The Book of the Crowman Read Online Free PDF Page B

everywhere. The beaks and claws close over the spirits, matching their frequency with ease; puncturing and cutting into them as though they were flesh. The spirits howl.
    “Take them,” whispers Megan. “Take them away from her forever.”
    A wind rises in the tiny room, sudden as a squall, and vast wings beat at the air. With a sound like tearing hessian the dark spirits are ripped from the woman’s aura and for a moment her unblinking eyes widen in pain. The wind increases, causing Megan to narrow her eyes against its force.
    In an instant the room returns to silence. The wind is gone, the darkness has dissolved. The oil lamps brighten and Megan senses a purity as though the energy in the attic has been somehow scrubbed white. Even the smell of the soiled sheets has been neutralised. The room is fresh, as is the face of the woman. Megan withdraws her hands from the weave of the prostitute’s body and the woman’s eyes gradually refocus.
    She looks around the room as though not recognising it. Her eyes meet Megan’s and she collapses forward, into her open arms. Megan wills substance back into her own form and holds the prostitute tight. She glances once more around the exposed beams and rafters, making certain the room is clear. She strokes the woman’s back.
    “It’s alright,” she says. “Everything will be different now. Everything will be better.”
    But whether the woman hears or not, Megan can’t tell; the sound of her weeping is too loud. To the departed darkness, and the echoing whisper of black silken wings, Megan whispers:
    “Thank you.”

4
    Dear Gordon,
    There’s so much I want to say to you. But now that I’ve finally managed to get some paper and a pencil, I don’t know where to start. The most important thing is I’m alive. I wish I could tell you about Mum, Dad and Angela but I don’t know what happened to them or where they are. We were separated the day the Ward came for us and I haven’t seen them since. Oh, Gordon, I miss them so much it makes my chest hurt. Like there’s a raw wound inside that will never heal. But I miss you the most. Sometimes I cry really hard, the way I imagine insane people do, and I want to smash my head against the wall so hard that I’ll – well, you know. I probably shouldn’t say things like that but if you’re still out there, I know you’ll understand. Wardsman Boscombe – he lets me call him Bossy when no one’s around – says you’re alive. He never says it to me but I’m sure he has connections among the Green Men. He says he hears stories about you sometimes. Probably nothing more than rumours, I know, but it gives me hope and I need that in here. Bossy’s not like the others. He never beats me. He’s the one who got me this stuff so I can write to you. He says he has “friends”. He says he can get these letters to you. All he asks is a small price every now and again. Is it true you fought with Skelton and Pike? That you cut them both with Dad’s knife? I’m so proud of you Gordon. If I had a knife here I’d
     
    Gordon squatted against a brick wall and looked up into the sky.
    It was saturated with smoke, dust and low cloud. Charcoal-dark flakes floated down and settled on his already grimy clothes; a snow of ash from the thousands of tiny fires which now kept the people of London warm or cooked their food – those fortunate enough to find it. The permanent smog smelled of sulphur, spent coal and burnt wood. The sun rarely broke through, even in the open country, and four seasons had become two: a warm, wet monsoon and a frozen winter.
    From the pack beside him – a sturdy but modest rucksack containing his parents’ last letters, his diary and the scrapbook of Crowman prophecies, extra layers, a flysheet and small blanket, whatever food he could salvage and a few other necessities – he withdrew a tin of salmon, spiked it with his dad’s old lock-knife and worked it open. The blade was thinner and curved almost to a crescent