A Block of Broken Houses

Chosen

One end of the tether is tightly wrapped around my hand, and God forgive me if it slips loose before I mean to let it go. Its other end is tied to the ankle of a tawny owl, which is perched on the top board of the darkly stained fence I crouch beside. My counterpart, Ron, squats just as I am roughly six yards away, down the fence line. He also holds a tether, only his is attached to the darkest bird I have ever laid eyes on.

This is not the first time I have played this game, and I know the end result will be the same: at least one dead body...and that is only if all parties involved cooperate, if things run smoothly.

I pray that I am not the one to pull the trigger.

I have been employed by Mr. Cunningham for nearly four years, and when he called me to the field not twenty minutes ago I was no better prepared than when he had called upon me the first time, or the second. To be called out is an honour—it means that he trusts you—but despite this I loathe the opportunity; I would rather endure anything else, anything, to avoid the next fifteen minutes or so. Ron has never been called upon. I know this because of his wide, irritated eyes and the worry held within them. He has heard the same rumours I have, of what happens out here.

Three hundred yards from Ron and I, toward the lane laid with crushed stone that first joins the manor to the side road, then the main road, eventually into town, are four men: two are standing, two kneeling. The two standing are security, and although they are casually dressed there is no mistaking their importance, even at this distance. They are armed and do not pretend to conceal that fact, their guns drawn. The kneeling men are the secondary targets. They have been stripped of their clothes and no doubt their dignity. They are unknown to all of us here, and believed to have been shipped in for the sole purpose of Mr. Cunningham's sexual amusement...although this is a rumour, one that all of the "employees" here sincerely believe to be true.

A breeze ruffles my hair, and although the sun has dried the dew beneath us the earth still feels moist, cool. It is quiet, and when the wind dies off I can only hear my worried breathing and the rhythmic whump-whump of my heart.

The hoot-shriek of the owl startles me, and when I glance up at it, it is staring at me, into me. It calls again, cocking its neck in my direction in punctuation, as if blaming me for this mess. This causes the black bird to ruffle its feathers and caw, strong and harsh, accusatory, thrusting its head upward. It continues to plead-cry as it shuffles along the fence board, and to me it looks nervous, scared even.

Welcome to the club.

I glance at Ron; he is sweating, his eyes uncertain, panicked. His throat works up and down in a futile attempt to swallow his fear.

"Don't let that tether go," I whisper, harsh and serious. His eyes dart toward me and he nods, and then his focus is back with his black bird, determined.

I hear one car door shut and then another, and then an engine starts. From the manor's far side, where the garage it situated, Mr. Cunningham's dark town car eases into view and then passes the front of the manor—a dark rectangle against a backdrop of white—and leisurely rounds the vast garden that dominates the front lawn. I hear the popping of tires biting stones as the driver descends the winding lane toward us, and my heart rate picks up considerably.

The black bird begins to caw, hurried and raspy cries that sound desperate. It flutters its wings once (more of a stretch than any true attempt to fly) and then a second time, this time a little harder. Ron yanks his tether hard—so hard, in fact, that I imagine the black bird's feet coming clean off—and for a wonder the bird calms, settles back onto the fence board. Its cries continue, and this rattles the owl. In my fear of his bird escaping I am just in time to notice that my grip on the owl's tether is loose. The owl attempts to take flight, and I pull it back, forcing it to settle on the fence. I loop the tether around my hand until there is very little slack remaining. Its hoot is a shrill sound that frightens me. It alternates glances between the black bird and me, screeching. For a beat I wonder why the owl has not flown off of its perch to attack me. This has never been an issue before and therefore had never occurred to me, but I now realize that there is always the possibility of it happening. I quickly wrap the tether once around the top fence board to avoid just such a disaster.

Ron sees this and does the same—smart man—and we exchange a nervous nod.

I note how conversational the birds have become. As if understanding that they are in this until the end, they enter into a back-and-forth banter that, although panicked, seems somewhat consoling, compassionate.

As the birds settle, either from fatigue or acceptance, I hear the distant conversation of another animal: Mr. Cunningham. Sound carries out here, and the words are clear. The two men on security watch greet him, then ask how he is this morning, and Mr. Cunningham replies. This exchange is so bizarrely sincere, with no concern for the two men kneeling before them, one of whom will not see brunch.

Mr. Cunningham claps one of the armed men on the shoulder, and then the driver approaches and hands his employer a rifle. The driver then heads to the rear door and opens it, and out steps Mr. Cunningham's whippet, Bullet, a slim and muscular beast the colour of dirty snow. Mr. Cunningham whistles and Bullet sits intently by his side, its head cocked toward us.

As Mr. Cunningham shoulders the rifle and aims it in our direction I begin to loosen the owl's tether and signal for Ron to do the same. He does, but there is a moment where he cannot quite untangle it and I fear he might also die today. Then it slips loose, and I realize I was holding my breath.

"Getit!" Mr. Cunningham barks, creating one word out of two, and the dog digs its paws into the ground and springs forward.

Earlier, as we were lead out to the field, one of the armed men had given Ron and me a set of bastardly instructions, and with my experience I feel the responsibility to help him through this.

"When the bird wants to go, you let it," I say, no longer whispering but almost, "even if your gut tells you to hang on, which it will." He nods, a frantic thing that worries me, and then he turns to watch the dog. "The bird, Ron, watch the bird!" His eyes draw tight and puzzled for an instant and then, perhaps thinking wiser of it, he complies.

I can hear the dog approaching, a galloping whisper of wind.

And then the birds begin to chatter, shrieking and—whining?—pleading. The black bird's feathers ruffle, settle, and then flutter again, this time stretching wide, preparing to escape. Ron drops the tether and it slips to the ground, and his jaw also drops. His eyes are wide as he watches the black bird take flight.

There is a loud gunshot, and then the tawny owl is up and climbing. I shake the tether loose. It lets out a cry, long and grating, but before it can finish there is a second gun shot and the owl is flung backward, a dusting of feathers in its wake. It drops from the sky and hits the ground with a wet thump, its screech dying in its throat.

The black bird—its leg still tethered but the other end loose—rises, rises, and then wisely heads in the direction opposite of us.

Ron slurps at the air in hitching gasps as if he cannot get enough of it, his skin pale, his eyes now large and wet, his sockets sunken. The dog claims its prize and then proudly saunters back to where its master stands, gun stock resting on his hip. I rise and make my way toward the five men near the dark town car. All of their eyes are on me.

Without glancing back I say, "Don't watch." But of course he will.

Only Mr. Cunningham is smiling, and as I inch closer I see that both of the kneeling, naked men are crying. The dog drops the owl at Mr. Cunningham's feet, and the man kneeling on Ron's side of the field is pulled to stand by one of the armed men. He is shoved toward the town car and into the back seat. He has survived today...or so we assume; it is difficult to know what they will do with him.

The second armed guard presents a second gun, presumably pulled from his waist band at the small of his back. He holds it out, grip first, for me to take. I do. He then takes a few steps away from me and settles just behind and to the left of Mr. Cunningham, who is still grinning, now even wider than before.

"Go ahead," he offers, and I raise the gun and put a bullet into the naked man's forehead; no need to delay the inevitable. His head tips back and the dead man's final thoughts are thrown onto the grass in a spray of blood and brain and bone that is nearly artistic, pretty, in the morning sunlight.

The guard, his weapon now trained on me, approaches with a hand out. I pass the gun back to him, turn, and then start toward the manor.

"You can set the main table for brunch," Mr. Cunningham calls after me, and although he is not laughing I can hear the amusement in his voice. "Make sure you wash up first."

I turn and tell him that I will, and with pleasure.

END