One loud KRONK, a hop, a tap on the floor, a little distracted dance, a HONK, swivel and lift, as a discus swung up but not released but driven down atomically fixed and explosive, the beak hurled down hammer-hard into the demon’s skull with a crack and a spurt then smashed onwards down through bone, brain, fluid and membrane, into squirting spine, vertebra snap, vertebra crunch, vertebra nibbled and spat and one-two-three-four-five all the way down quick as a piranha, nipping, cutting, disassembling the material of the demon, splashing in blood and spinal gunk and shit and piss, unravelling innards, whipping ligaments and nerves about joyous spaghetti tangled wool hammering, clawing, ripping, snipping, slurping, burping, frankly loving the journey of hurting, hurting-hurting and for Crow it was like a lovely bin full of chip papers and ice cream and currywurst and baby robins and every nasty treat, physically invigorating like a westerly above the moor, like a bouncy castle elm in the wind, like old family pleasures of the deep species. And Crow stands thrilled in a pool of filth, patiently sweeping and toeing remains of demon into a drain-hole.
His work done, Crow struts and leaps up and down the street issuing warnings while the pyjama-clad boys clap and cheer — behind-glass-silent — from the bedroom window. Crow issues warnings to the wide city, warnings in verse, warnings in many languages, warnings with bleeding edges, warnings with humour, warnings with dance and sub-low threats and voodoo and puns and spectacular ancient ugliness.
Satisfied with his defence of the nest, Crow wanders in to find some food.
DAD
Such a bad joke, bad dream, bad poem, so different, this cr
cr
cr
cr
cr
e ak, ik e y, evice, ea tor.
Cr
Cr
cr
y
ying
BOYS
He was young and good and sometimes funny. He was silent then he was livid then he was spiteful and unfamiliar, then he became obsessed and had visions and wrote and wrote and wrote.
Come and look at this, Crow said. Your Dad seems to be dead!
We crept in and the room smelt of rotting mouse and there were ashtrays in the duvet and bottles on the floor. Dad was spread-eagled like a broken toy and his mouth was slack grey and collapsed like a failed Yorkshire pudding.
Dad are you dead?
Dad, are you dead?
A long whining fart answered and Dad kicked out.
Course he’s not dead, you boob, said my brother.
I never said he was dead, I said.
Whoops, said Crow.
I’m not dead, said Dad.
DAD
Dear Crow,
Today I drew a picture I am really proud of. It’s a picture of you, sitting on a chair, with a hand-puppet of Ted. Opposite you is Ted, sitting on a chair, with a hand-puppet of you. The likeness is superb!
Ted’s hand-puppet Crow has a speech bubble. The Crow puppet is saying ‘TED, YOU STINK OF A BUTCHER’S SHOP.’
I think you’d love it.
BOYS
Dad told us stories and the stories changed when Dad changed.
I remember a story about a rat catcher. The rat catcher nailed the tails of dead rats to the headboard of his bed, one, two, three, four, five. The rat catcher killed the king of the rats and everyone knows a king rat can’t be killed unless you boil its heart. As the rat catcher slept the rat king’s tail unpinned itself from the headboard and went along the line plaiting the tails of his dead fellows to make a noose and they throttled the rat catcher. Rat catcher, rat, said Dad, what do you make of that?
Dad told us stories and the stories changed when Dad changed.
I remember a story about a Japanese writer who fell on his own sword and it was so sharp it cut through blood and came out clean from his back.
I remember a story about an Irish warrior who killed his son by mistake but when he realised he didn’t mind that much because it served the son right.
DAD
There is an area of the kitchen work surface where I lean while the boys eat Weetabix. It is a little way along from the area of the kitchen work surface where my wife used to lean.
IT IS VERY HEAVY, THERE’S NO WAY TO SAY HOW LONG IT WILL GO ON BUT WE HAVE GREAT FEAR FOR PEOPLE CAUGHT IN THE CITY.
The boys hear the news. They need to know. I tell them a lot about war.
Loss and pain in the world is unimaginable but I want them to try.
CROW
Notes towards my voice-driven literary memoir, if I may:
I loved waiting, mid-afternoon, alone in their home, for them to come back from school. I acknowledge that I could have been accused of showing symptoms related to unfulfilled maternal fantasies, but I am a crow and we can do many things in the dark, even play at Mommy. I just pecked about, looking at this, looking at that. Lifting up the occasional sock or jigsaw piece. I used to do little squitty shits in places I knew he’d never clean.
The first thing I would hear would be the high interlinking descants and trills of chatter, sing-song and cheerfulness. The boys. There might be a thump as they smashed against the front door, then a breath-catching wait for Dad to catch up. He would open the door and with a click the flat would be full of noise, Shoes Off, Bags Down Please, Don’t leave it there, I said Don’t, leave it there, come on, ship chop chip shop up the stairs.
There is a beautiful lazy swagger to tired little men, they roll and flump and crash down in the interlude before beginning to scavenge for food or entertainment, and I was always filled with uncharacteristic optimism and good cheer watching them slouch unselfconsciously back into their roost. And sugar! On the evenings when he gave them treats, or they climbed up to the cupboard and plundered — crow-like — their father’s stash. If you haven’t observed human children after serious quantities of sugar, you must. It raises and deranges them, hilariously, for an hour or so, and then they slump.
It is uncannily like blood-drunk fox cubs.
BOYS
We collected the postman’s dropped elastic bands. We thought we would build a giant ball. We gave up.
We made bases, camps, dens, shelters, forts, bunkers, castles, pill-boxes, tunnels and nests.
We watched London and London offered us possible mothers in jeans and striped T-shirts and Ray-Bans, so we spotted them and liked the nasty insensitive self-harm of it. We were blasé with a babysitter who said, ‘How can you laugh about it, it’s so sad?’
We balanced on the back of the sofa and dive-bombed onto the carpet and Dad shouted You think that doesn’t damage your knees but it does and when you are my age you will have serious knee problems OK, and I will not push you round in a cart like sad beggars and if you think I’m lying you should have seen your grandmother’s knees, ruined, like an aerial shot of a battlefield, she could hardly kneel, from childhood disrespect of her joints, ballet, mostly, but sofa jumping too, and they chopped her knees up, this is before laser surgery, and if you don’t believe me you can
We stopped listening and kept on leaping.
After the advent of laser surgery but before puberty, before self-consciousness, before secondary school, before money, time or gender got their teeth in. Before language was a trap, when it was a maze. Before Dad was a man in the last thirty years of his life. Really, on reflection, the best possible time to lose a mum.