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

the long night finally catches up with her. She draws blankets from her bag, and nestles up beneath them at the motorboat’s fore. Sometimes, when the boat lurches across waves, the spray makes rainbows over her, haloing her while she sleeps.

Crab is following a burst river to the sea. They must be sailing across a floodplain. Adam leans over the edge of the boat, and tries to see the country beneath it.

There are the shapes of fences down there, and shale walls, and paved roads, and they pass over the wrecks of sunken cars and caravans, which have aerials that scrape across the boat’s base. In the distance, between the hills, Adam spies the spire of a church, and before long he can see the silhouettes of entire buildings under water.

The little boat sails across the car park of a supermarket, surrounded by the skeletons of shopping trolleys, and the water is filled with bobbing crisp packets and ready-meals. Adam fishes out a curry meal for one, and some smoked bacon, and a bag of fresh lettuce. It’s funny, he thinks, how it’s only the stuff wrapped in plastic that floats.

Adam pops the bag of lettuce and tentatively munches on a leaf, only to find that it’s perfectly preserved. He offers the bag to Crab.

“No thanks, lad.” Crab has donned a bright yellow hat that matches his coat, and looks, to Adam, like a cartoon of a sailor. He steers with one hand, and keeps his other locked tight around the edge of his boat, as if he might be sailing by feeling the currents that wash across her. “Got you a present,” he rumbles, and pats the boat’s stowage box.

Releasing the catch, Adam reveals his gun belts, the pistols shiny and polished.

“There’s a bag of ball bearings in there,” says Crab. “Fly a lot better than a shot. And a flask of powder, too. I took that dusty stuff you brought me and mixed it with some other things. My own special recipe. Should make a big bang.”

Adam’s arms ache as he hefts the pistols, turning them over. They look as good as new. “Thanks, Crab. I guess I owe you one.” Fastening the stowage box shut, Adam turns back to the water. The rooftops of houses rise from the waters here, and the detritus of many lives has bobbed to the surface around them. A set of colourful balloons glides past, along with the sodden shapes of party hats and paper plates. An entire platter of sausage rolls breaks apart against the hull of the boat, before sinking. The severed heads of sunflowers float upright, parting with the currents.

The sky brightens with the shifting of clouds, and the waters sparkle at the edges.

Beside the church spire, the boat’s engine sputters and grinds to a halt. Adam leans over the edge while Crab hauls at the little engine’s pulley and spies the multicoloured bunting that has wound itself around the engine’s rotor. The bunting seems to have been hung up between the village’s lamps for some autumnal celebration, but is now holding the boat firmly in place. Adam reaches in as far as he is able, with his chest needling in protest, but he is unable to reach any of the tiny string flags. “You might have to go down,” he says.

Crab eyes the tangle. “Reckon you’re right,” he says. Unfastening his mackintosh, and removing his boots, he strips down to his trousers, revealing a chest that looks like a map of a mountain range. “Shan’t be long,” he rumbles. Placing his yellow hat on Adam’s head, he winks, and jumps without hesitation into the flood. The murky waters splash as if he is a boulder fallen into them, and there is a long stream of bubbles before the surface calms. Then Crab is no more than a dark shape, swimming beneath the boat and working at the knotted bunting.

Munching at lettuce, Adam enjoys the moment of calm; the distant sound of birds calling. There are quite a few birds using the village rooftops to perch upon. Adam can see a pair of herons watching the waters from the vantage of a petrol station; every now and then one of them strikes at the water, without any success. A roost of pigeons coos up in the rafters of the church spire, huddled together beneath its bell, and there seem to be multiple families of ducks and moorhens, bobbing on the currents between the buildings and preening at themselves. Adam watches a gaggle of geese paddle down the main road, honking conversationally as they go, and wonders how long it will be until they fly south. It must be soon, he thinks.

“What is that?”

Crow has awoken, and is sitting up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Adam, what is that?”

“What is what?”

“Those birds…”

The distant calls he heard earlier are indeed drawing closer. A cawing chorus, noisy in the quiet. Adam searches the sky as Crow stands, unsteadily, straightening her dress.

“Where are they…?”

Finally, Adam spots them. An untidy flock of black birds, feathers falling as they quarrel with each other. They stream out in an arrow, chasing something small at the arrow’s point. Adam shades his eyes against the sun, and tries to see what it is that’s being so desperately hunted. Whatever it is, it has bright wings with shifting colours, and it tumbles like a leaf through the blue and white sky, barely evading the frantic beaks of its pursuers.

Crow’s breath catches in her throat. “Oh, shit.” There is a whirl of feathers and limbs and wings as she changes shape, launching from her clothes, sharp beak shining. Her prosthetic leg thumps as it falls. Glossy black wings wide, she flaps and soars high, cutting through the air to intercept the quarrelling flock. Hands clenching and unclenching, Adam is helpless, only able to watch as she bursts through them, shrieking and tearing with her single claw. The bright-winged insect at the flock’s head tumbles unsteadily, the tips of its wings