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

why the gilded windows bother him so much. They are a symbol of grotesque excess, perhaps, as if the sheer grandiosity of the architecture isn’t enough to convey the wealth of its owners. The house has been roped off, to prevent any stray gardeners from muddying its opulence with their filthy hands.

It’s planting season, so the flower show is as much devoted to gardeners purchasing seeds and bulbs for the next season as it is about showing off the last flowers of the year. There are display boxes where expert gardeners have miniature arrangements on show, and Adam is fascinated as much by the biographies beneath each as he is the gardening. The display boxes are splendid things, each carefully cultivated and aesthetically pleasing, and the biographies of those who planted them include multiple academic achievements. Adam is vaguely aware that schools of gardening exist, but confronted by these awards, he wonders what it takes to become a master or a doctor of gardening. There is plenty to learn, he has to concede.

Deeper into the show, there are enormous tents filled with out-of-season displays, and Adam goes from one to the next, pausing at each to absorb the sights. There are artfully arranged cacti, and he runs his fingers gently across their bristles. At a pool so crammed with lilies that there is no water visible, he kneels down and admires the colours of the dragonflies humming above the white and yellow flowers. And where there are bunches of roses, each placed into vases and arranged by colour, Adam spends time inhaling the heady scents until he is made dizzy by them. It’s a good job that he already has a garden to attend to, he thinks, else he would be tempted to take home so many bulbs and seeds.

Adam eventually stumbles across Crow, who is swinging in a designer hammock on sale at a stall. An expanse of purple orchids are reflected in her oversized sunglasses, and she is chewing thoughtfully at a piece of toffee. She is wearing a denim skirt, and a denim jacket over a white T-shirt.

“Double denim?” asks Adam.

“Rachel Jackson likes retro clothes,” says Crow. “Rachel Jackson especially likes wandering around the vintage shops of Leeds in search of bargains. Crow, however, doesn’t like being Rachel Jackson, and can’t stand Leeds. Crow thinks that Leeds has all the hallmarks of a city, without enough personality to set it apart in any meaningful way. In fact, Crow thinks she would much rather be living literally anywhere else.” She peers at Adam over the top of her sunglasses. “Since when were you such a fashion expert, anyway?”

Adam looks over the hammocks, but none of them look quite strong enough to hold him. “One of my clients in LA had a lot of subscriptions to fashion magazines.”

“And you read them?”

“You get a lot of time to kill in the security business.”

Crow unwraps the last of her toffee, and offers him a square. “I was thinking,” she says.

“What were you thinking?”

“Do you remember when we went to Naples?”

Adam tries to recall a trip to Naples with Crow, and is surprised to find that he can. The tangle of thorns knotting his memories has loosened enough to allow him glimpses of moments he thought forgotten. “There were flowers,” he says.

“That’s right. You wanted to tour the graves of your favourite poets, so we went to Naples to see Virgil’s tomb, and by the time we got there it was the middle of summer.” She motions at the display of orchids. “It was a ruin, even back then, but the whole place was covered in tiny lilac flowers. They were growing out of the cracks in the walls, and on the roof, and all the way across the surrounding fields. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so impressed by anything. You looked as if you’d have happily laid down next to Virgil and died right there.” Crow rolls a piece of toffee around between her fingers, making them sticky. “I was thinking. A whole bunch of poets have died since then. Maybe we should go on another tour, now we’re both stuck in Europe.”

“Where do you reckon they buried Burns?”

“Scotland, I’d imagine.”

Adam tries his toffee. It tastes too sweet, and clings to his teeth.

“How did you find me?” he asks.

“I was a private investigator in another life.”

“What are you now?”

“Rachel Jackson is meant to be a student of fine art. I’m not very good at it, though. I don’t really have the knack. But I am looking forward to the crippling debt. What about you?”

“I’ve been doing some gardening.”

“Thought it’d be something like that. You look a bit more like yourself again.” Using the stub of a pencil, she scribbles a series of digits onto the back of the toffee wrapper. “Here. Give me a call when you fancy a holiday. We can find Burns, and Wordsworth, and all the rest.”

“Sounds good.”

“Say, did you ever find out what Magpie’s been spending Rook’s money on?”

“I did.” Adam tries to find the right sequence of words to tell her about the stadium garden, but here and now he thinks he understands why Magpie showed it to him instead of trying to sum it up in words. Language does not do the hidden garden justice. Adam finds himself imagining Crow discovering the garden for herself – perching once again among the branches of Eden’s gracious trees.

“What are you smiling about?”

“It’s best if I show you. Are you free?”

Crow checks her watch. “I need to start heading back up north in an hour. How about next weekend?”

Adam brandishes the toffee wrapper. “I’ll call you.”

“See that you do.” Crow stretches her arms and stands. “Tempted to stretch my wings. Things are usually a lot clearer up above. Down here all you get is mud on your shoes.”

Adam inspects the soles of his boots. They are indeed caked in mud.

* * *

Adam is astonished by how many Manchesters there are.

He has grown so used to the