Bird Brain Read online

  Banger had loved to make a good log fire, and was particular about how it be done. He had begun by reaching for a leaf or two of some old Daily Telegraphs that were shoved down the side of the log basket. He rolled a sheet and tied it in a loose knot. He laid the doughnuts of paper on the ash. He never used a grate; a grate was for coal. Logs should be burnt in at least two inches of ash on firebricks, nestled in embers. Next, kindling – twigs that Griffiths had picked off the lawn and dried on a table under the eaves in the back courtyard. He took a bunch and broke them in half, listening keenly for a good dry snap, and pressed them onto the paper. If the ashes were still warm the paper would already be smouldering. He liked not having to use a match. Sometimes the fire relit itself day after day for weeks at a time. Then he took the split hardwood logs from the basket, and leant them like a tepee onto the kindling. He burnt birch, oak, alder and cherry, but preferred ash. You could cut ash from the tree and burn it that night. You never had to use the poker on ash. With pine logs you were never off your feet. Ash burnt like a cigarette. Nothing would be left of an ash fire but fine pale ash, hence the name of the tree. A lump of oak or beech could go out and leave a blackened scrap in the fireplace in the morning, though sometimes Banger could get a patch on its underside to glow with the bellows. He would slowly stand up, knees cracking and spine throbbing, and stare at his work, his hands backwards on his hips. A silent pyre of smoke would issue from the pyramid. If the weather was warm it might gather in billows until the chimney had got a draw going. The plume thickened; Banger could now smell the burning. He would watch the grey smoke against the glistening black fireback. Then, with a gentle ‘boumf’, the smoke would switch to flame, like a thought turning into a solution (invariably the wrong one in Banger’s case). The flame would lick at the kindling and logs, sending crackles into the silence. Banger could only tell if a fire was going with his ears; if he could hear it, it was away. Flame could deceive you. He watched the fire gather force and reluctantly turned away to face the day, ignoring the slithering pile of unopened mail, which too had felt to Banger as though it might burst into flames at any moment, summoning Sunshine and Jam for a walk.

  Banger and Flight 93 moved to a position on the wall of the veg garden, watching the house. Capfuls of wind threw rain onto Barry Brown’s Georgian windowpanes like handfuls of fine pebbles. The lawn was strewn with tumbling twigs, and the wet slates of the paths were plastered with oak leaves. Two female Springer Spaniels eyed the pheasants suspiciously from behind the bars of a kennel.

  ‘They can’t bother us from there,’ Banger said.

  A pair of house martins swooped down and perched on the branch of an espaliered apple tree.

  ‘Hello,’ the female called.

  ‘Shh,’ said Banger.

  ‘We’re off,’ the male announced.

  Banger ignored them.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask us where?’ asked the female.

  ‘No,’ said Flight 93.

  ‘Well said,’ said Banger.

  ‘South Africa,’ said the female. ‘It’s divine this time of year. The flight’s so simple, we’re there in two weeks, straight down through Spain, Morocco, Ivory Coast and you’ve virtually done it. No jet lag or anything.’

  ‘Did we mention we had a house on the Cape?’ said the male. ‘Nothing extravagant, but so convenient. It’s in a nice white area, it’s safer. It’s just a fact. We go every year about this time. We can’t abide the British winter. Are you two staying here? Really? I don’t know how you do it year after year. The Cape is so warm and colourful. Absolutely masses of insects. You should come.’

  ‘The furthest south we’d get is the tennis court. That’s four thousand miles short of Johannesburg. Now will you two kindly bugger off, we are rather busy,’ Banger said, adding, when they had flown, ‘Smug bastards. Still,’ he looked at the sky, ‘I think they’re heading the wrong way. Now. Who have we got here?’

  A polished Porsche SUV crunched to a halt.

  ‘Shall we attack?’ Flight 93 said, bristling.

  ‘Best to have a good look at the enemy first,’ Banger said.

  A tall, patrician man in immaculate plus fours, green socks, red suede loafers and a checked shirt emerged and stretched. He reached into the car for a Barbour and headed towards the house.

  ‘Sewer,’ said Banger. ‘No dog. And wearing a Barbour. A real Gun shoots in tweeds, not some waxed rubbish. But I wouldn’t fly too near him. He’s a corporate Gun; gets a lot of shooting, a paying killer. Doesn’t give a shit about us. Just wants to get his barrels hot and kill. He’s only interested in high numbers of dead. He’ll know exactly how many of us he has hit, but will pretend he has no idea, until he gets home, then he won’t stop bragging about it to his wife. Probably won’t even take a brace to eat.’

  Barry Brown, a gleaming, short man with a snub nose and a big cigar came to the door and called, ‘Anthony! Welcome. How are you, you blood-sucking old bastard?’

  Another car drew up; a small, stout man in plus fours, green socks, yellow garters and polished brogues got out and sniffed the air. He had tufts of white hair coming out of his ears. He opened the boot, releasing a yellow Labrador puppy.

  Banger watched closely and then murmured, ‘Don’t much like the look of him, either.’

  ‘Shall I get him?’ asked Flight 93. ‘I could make a mess of his face with these claws.’

  ‘No, just hold on for the minute,’ Banger murmured. ‘See how the dog doesn’t take a shit? Means he’s given it some exercise before he left. He takes his time and does everything properly. Hasn’t hurried the dog off a sofa into the car, like an amateur. Look. He handles his gun and ammunition as if he’s done it a thousand times. And a worn tweed suit. Steer well clear of him.’

  Another car, this time a Land Rover Discovery came into the drive.

  ‘Thick mud on the wheel arch, could be ominous. Might be a local farmer, to give Barry Brown some sort of credibility among his rich friends,’ Banger said.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming, Bob,’ Barry Brown was saying to the newcomer, ‘it’s an honour to have you here …’

  Banger said, ‘Definitely not him. There’s too much respect.’

  A blue Isuzu Trooper drew up next, and a tall man in freshly pressed tweeds with sleek black hair and a bulbous nose got out. Banger took a sharp intake of breath as the man let out a brown-and-white Spaniel who trotted to the bars of the kennel waggling his hindquarters and calling, ‘Hi, girls! Remember me?’

  ‘Jam!’ shouted the two girls in the kennel, jumping and twisting in excitement.

  ‘Ma bitches!’ Jam shouted back. ‘Who’s on for some rumpy pumpy?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ the girls answered.

  The big man called his dog. ‘Jam.’

  ‘Coming,’ said Jam.

  ‘Stay,’ William said, as he mounted the steps and entered the house.

  Banger glided off the wall spreading his wings as he landed. ‘Jam! Jam! It’s me, Banger! God, it’s good to see you.’

  Jam turned, hearing Banger but seeing a cock pheasant. He cocked his head. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s me, Banger!’ said Banger, walking towards him.

  ‘Banger? Banger?’ said Jam, padding softly in his direction.

  ‘It’s me. I’ve changed, but it’s me,’ Banger said. ‘Do you remember sitting at my feet after dinner in the gun room? Me reading the old game books with you and Sunshine by the fire? I’m a pheasant now, but it’s me.’

  Jam looked uncertain.

  ‘I used to wash you with a red cloth by the back door after a day’s shooting.’

  ‘Banger,’ Jam said. ‘Banger? Banger? I thought you were dead.’

  ‘I seem to have returned,’ said Banger. ‘With one basic modification. I’m a pheasant now.’

  ‘Is that really you?’ asked Jam.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Banger,’ said Banger. ‘Your old master Banger whose Land Rover dashboard you chewed when you were a puppy, w
hose gun room was the third door on the right on the lower corridor of the house.’

  Jam swallowed. ‘Banger?’ he said.

  ‘Jam, my friend,’ smiled Banger.

  Jam raised his front paw and struck Banger across the head.

  ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Go away,’ said Jam, ‘you dirty beast.’

  Banger stared at Jam.

  ‘Come here. Sit.’

  Banger sat down.

  ‘Stand up,’ Jam said.

  Banger stood up.

  ‘It’s not very nice, is it? That’s what you did to me all my life.’

  ‘I was perfectly nice to you,’ Banger said.

  ‘You were a bully,’ stated Jam. ‘But don’t worry. I’ve pissed on your sofa and chewed the handle of your walking stick. You see, dogs don’t actually like being shouted at and locked in the back of cars. We like sofas, we like titbits. We like cushions and pâté. We like to get up on beds, we like chocolate and puddings. Dogs actually like those things.’

  ‘But they’re not good for you.’

  ‘Who said? You. What do humans know?’

  ‘Point taken,’ said Banger.

  ‘And,’ said Jam, ‘you cut off my tail too short. Look how stumpy it is, it’s an embarrassment.’

  ‘That was an accident. My knife slipped. I am sorry. I was sorry at the time.’

  ‘Sunshine told me you laughed.’

  Banger looked down at the ground, and shifted his weight from one claw to the other.

  ‘Still,’ Jam said, ‘remember that day on Fael Mole when you thought I’d had a heart attack and you carried me all the way down the mountain?’

  Banger recalled it clearly; the dog had keeled over at the summit of the Welsh mountain on an early summer’s day when he had taken Tom out to show him his favourite views west towards Snowdon. It had been backbreaking work going back down the three steep miles to the car with Jam round his neck.

  ‘See – I did that for you,’ Banger said.

  ‘I wasn’t ill,’ Jam said. ‘I was just tired and hot and felt like being carried.’

  ‘I knew there was nothing wrong with you,’ Banger said.

  ‘You didn’t. You were really worried,’ Jam laughed. ‘Sunshine was so angry with me, but Mum was always a sucker for you.’

  ‘How’s Sunshine?’ Banger asked.

  ‘She lives with Victoria.’

  ‘How’s Victoria and Tom? Enjoying their new home?’

  ‘No. Hating it.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ sighed Banger. ‘She was always ungrateful for everything I gave her. Tell me, Jam, were you there when I died?’

  ‘Right beside you,’ said Jam.

  ‘What happened?’ Banger asked.

  ‘We were out shooting. It was the drive after lunch, we were on a track in a wood, your gun blew up in front of your face, and you fell over, twitched and died.’

  ‘In the middle of the drive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘First or second barrel?’

  ‘Second.’

  ‘Did I hit anything with my first?’

  ‘Er … Yes. A hen pheasant high and fast on your left.’

  ‘And I killed myself with the next barrel?’ Banger paused, and then added quietly with a satisfied smile on his pheasant features. ‘A Passchendaele. A Passchendaele. A veritable Passchendaele. Self-inflicted, admittedly, but a Passchendaele nevertheless. Father would have be proud.’

  ‘William killed you,’ Jam said.

  ‘What? William? Killed me?’ said Banger. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Then he paused. ‘William killed me? Is that what they said?’

  ‘The police said it was an accident, but it wasn’t,’ Jam said. ‘They said you put two cartridges in one barrel by mistake, but I saw William put the cartridge in your gun before you died. We were in the back of the Lanny when he did it. You were inside having lunch. As per usual.’

  ‘I knew it wasn’t an accident,’ Banger shouted. ‘I knew it! But why would William kill me?’

  ‘You were getting old and smelly.’

  ‘But William …’ Banger shook his head.

  ‘William is not a good man. He is cruel,’ said Jam. ‘He’s even worse than you. Though his farts aren’t as good. Yours were nuclear. He keeps me in the kennel all day and night, kicks me if I don’t do exactly as I’m told, and even if I do.’

  ‘Good thing too,’ Banger said.

  ‘Watch it,’ said Jam.

  ‘Everyone thinks it was an accident?’ Banger asked.

  ‘No, only the humans. Buck, he’s the police dog in charge of the case, says you were killed. But he can’t find any proof.’

  ‘This extra cartridge. Did you see what it looked like?’

  ‘No,’ said Jam, ‘but Buck said it was called High Pheasant.’

  ‘High Pheasant …’ Banger said slowly. ‘I’ve never even heard of that.’

  ‘Attaaaaaack!’ shouted Flight 93, flying past Banger and striking Jam with his claws.

  Jam bared his teeth, snapping at Flight 93, while Banger screamed, ‘No, Flight, he’s a friend!’

  From the dining room, Barry Brown’s wife watched them. ‘Aren’t pheasants the most stupid birds?’ she said to a Gun who was levering kedgeree out of a silver dish. ‘Really. That cock actually went for that dog.’

  Banger flew back to the wall, leaving Flight 93 tangling with Jam.

  ‘Come here, Flight,’ Banger shouted. ‘For God’s sake, he’ll kill you.’

  Flight 93 extricated himself and flapped back onto the wall.

  ‘I know that dog. He’s called Jam.’ Banger blinked. ‘He used to be my … friend.’

  Banger heard the burble of a broken exhaust and looked up. He was considerably cheered to see a rusted VW Golf convertible with a criss-cross of gaffer tape on its roof.

  ‘Late. Things are looking up,’ he said.

  A young man in his early twenties got out, patted down his hair, and reached onto the back seat for a gun sleeve. ‘This looks much better,’ said Banger. ‘You can see he’s not a proper sportsman from his clothes. Denim jeans, shocking shirt, no tie. He doesn’t shoot often, that’s for sure. Shooting is like the piano, it takes practice. You have to do it every week, or preferably, every day.’

  The blonde girl Banger had seen in the yellow Mini ran out of the house.

  ‘Paul!’ she called.

  ‘Miranda! Hi, gorgeous,’ he said. ‘Am I late?’

  ‘Not really. Come inside, they’re just finishing breakfast.’

  ‘I have had a nightmare morning,’ Paul said. ‘Like an idiot, I managed to leave my boots and jacket back at the flat. When I realised it was too late to turn back and get them, so I had to drive around looking for somewhere to buy something. I got these at a garage. Look.’ He held up a pair of yellow polka-dot wellingtons. ‘And look at the jacket.’ He shook out a red anorak with ‘Ferrari F1’ emblazoned on its back.

  She laughed. ‘They’ll be fine. No one cares!’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Banger to Flight 93. ‘Everyone cares.’

  ‘Come inside and meet Mummy and Daddy,’ Miranda said.

  ‘We have our target,’ said Banger.

  ‘Shall I get him?’ Flight 93 asked.

  ‘No. We have to be a bit more subtle than that.’ Banger wanted to question Jam further, but he had a more pressing duty to discharge. ‘Come on,’ he said to Flight, ‘we better get back and talk to the gang.’

  Banger and Flight 93 picked up their feet to trot nimbly the damp mile back to the sprouts, where The Rev gathered up the pheasants.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ Banger said. ‘The man you will be flying towards today is wearing a bright red jacket and spotted yellow wellingtons, so you really can’t miss him. Fly directly over his head, so none of the other Guns will get a crack at you. Every shoot of this nature, in my experience, has at least one Gun who doesn’t have a clue. I can see this johnny is not a regular sportsman. I’ll wager he can’t hit a barn doo
r at twenty paces. Flight 93, fly to the next wood and tell them to fly at the man with the red jacket and spotted boots, and get them to send word to the far drives, so every bird knows the drill.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said Flight 93.

  ‘Get back here as soon as possible. I don’t want you caught in the open when the balloon goes up.’

  ‘What can I do?’ asked The Rev.

  ‘Lead everyone into the wood, and make sure that when the beaters start, nobody flies until I give the word.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Atavac.

  ‘I want to see our target close up. I’ll join you up there.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Atavac.

  ‘Very good. Right, everybody! Find a partner and form a crocodile. Follow me,’ shouted The Rev, leading four hundred young pheasants out of the crop.

  Banger and Atavac trotted round the edge of the wood, across a field of stubble and crept slowly down a ditch to where a column of Land Rovers was disgorging its cargo of humans at the first drive.

  As the Guns prepared their firearms and ammunition with practised ease, waiting for Barry Brown to direct them to their pegs, Paul stood sheepishly to one side, trying to hide one garish boot behind the other while fumbling with his cartridges and grabbing at his gun to stop it sliding out of the sleeve onto the ground. Banger had only been half right when he said Paul was not a regular sportsman. Paul had only ever discharged a shotgun once before, at a friend’s house in the rough direction of a few pigeons, who had been barely aware they were being hunted. He had borrowed the gun from his aunt, whose dead husband had shot once or twice a long time ago, and had been planning to spend the day in some kind of private butt alone with Miranda, with the gun propped in the corner while he gave her a good seeing to, well away from anyone else. Paul could now see that this was going to be a rather public test of his shooting ability. Nevertheless, he asked himself, how hard could it be? He had seen the tiny steel balls through the transparent casing of the cartridge and there seemed to be an encouraging number of them. There wasn’t a sight to look through on the gun, so the spread of shot must be wide enough to make hitting something fairly easy. He glanced at the other guests, and was pleased that all of them were really old, at least fifty. If they could do it, of course he could. He had youth, with its agility, speed and strength firmly on his side. He smiled, gulped back his apprehension and took courage.