“Edward Owens, yes. Said he fixed this place up before you moved back.”
I told him that was the case, that my sister had arranged it. He nodded again and something I couldn’t read crossed his face. “He said your sister had asked him to watch out for you.”
“I don’t know about that. I don’t know him well.”
“Why’d you go there, Wil? What business did you have there?”
“I don’t know. I thought I could help.”
“Are you holding something back, Wil?”
“The search,” I said, in desperation. “I know the woods. I just wanted to help.”
“So you spoke to Ellie Lewis.”
“The girl, the one with the red hair? She recognised me. Asked after Blyth.”
“That’d be the jackdaw, I’m guessing? You trained him?”
“Befriended.”
“I never knew you could do that with ordinary birds. Parrots and budgies, but not them.”
“He’s not ordinary.”
“You trap those dead birds you showed her, Wil?”
“I don’t trap birds.”
“What about that dead kite at Llyn y Fan Fach four days ago?”
“I didn’t kill it,” I said, seeing the trees black and heavy with birds. “It was still alive when I found it. I tried to help her but she was too far gone.”
“What is it with dead birds? What is it you do with them?”
I felt light-headed and queasy. Sweat ran down my face. I doubted he’d understand. “I preserve them,” I said. “Their bones.”
I saw the puzzled look on his face. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s like taxidermy. It’s no big deal.”
“Show me.”
The air around us vibrated with the slow steady thrum of wings. He stared at me, waiting. I raised a hand to still the rooks and led him to the workshop. I switched on the light, told him to cover his mouth, and pointed out the articulated bones suspended from the roof beam, the skeletal magpie and crow perched on a shelf. He gagged and made no move to step inside. “That smell, Jesus,” he managed to say.
“Rotting tissue,” I said. “First you remove as much tissue and organs as you can. Then section the bird, suspend the pieces in a solution of water and biological washing powder heated to thirty five degrees. It’s called maceration—accelerated decomposition. When the process is complete you’re left with a complete set of bones. Then it’s a matter of cleaning them, and assembling the skeleton.”
He shook his head and turned away. “For what purpose?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“No, I probably wouldn’t.” He glanced back inside the workshop and shook his head. I followed him back to his car. “This is part of your research?”
“No,” I admitted. “Not really. My work is trying to understand how birds communicate. Not with one another, but with us.”
“They do that?”
“I believe so.”
“Do you know what they think of us?”
“No. Not yet.”
He got into his car and spoke through the open window. “Look, Wil. I know what you’ve been through and maybe you don’t look at the world the way others do. But it’s the others in charge. You have to abide by their rules. This stuff”—he gestured at the workshop—“it’s not normal. You can’t talk about rotting birds like you’re talking rugby. It unsettles people. And you especially can’t go talking to kids about it. It’s best you don’t talk to kids at all. You understand what I’m saying?”
I told him I did.
“Good.” He started the car. “Just, for your own sake, try to stay out of trouble, okay?”
I didn’t see Blyth until the next day. More and more he kept his distance from me, as though dissatisfied at something I’d done. If I had done anything to slight him I would gladly have made amends. I found him the next day in his usual place at the car. I sat on the rusted bonnet and showed him the red cap. He looked at it, ruffled his feathers, but made no comment.
“Did it belong to the boy?” I asked him. “Was that why you brought it here?” He leaned forward and gave a muted kaaarrr.
I asked if he knew what had happened, if he knew where the boy was. He turned and looked directly at me. I searched his eyes for some clue as to what he was trying to communicate. After a while I turned away. I had seen nothing there, nothing at all.
And yet, I knew there must be something. I had felt it before—an urgency, a need to get through, to communicate his perspective. It was just a matter of translation.
Later that evening my sister called. She’d heard from Owens. She was concerned. “Is everything okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Have you seen Joanne lately?”
Joanne was my social worker. “Yes,” I lied.
“I spoke to her, Wil. She says you missed your last appointment.”
“Please, Sara, I’m okay.”
“Are you taking your meds?”
“For fuck’s sake—you don’t need to worry about me.”
“I’d come up tomorrow if I could, bring the children. But this missing child. I mean, it’s so awful. I’m scared to bring them.”
“I don’t expect you to come up,” I assured her.
She didn’t speak for a moment. I realized she was struggling to say what she wanted to say. “Wil, listen. David called me.”
“Who?”
“David Carroll. The policeman up there in Sennybridge. He asked me what you’ve been up to. This thing with the bones. What is that, Wil? I don’t understand.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just a distraction.”
“Distraction from what?”
“Nothing—I told you.” I couldn’t keep the anger from my voice.
“Jesus Christ, Wil. You would tell me, right?”
“Tell you what?”
“If, if you were in trouble. If you weren’t well.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Why were you speaking to those kids? You don’t know them. What were you doing?”
“No reason. I swear to you.”
“I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what you’re capable of. I’ve thought about Molly and Rhodri, when we’ve been up to see you. Oh God, did you hurt that child, Wil? Did you take him?”
I hung up, unable to take anymore. I picked up the red cap and took it outside. I wanted to get rid of it, burn the damn thing. It had nothing to do with me. Instead, I took it to the Austin and left it there for Blyth.
I felt burdened with doubt and uncertainty. Since the incident at the caravan park, discord had come between Blyth and myself. I couldn’t explain it. After three years, it was hard to take. I tried to walk off my anxiety but when I returned to the house, it was still there.
Entering the yard, I saw Joanne standing by her car. I could tell by her expression that my appearance concerned her. I suppose I looked somewhat unkempt and undernourished. I hadn’t been eating regularly.
“Wil,” she said. “You knew I was coming, right?”
I told her I didn’t.
“I left a message this morning. I know it’s short notice but, well, it’s been a while.”
“You shouldn’t have come.”
“Well, I’m here now. Okay?”
“I guess.”
“Can we go inside?”
In the kitchen I made her a cup of tea and asked what was so important she had to come on an unscheduled visit. “Your sister called me yesterday,” she said. “She’s concerned about you. She thinks you’re off your meds.”
I got up and opened the wall cabinet above the fridge and took down the empty bottles labelled aripiprazole and lithium. Joanne frowned. “You flushed them? A month’s supply?”
“I haven’t taken any pills for months.”
“We’ve talked before about what happens if you don’t take them. How you become unstable.”
“I’m stable.”
“Sara doesn’t think so. She mentioned an incident the other day. Said the police came to see you.”
“Did she?”
“Are you eating properly? You’ve lost weight.”
“I eat what I need.”
She sighed. “You got into a fight with some guy.”
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“You’ve been talking to kids, putting disturbing ideas in their heads.”
“Kids are inquisitive. They’re more receptive than us.”
“Receptive to what?”
“Things we don’t see or that scare us.”
“The police believe that boy was abducted.”
I stared at her, trying to read what was in her head. “You think I have something to do with that?”
“No. But look how it seems. People who are well don’t carry around dead birds or have crows as pets. They don’t show them to young kids. When people are frightened, they look at strangers, at those who don’t seem normal.”
“Do I seem normal to you?”
She brushed the hair back from her forehead. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what others think and right now they’re saying things about you.”
“Because I study birds?”
“Because of your behaviour.”
“They stopped my funding, you know. My research.”
“What has this got to do with—”
“The crow family are the smartest of all birds, smarter than most animals. I’m trying to find ways to communicate with them, learn their languages.”
“Languages?” she said, bewildered. “Birds don’t talk.”
“Don’t they? Let me show you something.”
She followed me outside. I made a clicking sound, calling to Blyth. I repeated the sound, three, four times but he didn’t come.
Joanne touched my arm. “What are you trying to do?”
“Blyth,” I said, “A jackdaw with a secret. He’s gone.”
“A secret?”
“Something he’s trying to tell me.”