The Crow Folk Page 10

  ‘It’s wearing Craddock’s coat,’ Bertie said. A chill prickled Faye’s skin.

  * * *

  Faye and Bertie trudged across the field through waist-high corn to where the scarecrow hung on a crude cross. A dead hare lay on the ground before it. As well as Craddock’s coat, it wore one of his boots and its head was made from his black poacher’s sack. Faye reached out to touch it.

  Craddock struggled as the scarecrows tied him to the cross, but he was exhausted, the fight was going out of him. Pumpkinhead stepped closer with the poacher’s sack and pulled it tight over Craddock’s head. The poacher’s screams became muffled. Pumpkinhead placed his hand on Craddock’s head and recited bygone words of incantation.

  Craddock became still. His head slumped forwards.

  Craddock’s screams had been so loud they hurt Faye’s ears. How could that be? These weren’t dreams. She had been there. Watching, listening, unseen. For a few moments, then and now were mixed like milk in tea. Faye shook her head clear and looked to Bertie. He was real, he was here with her. She wanted to take his hand to be sure, but some instinct told her that might be a bad idea.

  Instead, Faye took a breath and reached for the sack. She gripped it for a heartbeat, terrified of what she might find beneath it, then clenched her teeth as she whipped it off.

  Nothing but straw. Just another scarecrow.

  ‘Faye.’ Bertie’s voice was muffled by the wind as it whipped around them. The sun was behind the clouds and the only birds were crows. ‘I don’t… I don’t think we’re going to find him, do you?’ Bertie shuffled his feet, edging away from her. What was he frightened of? It was only a scarecrow stuffed with straw. The visions had ended, and they were alone.

  And then it dawned on Faye. Bertie was frightened of her. Only a little, but her heart sank as she realised what her father had meant about her mother being an outcast.

  ‘Come on, Bertie,’ she said, trying to sound friendly as she wriggled the sack back on the scarecrow. ‘Let’s go and put the kettle on. I think we still have a few biccies left.’

  Bertie’s smile returned and they headed back to the village, leaving the new scarecrow hanging on his cross.

  18 CONSTABLE MULDOON DOES NOT CARE

  ‘His coat, and the other boot.’ It was after hours in the Green Man and Faye was giving a statement to Constable Muldoon, his pencil scratching on his notepad. Terrence was putting chairs on tables and sweeping the floor much slower than usual. Faye knew he was lurking to make sure she said nothing too peculiar. He needn’t have worried. Bertie’s fearful looks earlier today had taught her to keep certain things to herself. Faye didn’t want to tell her dad or Bertie about the strange visions she had seen in the barn, and she certainly wasn’t about to tell the constable. Muldoon was more moustache than man and not given to any nonsense.

  ‘So this…’ Muldoon cleared his throat with more disdain than was entirely necessary. ‘This… scarecrow was wearing all of Mr Craddock’s clothes?’

  ‘Except the first boot. Is this important? A man is missing.’

  ‘A man as naked as the day he was born, apparently. Funny no one’s mentioned seeing any fugitives in a state of undress.’ He caught Terrence’s eye and they both chuckled.

  ‘This ain’t no joke,’ Faye snapped. ‘Craddock could be dead.’

  ‘Speaking frankly, if I may, Miss Bright, if Mr Craddock has departed this world, I doubt there are many here who would mourn him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘With all due respect to the man, he was, and if you’ll pardon my use of the vernacular, a miserable old goat who had a particular knack for rubbing folk the wrong way.’

  ‘Are you saying he had it coming?’

  ‘That would not be in keeping with my position as an officer of the law. But yes.’

  ‘Constable Muldoon!’

  ‘That said, I am a consummate professional and will investigate to the best of my abilities. I would also remind you there is a war on.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’

  ‘The duties of war require a ceaseless vigilance, and we must concentrate our limited resources on the very real threat of an invasion by the Narzees.’

  ‘Is that your way of saying you’re not going to do anything?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘It sounded like it. What will you do, exactly?’

  ‘We will consider the evidence and proceed from there.’

  ‘Oh, very reassuring, I don’t think.’

  Constable Muldoon pouted at this slight against his professionalism. ‘Thank you for your statement, Miss Bright,’ he said, closing his notebook with a snap. ‘A good evening to you both.’

  Faye stood open-mouthed as Terrence let Muldoon out. ‘Night, Constable.’

  Faye slumped into the armchair by the fireplace. ‘Why does nobody care?’

  ‘Ain’t a copper’s job to care, Faye. What do you expect him to do?’

  ‘His job? Find out what happened to Craddock?’

  ‘And he will, in time. Just cos you snap your fingers, girl, it don’t mean the whole world has to jump.’

  ‘I never said they should, but a man is missing and…’ Faye bit her lip.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘And I think it’s cos of me.’

  ‘What? Don’t talk daft.’

  ‘I said his name, Dad. I said it in front of the scarecrows, I told ’em, and they went and grabbed him.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Stop talking rot. Calm down a minute and listen.’ Terrence sat opposite her and started poking tobacco into his pipe. ‘Let me tell you something about Craddock and your mother.’

  Faye’s anger with Muldoon was forgotten in a moment and she leaned forward. ‘Mum and Craddock?’ she said with a wince. ‘Please don’t tell me she was ever stepping out with him because I don’t think I could cope.’

  ‘Oh, lor’, nothing like that.’ Terrence grimaced. ‘Nah, your mother had some taste. She just ended up with me.’ He smiled and became lost in memories as he lit his pipe.

  ‘Dad?’ Faye tilted her head to catch his eye. ‘Dad? Wake up. You were saying?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, give me a moment to sort me thoughts in order,’ Terrence said, puffing on the pipe. ‘When your mother and I were first stepping out, some tinkers came to town and she gave them what little money she had to buy a length of gingham. She spent the better part of a week measuring, cutting and sewing to make herself a dress. Gorgeous, it was. She wore it to the Summer Fair. And she…’ Terrence faltered for a moment and Faye felt her heart flutter. Dad was a stiff-upper-lip bloke and he only ever got tearful after a few brandies at Christmas. ‘Ah, look at me, I’m as soppy as a sack.’

  ‘Don’t stop.’ Faye smiled and took his hand. ‘I like it.’

  ‘That smile.’ Terrence sniffed and blinked himself back into the room. ‘I knew right there and then she was the girl for me. She could brighten up the darkest day. Where was I?’

  ‘The Summer Fair.’

  ‘Right you are. So, we’re at this fair, the sun is shining, we’re arm-in-arm, we have a go at the coconut shy and everything’s wonderful and I’ve never been happier. Then along comes Craddock – a younger man then, full of piss and vinegar and more than his share of cider – and he’s having a lark with his mates from the cricket club. You wouldn’t believe it, but he used to play for the village first eleven. Did you know that? Not half bad a wicketkeeper in his youth, as a matter of fact. Nothing got past him. Terrible batsman, though. He could never—’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘I’m getting to it, keep your hair on. So, there’s Craddock and his gang shoving each other about over by the coconut shy, and there’s us minding our own business, holding hands and it’s all lovey-dovey, and then that great lummox is a-shoving and a-pushing and he spins round and spills his pint all over your mother’s new frock.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Apple cider. Big orange stain. Looked like a map of Afghanistan my
old man used to have on the wall there.’

  ‘Oh my gawd. What did you do? Did you thump him?’

  ‘Faye, when have you known me to be a man of violence?’

  ‘You keep a bloomin’ great knobkerrie behind the bar.’

  ‘That’s for emergencies only and I’ve never had to use it.’

  ‘You threatened Finlay Motspur with it only last week.’

  ‘Do you want to hear this story, or don’t ya?’

  ‘Did you thump him or not?’

  ‘He was twice as big as me, even then. As you can imagine, this puts me in a very awkward position: defend my young lady’s honour and get well and truly pasted by the biggest bugger in the village, or say nothing and move on.’

  ‘Well, you’re still in one piece, so you clearly said nothing.’

  ‘O ye of little faith. I took a breath and was about to tell Craddock what a prize pillock he was when your mother steps between us. “Boys,” she says, “don’t start any trouble.” She looks at me and says, “It was an accident, Terrence, I’m sure young Master Craddock is sorry.” And she turns to him and smiles. And y’know what he does? He looks her up and down, at her beautiful face, at the frock she made with her own two hands, at her bright smile… and he calls her a witch and a whore…’ Faye felt her dad’s hand tighten in hers. ‘In front of the whole village. Can you imagine that? Now I was ready to thump him, but your mother—’

  ‘Is this when all his hair fell out?’ said another voice. Faye and Terrence turned their heads to find Bertie half in and half out of the saloon bar door.

  Terrence gave the lad a steely glare. ‘You ever hear of knocking, Bertie?’

  ‘S-sorry,’ the boy said. ‘I’ve got that elderflower cordial you asked for, Mr Bright.’

  The tobacco in Terrence’s pipe glowed red as he inhaled. ‘Thank you, Bertie. Stick it on the bar there, will you, lad?’

  ‘Righto.’ Bertie hefted a crate of bottles across the room and onto the bar.

  ‘When whose hair all fell out?’ Faye asked Bertie, aware her dad was looking at her in a way that suggested she should stop talking right this very moment. ‘Craddock’s?’

  ‘Me Mum told us. She was there. She said your mum cursed Craddock,’ Bertie said, wiggling his fingers like a stage magician for good effect. ‘Next day, all his hair fell out. And I mean all of it. Even the down-belows. Arse as smooth as a baby’s head, according to Doctor Hamm.’ Bertie caught sight of Terrence glaring at him. ‘Or not. I don’t know. Don’t remember, rightly. Night, everyone.’

  ‘Bertie!’ Faye snapped, but the lad had fled the pub.

  She looked back at her dad, who was getting up out of his chair. ‘Oh no you don’t. Sit.’

  Terrence sat back down again.

  ‘Mum cursed Craddock?’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘That’s not how Bertie’s mum remembers it.’

  ‘I remember it different. I was there, don’t forget. Curses and nonsense. None of it matters.’

  ‘It matters cos it sounds to me like a woman can’t speak her mind round here without some fella calling her a witch or a whore or accusing her of cursing ’em.’ Faye twisted her lips into a scowl.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I agree with that sentiment, young lady.’

  ‘I dunno. Do I?’

  ‘I spent enough time with your mother to know that a woman can and should say whatever she likes,’ Terrence said, jabbing his pipe at her to make his point. ‘But I also know that when someone says something a bit loopy – be they man or be they woman – that very same someone should also prepare themselves for the consequences of their apparent loopiness.’

  ‘So Mum was loopy, was she?’

  ‘Don’t twist my words, girl. I said apparent. She knew what she was saying, but folks are liable to misinterpret anything they don’t rightly understand.’

  ‘Did Mum curse Craddock or not?’

  ‘What matters,’ Terrence said, evading the question like a midfielder dodging a tackle, ‘is that Craddock could be a nasty piece of work when he wanted, so don’t go feeling too sorry for him. Anyway, yes, she might have given him one of her looks, y’know, the ones that turned my barnet grey. But she never cursed anyone. She kept her head high and took me over to the tombola. We won a bottle of sherry.’ For a moment, Terrence was still there and he smiled.

  ‘I think I’ve learned more about Mum in the last couple of days than in the previous seventeen years,’ Faye said.

  ‘I reckon I have to take the blame for that.’ Terrence lowered his head. His smile faded. ‘I don’t like dredging up old memories, Faye. This’ll sound strange, but… whenever I think of your mum, it makes me angry.’

  Faye felt something flutter inside her. ‘Me… me, too,’ she said. ‘I feel like I’ve been… robbed.’

  ‘We both have,’ Terrence said.

  ‘And I don’t feel like I should complain, cos there’s others who’ve had it much worse, but I’m cross, Dad, I’m bloody cross that I never got to know my mum.’

  Faye was surprised to find her dad’s hand gently squeezing hers.

  ‘I was lucky,’ he said. ‘I got to know her very well, and she would’ve been so proud of you. You’re so much like her.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You’re kind,’ he said. ‘And you’re useful.’

  Faye couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’m what?’

  ‘You know what I mean. You help folks out. People think you’re poking your nose in, but you just want to do good. She was the same.’

  And she was a witch, Faye thought.

  ‘And she didn’t take no nonsense.’ Terrence heaved himself out of his chair and ambled back to the bar. ‘Craddock never said anything to her again, but he would always give a look like he didn’t approve of her. I’m not one for vengeful thoughts, Faye, but a fella reaps what he sows.’

  ‘He still don’t deserve to die,’ Faye said, though she promised herself she would have words with Craddock if and when she next encountered him.

  ‘No. But he can’t expect us to care. Not you, not me, not the constable. He’s—’

  Terrence was cut short by a scream from across the street.

  Faye was first to the door and she whipped it open to find Mrs Teach in her curlers and dressing gown staggering through her front door. ‘It’s one of them,’ she cried, pointing up towards the church where a shadowy figure scurried into the shadows. ‘One of them scarecrows was in my house!’

  19 THE SECOND DEATH OF ERNIE TEACH

  When Ernie Teach was alive, he returned from the garage every day at six on the dot, and Mrs Teach always had a hot tin bath ready for him to scrub himself clean. They had tea together, listened to the wireless – It’s That Man Again was Ernie’s favourite show – and then he would see to his jigsaw and she to her cross stitch. At ten o’clock, they retired to bed and made love with such rampant enthusiasm that even Mrs Nesbitt next door complained about the noise, and she was as deaf as a post. The next morning, Mrs Teach always had to explain to Mrs Nesbitt over the garden fence that the banging was caused by air trapped in the plumbing, and Ernie would always get the giggles, make his excuses and step inside.

  Mrs Teach’s nightly routine had changed since her Ernie passed away. Now at six she lit a candle for him, the radio remained silent and, instead of cross stitch, she went to bed early, accompanied by a cup of tea laced with gin and read a good book.

  On this particular evening, Mrs Teach was some way into a revised edition of The Sworn Book of Honorius – a medieval grimoire of some infamy – when she heard the latch on the back door slide open.

  Only her Ernie ever came through the back door, as only her Ernie knew how to jiggle the latch in such a way that the sticky door would budge.

  Mrs Teach heard the familiar groan of the back door rubbing against the frame as it opened, followed by shuffling footsteps across the kitchen floorboards. Her heart began to race. She put her book down, wriggled into her dressing gown and sli
ppers and crept across the landing. She was about to reach for the light switch when she heard a voice from downstairs.

  ‘After you, Claude. No, after you, Cecil.’

  Mrs Teach cursed herself for not having the foresight to keep something heavy like a frying pan next to the bed in case of unwanted visitors. She made a mental note to do so immediately after she saw off this intruder, then remembered she had given her old spare skillet away as part of the Saucepans for Spitfires collection.

  ‘Don’t forget the diver, sir.’

  Whoever this intruder was, they were repeating catchphrases from It’s That Man Again.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do. Sweeeeoooosssh.’

  An intruder who was making noises like a radio tuning.

  ‘This is Funf speaking. You are doomed!’

  Mrs Teach gripped the bannister and trod carefully down the stairs. He was in the living room. Mrs Teach thought about dashing to the front door and making a run for it, but the more she heard of this intruder, the more she knew his voice.

  ‘I go, I come back.’

  It couldn’t be him. It simply wasn’t possible.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, take your seats, please.’

  She threw open the living-room door.

  The thing she found was shrouded in shadow, hunched over by the wireless, its head jerking from side to side as it inspected the device from all angles while muttering the same thing over and over. ‘ITMA, ITMA, Ra-Ra-Ra! ITMA, ITMA, Ra-Ra-Ra!’

  Mrs Teach’s voice was tight as a drum. ‘Ernie?’

  The thing spun around, its face revealed in a sliver of moonlight that cut through the curtains. A face of ragged sackcloth and pity, button eyes and wretched straw for hair.

  It reached out to her with creaking leather gloves and tufts of hay in its sleeves and said in a mournful voice, ‘It’s that man again.’

  It took a lot to frighten Mrs Teach, so the scream that came from her belly and woke half the village was not only unexpected, but so drenched in terror it sent the scarecrow tumbling back into the fireplace, crashing into the poker stand and sending the drinks cabinet smashing to the carpet.