Douglas Lindsay - A Plague Of Crows

I look at her. Anger going already. Had there even been anger?

'You spoke to Michael?' she says.

Michael. Clayton. Michael Clayton. Yes, of course I spoke to him. Michael Clayton. I spoke to Michael Clayton, didn't I?

'Yes.'

Can't nod, head strapped. But she hasn't gagged me again. Must want to chat while she slices my scalp off.

'What put you on to him in the first place?'

'Desperation.'

She smiles. Laughs lightly almost.

'Yet you didn't know I was the waitress working in Costa? Sloppy.'

I hold her gaze for a moment. Have I been lying to myself all this time?

'Maybe I knew,' I say. 'Some part of me knew.'

She laughs harshly.

'Yes, of course. You thought I was a multiple murderer so you lay naked on the bed with a hard-on as you prepared to make the arrest. It didn't work.'

'I'm not like other police officers,' I say, which, even under these circumstances, is a pretty fucking bad line.

She snorts and mutters, 'Fucking maverick cop. Asshole.'

Time I shut up. Silence is going to annoy her far more than glib comments. And if she thinks I'm asking her any questions, if she thinks I give a shit, then she's wrong. And I'm not stopping myself asking, so as not to give her the pleasure. I just genuinely don't want to know. I don't want to fucking know.

She takes another step back. On her way to get the saw. The bone saw. To remove the top of my skull, to let the birds in.

The sky is a little less dark, a lighter grey. For the first time I notice that it's cold. That'll be the air on my newly bald head.

'Michael's good,' she says. 'Doesn't make mistakes. I think he might have been a bit naughty. Probably time I moved on.'

That's nice. I don't want to think about Clayton and what she means, but it's lovely for her that she's got somewhere to move on to. There's no escaping the past, however. It goes with you, everywhere you go.

And here am I now, still unable to escape the past, right to the end, even though it appears I'm to die without it ever catching up with me. But it's always been there, burning away inside.

Still saying nothing, she starts to tire of it again.

'What the fuck is it with you?' she says. 'How can you be so… fucking superior? You're about to have your brains eaten out by a bunch of fucking… birds…. birds… and you don't give a shit. What makes you better than this? What makes this beneath you? You fucker…'

She looks round at the social worker, forgotten in her growing violence of humour.

'Jesus, fuck the lot of you.'

She turns away.

He's still crying. The guy with the social worker moondog face is still crying, his eyes plastered wide open for the rest of his life. For fuck's sake, accept your fate will you, you fucking idiot? You were bound to die at some point anyway. At least this way you'll get on the news and a bunch of fuckers will go and lay flowers outside your front gate.

She's back, standing in front of me. Duct tape and bone saw in hand. She lays the saw down on the ground, then quickly wraps the tape around my mouth, tight, making me gag for a moment, a few seconds to adjust my breathing.

'I don't want to fucking listen to you,' she mutters, as she does it. Which is funny, really, because I wasn't saying anything. Then she pulls my eyes open and — one of those moments I hadn't really been looking forward to — pins the eyelids back with a staple gun. Rougher now than she was when she was shaving me, but she knows the blood spilled by the stapling is going to be minimal.

She bends, lifts the bone saw. Stares me dead in the eye and there's not a lot I can do now to avoid the look.

I feel relief. Now that it's here, I feel relief. No more waking up screaming, no more cold sweats. No more searching for the woman I can talk to, or the woman I can make love to, the woman who can erase the memories of what I've done. No more pointless crime solving, no more having to put up with the fucking public, the fucking public who have long since lost any sense of personal responsibility, the fucking public who demand everything from the police and give nothing in return. No more worrying, no more stress, no more having to get up in the morning, no more coming into work.

'You asked for it,' she says, as the buzz of the saw fills the grey morning light. 'Now you're going to g-'

I guess the bullet must travel at roughly the same speed as the sound of the shot. A loud crack. A red hole opens up in her forehead. She stares blankly at me for a few moments, and then she falls backwards, a dead weight. The bone saw, still running, falls onto the social worker's leg and he silently screams.

My stomach wraps itself in a knot.

I wish I could close my eyes.

I can't speak. I don't want to speak. Maybe I've forgotten how. I'll probably speak again at some point. Montgomery was in for a long time, asking endless questions.

What a complete arsehole. Didn't seem to appreciate my silence. But I wasn't talking to him. I was barely even looking at him. My eyes might occasionally have been pointing in his direction, but I wasn't interested.

I'm in a hospital bed, but I'm not really sure why. The effects of the taser have worn off, I think. My head has been shaved, and my hand is in a cast, two things that don't normally make you bed ridden. Maybe I'm confined here because I'm not saying anything.

The Plague of Crows dropped like a stone and it was over. Just like that. Too late for the journalist, just in time for me and the social worker. Well, it ought to have been in time for the social worker. The police made the mistake of loosening his bonds before the paramedics got there, and he was freaking out. Started bleeding from his exposed cranium, dead by the time the ambulance turned up. If they'd just left him alone. If he'd just sat still.

They carefully cut away my bonds. I could have said, just fucking rip them, I don't give a shit. But I didn't. I didn't say anything. Still haven't. I expect that's why they think I might have gone a bit mental.

Montgomery really was an arsehole.

Have seen two doctors and several nurses. Lost track of time. Don't even know when they bandaged up my hand. It's not sore anymore, but maybe they've got me packed full of pain killers.

Maybe that's why I can't talk. Maybe that's why my brain is sludge.

But that's not it. I know. I thought I was going to get relief. I thought I'd be free, and that freedom was taken away.

I can't speak. I don't want to. My vocal chords, my brain, everything, is submerged beneath the weight of guilt and sorrow and self-loathing.

There's a television in the corner of the room. Small, placed too high on the wall. I haven't turned it on yet. A few nurses turned it on for me, as if they thought I was incapable. I put it off as soon as they left the room.

The door opens. Taylor walks in, looking slightly uncomfortable. Gostkowski is with him. I have no idea if this is the first time they've seen me. I don't even know what day it is, never mind who might have been in here.

They close the door. There are a couple of seats, but they won't be sitting down. I wonder which hospital this is.

'They think you've got PTSD,' says Taylor, after a few moments of silence.

Well, they're probably right. I've had it for nineteen years, it makes sense that someone would pick up on it eventually.

If I tell myself that's what I've had often enough…

'The Plague of Crows is dead,' he continues. Going straight for the facts, because he's not comfortable talking about me lying here like a dead weight. 'Stephanie picked up the fact that Clayton's sister-in-law had been working in the café across the road. We tracked her down, found where she kept all her stuff, did all her planning. She had a series of potential spots marked out for her next forest venue. I wasn't sure, but I realised that I'd been to all the places on the map that could be used during winter. She couldn't have known that I had already checked them out. We picked the six most likely and dispatched an armed unit to each. Not too heavy handed, didn't want the Crow getting away. Just ignored Montgomery on it, in case it was all a set-up. Given how much of an arsehole he'd become, he probably wouldn't have done anything anyway. So… you probably saw what happened. They were supposed to bring her in, but our guy… and I'm saying our guy, but it's not like I know who the fuck it was… made the call to take her out.'