Dead Harvest

1

Light spilled through the window of the pub as I watched them, casting patches of yellow across the darkened street but conveying no warmth. It had been three rounds now, maybe four, and Gardner had yet to pay for a drink; his reading tonight went well, and they were falling over themselves to share a pint with Britain's Greatest Living Author.

I fished another Dunhill from the pack, lighting it with the dwindling ember of the one that preceded it. The ground around me was littered with cigarette butts — I'd been standing there a while. But the moon was high overhead, and the night was getting on. I wouldn't have to wait much longer.

Finally, midnight rolled around, and the last straggling patrons were ushered out into the chill spring air, the barkeep locking up behind them. Gardner headed up St Giles, listing slightly. I took a last long drag off my cigarette, and then pitched it into the street, falling in behind him. I kept some distance between us, in case he looked back.

He didn't.

A few blocks later, he ducked into an alley to take a leak. I gave him a minute, and then followed. He was leaning one-handed against a wall, pissing behind a dumpster. The toast of Oxford, or so I'd been told. From here, it was hard to see.

He turned toward me, zipping up his fly. When he spotted me, he started, and damn near tipped over. "Who the bloody hell are you?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

I stepped toward him. My hand found his chest and reached inside. He knew then. Who I was. What I was doing there.

"Sorry," I told him. "It's nothing personal."

I yanked it free then; that light, that life. Gray-black and swirling, it cast long shadows across the alley, and its song rang bittersweet in my ears. Of course, if anyone had happened by, they'd have seen nothing, heard nothing. No, this show was just for me. For Gardner, too, perhaps, though even then I couldn't be sure.

Gardner's body crumpled to the ground, whimpering as it hit the pavement. I paid it no mind. It was already dead, or near enough. Sometimes it takes a minute for the meat to get the message.

I removed from my pocket a bit of worn cloth and a small length of twine, wrapping my prize in the former and binding it tight with the latter. The whole package was scarcely larger than an acorn. I slipped it into my inside coat pocket and then set off down the street, whistling quietly to myself as I disappeared into the night.