Chapter Thirty-Eight

Bert

At thirteen, Bert looked forward to the day he could leave school. The kudos of being Callum's brother had long since worn off, and Bert could not wait until he was old enough to make his way in the world. His Saturday job in the mail sorting office was given to him as a tribute to his father, whose sudden passing fell like an axe onto their home. Callum’s school friends had forgotten him, and to them, Bert was just plain creepy. It was a comment by Lucy Grimshaw that sparked him off.

Cycling beside him, she asked who he was going to dress up as for Halloween. Her two companions flanking her on either side emitted a chorus of shrill giggles.

Bert felt a blush rise to his pale cheekbones as she slowed her bike to a crawl, balancing the quivering handlebars to meet his steady gait. He thought it was cute, how she could cycle so slowly without having to put her feet to the ground. Bert was trying to think of an impressive reply when she broke into his thoughts, giggling between chews of gum.

‘Only I was thinking we could go to the Halloween disco together.’

Bertram's heart gave a little flutter in his chest. It was such an alien feeling he gave a little gasp to accommodate it.

Lucy smiled. ‘I’m gonna be the bride of Frankenstein …’

She squeezed her brakes as his bike shot ahead, and steadied it before turning her sky blue eyes back on his face. ‘Wanna know what the best part about it would be?’

Bert cleared his throat with a small cough, digging his hands into his pockets as a shy smile crossed his face. ‘What?’

‘You wouldn’t even need an outfit!’ An explosion of laughter followed the punchline as the girls leaned forward on their bikes and cycled down the road. ‘So long, loser!’ Lucy shouted, blonde ponytail bobbing, oblivious to the devastation in her wake.

It wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t liked her. He’d mistaken her glances for interest, when it was just morbid curiosity.

Bert clenched his fists as he gulped back the hot tears that threatened to flow. Walking home with his head bowed, his insides began to boil with indignation. A bird cawed in the distance. He felt a fluttering sensation, a stretching of wings, and steel grey eyes snapping open. The tarot cards. That night as he laid the cards on his bed, they produced a welcome image. It was like watching a television programme as Bert envisaged Lucy being knocked off her bike in front of an oncoming car. His breath quickened as the scene unravelled before him; Lucy, no longer mocking but a broken mess of matted hair. Rivulets of her blood decorating the black asphalt in his wake. Such thoughts both frightened and excited him. It was then that the raven within came into its own.

Bert jerked his rucksack forward as he walked home. Today was the day he had planned to carry out Lucy’s prediction, but second thoughts had plunged the heat of his anger into ice, and turning his back on his school he cast his head down as he pushed his thumbs under the straps biting into his shoulders. The rucksack felt ten times heavier, as if large claws were yanking it backwards with each step he took. The more he hurried, the more he could feel the breath of his nightmares tickle the back of his neck. Yes, he wanted revenge on Lucy, but killing her?

Another jerk of his rucksack gained his attention and Bert pulled it back, spitting the words. ‘I’m not killing anyone, now leave me alone!’

The reply was so low it was not audible, but he felt it just the same.

‘You didn’t mind killing Callum.’

The mention of his brother’s name sent a chill down his spine. ‘What? No … I didn’t.’

The voice from within sneered. ‘Want to hear what he has to say about it? I come from death, I can bring him to you.’

Bert sucked in great mouthfuls of air as he turned down their laneway and caught sight of home. He tried to tell himself the voice was inside his head. It couldn’t hurt him if it was part of him, could it? His panic was coming in waves now, surging, and then ebbing just enough to allow him to suck in air before he was engulfed in the terror again. The thoughts of hearing Callum’s voice were more than he could bear. He threw his rucksack on the porch and ran to his room.

He tried to broach the subject as mother treated his eczema, which had flared into angry red welts on his skin. The house was eerily quiet as he sat at the table, the only sound the ticking of the clock and the wind howling outside. He wished he had a television like other families. Books were fine, but they could not silence the voices intruding in his thoughts. Bert took a deep breath and blurted out what was troubling him.

‘Mum, sometimes I hear voices telling me to do things.’

‘It’s just your imagination,’ she said, as she slathered the cream up his arms.

‘But sometimes it tells me to do things I don’t wanna do,’ Bert said, shivering in his vest.

His mother laughed, but her face was cold and hard. ‘Poor Bert, you’re so afraid of life. Not like Callum. He wasn’t afraid of anything.’

Bert was taken back by his mother’s intense stare. She rarely mentioned Callum any more.

Her desperate eyes stared into his, trying to see any trace of the boy she missed so much. Her grip sent sharp painful darts into his broken skin.

‘You’re hurting me,’ Bert said, pulling back his arm with a gasp.

Mother lowered her eyes and handed him the roll of bandages. ‘You’re old enough to do this yourself now. You don’t need me any more.’

Something shifted that night as Bert felt his passenger grow form. It wrestled with his inner conscience, the one that told him killing was bad. The raven reminded him he was summoned as his protector, and he could not lie dormant forever. Bert knew deep down it was what he wanted, and that night as he stared at the bare branches of the oak tree, a frost crept through his soul.

[#]

On Thursday evenings, Lucy Grimshaw went to book club after school and cycled home alone. Bert was waiting. The timing would have to be right, but the cards had guided him and wouldn’t let him down. Bert hid in the bushes as her bicycle approached. Pulling the black balaclava over his head, he was grateful for the winter nights, which were drawing in. The noise of the lorries drowned out his heavy breathing as adrenalin coursed through his body. Perhaps she would just fall off and scuff her knees, he thought, picking up the pole, his heart hammering a warm beat in his chest. He crouched down into position. The plan was to ram the pole into the tyre of her bike and run like hell. Bert tried to ignore the steady stream of cars, and to stem that nagging feeling that being upended off your bike in heavy traffic seemed an excessive punishment for being a tease. But it wasn’t just that. Bertram's eczema had become unbearable, and school was only going to get worse. Carrying out the raven’s wishes may stem the voice hungry for blood. The doctor had told them his skin condition was stress related, and to Bert, his annoyance over Lucy was never going to dissipate unless he did something about it. Besides, a prediction had been made, and blood would be shed one way or another. A single bicycle headlight glared in the distance, flickering on, off, on, off in time with the dynamo that powered it. Oh shit and fuck, Bert thought, as a lorry came rumbling up behind her, trying to overtake but was hemmed in by the cars passing the other side. Bert prayed his black clothes would protect him from onlookers.