Shrike (Book 2): Rampant by Emmie Mears Read Free Book Online

wrecking ball instead of a human skull. "Glad you came," he says quietly. "Didn't think you would."
    "Of course I came, ye eejit. You're my mate." I leave out the bit where I'm doubting myself, doubting him, and doubting everything in general. This visit won't go anywhere if it devolves into him asserting his innocence while I question him.
    "Have you talked to David?" he asks. 
    It's my turn to shake my head. "I sent him a text, but he's not responded yet. I'm meant to train with him tonight."
    Ross's hand twitches on his knee, then goes still. His fingernails show a line of grime, and I fixate for a moment on this detail of his appearance. 
    "Oh, god, Gwen." That's all he says, and my heart crunches like a a stepped-on eggshell.
    A tear falls into his lap, quickly brushed away. It doesn't show on the dark fabric. 
    "Ross. Oi, look at me." 
    He looks up, and the red lines in his eyes say everything. He couldn't have done this. He couldn't have. 
    I don't know what to say, and the seconds tick by under his lost stare. Finally I get up and move to sit next to him, taking his hand. "It'll work out, mate. It will."
    It's the stupidest thing I could have said, but for a moment I see relief in that stare. 
    I'm not supposed to talk about anything serious, so I tell him instead about the shrikes that have taken up residence in my garden. It started with three, and now there are about eight or so that come round, a mix of older birds and a few that I've watched grow. I don't feed them, nor do I try to go near them, but they flit around the birdbath we installed like I'm bloody Snow White or some shite. 
    My ramblings seem to relax Ross. After a while he lets out a small laugh and asks a few questions about the birds and Magda, and before I know it we've only got three minutes left.
    "I've got to go," I tell him.
    "I know." He's still holding my hand, and he gives it a squeeze. "Will you come again?"
    "I will. Next week, same time?" 
    He nods. "I'll make sure we get it set up."
    "Do you need anything?"
    Ross shakes his head. "There's a muckle library and I'm keeping…occupied."
    I can't help but swallow my next words at that. I can't imagine feeling so idle, trapped within these walls. "Have you talked to David? Is there anything you want me to tell him?" I've an appointment with him at seven tonight, though I'm beginning to worry he might not turn up. 
    "He came to visit me once last week," Ross says. His hand drops mine, and his voice cracks when he speaks, making me wonder if that means he doesn't expect David to come again.
    "Gwen," says Ross. "Tell him…tell him I'm sorry. And tell him I didn't do it."
    I don't know how to respond to that, and indeed I don't have time, because the guards are here to take Ross back to wherever he's being held on remand. 
    I barely manage to nod before he's gone, and I'm left wondering for whom those words are really meant: for David, or for me.
     
    On the way to my training session with David, something catches my eye. 
    It's not the shrike stencilled onto the side of the building; those are everywhere these days. It's what the shrike's got in its talons. It looks like a scroll. The tiniest number four shows on the scroll.
    It's obviously painted on, and I haven't got the faintest idea what it could mean. A new Scottish constitution? Or maybe it's just a stick. Most of the shrikes I see around Edinburgh are clasping the saltire. Some have gone as far as to have a wee lion rampant. Those birdies make me feel welcome here, give me a chance to claim Edinburgh as my own as much as they say that Edinburgh has claimed me. I pull out my mobile and take a picture. After a moment of frowning at the numeral and wondering if one, two, and three are out there, I open the map application and drop a pin on my location.
    It's not a long walk to the gym, and it passes in a blur.
    I lurk under a building's awning next door to David's gym, watching the drizzle turn to straight rain. Seven o'clock