Several months have now passed since that day, but its events have been far-reaching, for the sudden upsurge of power contributed by the Carter twins has tipped the balance from the manageable level to the dangerous. Nor, on subsequent visits, have we been able to establish any coherent links with them and such messages as we receive are garbled; wild imagery and disconnected ramblings. Perhaps, as Eve feared, our first visit had unhinged them further, or perhaps the power they contribute has diminished them in some way. It may even be that, having established the longed-for contact, they are content to let lucidity slip away again; a kind of heathen “Nunc dimittis”.
For myself, I no longer seem to have any discrimination in the way I use my influence, satisfying passing whims rather than adhering to the “grand design” with which I’d originally set out. Once, I clamped a boy’s mind shut during an important test, because I’d overheard him making a snide remark about me. I didn’t even realize what I’d done till I found him in tears afterwards.
Philip is finding the same thing, but with more serious consequences. One afternoon I came back from school to find him with a glass of whisky in his hand.
“Starting a bit early, aren’t you lad?” I chided lightly, trying to hide my disquiet.
“I’ve just killed someone,” he said.
I felt for a chair and sat down abruptly, my eyes on his face.
“He was desperately ill but I knew what the trouble was, and how to save him. I deliberately did nothing and he died before my eyes. My God, Matthew, what’s the matter with me!”
I shook my head. “Remember asking me if I thought we were being used? We both know the answer now.”
“But why in this way? What’s the point in destroying life?”
“It’s a symbol of power, that’s all. An arbitrary toss of the dice. Yesterday you might have elected to save him, today you didn’t.”
He took another gulp of his drink. “Power like that is only justifiable if it’s used for good.”
“Is it even then? Remember our plans for a Utopia, the healthiest people, the brightest pupils? The trouble is that power works both ways; it affects the one who wields it as well as his subject. We should have thought about that before we stockpiled so much of it.”
The television set in the corner crackled into life and Fred Hardacre’s face materialized on the screen. “Tonight at the Crow’s Nest. Seven-thirty.”
Philip and I hadn’t moved. After a moment he said flatly, “We’ve all infected one another, battened on each other to increase our own faculties. It’s – grotesque.”
“If we went away –”
He gave a short laugh. “Too late, Matthew. It was always too late. We’ll have to see it through.”
The day after this conversation, because I felt there ought to be some record of how it all built up, I started to write this account. I’m almost up to date now and I daren’t go on much longer. The controlling power is exerting considerable pressure to make me destroy it and I’m finding it harder and harder to resist. Just a few more pages, and then I’ll stop.
In all these months Philip and I have never again discussed Madeleine. I don’t think either of us dares to. Our three-way friendship continues but I don’t seem any nearer to winning her round. Sometimes I catch Philip looking at her and there’s a terrible fear in me.
Granny Lee has been down to the village several times lately. I don’t know why, she never speaks to anyone. We found her once standing on the corner of Ash Street, that obscene bird perched on her shoulder, staring up at our windows. I heard from Eve that she’d been hanging round the Greystones too and George had to ask her to move away because she was alarming the guests. Not to mention poor Anita: she hasn’t been too well these last months.
Philip has finally stopped his long-standing visits to the camp. The need for them is gone, since the boys come to all our meetings now, but privately I think he was finding it impossible to face Granny’s crow. To my shame, I still resent his closeness to the Smiths, particularly since with their glossy black hair and bright eyes they resemble a pair of crows themselves. Which reminds me of an episode a week or two ago, which caused me acute embarrassment:
One Saturday Madeleine and I set out with packs on our backs to walk up the mountain alongside the lake. It was a gorgeous day, clear and bright and with no trace of the mist which occasionally conceals the peaks. The ground was firm and springy and it was exhilarating to feel the tug of muscles as we made our steady progress.
“We’ll be coming to the waterfall in a few minutes,” she told me. “It’s possible to walk round it; there’s a rickety little fence screening the drop, but it’s safe enough if you’ve a head for heights.”
Crowswater Falls were spectacular. We went in single file up the narrow gorge while the torrent, swollen by the rains of a generally wet summer, hurtled in spumes of spray to the lake far below. Here, amid the overhanging foliage, it was dim and damp, and lush ferns grew along with a few marshy flowers. The roar of the water made conversation impossible. When we came out at the top of the ravine and the path branched upwards again on to the open hillside, we laughed aloud for sheer exuberance.
I felt more relaxed than I had for months. Up here alone with Madeleine it was possible briefly to forget the strains and anxieties which were now so much a part of everyday life. But I was not to be allowed to forget them for long.
We stopped for our picnic in the lee of a barren crag, which afforded some shelter from the stiff easterly breeze. The view before us was breathtaking. We were roughly midway down the lake, and from this height it was possible to see the cluster of houses that was Crowthorpe rising up the slope at one end, while on our left the more concentrated buildings of Barrowick were also visible.
We ate hungrily; chunks of new bread and cheese, crisp apples and slices of pink ham. And when we’d finished I tossed what little remained of our feast in the direction of a small inquisitive bird. At the same moment there was a sudden flapping sound and to my horror a large crow landed on the rock immediately behind us. I started to my feet, knocking over the vacuum flask, and leapt to the other side of the clearing.
“Whatever’s the matter?” Madeleine asked in surprise. “It’s only after the food!”
But the bird, aware of my discomfiture, started flapping its wings and uttering a high-pitched rasping screech which seared into my brain. I clasped my hands to my ears and the creature suddenly swooped down at me, filling my nostrils with its rank dusty odour, the wind from its wing-beats blasting in my eyes. It was then that I screamed and Madeleine, her face white and uncomprehending, finally succeeded in chasing it away.
Sweating, nauseous, shaken beyond all reason, I sank to the ground and sat with my head in my hands, my breath tearing through my lungs like dry, convulsive sobs. I was too ashamed to face Madeleine, but after a moment she sat beside me and I felt her arms come round my shaking body. Gently she pulled me against her, cradling my head against her breast and murmuring soothing platitudes while the thunderous pounding of my heart gradually abated.
“I’m sorry,” I said thickly at last. “That was quite an exhibition, wasn’t it?”
“I’d no idea you felt like that about birds. You’ve always seemed to like them.”
“It’s only crows.”
“Big birds, you mean?”
“Not ‘big birds’; not ostriches, flamingos, eagles, pelicans, storks or dodos. Only crows.”
Her fingers were still moving gently over my forehead and as the last of the panic receded I caught her hand, pulling her down into my arms. She must have understood that my wild kisses were partly reaction, because she allowed them to go on longer than usual. Even so, I didn’t want to accept her limits.
“Maddy, I love you! Don’t you care for me at all?”
“You know I do, Matthew.”
“It’s been two years now. Surely I mean something to you?”
“Of course you do.”
“More than Philip?” I hadn’t meant to say it.
I felt her surprise but she replied calmly, “I know you better, don’t I?”
It was not the answer I wanted, and I said unfairly, “He has this crow phobia too.” I didn’t intend my disgraceful behaviour to be to Philip’s advantage.
“What started it, do you know?”
“It’s something we’ve always had. No doubt there’s some Freudian explanation. I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself.”
“Don’t be silly, you couldn’t help it.”
“That’s no comfort.” I rubbed my hands over my face. “I could use a stiff drink but I spilled even the last of the coffee!”
“Do you want to go on, or shall we turn back?”
“We’ll go on,” I said.
So we continued our climb, but the day was spoiled. I knew my irrational behaviour had disturbed Madeleine and I even blamed her for having been there to witness it. Nor was my discomposure limited to that afternoon. During the week that followed I was constantly on edge and my resulting lack of judgment led to a course of action I instantly regretted.
Glancing at a newspaper during a free period, I came across a review of Jason Guinn’s play which had just changed theatres, and its title, Clouded Crystal, vividly recalled the American professor and his talk of Macbeth prophecies. Almost without thought, I tore a page from one of the exercise books in the pile at my elbow and wrote in large block letters:
IF YOU STILL DOUBT THE EXISTENCE OF MACBETH PROPHECIES, COME TO CROWTHORPE AND SEE ONE FULFILLING ITSELF!
I found a used envelope in the waste paper basket, scrawled out the address and substituted Quinn’s name, care of the theatre where his play was running. I sealed it with sticky tape, then, before I could change my mind, went straight out and posted it in the pillar box at the corner of Broad Walk.
Almost immediately, I wished I could reclaim it. It was a childish thing to have done and I hadn’t even had the courage to sign my name. I told myself that Jason Quinn must be used to anonymous letters and would pay no attention to it, and with that bleak comfort I had to be content.
The summer crawls on. I’ve developed the habit of going for long, solitary walks over the fells. I have this compulsion to keep testing myself, to see if on my next encounter with a crow I could make better account of myself. Then what? Should I run to Madeleine and say like a child, ‘Look – this time I wasn’t afraid!’?
Philip came in the other day while I was working on this account. It was the first time he’s found me with it since I usually write in my room at night.
“What’s that?” he asked curiously.
“A record of the things that have happened since we came to Crowthorpe. A kind of diary, really.”
“Evidence for the prosecution?”
“Perhaps.”
He said uneasily, “You’re not putting everything down, are you?”
“Most of it. It’s no use unless it’s a full account.”
He shrugged and turned away. “Well, if you’ve nothing better to do with your time ...”
But this afternoon when I came in from school I found him in my room with the papers in his hand. He turned sharply as I entered.
“You’ve certainly been dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. Do you think it’s wise?”
With forced calm I took the papers out of his hand. “It won’t do us any harm. If anyone ever reads it, we’ll be well out of their reach.”
He frowned. “You talk in riddles these days.”
I made some noncommittal reply and the moment passed. But it was a warning I can’t afford to ignore. I was aware the power might compel me to destroy this, but I’d overlooked the possibility of its using Philip. Perhaps if I’d been a few minutes later he might have removed it, taken it away somewhere to burn or tear up at his leisure. Because Philip is as deeply committed in all this as I am, and as much in thrall to whatever it is that governs us.
So this page will be my last entry. Tomorrow I shall parcel it up and take it to the bank with instructions that it be held unopened till Philip’s and my death. Thereafter, it is to be handed to Douglas Braithwaite to deal with as he thinks fit.
So, Douglas, if the time ever comes for you to read this, say a prayer for all the Crowthorpe twins. We shall have need of it.