Max had reached the whirly and stopped it with his hands. He stood staring at the bird, now hanging, obviously dead, wings spread in a cruel parody of flight.
‘Okay, Max,’ said Bram, gently pulling the boy away.
His face was white. ‘I thought – I thought it was still alive. How did it get here?’
‘I don’t know. It must have become tangled–’ But Bram could see, now, the blue nylon twine around the bird’s legs, tying it to the cord.
‘Oh God, Dad, did someone – did they tie it on, while it was still alive?’
‘What?’ sobbed Phoebe, suddenly there, suddenly reaching past Max –
‘No no.’ Bram pulled her away, hugged her to his chest. ‘It must have already been dead.’
Phoebe wriggled away from him and reached out a hand to the crow, gently touching one of its wings. ‘Are you sure?’ she wailed. ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure. Come on, kleintje. Let’s go back inside.’
‘What happened to him, Dad?’
He crouched in front of her, wiping the tears from her face. ‘I don’t know. I’m going to have a look at him and then bury him, okay?’
She gulped, wiping now at her own face. ‘A kind of post mortem? Do you think he was – murdered?’ She turned to look again at the crow, and of course that set her off again, her face collapsing on a sob.
Bram half-carried her back inside, and took her on his knee for a while as she cried, sitting at the kitchen table while Max busied himself chopping up vegetables for his quiche. When Phoebe was calm again, she said, ‘You have to do the post mortem now, Dad, and bury him,’ and Max said, ‘Come on then, Phoebs, what about this abomination of a quiche filling you’re insisting on making?’
‘Why would someone do it?’ she whispered, looking at Bram as if he had the answers, as if he could explain it, as if he could tell her it was all a mistake and the crow was going to be fine.
But he could only shake his head.
Back out at the whirly, he shrinkingly studied the crow. Its eyes were filmed over and – ugh, yes, something was moving at its neck. Maggots. It must have been dead a while. Just as well he’d brought gloves. He held the dead bird around its middle as he gently untied the nylon twine, talking to it as he did so, ridiculously: ‘I’m sorry, mate. I’m sorry.’ There was dried blood on the feathers of its chest. It had been shot?
He couldn’t get Phoebe’s question out of his head:
Why would someone do it?
Not so much shoot the crow – Bram wasn’t such a city slicker that he wasn’t aware of the war on wildlife waged by many farmers – but bring it here and tie it to their whirly drier?
Why? Why would anyone do that?
GET NO PLACE LIKE HOME