A Plague Of Crows

know, like we're shit.'

'Aye. That might be because we've got a chip on our shoulder, but whatever it is, aye, feel it every damn time.'

Montgomery and his crew still haven't moved on, although they must be close. There isn't a lot of point in them being here as opposed to back at their own ranch, but this case is his nemesis — and we all know about that — and it's as though he feels he needs to stay here until it's solved. I've no idea what kind of behind-the-scenes manoeuvres have taken place to try to facilitate it or whether there've been any discussions on whether he should be replaced. What I do know is that three weeks ago there was a sympathetic lifestyle piece on Montgomery in the Saturday edition of the Scotsman. It was entitled something along the lines of The Tortured Copper. Fuck me. And that was the paper that in January printed a front page photo of him under the headline Always The Last To Crow.

Taylor taps his fingers again. Stares randomly at the desk. I glance around the office. The usual hubbub of noise, of police officers and administrative staff going about their business. Notice Mrs Lownes across the office, on her way to deliver something to the Superintendent.

'I miss hearing about your sexual exploits,' says Taylor, as if reading my thoughts. 'It's the closest I got to having sex in the last two years.'

He turns at that and walks away. Shoulders hunched.

The phone rings. The display indicates that it's DCI Dorritt. I stare at it for a moment, but given that Dorritt is sitting in Taylor's old office, which is no more than fifteen yards away and has glass walls, and therefore he will be watching me as I watch the phone ring, I can't really pretend I'm out of the room.

37

After the third Plague of Crows event, the police and local authorities across Scotland implemented a scheme whereby everyone considered to be under threat was issued with a panic bracelet. Yes, a panic bracelet. To be worn at all times.

They intended doing this after the second batch of killings, but of course, couldn't just go out and order some panic alarms or tags or whatever. They had to go through due process. A consultation to decide the best way to track each member of staff, and then an open competition to find the provider of the service. Can't do anything that's publicly funded without going out to tender.

All that meant the system wasn't in place by the time the third batch of murders occurred. However, it's now in order. They decided they couldn't track several thousand people on an individual basis, that the only sure fire way to do it was to put an implant in their head or something. Not really practical.

They considered a panic alarm that you'd have on your key ring or round your neck or something, but they sensibly realised that eventually you're going to forget where it is or what you've done with it or you'll get out of the habit of wearing it or taking it everywhere.

So they hit on the bracelet idea. You put it on, you never take it off. It contains a tracking device and an inbuilt panic button. So that it won't be constantly set off accidentally, there are two buttons, which have to be pressed in a short sequence of three to set off the alarm. The only way to remove the bracelet is to pull it apart, and if the circle of the bracelet is broken then the alarm is triggered.

Is anyone happy about this? Fuck, of course they're not. No one likes it. Virtually every officer you meet says he'd prefer to take his chances. It feels like some kind of weird futuristic shit. Fucking Blade Runner kind of shit. No one wants that.

They reckon it's foolproof, however, which of course means it won't be. Wherever we are, it should be with us, and if we get into trouble, then we call for help. Should we get the opportunity.

They were so up themselves with the foolproofness of the whole idea, they happily announced what they'd done on TV. Wanted to show Scotland how seriously they were taking it, and how much they were determined to protect their staff. Or, if you wanted to take a different point of view, they wanted to show the Plague of Crows what they were doing, so that the next time he could come prepared.

If they'd just shut the fuck up about the fucking bracelets, it might be that the Plague of Crows never even noticed. They're pretty cool looking. They're not some clunky 1970's piece of plastic, looking like they came off the set of Blake's 7. They look like they were bought out of a surfing shop, something like that, which no doubt was one of the things that contributed to them costing the government over £550 each.

But ultimately, that's what this is all about. That's what the government are thinking. They want to be seen to be doing something. Politicians are incapable of taking measures and not telling everyone what they've done. What would be the point in that? What's the point in doing good then the public not knowing anything about it? Being seen to get involved is even more important than getting involved in the first place.

A lot of muttering that the damn bracelets will stay even once the Plague of Crows is caught; if he's ever caught. They will argue that it's for the well-being of their officers. I doubt it, but at the same time, wouldn't put it past the bastards.

There was some discussion with the National Union of Journalists about whether all their members in Scotland would be equally tagged, and they came back with a collective fuck off. They probably all want to be the next journalist selected, because they will all have that basic human belief in infallibility and will believe that they'll be the one to escape, and then they'll be the one to break the story.

Ultimately, they had the choice, so said no. We weren't given the choice.

For the first few days the bracelet was a pain in the arse. Felt like I had a camera trained on me. Now, of course, I don't care. It's just there. I presume there isn't someone sitting in a massive room somewhere — in India, if anywhere — following my every move, thinking, ah, he's sitting in again tonight, the sad lonely fucker or, ah, I see he's made once again for Glasgow's infamous red light district.

Same as everybody else, I've stopped caring.

The one positive of not working full time on the Plague of Crows is that work finishes at a normal time. We're doing twelve-hour days, instead of seventeen or eighteen. The bad part of that is that it shows even more how miserable and empty my life is, because I've got fuck-all to do with the extra time I have in the evening. I want to do something other than sit at home eating a fish supper, drinking vodka and watching crap TV, but I don't know what it is. Anything I think of just makes me feel like some desperate middle-aged loser having some sort of mid-life crisis, and trying to think of something new and worthy to do now that the autumn years of my puff are fast approaching.

So, instead, I do nothing, and in dark moments tell myself I'm happy doing nothing, and that the reason I don't try to give myself anything more interesting to do is because I'm happy being a fat, slobby useless bastard who hates his job and does fuck-all with himself.

Last summer, long weeks of climbing hills and sleeping under the clouds and stars, and of hunting food and living in the wild, seems like more than a lifetime ago. I rarely think about it, and I never, ever, wake up dreaming about it.

The other wild living, the feral living, that I did in a forest nineteen years ago… that still comes to me at night. All the time. And during the day.

I know I need to face up to it, to look at it, think about it, talk about it, accept responsibility for it, but deep down I just hope to fuck that I die before I have to do any of those things.

*

Sitting in Costa. Bad day today. Bad evening ahead. I'm here to hit on the waitress, no other reason. It's time. Time must be running out. Whatever the fuck time is.

Sometimes I come here because I'm positively trying to drink coffee instead of vodka. Today I feel reckless and depressed and I don't care. I don't care what happens. Tonight is an evening for getting completely hammered, for falling asleep with a kebab in my lap, and waking up at four in the morning in a cold sweat, feeling like complete shit.

Feeling recklessly horny. So before I go home and get wasted and stupidly drunk, fuck it, I'm going to get