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Exit the Raven (excerpt)

I guess I thought it would be romantic - staring deep into the fog from the balcony of my secret mansion headquarters deep in the heart of the moors, contemplating how to avenge the wrong that had been done to me. The black outfit fit my mood in those days, especially the executioner's hood. I was trying to make a statement: "I am dead to this world, and this world is dead to me." To be honest I was just lonely and confused, which was understandable. The few of my friends who were still talking to me when the trial was over stopped returning my calls after I broke out of Dartmoor Prison. It might be acceptable to have a convicted criminal as a friend, but a masked crime-fighter is another thing entirely.

When you get older you're always inclined to be dismissive of the ideals you had when you were younger, but even taking youthful exuberance into account there's a pretty tenuous connection between superhero antics and clearing your family's good name. A mugger shoots your parents so you start beating up every mugger you see. It's not hard to see that that kind of thing is just a kind of denial. The search for happiness isn't served by attacking the cause of your unhappiness. I claimed that I wasn't doing it for myself, that I was doing it so that my family's legacy of benevolent lordship and community support wouldn't be poisoned by accusations of murder and theft, but that was obviously just a rationalisation.

It was fun all the same, playing hero. Not that I think I was particularly good at it. I had the hideout and the costume, I knew how to duck a punch and how to shoot straight, but actual fights hardly ever go the way they do in the movies. Bullets are painful and fractures take a long time to heal. What kept me from hurting myself too badly was the bird.

The complete version of this story was published in HEAT 7: Bedtime Stories, available from Giramondo Publishing.