Birds of Paradise by Oliver Langmead (read any book .TXT) 📗

the apples from that tree and pick the seeds out with his fingers so that he can enjoy the crisp fruits without worry of cyanide poisoning.

Adam is startled awake by a prolonged crash from elsewhere in the apartment. Sunlight is leaking in through the small section of the office window not buried in books. He hadn’t noticed himself falling asleep, but the ledger is still open on his lap, filled with Magpie’s florid handwriting. Stretching his limbs, Adam rises and goes in search of the source of the noise.

Magpie is caught up in a tangle of bicycles fallen from an overfilled cupboard. Today he is dressed from head to toe in high-visibility cycling gear, and, to Adam, looks like a stick figure drawn in yellow highlighter.

“Going cycling?”

“Good morning, Adam! In London, you have three choices. You can either idle in traffic, get shot through the earth in a cramped tube, or cycle and choke on fumes. Personally,” says Magpie, as he wrestles a bicycle free, “I choose the fumes.”

“You could walk.”

“Nonsense. I’d never arrive on time for anything.”

Adam watches Magpie cram the tangle of bicycles back into the cupboard. “What’s the plan?”

“We steal the cherry tree at noon sharp.” Magpie straps his helmet on. “As such, I need to go and finalise certain arrangements. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“What should I do?”

“I need you to go to Brighton and deliver your pistols to a fellow there. He’ll have them fixed by the end of the month. I’ve packed them up for you, and written the address on a piece of paper. It’s all in the kitchen.” Propping the front door of the apartment open with his foot, Magpie, hopping, manoeuvres his bicycle into the richly carpeted hallway. “I wouldn’t drink from the metal flask,” he says, with a wink. “I’ve filled it with gunpowder instead of coffee. Might give you a bit of a kick, but probably the wrong kind.”

“Sure. I can do that.”

“Marvellous.” Magpie straps his helmet on. “I’ll meet you back here for some lunch, then we’ll go and steal the tree. Don’t be late!” There is more clattering as he wheels away down the hallway, and then he is gone.

Alone, Adam spends a few moments disentangling his thoughts from his dream of the ledger. He can still taste the acidic apple, and it feels as if there’s bits of it stuck in his teeth. Then, stumbling over stacks of packages and wrapped-up treasures, he goes in search of the apartment’s kitchen. He’ll have to catch a train down to Brighton, he thinks.

* * *

St Pancras Station is different than Adam remembers. It’s just as cavernous as it’s always been, but the echo has changed. So many people create such a clamour of feet and voices, intermingling with the announcements and noise of all the trains, that he’s not as able to hear the pigeons. Worse, when he studies the high rafters, he notices that spikes have been installed to prevent any birds from roosting. Gradually, Adam makes his way through the station’s labyrinthine layout, searching for the train he needs and searching for stray feathers on the floor.

As he descends deeper into the building, he hears snatches of a song in its echo. It sounds as if someone’s playing a piano, and the tune is familiar. The song draws him into itself, and he feels as if he is navigating not through people but through the low waves of a gentle sea. It’s a very old song, he knows: older than any of the people he passes, and older than the station it echoes in, and older than the very idea of railways.

As Adam approaches the musician, he begins to hear the words accompanying the piano. The singer’s voice sounds as if it’s rising from the depths of an ocean. It’s not a musical voice at all – it’s more of a seismic rumble – and the words being sung are in a language Adam knows he’s long forgotten. He doesn’t remember what each word means, but he does remember the sentiment behind them. The shanty is bidding the winds to rise – to tense the ship’s sails and make it fly across the waves like a bird. There is a circle of people ahead, gathered around the piano chained to the wall at the station’s heart, and sat at it is a broad figure, singing with abandon, as if he might make the trains of St Pancras fly from their rails.

Adam emerges from the circle, and feels the words rise from his own throat. His voice sounds as deep as the depths of the sky at night, and though he doesn’t remember the language well enough to speak it, he knows the song just as well as his skin knows its scars.

The man at the piano turns, but doesn’t stop playing. He looks like a roughly hewn statue: his dark eyes are embedded deep in his craggy features, and his thick fingers are calloused where they emerge from the sleeves of his beaten blue overcoat. He wears a flat cap, with white wisps of hair emerging at its edges like white clouds through a grey sky, and his thick grey brows look like thunderheads, shadowing his coarse cheeks. His rocky face breaks into a grin of recognition, a grin that makes him look as if he has a mouth full of pebbles.

Together, they finish the song. There is a smattering of applause from the audience.

“Well, ain’t this a surprise,” rumbles the musician as he rises, first shaking Adam’s hand with a crushingly tight grip, then pulling him into a crushingly tight embrace. “The first man, come to sing old songs with me.” Hauling a heavy looking pack across his back, he looks Adam up and down. “Why, you ain’t changed a bit. A few more scars, a bit less hair.”

“How are you, Crab?”

“I’m well enough, lad. Well enough. What brings you this way?”

“Gotta go to Brighton. What about you?”

“Just heading home.” Crab flaps his