Hunting for Crows by Iain Cameron Page A

looked like a nice sunny June day was in prospect but he was sweating as if standing in the middle of the Arizona Desert, his shirt sticking to his back, his eyes clouded in moisture like he was crying.
    He was lost in a cloud of fear and anxiety, not for the shame he would bring on his parents or his vilification in the press, as they were constantly out to get him, but his inability to play guitar and hear the crowd roaring his name.
    He was so engrossed in the melancholy of his own thoughts that he failed to hear the Customs guy say, ‘On your way.’ It was only when Eddie slapped him on the back and said, ‘Told you so mate, now come on and give me a bloody hand,’ did he realise they were free to go.

THIRTEEN
     
     
     
     
    He was walking down the road as if looking for an address, and after spotting a house with no one at home, turned into the driveway. He continued to walk as if he knew where he was going, but as soon as he was enveloped in darkness by the shadow of the house, he stopped and listened.
    He was listening for the sound of Neighbourhood Watch opening their doors and switching on torches, or passing around the matches and lighting them, knowing this area. Instead, the only noise breaking the night’s silence was an owl hooting in the trees. He flicked the toothpick over with his tongue in one movement; five minutes one way, five minutes the other.
    It wasn’t this house he was interested in, but another a few doors along, and so he made his way to the back of the garden and began climbing over neighbouring fences. The gardens of these houses were extraordinarily long, no doubt the reason why properties around here were so expensive. Personally he hated gardens and gardening, many years in prison saw to that, but they provided good cover for him just in case someone decided to take a look out of their back window.
    When he reached the house he wanted, he headed straight for the back door. The target would be in his garage pumping iron, as it wasn’t yet time for bed. He quietly lifted the small sturdy table at the side of the barbeque and positioned it under the kitchen window. He placed a long screwdriver under the hole he’d cut a few days ago and popped the lever holding the window closed. A minute or so later, he was standing in the kitchen.
    He made his way to the hall and then towards the integral garage; he knew the way. Peter Grant lived alone now; even if he hadn’t known, it would have been easy to tell as there were gaps on the walls where pictures were once hung, indentations on the carpet where heavy furniture had once stood and several rooms were devoid of the soft, frilly touches a woman usually brought to a house. Mind you, what did he know about women? He couldn’t go out with a girl without giving her a black eye or something worse, and his mother before she died, was a drug addict. The closest she ever got to decorating was barfing on the walls and pissing on the carpet.
    Standing at the door of the garage he could hear loud music. He didn’t know much about anything, but music was his thing and without hearing the track too distinctly, he knew it was Street Fighting Man by the Rolling Stones. In prison, he liked quiz nights. They were designed to be a bit of light entertainment for the boys, but often led to serious punch-ups with simmering recriminations.
    He pushed open the door just a sliver and peered in. The target was at the start of his routine, lying on his back on the bench and lifting a heavy bar which was usually fifty kilos to start and progressively increased to eighty or ninety, or if he was feeling especially manly, one hundred. He waited until he dipped the bar and it began moving on its journey up towards the rest, his grunts almost drowning out the next track, Bad Company and Can’t Get Enough , before stepping up behind him. Gripping the bar with both hands, he pushed it back down.
    The sap was so surprised to find someone standing there, he lost