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 thinnest.
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 running wild, and the night welcomed him. As he stretched out his arms either side, he imagined his flight, his clumsy red wellington boots replaced by powerful scaly claws, tucked under his body as he sped through the woodlands with ease. Eyes streaming, his hot breath puffed plumes of white smoke from his mouth, and for the first time in his short existence, he felt capable of anything. He ran until his lungs burned and the thorny-edged brambles tugged at his clothes, slowing his flight. Exhilarated, he dropped to the twitching forest floor, and a living carpet of tiny creatures scuttled away from their human invader. Bert smiled in wonder, breathing in the smell of frosted pinecones sweetening the air. He was lying in the birthplace of something dark and powerful, but he was not afraid. Whispers grew and branches crackled as he laid his weary body against a majestic tree – a silent witness of dark rituals and sacrifices decades before. The malevolence that seeped through the earth could not serve to hurt him now. It made the soil rich with an energy that promised strength, as long as he knew how to use it. His eyelids became heavy as the faint trace of icy fingertips touched his skin.
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 Jennifer Knight … but her death would not be in vain.
Chapter Thirteen
‘I don’t believe it!’ Jennifer threw her hands in the air. We’ve missed him by minutes.’ The smokers outside Haven Hospital gave Jennifer a bemused look as she paced the pavement.
‘In which case he can’t have gone far,’ Will said. ‘Come on, get in the car, we’ll have a scout around.’
Jennifer cursed her stupidity as she wrestled with the car seatbelt. She should have gone straight to the hospital after her premonition. She had seen a bruised man in a metal bed, but didn’t know what it meant. The beeping machines, a hand drawn over a curtain … it all made sense now. But it wasn’t until she received the call from the neighbourhood police officer in response to her missing persons report that everything clicked into place. PC Wallace had informed her that she visited an elderly man matching Bert Bishop’s description in hospital. Unfortunately, he had just left, after being treated for concussion and bruising. The nurse described him as pleasant enough, somewhat bewildered, a little evasive, and suffering from acute eczema. Apart from that, he seemed no different to the many patients that discharged themselves without so much as a by-your-leave.
The car jerked forward as Will pulled out of the car park, the wipers working to dispel the fat droplets of rain beginning to plop on the windscreen. ‘What’s the latest description?’
Jennifer swallowed. Her throat felt like a sandpit and she really needed a coffee. ‘He’s tall and thin with short grey hair, wearing a long black coat and hat. He has facial injuries and bruising to his cheekbone. They think he discharged himself within the last thirty minutes. Their CCTV is under maintenance so I can’t even get a copy of that.’
‘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.’
Jennifer recalled her premonition and shuddered. ‘Take my word for it, I know.’
The streets of Haven were not ready to give up the Raven, and Jennifer attended afternoon briefing with the Lexton Murder Investigation Team, offering up what information she had of value. Returning to Haven with notes and tasks, her eyes were drawn to the yellow Post-it note alerting her to a missed call. She peeled it from her computer screen as she automatically dialled the number and introduced herself. It took her several seconds to recognise the voice on the other side.