Free The Darkening by Stephen Irwin

morning. The dead bird outside the woods. The bird with no head . . . or with a strange head of woven sticks and its own scrawny legs. He had wanted to tell Tristram about it on the way home from school Thursday and Friday, but Suzette had been with them and he didn’t want to freak her out with gory talk about birds with legs cut off and the weirdos who did such things. She was really easy to upset right now; for instance, she hated walking home past the shops, but wouldn’t explain why. And, to be honest, he didn’t know how to phrase the story about the bird. He wanted to sound cool about it, matter-of-fact. But he also wanted his best friend to know how creepy it was, how the sight of it - not just limp and dead, but so helpless and mutilated - had made his stomach grip tight with unexplainable fear.
    ‘I found a dead bird down near the woods.’
    Tristram tore the sticky tape off with his teeth and secured track to the telephone books. ‘So?’
    ‘It had its head and legs cut off.’
    He watched for Tristram’s reaction. This would be the decider: if Tris’s expression was serious, Nicholas could finish the tale with its bizarre ending. But if he wore his ‘what bullshit’ look, he would shrug the story off and change the subject to a cool book about Tiger tanks he’d found in the library. Tristram looked up, and Nicholas felt a wave of warmth for his friend: his expression was both serious and inquisitive.
    ‘Yeah? Cut off like by a mower cut off? They mow that grass out front.’
    Nicholas shook his head. ‘Cut off, cut off. On purpose.’
    He described how the bird’s head was gone and replaced with a handmade sphere of woven twigs, the poor creature’s legs as horns and the strange symbol painted there in what had to be blood. By the time he’d finished, Nicholas’s voice had dropped to a whisper and his heart was thudding in his chest.
    ‘And?’ asked Tristram. They knew each other well enough to know when things were still unsaid.
    ‘And I think . . .’ Nicholas bit his lip and frowned. ‘I think something came up behind me.’ From the woods. He shook his head. ‘But I don’t remember. I remember smelling something bad, and then I ran home.’
    ‘Was it . . . was it a grown-up?’
    Nicholas thought about that. ‘I don’t know. I think so. Whatever it was, it felt . . . it felt big. And old.’
    Tristram nodded, chewed his lip. ‘Did I tell you I found a cat down there? When we first moved in, before we were friends. A dead cat on the gravel path.’
    Nicholas shook his head.
    ‘It was just bones really,’ said Tristram. His voice dropped steadily to a whisper. ‘Dead for ages. Orange fur, all dried up like a mummy. But it was a mess. Its paws were cut off.’
    Nicholas stared. He didn’t mind being trumped - cat beat bird hands down. Besides, Tristram wasn’t showing off, not this time. In fact, this was the first time he could ever remember Tristram looking . . . well, so worried.
    ‘Did you tell your parents?’
    ‘Tell your parents what?’ asked Mrs Boye, emerging from the shadows of the hallway carrying two fruit cordials and a plate of TeeVee Snacks. She was what Nicholas would describe in later years as a stately woman: well-dressed, well-spoken, well-educated. Utterly humourless.
    ‘That we’re going to make some noise,’ said Tristram without missing a beat.
    He turned to Nicholas and shot him a wink that Mrs Boye couldn’t see. Nicholas smiled to himself - Tris was one smooth bastard.
    ‘Well, we’d rather you didn’t,’ said Mrs Boye, surveying the ramps. ‘Your father’s had a big week and we’re going to have a rest.’
    Mr Boye was a Businessman who worked for an Investment Company and often had to Extend Himself on Behalf of the Firm on evenings and at weekends, so if he and Mrs Boye wanted a rest, then total silence was expected of the Boye boys.
    ‘Why don’t you go to Nicholas’s house?’ she asked Tristram.
    Never mind asking me , thought