Glasgow Student Short Story Prize 2009

Judged by A.L. Kennedy
Edited by Elisabeth Ingram, Rebecca CF Bradburd and Jose Velazquez

The Heron

Despite its size, he knew it was a baby. 'A juvenile,' his sister had said. 'A baby heron is called a juvenile.'

    They stood beneath the pier. Rusted girders fell from the walkway above, planted deep into grey concrete slabs. They had been there for thirty minutes, covered by a cooling shadow which fanned out into the sea. The heron stood, motionless. Its slender neck curved upwards, so fragile that the boy thought the faintest breeze would snap it in two. A yellow, dagger-like bill, pointed to the wide open space of the beach.

    His sister pulled at his arm. 'We’re going to be late,' she warned. The boy shrugged and the girl shuffled her legs up and down then turned away. 'I'll have to tell Mrs Garrett,' she said. He watched as she walked up the grey steps to the promenade, her bright yellow satchel glowing in the gloom.

    A crow, coal black, swooped down towards the heron. The larger bird froze as the crow nipped at its wing. The boy waved his arms in the air and the crow flew up into the pier's rafters where it settled amongst many others. They glared down at him with blank eyes. The heron opened its wings. The left one fanned out into the gloom, and the boy studied the patchwork of bristling feathers. The right wing took longer to stretch into life, the heron opening it in halting stages. Fully extended, the bird looked prehistoric. It flapped its wings in slow, rhythmic motions. The crows began squawking and two flew down towards the heron. The boy scared them away but the heron had stopped moving.

    The boy heard a voice from behind him. 'I can look after it,' it said. The boy jumped then turned to face a man. The man wore denim shorts and a dark, short sleeved shirt. 'They will get him if you leave,' said the boy.

    'I know.'

    The boy walked around the man in a large semi-circle. He didn't turn back until he'd reached the promenade. He squinted his eyes and saw the man, and behind him the figure of the heron. 'The juvenile,' he whispered and ran to school.

    The classroom fell silent as he entered. Mrs Garrett stood in the aisle, her arms planted on her hips. ‘Nice of you to join us, Mr Patterson,’ she snarled. His face heated into maroon. The pupils held their breath as he stood, shaking. ‘Well?’

    ‘Sorry, Miss, my alarm didn’t go off.’ The class sniggered at his lie.

    ‘Silence. You are just digging that hole deeper, boy. Your sister has already told us of your ornithological encounter.’ The boy tilted his head like a confused puppy.

    ‘Sit down. We will talk about this at lunchtime.’

    He returned to his desk. Adrienne Phillips shuffled her stick-like body away from him as he sat down next to her. She had silver-white hair like that of an old lady. As he looked towards her she shook her head. The two other pupils sitting opposite looked away. ‘Reading time,’ said Mrs Garrett.

    He read the first page of the chapter and then he read it again. And then he pretended to read. After five minutes the murmurs of conversation started. Andrew Bailey sat opposite him. He already had muscles. ‘Why were you late, Patterson?’ he asked.

    The boy shrugged.

    Bailey leaned forward. ‘That’s not an answer, Patterson. I was here on time, so why weren’t you?’

    The boy shrugged and Bailey leaned at full stretch across the table. The boy looked at Mrs Garrett. She was looking at her book. ‘Leave him alone, Andrew. You’re always late.’ It was Esther Lewis. She sat opposite Adrienne. She smiled at the boy and he forced a smile back.

    When the bell rang, he packed his books under his desk and walked out of the classroom, head bowed. He heard Andrew Bailey’s voice as he turned the corner and quickened his pace as he reached the grey, concrete playground. On the far left corner was a sandy area with a blackened climbing frame. A wooden fence enclosed the perimeter, rotten from time and neglect. He found the loose panel and pulled it to the side. A rusted nail tore through his trouser leg as he squeezed his way through the gap.

    The shadow had moved from the pier. The white paint of the structure glistened in the sun. An endless line of lorries drove past, as if the drivers were sightseeing. He rubbed the salty sweat from his eyes, and scratched the patch of red on his leg. The heron was still there. One by one, the crows attacked. Diving from the rafters they bombarded the juvenile, relentless in their pursuit, their fury intensified by the larger bird’s passivity. The boy shivered as he scanned the promenade for the man. He threw himself over the promenade wall, falling into the damp, ochre coloured sand. Grit clung to his wounded knee. He pushed himself up and ran towards the heron, just as the creature lifted its wings. A myriad collage of feathers bristled as the bird rose into the air. It hovered, the beat of its wings slow and rhythmic, and arched out into the open air. It turned towards the sea and circled back to shore, heading straight for the promenade wall. It flew past the boy, close enough to touch, and swooped up over the wall.

    The lorries used the promenade for the short-cut out of town. The boy saw the vehicle before the heron did. The bird clipped the top of the machine. A sound like broken twigs. The driver drove on, oblivious to the bird lying on its roof.

    The boy rushed up the sand, and tripped on the concrete steps. He chased after the lorry, blood trickling down his trousers, waving his arms as he had done to the crows. As the lorry disappeared around the corner, the boy pictured the juvenile lifting itself one last time.