The Brightlings

13. Go, move, shift...

The soaring, swirling murmuration is almost certainly the most beautiful natural spectacle that Felix has been lucky enough to witness in person. People regularly travel great distances to view the late afternoon ritual, and on occasion, the flocks of starlings roosting in the fields of the Weald have been known to outnumber those that have made the rusting skeleton of Brighton's West Pier their home. 

To experience them is to understand why his grandmother loved this village so much, and spent so much of her life here. He has always shared her affinity towards the natural world, despite his upbringing in the suburbs of a city. But today he doesn't feel lucky at all, and thousands of birds making a pretty pattern in the sky simply can't make up for the sense of loss that is eating away at him. 

In the past year, Felix has experienced one loss after another. First they took away his freedom. Then he lost his friends, and his home. Now he has lost his father, and he is very probably about to lose his place at the school that his mother fought so hard to get him into. And all of these things have occurred through no fault of his own. He is starting to feel like he has a big sign above his head stating 'Looking for trouble', that every idiot but himself can see.

His covertly legging it out of the school gate certainly won't have helped to quell the head teacher's anger at all. He wonders how long she may have waited for him to knock, before checking the room to discover that without any indication of his intentions, he had simply disappeared. And he didn't hang around for one second. He traversed roads, dodged cars, crossed fields, vaulted over gates, and had even been chased by a herd of inquisitive bullocks in his bid to put some distance between himself and the school.

It had taken him over an hour to retrace the bus route, with his tie and blazer stashed away in his rucksack, before going off-road when he spotted the only landmark that he recognised appear on the horizon. He had even hidden himself behind a hedgerow to avoid the vicar, who pedalled past completely unaware, whistling like he'd never had a bad day in his life. And now, with the towering sun-warmed granite of the Needle propping him up, he needs to decide on his next course of action. 

He stares up at the shape-shifting black mass of tiny winged dots, not one single bird discernible from the next. They seethe across the sky in unison, beneath rapidly evolving grey clouds, while salty tears stream down his cheeks. He is beyond tired, and he feels physically sick with worry.

With his hands clutching at the grass, and his head tilted backwards, he is so preoccupied with his problems, that it takes him far longer than it normally would to realise that he is no longer alone. He sits perfectly still, at first refusing to acknowledge the presence of another human.

"Hey... are you okay?"

Despite his awareness, the voice still startles him. He hopes that he didn't visibly jump. It is female, a little rough, but friendly. Her accent is strong, and northern, yet somehow impossible to pinpoint to any specific place. When he turns to face her, he instantly recognises the moped girl. He is lost for words.

She tires of waiting for a response. "Hello?"

He immediately puts on his best amateur dramatics display of acting like everything is just fine, wipes his cheeks with his palms, which he then in turn wipes on his trousers, and tries to pretend that he hasn't been blubbing like his mum does after she finishes reading a soppy novel. 

"Yeah, err no, I mean... errm. It's just something in my eye. Bloody thunder flies. They're everywhere."

"Well, the birds seem happy to see them. It'll be a hundred times worse when they harvest that lot, though." She gestures to the fields surrounding the hill. "Are you sure you don't suffer from hay fever?"