Maximillian Campbell-Williams was nasty to everyone, and Connor hated him. In the yard, watching Max laugh at one of the IR kids, Connor finally lost patience and punched Max in the face. Max staggered backwards, too stunned to do anything else, and Connor felt a triumphant surge of energy. A teacher saw it happen, and Connor was marched straight to the Head’s office.
“I expect more of a student like you, Connor. I’ll be calling home, and you’ll be in afternoon detention for the rest of the week. Starting tomorrow.”
“But he’s a bully, Miss,” said Connor, throwing his arms open wide.
“Boys like Max need to be shown kindness,” said the Head.
“I expect more of a student like you, Connor. I’ll be calling home, and you’ll be in afternoon detention for the rest of the week. Starting tomorrow.”
“But he’s a bully, Miss,” said Connor, throwing his arms open wide.
“Boys like Max need to be shown kindness,” said the Head.
#
After school, Connor took the path across the fields. The bollocking from his mum could wait. On the cables slung between the pylons, crows stood in neat rows of black dots. In the sky, a hawk of some kind glided round, propelled in widening circles by just one beat of its outstretched wings. As Connor watched, the crows flapped up and began to swoop and dive at the hawk. It outmanoeuvred them, but the black dots didn’t give up. They collided into it, lashing out, spiralling off it with shrieks like war cries. Finally, the hawk wearied of their torment and rose higher still into the air and drifted away into the hazy distance, following the line of the pylons.
#
At school, Max kept himself to himself. He steered clear of Connor. Maybe the punch had made Max realize that no one liked the way he treated them. Connor had expected to feel good about it. One lunchtime, a group of boys from the year below pushed Max face-first into a wall, and he had to go to the medical room, blood running down the side of his head. Connor didn’t like that it happened.
#
A few weeks after that, someone asked the biology teacher if Max had left school because that’s what they’d heard, and the teacher said that yes, he had left the school. One of the other boys said it was because Max had gone into care. That wasn’t for discussion, the teacher said, and told everyone which page of their books to turn to, but the boy continued by announcing gleefully that it was because Max’s dad was too pissed to look after him, and the teacher sent him out of the classroom. Later, after the last bell had gone, Connor saw the boy in the Head’s office.
#
They found the bird at the edge of the field where the grass grew long. It lay on its front with its head turned towards them. A hard yellow beak, eyes closed, wings tucked in, silky brown feathers quivering in the breeze, talons hidden somewhere beneath its lifeless body.
“It’s a beauty,” said his dad gruffly, crouched and gently stroking the bird.
“The crows must have got it.”
“Y’what?”
Connor told him about the crows attacking the hawk.
“Crows couldn’t kill a buzzard, mate. This one’ll have died of natural causes. You probably saw one being mobbed.
Smaller birds gang up to chase away predators. But they don’t kill ‘em. Can’t.
"It’s a beauty,” he said again. “The crows might have this one now, mind.”
“Huh?”
“It’s carrion isn’t it.”
“Eat it, you mean?”
“Aye.”
Connor bent and stroked the buzzard’s feathers, too. They were all waxy-feeling.
“Can we take it with us?”
His dad laughed and said, “Y’what?”
“To save it. From them.” Connor pointed upwards.
Still smiling, his dad shook his head.
“Sometimes you just have to let nature take its course,” he said.
“It’s a beauty,” said his dad gruffly, crouched and gently stroking the bird.
“The crows must have got it.”
“Y’what?”
Connor told him about the crows attacking the hawk.
“Crows couldn’t kill a buzzard, mate. This one’ll have died of natural causes. You probably saw one being mobbed.
Smaller birds gang up to chase away predators. But they don’t kill ‘em. Can’t.
"It’s a beauty,” he said again. “The crows might have this one now, mind.”
“Huh?”
“It’s carrion isn’t it.”
“Eat it, you mean?”
“Aye.”
Connor bent and stroked the buzzard’s feathers, too. They were all waxy-feeling.
“Can we take it with us?”
His dad laughed and said, “Y’what?”
“To save it. From them.” Connor pointed upwards.
Still smiling, his dad shook his head.
“Sometimes you just have to let nature take its course,” he said.
#
Connor saw a story on the news about a boy who’d gone missing. The boy’s foster parents were making a tearful appeal for him to come home. The boy wasn’t Max, but Connor felt strange inside, a sort of weighted emptiness. Connor told the Head that he wished he’d not hit Max. She said that was why Connor was the sort of student the school needed, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He went to the field again. The crows were perched in their place on the wires. Why did they never get electrocuted? Connor didn't know. For a moment, he pretended the buzzard was circling in the sky again. But in the long grass at the edge of the field, there was no trace of it.