A Plague Of Crows

'To me, they're the rats of the sky,' he says. 'They'll eat anything. I'm never like… holy shit, a crow ate that? The thing a crow won't touch, that's the thing that surprises me.'

You know that saying about police officers looking younger as you get older? Well, it's not like us older police officers don't think that about all the spotty barely post-pubescent kids who pitch up in uniform on a daily basis, but in reality it applies to every walk of life. Like university professors, for example. This guy looks about twenty-three, and you can tell by the way he talks he's priming himself to be on some fucking documentary about birds on BBC4; a documentary that ultimately will be about him. Like there, I asked him a question about crows, and in his brief answer he mentioned himself three times. That's what they're all like these days.

'So you think that if a crow is hanging around in a tree, and it looks down and sees exposed brain, it's just going to swoop on down there for breakfast?'

He smiles, as if he's smiling at the camera. He's going to use the word extraordinary in a moment.

'It's extraordinary,' he says. 'And I'll say this. To me crows are the most intelligent birds in Britain. Those guys are just shit-smart. If I'm walking along a street, a crow will make a determination about how threatening I am. Sure, at the last second, he'll get out my way just in case. But if I've got a gun, or anything that might look like a weapon, that sucker'll see it and it'll be off much faster. Now, they're animals, and like all animals they constantly want one thing. Food. That's all they're interested in, except obviously when they're trying to get laid. But food's their number one priority. I've seen crows peck at anything. Anything. They don't give a shit. If, after a peck, they don't like it, then sure, they'll move on. But in my experience, it's pretty rare that they move on.'

'So you're saying they'd eat brains?'

'Not only am I saying they'd eat brains, they'd recognise that there was no implicit threat in a human who was bound and gagged. And even if they were wary, we're talking about a flock of crows, man, and one of those suckers is going to get brave enough to come and have a look, and as soon as that happens, and he doesn't get nailed in some way, that's when the others follow.'

'You ever been on TV?' I ask.

That one came out of the blue for him but he takes it in his stride and smiles.

'I've got a show in development with the BBC,' he says. 'Not been green-lit yet though. I'm still waiting. Apparently with that lot you wait and wait and wait and then suddenly someone higher up says, yeah, we'll take this, can we have it in the schedule in eight months? And everyone starts running around in a panic.'

'Maybe now that everyone's talking about crows you'll have an in,' I say.

'Oh, my show's not about birds, it's me trying to survive on nothing but insects in the Amazon for two months. It'll be, like, my most amazing adventure ever.'

*

The younger generation, that lot you see on television all the time, I reckon they pick their career based on what they think is most likely to get them on television in the first place. Or else they elect to not have a career, other than a career based around trying to get into television. Rather chew my face off than be on TV.

The next chap is at least more traditional. Two offices along the corridor from Talbot. Older, not a professor. Dr Weinstein. Wearing a shirt, bow tie and waistcoat. That's the kind of thing you want from an old duffer at a university. Now this guy might well go on TV, but if he did, he'd talk with enthusiasm on the subject that the show was about, not My Part In The Evolution Of The Species, in the way that they all do now.

'Yes, pretty much,' he says eventually. I'd asked if crows would eat anything, as it appears to be the general consensus. He could have answered immediately, but likes to think things over before committing himself. I like this chap. Bet he's a Dylan fan. 'It's understandable where you must be going with this. Is it possible that some fellow might be in a position to manipulate these birds. Has he trained them or…' and he waves his hand in a dismissive manner '… is he able to control them? Maybe he keeps them in cages and lets them out beside the victims. Yes, it's understandable what you might be thinking, and I've given it a lot of thought since speaking to your colleague in the summer. But really… they are the vermin of the sky. They will, genuinely, eat anything. And once one of them has the courage to investigate a possible food source, and it proves successful, then that will just open up the floodgates.'

He stares across the desk. I left the station forty minutes ago, full of energy and bravado and sure that a positive attitude would help bring a positive development. But what had I been expecting at this stage? For one of these guys to say, 'Well, as a matter of fact, these crows are showing just the kind of exceptional behaviours learned through extensive training, and there's only one man in the whole of Europe capable of manipulating an avian species to that extent. You need Dr Hans Wankoff of the University of St Andrews. Here's his phone number.'

I just need to keep going. Someone, somewhere, might have something to add. Something different. This guy, despite being all the more professional and a much easier person to talk to, is just saying the same stuff as the last guy. Perhaps they all will.

'You like Dylan?' I ask.

He stares blankly across the desk.

21

I have a list of eleven people to talk to in and around Glasgow. From the professors and the civil servants to the enthusiastic amateurs.

The opinion on crows appears to be fairly universal. They will eat any old shit. Including brains.

Make it back to the station just after one.

I'd left Taylor with the brain tools information, and he's spent the morning with that, making calls, trying to extend the little information that we have into something more meaningful.

'How we doing?' I ask.

'Nothing new. Got four officers, as we wanted, sent them out with instructions to find the perfect secluded woods, crows' nests combo. And to keep schtum. You?'

'Crows are as crows do,' I say.

'No one willing to go out on a limb and say that we're clearly in an Emma Peel type situation?'

'Not so far. The consensus is pretty much as we had in the summer. Give a crow something a bit shiny and gloopy looking and they'll be all over it.'

'People have started killing them,' says Taylor.

'What?'

'We've had a couple of reports this morning. Morrow called around a few other stations and they're getting the same kind of thing. It'll make the news by the end of the day.'

'People are killing crows?'

He nods.

'So they don't get their brains eaten?'

He nods.

'Jesus. People are so…'

'I know. First report was of a guy shooting them in the woods behind his garden.'

'Woods on our list?'

'No. Too small, too populated. Neighbours reported him, we show up, he's shooting crows with a hand gun. Missed more than he hit, but he appeared to have plenty of ammunition.'

'Did he have a licence for the gun?'

Shakes his head. 'Said he was doing a public service.'

'Didn't take to being arrested, I suppose.'

'Not at all. The fault appears to be ours. Then there were a couple of kids throwing rocks at crows. Didn't get any, but they did put in a few windows. They told Constable Forsyth to take a fuck to himself, that they were doing the police's job for them.'

Big sigh. Need food. Enthusiasm slips away at the thought of heading out to do more speculative interviews with crow experts afterwards. There are so many people not really worth saving.

'Lunch?' I ask.