When Things Went Wild by Tom Mitchell

Author:Tom Mitchell [Mitchell, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2022-05-30T12:00:00+00:00

‘So who killed Adler?’ asked Jack.

Back home that afternoon, I lay on my bed. He sat at the end. Too far away to kick. We could hear Mum’s raised voice downstairs. Dad’s was too quiet to hear, but it was only a matter of time before their argument, like an expanding black hole, dragged us both in. Jack had just about forgiven me for not telling him about the eagle earlier.

‘Well … I’m guessing Macnab, Mosby or Mr Cavendish.’

Jack rolled his eyes.

‘Don’t get smart with me. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’ Pause. ‘Mosby had that tattoo. He said he wouldn’t kill an eagle.’

‘People get tattoos for all kinds of reasons,’ I said. ‘Dan from Nottingham, his dad had too much to drink one Saturday and got a picture of Winona Ryder on his arm.’

‘Who’s Winona Ryder?’

‘Exactly.’

A silence descended on the room, like a thumb squashing a bug.

‘We need evidence,’ I said eventually. ‘And we should think about motive too. Why would they kill eagles? Why would anyone?’

‘You wouldn’t even kill a pigeon.’

I gave him the look. One that suggested that I might not be willing to inflict violence upon animals, but younger brothers were a completely different proposition.

If you could have seen me, if you could have heard me, you’d have noticed something. I was a new man (okay, boy). I cared about something. Well, I already cared about a lot of things. For instance, I cared what people thought of me; I cared about lie-ins; I cared about not having watched many sci-fi films recently. But, in particular, now I also cared about golden eagles. There was one, at least, out there somewhere. And I cared about it not going the same way as Adler – an eagle about which I’d written zero words for my project, but who was beginning to live rent free in my head.

Further feelings update: I felt good about not shooting the pigeons. Mainly because of Tamora, but more widely too. Imagine how much of a hero I’d be if I saved the eagle. The pigeons had been easy because it involved me not doing something (pulling the trigger). The golden eagle would require action. And I didn’t have a great track record for doing things in that department.

Jack spoke. ‘We already know some motives. Macnab said that eagles kill lambs, and he’s a farmer. And they also kill grouse, and that’s how Mosby and Mr Cavendish make their money, so …’

‘We need something linking them to the crime. Like, do they have CCTV cameras on the moors?’

‘What about my photo?’ asked Jack. ‘Maybe it was the same eagle you saw? Or another one even?’

‘That’s proof of a bird. It’s not proof of a crime. Anyway, your picture was of a buzzard. The farmer said.’

And then a thought appeared like a sudden and unexpected text message: why did I trust a man who dumped freaky vegetables on people’s doorsteps? A man who looked like a chicken? A man with at least one black tooth? A man who might have killed an eagle? Maybe he wanted us to think it was a buzzard.

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