Читать книгу The Crow Talker - Jacob Grey, Jacob Grey - Страница 7

he night belonged to him. He wore its shadows, tasted its scents. He savoured its sounds and silences. Caw leapt from roof to roof, a boy witnessed only by the white eye of the moon and the three crows that soared in the dark sky above him.

Blackstone sprawled like a bacterial growth on all sides. Caw took in flashes of the city – skyscrapers rising to the east, and to the west, the endless slanting roofscape of the poorer districts and the smoking chimneys of the industrial quarter. In the north loomed abandoned tenements. The river Blackwater was somewhere to the south, a roiling sludge carrying filth away from the city, but never making it any cleaner. Caw could smell its fetid stench.

He skidded up against the dirty glass panel of a skylight. Laying his hands softly on the glass, Caw peered into its soft glow. A hunched janitor wheeled a mop and bucket through the hallway below, lost in his own world. He didn’t look up. They never did.

Caw took off again, startling a fat pigeon and skipping around an ancient billboard, trusting his crows to follow. Two of the birds were barely visible – flitting shadows black as tar. The third was white, his pale feathers making him glow like a ghost in the darkness.

I’m starving, muttered Screech, the smallest of the crows. His voice was a reedy squawk.

You’re always starving, said Glum, his wing-beats slow and steady. The young are so greedy.

Caw smiled. To anyone else, the crows’ voices would merely sound like the cries of regular birds. But Caw heard more. Much more.

I’m still growing! said Screech, flapping indignantly.

Shame your brain isn’t, Glum cackled.

Milky, the blind old white crow, drifted above them. As usual, he said nothing at all.

Caw slowed to gather his breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. He took in the sounds of night – the swish of a car across slick tarmac, the thump of distant music. Further away, a siren and a man shouting, his words unclear. Whether his voice was raised in anger or happiness, Caw didn’t care. Down there was for the regular people of Blackstone. Up here, among the skyline silhouettes … was for him and his crows.

He passed through the warm blast of an air-conditioning vent, then paused, nostrils flaring.

Food. Something salty.

Caw jogged to the edge of the rooftop and peered over. Down below, a door opened on to an alley filled with rubbish bins. It was the back of a 24-hour takeaway. Caw knew they often threw out perfectly good food – leftovers, probably, but he wasn’t fussy. He let his glance flick into every dark corner. He saw nothing that worried him, but it was always risky at ground level. Their place, not his.

Glum landed next to Caw and cocked his head. His stubby beak glinted gold, reflecting a streetlight. You think it’s safe? he asked.

A sudden motion drew Caw’s gaze; a rat, rooting in the rubbish bins below. It lifted its head and eyed him without fear. “I think so,” Caw said. “Stay sharp.”

He knew they didn’t need the warning. Eight years together, and he could trust them better than he could himself.

Caw swung a leg over the lip of the roof and landed softly on the platform of the fire escape. Screech swooped down and perched on the side of a bin, while Glum glided to the corner of the roof, overlooking the main street. Milky dropped on to the fire escape railing, his talons scratching the metal. All keeping watch.

Caw crept down the steps. He crouched for a moment, eyes on the back door of the takeaway. The smell of food made his stomach rumble violently. Pizza, he thought. Burgers too.

Caw fished inside the nearest rubbish bin, and found a yellow polystyrene box, still warm. He cracked it open. Chips! He shovelled them into his mouth. Greasy, salty, a little burnt at the edges. They were good. The acid vinegar caught in his throat, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t eaten for two days. He swallowed without chewing and almost choked. Then he crammed more down. One chip fell from his hand and Screech was there in a second, attacking the scrap with his beak.

A hoarse cry from Glum.

Caw flinched and cowered beside the bin, eyes searching the darkness. His heart jolted as four figures filled the end of the alley.

“Hey!” said the tallest. “Get away from our stash!”

Caw scrambled back, holding the box to his chest. Screech took flight, his wings slapping the air.

The figures stepped closer and an arc of streetlight caught their faces. Boys, perhaps a couple of years older than him. Homeless by the looks of their tattered clothes.

“There’s enough,” said Caw, nodding towards the rubbish bins. He felt awkward, talking to other people. It happened so rarely. “Enough for all of us,” he repeated.

“No, there’s not,” said a boy with two rings in his upper lip. He walked ahead of the others with a shoulder-rolling swagger. “There’s only enough for us. You’ve been stealing.”

Shall we get them? said Screech.

Caw shook his head. It wasn’t worth getting injured over a few chips.

“Don’t shake your head at me, you filthy little thief!” said the tall one. “You’re a liar!”

“Gross – he stinks, too,” said a smaller boy, sneering.

Caw felt his face getting hot. He took a step backwards.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked the boy with the lip rings. “Why don’t you stay a while?” He stepped up to Caw and shoved him roughly in the chest.

The sudden attack took Caw by surprise and he fell, landing on his back. The box flew from his hands and chips spilled over the ground. The boys closed in.

“Now he’s throwing them on the floor!”

“You gonna pick them up?”

Caw scrambled to his feet. They had him trapped. “You can have them.”

“Too late for that,” said the leader. He ran his tongue over his lip rings. “Now you gotta pay. How much money you got?”

Caw turned out his pockets, his heart thumping. “None.”

The glint of a blade, emerging from the boy’s pocket. “In that case, we’ll take your thieving fingers instead.”

The boy lunged forward. Caw grabbed the edge of the rubbish bin and vaulted up on top of it.

“He’s quick, isn’t he?” said the boy. “Get him.”

The other three surrounded the bin. One swiped at Caw’s ankle. Another started to shake the bin. Caw staggered for balance. They were all laughing.

Caw saw a drainpipe three metres to his left and jumped. But as his fingers caught the metal, the piping broke from the wall with a burst of brick dust. He fell and hit the tarmac on his side, the air exploding from his lungs. Four grinning faces closed in.

“Hold him down!” said the leader.

“Please … no …” Caw struggled, but the boys sat on his legs and pulled at his arms. He was spread-eagled as the one with the knife loomed over him. “Which will it be, boys?” He pointed the tip of the blade at Caw’s hands in turn. “Left or right?”

Caw couldn’t see his crows. Fear pumped through his veins.

The boy crouched down, resting his knee on Caw’s chest. “Eeny, meany, miny, moe.” The knife’s tip danced from side to side.

Watch out, Caw! called Glum. The boys all looked up at the crow’s piercing cry. Then a hand reached down from above and gripped the knife-wielder by the back of his collar. The boy yelped as he was jerked away from Caw.

There was a smacking sound – skin against skin – and the knife clattered to the ground.

Where’d he come from? said Screech.

Caw sat up. A tall, thin man was holding the boy by the back of his neck. Brown wiry hair protruded from beneath the man’s stained woolly hat. He was wearing several layers of dirty clothing, including an old brown trench coat fastened around his waist with a belt of frayed blue cord. A tufty beard coated his jawline in uneven patches. Caw guessed he was in his mid-twenties, and homeless.

“Leave him be,” said the man, his voice rasping. In the semi-darkness, his mouth was a black hole.

“What’s it to you?” said the boy holding Caw’s left arm.

The man shoved the boy with the lip rings hard at the bin, letting him go.

“This guy’s crazy!” said the boy holding Caw’s legs. “Let’s go.”

Their leader picked up his knife and brandished it at the homeless man.

“Lucky you’re so filthy,” he snarled. “Don’t want to get my knife dirty. Come on, fellas.” The four attackers turned and tore out of the alley.

Caw scrambled to his feet, his breath coming hard. Looking up, he saw his crows perched together on the fire-escape railing, watching silently.

After the gang had rounded the corner, another smaller shape slipped from the alley’s darkness to stand close beside the man. It was a boy of about seven or eight, Caw guessed. His narrow face was pale and his dirty blond hair stood on end. “Yeah, and don’t come back!” he shouted, shaking a fist.

Caw darted towards the chips scattered on the ground. He started dropping them back into the box. No need to waste a good meal. All the while, he felt the gaze of his rescuer and the boy on his back.

When he’d finished, he stuffed the box inside the deep pocket of his coat and hurried to the fire escape.

“Wait,” said the man. “Who are you?”

Caw turned to face him, but kept his eyes on the ground. “I’m no one.”

The man snorted. “Really? So where are your parents, No one?”

Caw shook his head again. He didn’t know what else to say.

“You should be careful,” said the man.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Doesn’t look like that to us,” said the boy, tilting his chin upward.

Caw heard the crows’ claws shifting on the railing above him. The man’s eyes flicked up to them and narrowed. His lips turned in the ghost of a smile. “Friends of yours?” he asked.

Time to go home, said Glum.

Caw started up the steel ladder without looking back. He climbed quickly, hand over hand, his nimble feet barely making a sound on the fire escape. When he reached the roof, he took one last glance and saw the man watching him as the young boy rooted around in the bins.

“Something bad’s coming,” called the man. “Something really bad. You get into trouble – talk to the pigeons.”

Talk to the pigeons? Caw only talked to crows.

Pigeons! Screech said, as if he’d heard Caw’s thought. You’d get more sense out of a brick!

Probably off his rocker, said Glum. A lot of humans are.

Caw heaved himself on to the roof and set off at a jog. But as he ran, he couldn’t shake the man’s parting words. He hadn’t seemed crazy at all. His face was fierce, his eyes clear. Not like the old drunks who stumbled around the streets or squatted in doorways begging for money.

And, more than that, he had helped Caw. He’d put himself at risk, for no reason.

Caw’s crows flew above him, wheeling around buildings and circling back as they made their way to the safety of the nest. Home.

Caw’s heart began to slow, as the night took him into its dark embrace.