Page 14 of Raven

"I know my son won't heed my caution, and maybe you won't either, but I'll say it anyway." Malcolm continued, his gaze penetrating. "Raven ..." He tapped his temple. "The mind knows. Your animal knows." He moved his hand to his heart. "This can be misleading. Learn which one to listen to." He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "There's a change in the air. I can't pinpoint it, but I feel it."

His words resonated with me. I had felt the unease, too, not just from the altercation with Tia and those Humans, but a lingering sense in the air, a delicate brush against my skin. "I'll be careful. I always am."

Malcolm nodded, then disappeared.

SEVEN

It all felt more intense, somehow, every time I had to pull off something like this. What was so messed up about their lives that they ended up here, sneaking around in the dead of night? What was out there that made them run, change their names, and try to start over? These thoughts buzzed in my head as I shoved the drawers back in place, creeping into the lounge like a thief.

My mother was still out cold, her bag dumped unceremoniously on the coffee table. "Mum?" I whispered, half-hoping she wouldn’t stir. The last thing I wanted was another go at the argument we’d had earlier.

Luck was on my side; she didn’t so much as twitch. Eyes glued on her, I edged over to her bag. The zip screamed like a banshee in the silence.My heart kicked up a notch, but I fought to keep my cool. This wasn’t exactly new territory for me. But there's always a first time for getting caught. My hand slid into the bag, fingers seeking out the familiar shape of the keys. I clutched them tight, praying they wouldn’t jingle and wake her. If she ever found out about my little escapades, she’d probably lock me up for good.

Down by the back of our block was a row of garages, each one tied to the flats upstairs. A so-called ‘extra’ that probably cost more than the flat itself. But my mother insisted on it, feeding her endless paranoia with a place to stash our car, out of sight and mind.

Yeah, we had a car. But if you asked me whether it could actually run, I’d raise an eyebrow. It had been sitting there for so long, a part of me wouldn't have been shocked if the wheels decided to part ways with the car the moment we tried to take it for a spin.

Slipping out of the flat and down the stairs was the easy part. Our building had a back door that led straight to the garages, a convenience that felt like a secret passage in moments like these. The only risk was Mum waking up and deciding to glance out of our kitchen window. With the sun setting, casting long shadows and drawing night closer, it felt like the darkness was lending me a cloak.

Stepping out, I paused, tilted my face towards the sky, but this wasn’t about savouring the night or filling my lungs with cool air. No, it was that feeling again, like the night before. A sensation crawling across my skin, an unreachable itch on my soul.

Lowering my gaze, I surveyed the dimly lit surroundings, each shadow stretching out as if reaching for something in the fading light. There was a presence, a nearly tangible tension in the air. It felt like a word stuck on the tip of my tongue, elusive and frustratingly out of reach.

I flexed my fingers at my sides, then brushed my hand down the hip of my jeans as I headed to the garage. Casting a glance back at the window of our place—nothing stirred. Then, I unlocked the garage door and gently pushed it open. The small family car sat there, likely with a full tank of fuel, just waiting.

Circling around to the rear, I found what I was really after, hidden away and covered by an old blanket. There it was: my motorbike. My heart always lifted at the sight of it—a slice of freedom reserved solely for me. It evoked a rush of adrenaline and anticipation for the adventures it promised. My mother insisted the bike stay in the garage, unused, which meant I was resigned to walking everywhere. I couldn't fathom her concern; it wasn't as if the bike was a beast. The engine was just a 125cc—hardly a powerhouse. It wasn't like I could tear off into the sunset on it.

One day, though, I vowed to get something that truly matched my spirit. Perhaps a Harley or something equally formidable. Something big and bold that reflected who I was, allowing me to ride wherever I wished.

This bike had come into my possession through sheer luck. When we moved into the flat, the previous tenant—God only knows where he ended up—had left behind some of his belongings. It was as if he’d stepped out one day and never returned. The fridge was an example to how long he’d been gone, its contents decomposed to mould and sludge. I had a sneaking suspicion he might have met an untimely end. Why else would you abandon your possessions?

The room that became my bedroom was a disaster—literally filled from floor to ceiling with junk and rubbish. I'm not exaggerating. The moment we opened the door to our new place, we were hit with an indescribable stench. "Clean this out. Keep anything you want. Bin the rest. You pay for the skip," that's what the landlord had tossed at us. Our choices were stark: clean up after some stranger's mess or face homelessness.

At the time, it felt like the lowest point in our lives. Maybe that sentiment was amplified by our desperate circumstances. Yet, beneath all that debris, I found the bike. It felt like it was calling out to me, resonating with something deep inside.I’d always harboured a distant dream of owning a bike, and suddenly, there it was—destined to be mine.

Glancing up at the window once more, I pushed the bike out, darted across the road with it, and tucked it out of sight before hurrying back to lock up. I chained the bike to a lamppost; well aware it would vanish if I didn’t. My only hope was that Mum was still asleep by the time I got back to return the keys.

Someday, I planned to “borrow” those keys long enough to get a copy made for myself.

I was pushingthe bike to its limits, heart hammering against my ribcage. The fear of being caught by my mother transformed into a flurry of butterflies as I pulled up beside the clock tower. It was fully dark now, and although I was running a bit late, Tia hadn't shown up yet. "That's fine," I reassured myself. The important thing was she hadn't come, found me absent, and left.

I bit down on my lip, refusing to let the worry get to me. No, she'd show. She was just running late too.

The night was quiet, except for the distant echo of a football team practising under an aggressively bright set of floodlights. My eyes were glued to the clock tower's hands, watching them inch forward—ten minutes late, then fifteen ... With each passing minute, my optimism dipped further. No, she wasn’t going to show, and who could blame her? After I’d picked her up last night, helped her, only to make a clumsy pass like some kind of brute. What kind of fool does that?

I found myself tapping my foot against the pavement, trying not to fixate too much on those slow-moving hands.

I'd give her until the hour, maybe stretch it to ten past, then head home. She must have changed her mind. Or maybe she'djust been held up. That had to be it. These thoughts chased each other around my mind, reigniting the frantic beat of my heart. Ah, the folly of a boy thinking he’s a man. I was still so much a teenager, naively bumbling through the world.

Every noise was amplified in my heightened state, every shifting shadow a false alarm.

She wasn’t coming.

I began to manoeuvre the bike, preparing to leave without kick-starting the engine—riding it in the park would only attract police attention, and the last thing I needed was to explain that to my mother. But then, a figure darted across the path on the other side of the bridge. My heart skipped a beat, and I froze, watching intently. Could it be ...?

It was her.

She hurried through the gate towards me, breathless. “I'm so sorry,” she gasped, a hand pressed to her chest. “Got caught up in class, then couldn’t find my room key. I was so worried you might have left.”

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