‘ greeting ’. The cows are hovering over the fallen angel , patchwork watching watercolour . You smile remembering the pleasing drawings in the Arts book .
Its moans and shrieks continue on and on , endless time crashing past , and suddenly your whole world isn ’ t nice any more . It is loud and it sounds like pain and you don ’ t know what to do . You have never thought of reaching the Courtyard before . You never needed to . Your whole world is right here , behind the glass . Directly In Front Of You is holding something up . This is exciting . It doesn ’ t look familiar , or like something you have . It ’ s like a big – pot maybe ? But it ’ s got some nice patterns on it . Like a painting . Where did they get that from ? They ’ re waving it about . Oh , they ’ re hitting it against the window . Over and over and over and over . It smashes . The pot is broken . All the pretty pattern no longer making sense , no longer a pattern . The window looks intact . They disappear , away from the glass .
Without Directly In Front Of You as a distraction the shrieking is almost too much to bear , and you retreat to your room . Perhaps you ’ ll look for a pot like theirs . There has got to be one around somewhere . Surely you wouldn ’ t not have one , if they do , with their smaller window . You search through a cupboard . Something sharp clips the bottom of your finger . It ’ s okay , it didn ’ t really hurt you . There ’ s no pot like it in here . You stand back up straight . Well it ’ s broken now , so they don ’ t have it anymore . But listen , the noise has stopped . Finally . Or at least it ’ s quieter .
You peer out , a little worried . It ’ s still breathing . Still , after all this time . Flies have landed . They seem to be pecking , like birds . It ’ s heaving stomach is blistered with flies and blood spotting . Flies are covering its eyes . They ’ re on top , around , inside . Dust has congealed in the blood . Oh . It hasn ’ t breathed in a moment . The regularity has stopped . Is it dead ? The other cows are standing , watching . You ’ re all watching too . Even Directly In Front Of You . They touch the glass . Flesh on glass . You look down at your hand , it is stinging , and there ’ s blood on it .
It ’ s been a week . The corpse still lies there . Flies have broken through the flesh now – its layers exposed . The blood is glazed like those cakes in the Housekeeping book . The eyes are pale and clouded and fly-ridden . For the first few days , the alive cows kept to one corner . Just one . They looked all cramped , but if you looked from the right angle their slim bodies moulded together and they looked like one big cow with three heads . Three mouths , three tongues rubbing dry lips . Their tails lulled and flickered , batting at all the flies . Over the next days they started to break apart . One cow stepped timidly around the corpse , sniffing at the thick air and the purple , syrupy floor . The cut on your finger hurts more than before . It looks sticky .
A Courtyard 80