Crows

When we finally reached the port of Dublin the crows that had been gathering throughout our journey were so many that the sky was black. At first sight, you could almost believe that it was past sunset, but my watch told me it was only mid-morning. We were glad to get on board the ferry, hoping to
leave the dark flock behind. The boat was filled with tourists – Germans, Americans, English, as well as lorry drivers from all over Europe.

Through the lounge window I could see a lone jogger, running in the gloom along the length of the harbour causeway, almost as though he was racing us as the Ferry slowly moved out into the open sea. ]

I feared for his safety, out there alone, under the sky filled with crows and wondered, not
for the first time, why the collective noun for crows is ‘a murder’. Then the cloud seemed to funnel down as a group flocked around the jogger. He struggled to reach the lighthouse which marked the entrance to the port. I watched him fighting off the vicious birds – it was impossible – there were too many. Looking away for a moment, feeling sick, when I looked back, he was gone from view. Perhaps it was
just in my imagination – I looked around at the other passengers but no-one else seemed concerned at all, each wrapped up in their own conversations which seemed to get louder and louder.
Four hours later, having crossed the Irish Sea, leaving behind what I’d convinced myself was, in fact, a dream – a nightmare brought on by the long journey which had taken us to Dublin overnight, we docked in Holyhead.

We disembarked ahead of the other passengers, smug on the motorcycle which was so much more easy to travel on than in a car and rode swiftly out into the countryside, making our way to Liverpool.
The wind in my face as we rode across North Wales blew away any trace of the nightmare and when the sun came out, all seemed perfect again.
There’s nothing like fish and chips by the seaside. When we stopped at Rhyl we left our crash helmets on the bike and sat on the promenade. The evening sun was still warm, the cool breeze from the sea welcome. We unwrapped out chips as we gazed out at the horizon. In the distance I could see what I
thought was a tanker but as I watched it seemed to grow. “It’s moving too fast for a tanker,” I said.
“What’s that?” asked Mark, taking his attention away from his crispy batter. I pointed.
“Bloody Hell, that’s weird,” he said. And it was, terrifyingly weird. As it grew closer, a chill settled in my stomach – I had seen this before. Moving so fast and heading towards the shore where we sat – the crows! I dropped my chips and struggled to get to my feet. I ran, clumsily in motorcycle trousers, not made for ease of movement. Mark grabbed my hand and dragged me along. We stumbled and I found myself falling – off the promenade and onto the shingle beach. Still, he pulled me up and
pushing, and pulling now, we managed to find ourselves under the pier. For some strange quirk of fate, the birds swooped straight overhead, missing us as they headed inland. We noticed the sky was lightening. They had gone.
Still shaken, we held each other, wondering what devilish act had caused the crows to act like this. But we needed to get home. The prospect of another week travelling on the bike had lost its appeal and we could be home in a few hours, so we abandoned our plans, got on the bike and made for the
motorway to Portsmouth.

Again, being on the bike, riding through the peace of the countryside, helped to push away thoughts of what had happened. After a few miles, it all seemed again like a bad dream. I knew I had a vivid imagination so perhaps this was just another of my stories, conjured up for amusement.
There’s nothing as good as arriving back in Portsmouth after being away. Riding to the top of Portsdown Hill, it’s always nice to pause and look down at our home, something that always lifts the spirits. It was dark by the time we reached this point and as we paused, we looked down at the myriad of lights that is Portsmouth at night. We didn’t notice the black patch of darkness at first, then we saw that it was moving,
moving slowly over the island city, as though looking for something, searching, searching across the rooftops of our home.
Making our way down the hillside, and then across the island to Southsea, I wondered what the hell was happening, but it was when we arrived at the end of our street that I knew we could never go home. A massive cloud of crows had settled across the whole of the road, covering the houses, the walls and all of the vehicles parked in the street. In the darkness, I heard nothing but the rustle of feathers as wings
shifted and settled for the night. Then, a quiet whimpering, the sound of a child’s nightmare, I thought, but no, it was moving towards us along the pavement – a figure, completely covered in those huge black birds.