The Crow Talker

“Meet me on the roof,” he said to the crows, then slipped down and ran across the dark, deserted road. On the far side was an abandoned building, half demolished, with one wall completely gone, the insides exposed to the elements. Caw could see skeletal hulks of old machines within. Whatever they used to make, those days of usefulness were a long-forgotten memory.

Caw scrambled over the rubble up to the first floor, careful not to make a sound. He skirted boxes piled high with old books, their covers mostly rotted away. He climbed two flights of stairs towards a hatch that opened on to a roof of corrugated metal. Then he crept to the highest point, where Glum, Screech and Milky were already perched, just as Lydia’s father reached the prison gates far below on the opposite side of the street.

A dozen men and women in prison-guard uniform were standing in groups, illuminated by the floodlights, looking nervous but excited. Dogs strained at their leads, nosing the air.

The wailing siren cut out suddenly, and the vibrations faded on the air.

“Where’s that plan of the sewers?” said Lydia’s father. His voice carried clearly up to Caw.

One of the men laid a large sheet of paper on the hood of a car.

Caw’s heart quickened. He was right to think that Lydia’s father wasn’t just a guard. He was ordering the others around like he was in charge of the whole prison!

“The police will be here in the next five minutes, but we can’t afford to wait. The clock is ticking. Everyone get into pairs. One dog per pair. Fan out into the surrounding streets. Check every manhole cover. If you see them, call it in. Don’t try to apprehend them – you know who we’re dealing with. And be careful!”

The guards started to disperse, while Lydia’s father peered at the map. In a moment, he was alone.

Can we please go home now? said Glum, fluffing out his feathers. It’s freezing!

Hey, over here! called Screech.

Caw turned round – the youngest of the crows was perched at the other end of the roof. A faint grinding sound was rising up from below. Something’s happening down there, said Screech.

Caw looked at Lydia’s father. His head had jerked up, as though he’d heard it too. He swiftly folded the map and began to pace across the street.

Caw ran over the roof to join Screech, and stared down into the alley below.

It was empty, apart from a few strewn papers and some rubbish bins. One end of the alley forked into a maze of passages running between the buildings. The other, Caw guessed, eventually made its way to the main street near the prison.

With another grinding sound, the manhole cover directly below Caw turned. One side cracked open, then the whole thing lifted free and was tossed aside like it weighed nothing, spinning like a coin, then settling flat. Caw shrank back, peering over the roof’s parapet. Something small scurried out of the dark well in the ground. An insect, or maybe a spider. And then two hands emerged. Big, meaty hands. A huge figure heaved itself into the open. Caw saw a bald head, a great gleaming dome of skin stretched over skull. The man wore an orange shirt and trousers.

Suddenly it made sense. The guards in a panic. The search parties.

“An escaped prisoner,” Caw whispered. “That’s who they’re looking for!”

I can see that, said Glum.

The man tipped back his head and terror caught in Caw’s throat. Something was wrong with the man’s mouth. It was too wide, like his cheeks were split in a hideous grin. Then, after a heartbeat, Caw realised it was a tattoo. A permanent smile.

He’s a looker, Screech muttered.

The prisoner started to tear off his shirt, and called down into the manhole in a muted voice, “All clear!” Then the man tossed the ripped prison shirt aside and turned back around.

As Caw saw the man’s bare chest, he felt his bones turn to ice. A new wave of terror hit him, deeper than anything he’d felt outside his nightmares. Pure fear, straight from the darkest depths of his mind, undimmed by logic and impossible to ignore. It squeezed each of his nerve endings and turned his stomach to water.

Inked across the massive man’s chest was a tattoo that rippled with his muscles, almost as though it was alive. Eight legs, scurrying.

A spider.

And not just any spider. Its body was a looping line, and a spiky M-shape was emblazoned inside it.

Caw gripped the parapet, his mouth dry as dust.

It was the spider from his dream.

Beside him, Milky ruffled his feathers.

The tattooed prisoner leant over the manhole, took hold of a skinny wrist and pulled a second figure into the open – a young woman. She had black hair that fell to her waist and caught the streetlight like a raven’s wing. As she straightened up, she stood even taller than the man. The sleeves of her prison uniform were soiled with dirty water from the sewer, and she began carefully rolling them up. Her arms were lithe and muscled, as though she could wrap them around a person and squeeze their life away.

And then came a third person. He flopped out into the alley and scrambled to his feet, brushing down his clothes. He was less than half the height of the others and hunched over. He looked old, but he moved like a younger man. His eyes darted around in all directions.

“Finally, the smells of the city!” said the short man. “How I missed the delicious stench of rot.”

The big man cracked his knuckles. “Time to get back to business,” he said.

“We shouldn’t delay,” hissed the woman. Her voice was soft and sibilant. “It won’t be long before they work out where that tunnel leads.”

“Freeze!”

All three prisoners turned to the other end of the alley. A man stood silhouetted there holding a gun, its barrel glinting.

Oh dear, Glum said.

It was the man from the house. But the prisoners didn’t look afraid. Instead, the big one stepped forward.

“Warden Strickham,” he said. “What a nice surprise.”

We should go, said Glum. This has nothing to do with us. It’s—

“Human stuff?” whispered Caw. “I know. But in case you hadn’t noticed, I am a human, Glum.”

That wasn’t why he was staying, though. He didn’t want to say it out loud, but he needed to know about that tattoo. He had to find out what it meant.

“You’re going right back to jail, Jawbone,” said Mr Strickham.

The big man, Jawbone, grinned for real. It twisted his face, making him look even scarier, like a hungry dog. “What d’you say, friends? Should we crawl back to our cells?”

The short man sniggered, and the woman’s tongue flickered over her lips. “I say we refuse his kind offer,” she said. “He tastes a little scared to me.”

Mr Strickham brought his other hand to the hilt of his gun to steady it. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m the one with the bullets, and a squad of police officers on the way.” He glanced behind him.

Suddenly Caw felt nervous.

“Leave this to me,” said Jawbone. “I’ll catch up when I’ve dealt with him.”

The others nodded and melted away into the alley – the short man shuffling, his tall companion almost gliding.

“Hey!” shouted Mr Strickham. “One more move and I’ll shoot!”