Natália Gomes - Blackbird

NATÁLIA GOMES graduated from the University of Stirling with a BA in Media & Journalism Studies, and went on to receive her Master’s degree in Education in the US She currently works in a public school system to increase educational opportunities for students with special needs. Prior, Natália Gomes wrote for the London-based online student political magazine, deAlign and stage-managed student plays at the Lee Strasberg Theatre Institute in New York City where she attended for two years. Her first novel, Dear Charlie , was published in 2016, followed by Blackbird in 2017.

This book is for my sister, Olivia.

Your strength and grace amaze me.

BLACKBIRD PLAYLIST

SYML – ‘WHERE’S MY LOVE’

BON IVER – ‘SKINNY LOVE’

AMBER RUN – ‘I FOUND’

DERMOT KENNEDY – ‘AFTER RAIN’

JOHNNY CASH – ‘HURT’

KALEO – ‘ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS’

SYML – ‘BETTER’

DERMOT KENNEDY – ‘SHELTER’

LILY ALLEN – ‘SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNEW’

BELLE AND SEBASTIAN – ‘THE FOX IN THE SNOW’

BON IVER – ‘HOLOCENE’

SEAFRET – ‘OCEANS’

SIA – ‘BIRD SET FREE’

Cover

About the Author NATÁLIA GOMES graduated from the University of Stirling with a BA in Media & Journalism Studies, and went on to receive her Master’s degree in Education in the US She currently works in a public school system to increase educational opportunities for students with special needs. Prior, Natália Gomes wrote for the London-based online student political magazine, deAlign and stage-managed student plays at the Lee Strasberg Theatre Institute in New York City where she attended for two years. Her first novel, Dear Charlie , was published in 2016, followed by Blackbird in 2017.

Title Page

Prologue: 31.12.2015

Chapter One: 02.01.2016 (morning)

Chapter Two: 02.01.2016 (afternoon)

Chapter Three: 03.01.2016

Chapter Four: 04.01.2016

Chapter Five: 24.10.2015

Chapter Six: 04.01.2016

Chapter Seven: 05.01.2016

Chapter Eight: 06.01.2016

Chapter Nine: 07.01.2016

Chapter Ten: 08.01.2016

Chapter Eleven: 10.01.2016

Chapter Twelve: 10.01.2016

Chapter Thirteen: 11.01.2016

Chapter Fourteen: 12.01.2016

Chapter Fifteen: 12.01.2016

Chapter Sixteen: 13.01.2016

Chapter Seventeen: 14.01.2016

Chapter Eighteen: 14.01.2016

Chapter Nineteen: 15.01.2016

Chapter Twenty: 17.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-One: 19.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Two: 20.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Three: 21.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Four: 22.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Five: 30.12.2015

Chapter Twenty-Six: 23.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Seven: 24.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Eight: 24.01.2016

Chapter Twenty-Nine: 24.01.2016

Chapter Thirty: 31.12.2015

Chapter Thirty-One: 28.01.2016

Author Acknowledgements

Extract

Copyright

Thirty-first of December. The end of 2015. That was the night that five thousand blackbirds dropped dead from the sky just before midnight in Beebe, small-town America. Witnesses recalled a dark blanket descending upon the town just moments before the state of Arkansas was propelled into the year 2016. The blanket turned out to be a sheath of dead feathers and battered bodies.

A local preacher blamed it on us – on the evils of modern society. He said the deaths were symbolic of our sins, and that this was only the beginning of the consequences that would follow. Maybe the sudden unexplained death of a species representing freedom and hope really did indicate an ominous future for us all. My science teacher thinks the birds just flew into a jet engine, or that they died because of fireworks.

The southern states in the US went crazy. Locals stocked up on bottled water, first-aid kits and weapons. Some even fled their homes. News reporters broadcasted hysteria-inducing specials on this apocalyptic warning. It happened right in front of me, on my TV screen. I watched it all unfold from my living room in Orkney, like some late-night television drama. But it wasn’t. It was real, and it was scary.

I studied the behaviour of the common blackbird in a Life Science class once. I wrote a paper about the history of the species and how they symbolize hope in some European cultures. Many believe birds are the epitome of freedom. Their ability to spread their wings and migrate to a better place during the darker months is something we all envy. If my sister could fly, she’d fly far away from here, and never come back. But she can’t fly. And I’m happy about that.

The great Emily Dickinson once said so eloquently, ‘Hope is the thing with feathers.’

31 December 2015.

That was also the last night I saw my sister alive.

I lost everything that night.

And I haven’t been the same since. We all haven’t.

We used to spend every New Year’s Eve together, just the two of us. But then we began to drift slowly apart, the years driving us into adolescence and indifference. For years, we battled our way back to how we used to be, and we were there. We had made it. We were close once again, finding ourselves back where we started, just the two of us. We needed nothing else, no one else. We weren’t just sisters. We were best friends.

31 December 2015.

We were supposed to spend this one together. It was special for us. I’d picked a movie, bought popcorn – the kind you microwave in a paper bag until it puffs and expands. She’d gone out to see her friends but she’d planned to be back for ten o’clock.

I waited for her. Until half past, until eleven, and even until midnight. I waited in the living room where I could see and hear the front door. The DVD box sat on the floor by the TV unopened. The bag of popcorn lay beside it.

I waited.

But she never came back.

She still hasn’t come back.

My name is Alex. I am fifteen years old, and I don’t know where my sister is.

Or if she will ever come back.

All I know is that my sister was last seen sometime before 10 p.m. on New Year’s Eve two miles from where I stood, watching footage of the birds falling from the sky on our small TV screen in our small living room in a small house on a small island, too far from reality.

They say you can sense when someone you love is in pain or has died. But I feel nothing. So she can’t be hurt or dead, right? Even that night, I didn’t feel any different going to bed, and I didn’t even worry when Dad said she hadn’t come home that night. I assumed she had stayed over at a friend’s house. I figured she had lost track of time, but my parents were worried. I told them not to be and that she’d be back later that day. I was wrong. She didn’t come back. She still hasn’t come home.

After they called the police, it was in the local papers that very evening – ‘Local Girl Missing’. She wasn’t missing. She had just forgotten to call, or something. Missing sounds like she’s dead. Who called the newspaper? How do they know things before we do?

I remember the doorbell ringing, and walking slowly to answer it. I remember turning the knob and pulling the door open, expecting to see my sister’s smiling face. But it wasn’t her. It was two policemen. One was older, scruffy-looking. He was the one that was clutching a small spiral-bound notepad in his hands. But it was the younger one who took my parents’ statement.

I watched as my mother put her hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs as she and my dad spoke softly to them. They told the officers that my sister had gone to a party with her friends and not come home. They told them they were worried about her. They told them they were scared. They hadn’t told me that. They had told me that there was nothing to worry about, that she’d come home. But now they’re lying. Or did they lie to me?