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He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, too tired to stop the voices flooding his mind. The dog barking, the broken concrete, the pock-faced man. They’re all from the premonition. Bert replayed the reading at the psychic fair, and biting his tongue to stop the words, which felt so u
Bert relived the attack, trying to make sense of it all. Lying in a piss-stained alleyway as the pock-faced man pummelled him with feet and fists. Curling up in a ball as the final kick came, shielding his head from the gut-wrenching blows.
He should have been relieved he saved the young woman and her son the consequences of such a terrible fate. After all, she was a young mother with a special needs child. But in the cold light of day he was wishing, more than anything, that it had been her, even if it had left her on a mortuary slab. A trolley rattled past and Bert waved away the offer of tea. I can’t stay here. I’ll get dressed and leave, Bert thought. His eyes grew heavy and despite the background noise, he succumbed to sleep. The closed-in feeling and antiseptic smell transported him to his bedroom and his earliest memory.
As soon as he learned to walk, he wanted to be outside. The whistle of the wind was far more enticing than his pull-along toys. While Callum sang nursery rhymes with mother, Bert remained silent, animated by the whispers of the forest that only he could hear. To him there was nothing more powerful than nature, the crashing thunder and the rolling clouds laced with rain that stabbed the galvanised roof of their home. Nature was a powerful call, and as he stared through the window, his painted wooden blocks and balding teddy bears paled in comparison.
Bert’s unwillingness to speak did not reflect a lack of intelligence, which was sharp beyond his years. His insight was not afforded to others. To his family, midnight was a time to turn their back on the beauty of the moon, the numbness of sleep blocking out the night cries of the nocturnal. But to Bert, the most enlivening time was between midnight and three am, when the veil between his reality and the world beyond was at its thi
That night he stroked the long inky tail feather that had fluttered through his open window. Bert did not feel the cold as he stared out to the fields beyond. He gasped as a raven cut through the diamond-studded night, flapping, cawing, swooping through the air, the gap in its tail feathers reflected by the sombre moon. Holding the feather tight in his grasp, he pulled on his red wellingtons and duffle coat, his small bony fingers struggling to thread the thick buttons through the frayed loops. Pulling back his blanket, he positioned the pillow underneath. It was unlikely anyone would check, but it made him feel better about leaving. Grasping the window ledge, he stepped onto his toy chest and slipped through the open window to the back yard. He had often snuck out unseen during the day, splintering his palms as he gripped the rough wooden ledge. But this was his first night excursion, and a tremble of excitement rose as his heart tick tocked like the drum of his wind-up toy solider.
The frost sparkling on the gravel path seemed magical, and glinted invitingly as it stretched to the forest beyond. He glanced behind only once, before chasing the black feathered watchman down the track, deep into the purple shadows of the woodlands. A rasping caw of approval sliced through the air, and Bert’s heart clattered in his chest, as the exhilaration of freedom pumped blood through his veins like never before. He was ru
Bert drew in a sharp breath as he realised he was no longer a four-year-old child in the depths of the forest, but a sixty-five-year-old man in a hospital. Yet as he blinked in awakening, the fingers continued to touch his senses; glacial messengers sent through a psychic link, seeping curious thoughts into his presence. It was the detective. She was looking for him.
She was a person of flesh and blood like him, but with abilities beyond her understanding. He had been waiting for her, each victim a breadcrumb trail for her to follow. Their destinies were intertwined, but it was not yet their time. Bert swung his legs out of the bed and fumbled for his clothes, relieved to find his cards in his jacket pocket. Time was passing at a merciless rate, and more prophecies had to be delivered before the ritual came to its climax. His mouth cranked upwards at the promise of rejuvenation. A storm was coming for Je
Chapter Thirteen
‘I don’t believe it!’ Je
‘In which case he can’t have gone far,’ Will said. ‘Come on, get in the car, we’ll have a scout around.’
Je
The car jerked forward as Will pulled out of the car park, the wipers working to dispel the fat droplets of rain begi
Je
‘How do we know it’s our Raven? There must be plenty of old men that fall around drunk and end up in the hospital.’