then the second. He then takes a chunk of pages and looks at them all, before sifting quickly through the rest, flicking all the way to the end of the book. He looks at the penultimate page, before closing the book and letting it hover to his left. He stares at the Cherub.
‘This is your book?’ He says.
‘Certainly is.’
He pauses for a fleeting moment, before turning to his own bell. He unscrews it and pulls it apart, revealing a sharp, pointed instrument. He discards the head and the sharp handle of his bell on the floor, and taking my own from behind him, returns to stand right in front of the Cherub.
The bell still chimes its pretty song. He stares at it, as the knocker swings from side to side. His face is stoic but his silence is telling.
‘And this is the bell that accompanies your book.’
‘It is indeed.’
‘Why can’t I see any words in your book?’
‘Yeah, you were having a fruitless look there weren’t you?’
The Crow is unfazed.
‘Answer me. Why can’t I see any words?’
‘Because, it wasn’t written for you?’
‘You said you would consecrate my actions. I need your blessing.’
‘And I didn’t lie. I’ve given it you...but you didn’t receive it.’
‘Let me receive it.’
‘You can’t. Your heart’s not in it.’
The Carrion Crow’s wings extend outwards. Impatience? There’s a strange hollow sound emanating from his beak. He looks like he’s about to lash out, but his voice remains calm.
‘Just because I choose to be in this world, and you didn’t, doesn’t mean you can or should be involved in it
right now. You revealed this to the authors for a reason and now you are blocking my intentions to re-release these books over the island.’
‘Neither of us belong here.’
She turns and points at the Whispers. ‘They shouldn’t have come here all those years ago, you neither; it isn’t our world. It isn’t the plan.’
‘You do know that I can destroy you?’ His blood eyes glow fiery and there’s real menace in his voice now. Behind him, the pointed handle of his own bell, just unscrewed, jumps up, balancing on its sharpened end.
The slight and puny toddler, with the beautiful curls, nods wistfully.
‘I don’t doubt that, but don’t be fooled by appearances...’
The Crow in turn nods and accepts this. He turns his huge frame towards me.
‘What about her? It is addressed to her after all – the only words I could see. Is she part of the plan – your secret agenda? If I kill her, will that change the happy tune your bell rings?’
He throws the bell on the floor before her, and a concerned look flashes across the Cherub’s face.
She turns to me hastily, ‘Remember what I said, Shelly.’
Something has just changed. I can feel it in the air. There is a distinct change in mood and the Whispers are stirring in expectation.
‘She received your book. She understood it, but who is there left to receive it…when she’s gone.’
The Crow pads towards me, grasping the sharpened handle of his bell that flings itself straight from the floor into his hand. His own book hovers by his side.
I sense great evil as I fall to my knees.
The Reverend is stirring near to me, but Astra is still in a stupor.
Camille blurts out quickly, ‘Run, Shelly.’
I try to scramble to my feet, but I’m powerless. The Crow stands before me and raises one of his taloned hands right up to his beak.
‘Which is the sharpest? My claws or the point on this handle, Shelly?’ he smiles.
In my last moments, I spy Evelyn hooting with delight.
She can’t wait.
Camille’s dark angel of doom that has haunted her all her life, and I guess my very own angel of death too. The nails of the Crow’s claw presses in to my cheek. It slices inwards.
Evelyn....the Angel of death.
And then I get it.
It all fits into place.
My angel.
I flash a look at the Cherub who catches my eye. I get it. I understand.
I call out:
‘Buddy!’
I then scream his name out: ‘Buddy, Buddy, I’m here. Please, I need you, Buddy.’
The Crow gives me a strange look and hesitates.
‘Why are you not afraid of the power in my words?’
‘Because I’ve got power in my own, ta...Buddy, Buddy, come here, I need you, bro.’
I push myself backwards, no longer hypnotized to a standstill.
‘Come to Shelly, my angel. I need you darling...’
Behind the Crow, I see Evelyn swivel around and shout something. She raises the knife in her hand. She’s screeching.
‘What are you doing back here, you retard! How is he going to help you? That stupid, fat, spastic.’ She pirouettes and snaps at me. ‘Salivate to death, Salivate to death.’
My brother walks into view and stares at me.
‘Shel...Shelly?’
He looks happy. Tears form in my eyes. He may not be a Whisper; he may only be a traumatic creation in my own, mis-fit, misplaced mind, but he’s my bro and I’m so very glad to see him.
The Crow jerks his head several times to look around at the Cherub.
‘What have you released?’
‘Nothing.’ she shrugs casually, ‘Something’s, I guess, we are not permitted to see on this planet. I guess hate and beauty....are in the eye of the beholder....and let’s face it – you do have a rather one-sided view.’
Buddy looks eager to please. He stares at the manifestation of hate-filled hurt that is Evelyn Parker. All the years of horrible goading, all the taunting. His hurt, my heart. Buddy, the spastic. Buddy, the dickhead.
‘She wants to hurt us, Buddy and we....are...not…going to let that happen anymore.’
I see something in Buddy’s eyes that I have never seen before; something gives. No longer – Mary’s little lamb, its fleece as white as snow.
This time, he’s the big, bad wolf.
I hear Camille whisper next to me, ‘Go on, Buddy.’
Something snaps in his face. Like a ravenous jackal, a rabid hyena. I see his eyes boil with years of his own frustration, years of being ridiculed by Evelyn for a condition he couldn’t help – a condition I couldn’t help - something she continually taunted him about. And, I know with complete surety, even as my own death-knell stands above me, that it doesn’t matter whatever happens to me next, because ....
…Buddy Clover’s gonna kick that cocky bitch’s arse.
His eyes narrow, and he charges straight at Evelyn with nothing short of a war cry, and Evelyn Parker just stands there with her jaw sagging open. She tries to reach for her knife, but Buddy has already formed a fist.
He swings and smashes her so hard in the face that she’s taken straight off her feet, hurtles backwards, and lands spread-eagled on her back.
She tries to rise, clambering onto all fours as blood pours out of her mouth. Before she can lift her head, Buddy’s on her again, rolling his arms around her and flipping her back over. Her eyes are wide and confused as he pins her to the floor with his knees. He pounds her face: Right fist, left fist, right fist, left, right, left…
The contemptuous bully – punched out - utterly floored, utterly beaten, utterly defeated.
Evelyn lays there, arms and legs stretched out; dead or unconscious in mine or Camille’s mind - I don’t know; I don’t really care.
She is completely still and completely out of the game.
The cloud of Whispers is making a low droning sound; there’s confusion over what is taking place.
I have a second of universal joy.
Unbelievable it is. Like nothing I have ever experienced on earth. I’m so proud of Buddy; so incredibly proud of him. Even as the Carrion Crow moves back in and wraps his talons around my neck squeezing and separating my head, I will die with some grace and a huge sense of victory; My little brother’s victory - my own.
My vision blurs. If the muscles in my neck would allow it, I’d be smiling. I hear the Crow speak for the final time:
‘Whatever you think you see, will not affect the outcome; these books are already being released around the Island.’
I look directly into the face of the Carrion Crow – I want him to see that I am not afraid - as I behold the years of hate, washing over his eyes; the gateway to his corrupt soul. The pressure on my neck is unbelievable.
I gurgle out my defiance…
And then… he drops me.
The Reverend pummels the whole of his frame into his midriff. The Crow drops the pointed shaft, but only staggers back a couple of feet, as the collision alone is enough to stun the Vicar. The Crow lashes both hand-claws back into Sean Llewellyn’s body and face, slashing him across the forehead. More blood splatters in to the air in a strange arch, as the minister flips over once and lands awkwardly on the floor.
He looks as dead as anybody I have ever seen.
The Carrion Crow turns to me and smiles the best his face will allow. He takes his book from off his chest and looms in to devour his prey, his beak opening. Suddenly, his eyes widen and he jerks, and jerks again. Our eyes blaze into one another. He looks perplexed, bewildered even, and then...
....screams in pain.
He circles around and around, screeching in absolute agony. It is the most distressing sound I have heard yet and I cover my ears. What the hell is happening? He staggers backwards, flailing, and then swivels his large frame one-eighty. I cannot see his assailant, but the Crow is throwing his arms back and forth trying to fig
ht something off. I can’t see the Cherub, but the Crow continues to jolt and shudder. Feathers, dripping with blood, explode out of his body. His wings plume outwards as he attempts to take off, but then I see two hands appear over the side of the Crow’s shoulders, grabbing one of his wings, pressing it down to the side, so he is unable to take flight. He tries to swipe them off, but his claws pass straight through them. There’s nothing there for him to fight...he then judders part of the way in my direction, so at last I can see Buddy clinging on to his wing.
He starts rasping in a totally powerful and commanding voice, in the direction of Buddy;
‘Depart from me, depart from me.’
But, Buddy is only a memory, my memory. He’s my creation. There’s nothing there for the Crow’s speech to effect.
Even though the instruction is aimed at my brother, I am swayed by the power of this phrase, and both Camille and I pitch from side to side at the majesty in his words, which must be obeyed.
But, not by Buddy.
In my brother’s hand is the sharpened handle of the Crow’s own bell.
I look behind him and see the bell’s head lying on the floor, its clapper hitting its mouth like the tongue of a parched man, lolling back and forth: The pointed handle Buddy holds is a weapon quite unlike the bullets Elvis fired into the Crow. This object comes straight from the realm of the Whispers, and Buddy is using it to repeatedly stab the Crow.
No matter what the Crow does, no matter what he shouts, he cannot deter my brother from his mission; the giant bird’s invisible assailant - who only hears my voice.
He tries to grab the levitating weapon, but with no opponent visible, it’s impossible for him to anticipate where the blade will turn and strike next. A searing, guttural, screech releases itself from his beak as he repeatedly grabs…and continually misses.
Teetering backwards, he thrusts his beak within a millimetre of Camille’s face, and commands her to tell his enemy to depart. It’s last ditch. He realises that Buddy can be seen by her too.
She falls to her knees under the supremacy of the Crow’s voice and opens her mouth to speak,
‘Buddy – stop now, stop now.’
But although my brother can hear her…he only listens to me.
More blows slice into his feathered body – into his back now - and suddenly the Carrion Crow is staggering towards me, bleeding from scores of puncture wounds to his body.
I close my eyes as he towers over me, knowing my death is his last chance to stop this…but at the last moment, he bends down to grab his own book, ‘The Last, Mass Hysteria of Mankind’, and hoisting it to his chest, he closes it, as the brightness in his scarlet eyes diminishes.
The moment it closes, a huge collective gasp envelops the Whispers; a vast communal sigh; the sound of wind rushing to replace lost air; dust being kicked-up off the floor.
The mass of Whispers swirl and contort like a fanatical tornado, descending slowly back into their books; their wretched cries of derision going unheard. The atmospheric frenzy continues until there is no distinguishable feature in any given syllable or nuance. There are no more calls for help. It is the sound of crashing waves, muffling the cries of drowning sailors. The portal at the back of the Crow’s book has closed: The Whispers must leave.
We have a moment, where his eyes meet mine for the last time and I see the spark, the brightness in his, subsiding before my very own. Buddy releases him.
The Crow turns and charges with all his might out of the library back into the alcove, smashing through the wooden door, knocking it off its hinges, sending it careering to the ground. I race out behind him: I have to see this.
Even, from this position, I can see him lurch unsteadily through the archway and across the grass, sinew and tissue weeping from deep lacerations. His grave wounds cause him to quiver and falter in a staggered diagonal motion, as though important nerves governing his movement have been severed. His screams pierce the night, echoing across the now moonlit sky. The Crow loses pace and with one last attempt, flings himself into the sky; he begins to ascend and then descend, before maintaining some type of equilibrium as he only just misses the canopy of the forest…and then he falls out of the sky only a few metres into the forest, out of view.
In the alcove, I stand in awe, aware that I am shaking with adrenalin.
I’m mentally and physically drained, as my eyes frantically search for him through the battered entrance, across the skyline, but I see nothing.
I turn and make my way back into the library.
The Reverend is stirring and Astra has emerged from her stupor.
He’s one tough Scotsman.
She stands motionless, looking from side to side silently, in the midst of copious dusty tomes strewn all over the floor of the lamp-lit library. She looks from me to Camille but doesn’t say anything. She shakes her head, disorientated in this strange place. I look at my book on the floor; my bell resting on the floor next to it; no sign of the Cherub. The handle of the Execution bell - the stake that Buddy used to gouge the Carrion Crow - lies there covered in blood. It too, doesn’t move.
‘Look, Shelly, she’s gone...’
Camille raises her arms partly, before turning and gazing at me in amazement. I stare in the direction of her half-raised arm and glance towards the place where Evelyn Parker had once laid spread-eagled and defeated. There’s no sign of her.
‘...but Buddy’s still here.’ Camille finishes.
My eyes move slowly to my left, and there he stands.
He’s smiling gently, and for all intents and purpose, he reminds me of an obedient and playful puppy.
‘Shelly, Shelly Clover, are you okay?’
The portly Detective Inspector Rosenthal, bursts into the room, alongside Shannon, the medic who assisted me and Alan at school. David Rosenthal huffs and pants his way into the library, glancing back at the broken doorway.
He fights to regain his breath.
‘What the hell just broke down that door....and flew over the trees? It was like a dragon or something!’
He looks red-cheeked and flabbergasted as he points back the way he came.
I want to respond, but I can’t get my eyes off Buddy. I feel that this will be the last time I will ever see him. Camille heads over to talk to the police officer, as the medic rushes to attend the Reverend. I can tell she’s weighing up what is useful to say and what is not so useful.
Buddy steps closer to me and puffs his chest out proudly.
‘You did good, Bud, you did really good....I didn’t think you c-’ I stop and smile.
My words clearly affect him and he gives me a coy smile, looking down at the ground slightly embarrassed.
‘I couldn’t have done it without you, Buddy. When no one else was there for me…you were always there.’
‘You always cared for me, sis…’
I have a moment to think about what I have just told him, and allow myself the space in the peace to let giant tears well up in my eyes. Who cares? It’s true. I’ve cried a bucketful already.
‘I’m just so happy that I can get to say…to say…a proper goodbye.’
‘Hey, Shel'.’ He begins, ‘....I don’t have to go you know....’ There’s something impassioned and stirring in his voice.
‘You’re not real. You have been brilliant, but I have to let you go my beautiful.’
The last thirteen years of my torrid life fall into place in my head like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. I breathe out and enjoy my breath. I’m alive, I made it. I thought I would die, and I made it. I close my wet, blurry eyes and open them. I wipe both cheeks and smile back at Buddy for the final time.
‘I think it it’s time for you to go, Bud, don’t you?’ I thought it was you who needed me all these years...but it was me who needed you.’
He has a big toothy grin.
‘Bud, it’s time for me to… Rest in Peace.’
He smiles and chuckles.
As he gently fades away, he mouths so
mething softly, his whole face beaming,
‘Finally found your wings...’
Should I be crying; Yes.
And am I?
You bet.
Tears of hope and joy.
Epilogue: