Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(92)

“Then you know who I am,” I say, doing my best not to look surprised. I really thought it was just a bird.

“Well, not exactly who. But definitely what. And why you’re here.”

“And I know what you’re here after.” I’ve been waiting forever to say that.

“Good one,” says the bird. “What are you going to do about it?”

“That’s not up to me.”

“Of course it isn’t.” Its voice is less scratchy now, more human-sounding. “What do your bosses in the Concomitant Rendition of All Tessitura—or whatever they’re calling it now—think they can do about it?”

I get a weird sensation, like my brain went over a speed bump and everything in it was knocked all over the place. The concomitant what? Was that even the word? This is something I wasn’t supposed to hear, I realise suddenly. Not because it’s forbidden but because—because—

The only thing that comes to me is the image of tiny footprints the translucent roof-garden floor as seen from five stories below; bewildering. I surreptitiously turn on the iPad’s record function—I hope it’s surreptitious, anyway. The bird’s face gives nothing away. I don’t play poker, but if I did, I’d never play with a bird.

“You know,” I say casually, shifting the iPad so the microphone is closer to the bird, “I ran into someone not too unlike yourself when I was on a job recently. Different colour scheme but same general idea. Got any friends in Croydon? Maybe even a relative, like a cousin?”

The movement the bird makes with its wings is an unmistakable shrug. “We get around. Can you narrow it down some more?”

“Sure,” I say. “Bunch of cheaters, including a double-dipper, hiding out in a flat. Ringleader was quite the long-timer. Death was so pissed off the plants get caught in the blast.”

“Oh, that Croydon.” The bird makes a merry chirping noise and fluffs itself up. “They’re all long gone, either migrating or getting ready to. Humans go all wackadoo over flight. You don’t even have to say ‘wings’ and they’re lining up for take-off.”

“Not necessarily. I don’t think most people would line up to be pigeons, aka rats with wings. Or carrion-eaters like vultures.”

“Think again. There’s a very, very long list of things people would rather be other than deceased, and neither ‘pigeon’ nor ‘vulture’ are anywhere near the bottom.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not either—” I cut off as something occurs to me. “Okay, just between you, me, and the roof garden, who were you before you became a feathered biped?”

The bird stretches up tall and kind of rears back as it peers at me. I think I’m starting to learn some bird body language. “What would make you ask that?” it says, head tilting from one side to the other while I wish it weren’t so damned cute.

“You sounded so certain, I thought you might be speaking from experience.”

“Not human experience. I’m a professional like yourself, in a similar area. But without all the paperwork you’re stuck with.”

“There’s no actual paper—”

“Files and forms are the sine qua non of clerical drudgery,” the bird tells me loftily. “That’s paperwork in any medium.”

I do my best to keep my face neutral so it won’t know how much we agree on that. “You sure have a big vocabulary for a—what are you, anyway, a parrot or a parakeet?”

“I’m an Alexandrine parakeet.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Seriously? Ever heard of Google? Or do they block web access?”

“I’ll look it up later,” I say, sneaking a glance at the iPad to make sure it’s still recording.

Then a new voice says, “Hey, is that the new model?”

For the second time in under a week, I jump out of my skin; fortunately, the safeguards still hold.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The woman standing in front of me with her IV tree is somewhere past fifty. She’s got a blue scarf artfully tied around her head; it’s the same shade of blue as her oversize T-shirt, which reads, SECRETLY HOPING CHEMO WILL GIVE ME SUPERPOWERS.

“I think your secret’s out,” I say, just so I know I haven’t lost my voice.

“So everyone keeps telling me.” She moves past me to sit down on my right. The wheels on the IV tree rattle loudly, as if they’re about to come off. I’m trying to think of a way to phrase Who the fuck are you and how the fuck can you see me? so it sounds like small talk, not panic.

She offers her finger as a perch to the parakeet on my thigh. It promptly accepts. “Woo,” she says, “you’re heavier than you look. No offence, little buddy—you’re not so much hefty as I’m just weak these days.”

I manage to get out, “What. The fuck,” before I’m mute again.

This woman doesn’t hide her amusement. “I guess I gotta be the one to break it to you: you’re not quite as invisible as you think. Take it easy; it’s not like everyone can see you. Most people still can’t. Even a lot of the regulars here wouldn’t notice you. At least, not right away. But I’d guess you’ve been here for a while. Two days ago, I was up here with a friend; she described you perfectly but I couldn’t see you myself till I came back yesterday. But then, she’s sicker than I am. She made her deal last week.”