The Crowmaster. Barry Hutchison

I immediately swung it back down again, realising I may as well leave it beneath the plastic shelter while I went for a look around. It wasn’t like it had anything worth stealing in it, and even if it had, there was nobody around to steal it.

      The steps leading down from the platform were little more than cleverly arranged boulders. I picked my way down them, holding on to the rough stone wall of the station building for support.

      There was no path at the bottom, but a track had been worn through the tangle of grass and heather that surrounded the building. A soft wind swished through the foliage, and I realised its whispers were the only sound I could hear.

      I was completely alone – further away from any other human being than I had ever been in my life. There was nothing but me, the landscape and the flock of birds circling far, far above my head. It was strangely relaxing.

      The track curved around the back of the station building. I followed it, almost skipping along, until I realised I wasn’t actually alone at all.

      A battered old Morris Minor estate car stood in the small car park behind the station. The building shielded the four-space parking zone, making it impossible to see from the platform.

      The car was dark blue, with occasional spots of brown rust. Its entire rear end was clad with panels of varnished wood, giving the impression it was half car, half walk-in wardrobe.

      I knew right away it had to be Marion’s. I couldn’t remember much about Mum’s cousin, but I remembered enough to know this was exactly the type of thing she was likely to drive.

      The front door swung open and my suspicions were confirmed. Marion’s prematurely grey head popped up on the other side of the roof. One of the few things I could remember about her was the colour of her eyes. They were a striking shade of bright blue. They almost shone as she fixed me with a glare, gave me a curt nod, then stared down at my empty hands.

      ‘No luggage?’

      ‘What? Oh. Um, hi, Marion,’ I smiled. ‘I left my bag up there. I didn’t think…’

      She nodded again and climbed back into the car. The door closed behind her with a thunk.

      ‘I’ll just go and get it, shall I?’ I muttered. I waited for a moment to see if she’d pop back up. She didn’t, so I turned and backtracked up to the platform.

      When I got there I found another surprise waiting for me. An oily-black crow sat perched on top of my bag. Its wings were folded in against its back, and its head was tilted slightly to one side. The bird’s dark, beady eyes stared at me as I scurried up the stone steps and stopped.

      ‘Shoo,’ I said, stamping my foot hard on the ground. The bird didn’t flinch. I took a few steps closer and stamped my foot again, harder this time. The crow tilted its head further to the side, but otherwise did nothing.

      We watched each other for almost a minute, while I tried to figure out what to do next. I’m not keen on birds, not since the budgie we had when I was three got its claws tangled in my hair. My memory of the thing flapping and pecking at my head as it tried to get free is hazy, but even now, when I get up close to anything with feathers, I can feel myself getting nervous.

      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.