A Kestrel for a Knave Read Online Free Page B

pebbles, pinking them individually off the glass. Pink. Pink. Pink. He had used half a fistful before the curtains were lifted and Mrs MacDowall looked down, clutching her nightdress to her throat. She waved Billy away, but he looked up at her and mouthed,
    ‘Is he up?’
    She pushed the window open and leaned out.
    ‘Whadyou want at this time?’
    ‘Is your Mac up?’
    ‘’Course he’s not up. Do you know what time it is?’
    ‘Isn’t he getting up?’
    ‘Not that I know of. He’s fast asleep.’
    ‘He’s a right ’un. It wa’ him that planned it, an’ all.’
    ‘Stop shouting, then. Do you want all t’neighbourhood up?’
    ‘He’s not coming, then?’
    ‘No, he’s not. You’d better come back after breakfast if you want to see him.’
    She closed the windows and the curtains fell back into place. Billy scrunched the pebbles round in his fist and looked up at the pane. He threw them, and was running before the first one struck the glass.
    He ran back across the estate and straight down the avenue, slowing to a walk as he reached the cul-de-sac, round like the bulb of a thermometer. He cut down a snicket between two houses, out into the fields, leaving the estate behind him.
    The sun was up and the cloud band in the East had thinned to a line on the horizon, leaving the dome of the sky clear. The air was still and clean, and the trilling of larks carried far over the fields of hay, which stretched away on both sides of the path. Great rashes of buttercups spread across the fields, and amongst the mingling shades of yellow and green, dog daisies showed their white faces, contrasting with the rust of sorrel. All underscored by clovers, white and pink and purple, which came into their own on the path sides where the grass was shorter, along with daisies and the ubiquitous plantains.
    A cushion of mist lay over the fields. Dew drenched the grass, and the occasional sparkling of individual dropsmade Billy glance down as he passed. One tuft was a silver fire. He knelt down to trace the source of light. The drop had almost forced the blade of grass to the earth, and it lay in the curve of the blade like the tiny egg of a mythical bird. Billy moved his head from side to side to make it sparkle, and when it caught the sun it exploded, throwing out silver needles and crystal splinters. He lowered his head and slowly, very carefully, touched it with the tip of his tongue. The drop quivered like mercury, but held. He bent, and touched it again. It disintegrated and streamed down the channel of the blade to the earth. Slowly the blade began to straighten, climbing steadily like the finger of a clock.
    Billy stood up and walked on. He climbed over a stile and followed the path through a herd of cows. The ones grazing lifted their heads slowly, chewing their cud. The ones lying in the grass remained motionless, as solid as toy cows set out on a toy farm. A covey of partridges got up under his feet, making him jump and cry out. They whirred away over the field, their blunt forms travelling as direct as a barrage of shells. Billy snatched a stone up and threw it after them, but they were already out of sight over the hedges. The stone flushed a blackbird, and it chattered away along the hedge bottom, disappearing back into the foliage further along.
    He reached the stile which led into the woods, climbed on to it and looked back. Fields and fences and hedgerows. The sun was in the sky, and the only sound was the continuous relay of bird song.
    As soon as he entered the wood, Billy left the path and mounted a bank into the undergrowth. He pushed the branches back, away from his eyes, keeping hold until the last moment; then releasing them to thrash back into the foliage behind. He cut a branch off an elm sapling, trimmedit to walking stick length, then used it to fence his way through, slashing and fracturing any limbs in his path.
    The undergrowth thinned out, giving way to grassy clearings between the trees. Overhead