Barry Hutchison - The Crowmaster

And the monster perched on top of my bag was no budgie. For a start it must’ve been about fifty centimetres in length. Its beak was long and curved, with short feathery tufts covering the top. Its legs were long and spindly, tapering at the bottom into sharp-looking claws.

The feathers, the legs, the beak; no part of the bird was any other shade but black. It didn’t just look like a crow, it was a perfect example of crowness . Like something from a creepy fairy tale. Or – I realised with a shudder – a horror story.

‘Right, come on, shift,’ I urged, clapping my hands loudly and shuffling towards my bag. The bird gave a faint caw , then hopped into the air. It appeared to beat its wings only once, but that was enough to carry it up to the roof of the station building. It perched there, watching with its dark eyes, as I picked up my bag and made my way back to Marion’s car.

‘You got it then,’ Marion said, as I clambered into the passenger seat. The inside of her car was as neat and tidy as it was chilly. I slipped my seatbelt on and pulled my jacket tightly around me. Somehow it felt colder inside the car than it did outside.

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