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

your other records, you may have the record for the highest number of surgeons baffled. Luckily for you, it’s not a statistic we keep track of.” She pulls away the curtains surrounding his bed. “I’ll be back in a while to make sure you’re still alive. Remember: keep still and let yourself heal.”

The room is now bright with sunlight, and Adam blinks through it as his doctor strides away. There is another bed opposite Adam’s, and laying within it is Owl. Even prone, wearing a plastic breathing mask, and hooked up to rows of machines, Owl looks mythological. It’s in the way that his sinewy physique is still tense, even while he is unconscious, as if he is ready to leap into action at any moment. His muscular arms are spread wide and strapped to long boards, and there are long metal pins penetrating his bronze flesh at various angles, no doubt to help his bones set. To Adam, he looks like a fearsome facsimile of the crucifixion. Owl’s bed is also surrounded with beeping and whirring machines, upon which are perched dozens more bunches of flowers, almost hiding him from view.

There is soft laughter, and Adam turns his head to see Crow, who is perched on one of the room’s long windowsills. She is wearing a polka-dot dress the same red as her lips and heart-shaped sunglasses, and the light of the sky gushes into the room around her. Today, her prosthetic leg is black, and she swings it idly as she continues her conversation on her phone. Adam doesn’t interrupt her. He is content to lie where he is. The grey sky behind her whirls with quick clouds, but time seems slow here. There is no pain in Adam’s chest, but it does feel like there is a weight upon it, as if somebody is stood on top of him and keeping him pinned down.

Eventually, Crow concludes her phone call and wanders across.

“You’re a lucky man,” she tells him, finding a seat at the end of his bed.

“So I’m told.”

Adam voice is hoarse, so she offers him a little water.

“When I found you,” she says, “there was a hole in your chest big enough to nest in. And I’m told that they dug more than one bullet out of you. I don’t know what you’re made of, Adam, but it’s tough stuff.”

“Dust.”

She laughs.

“Who are the flowers from?”

“Butterfly. She’s been replacing Owl’s whenever they start to wilt, so I’m sure she’ll do the same for you. That was her on the phone, actually.”

“How is she?”

“Did you know that Pig owns a canal boat? The two of them are sailing it through Glasgow right now. I imagine that it’s this old, rickety, peeling thing, but Butterfly has a wonderful way of describing everything. She makes it sound as if it’s a great, gleaming galleon, and that Glasgow’s canals are treacherous waters thick with pirates. The best bit is the way she makes it sound as if Pig is a mighty captain, commanding an eager crew and bedecked with medallions. Apparently, he even has a special sailing hat.” She raises her heart-shaped glasses to her forehead. “I can see why he dotes on her so much. I think the world’s a brighter place with her in it.”

“Especially in winter.”

“Especially in winter,” she agrees.

“What about Owl?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Or rather, he will be when his bones set. He keeps struggling whenever he wakes up, so we’re keeping him under most of the time. You wouldn’t believe the amount of sedatives it takes to keep him drowsy. Thankfully, this place is very discreet. The wonders of private care, I suppose. How are you feeling?”

“A bit sore.”

“I should imagine.” She shuffles up and runs her fingers across the thick bandages binding his chest, making his skin tingle with needles of pain. “Rook is on his way. He’s been busy in London, working to ruin the men who ruined my funeral. He’ll be wanting to know who did this to you. Do you remember what happened?”

In this warm and bright place, Adam’s past seems dark and cold. He tries to piece together the moments before he woke, but there are only splinters of moments – memories like slivers of shrapnel embedded in his mind. “Bits and pieces,” he says. The phone box is the most vivid: that ruined place he was sure was going to be his coffin.

“Well, get some rest. My brother will be here soon, and you can tell him all about it.” Crow lowers her heart-shaped sunglasses and wanders over to the wide windows, throwing them open and making the curtains billow. Droplets of rain drift through. “We’re out on the Yorkshire moors here,” she tells him, “so the air is always fresh. No city noise, and no light pollution. The stars come out at night, like they used to. I’ll see about getting you a wheelchair, and maybe, when it stops raining, we can go outside and see them.”

* * *

It continues to rain. For a while, the rain is no more than dots and dashes down the windows. Adam watches it from the comfort of his bed – the way it soaks the curtains. Within hours, the sky begins to darken, and the rain becomes violent. There is a constant rumbling, accompanied by lightning, and as tired as Adam is he remains awake, admiring the storm as it develops. A nurse arrives to fasten the windows, and the curtains cease their dramatic billowing, but the drumming of heavy droplets on the rooftop continues: the heavens smashing at the tiles of the hospital. Crow returns with a wheelchair and a bounty of snacks gathered from various vending machines, and she helps Adam to sit up and slide out of bed. The windows are only a few steps away, so there’s no need to untangle himself from all of his wires and tubes; they are draped behind him like a cloak. Crow perches on the windowsill, and Adam sits back in his