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

him accusingly, each severed head so heavy with moisture that it droops low in the gloom. There are cabinets filled with antique rifles along the walls, and Adam considers them, but brute force has so far done nothing to damage the greenhouse. Adam’s knuckles are a bloody ruin.

On the far wall there is a dartboard, which has had a hunting knife driven through it, pinning a piece of cardboard in place. Adam wanders across and pulls the knife from the wooden panelling, to free the postcard it has severed almost in two. On the front of the card is a picture of a pair of glassy-eyed elephants huddled at the back of a plastic enclosure too small for them, beneath the words BEIJING ZOO; and on the back, in Magpie’s florid handwriting, is the message: “Dear Frank – Having a wonderful time at the zoo! Yours, Magnus.” Adam frowns at the card, turning it over in his hands as if there might be some secret third side of it, but it remains cryptic. It’s a taunt, he supposes. Pressing it back against the dartboard, Adam drives the hunting knife through it with enough force to split the wooden wall behind it.

Adam notices the sound of a helicopter approaching.

There is a thin staircase at the back of the main hall, and he uses it to make his way to the roof. There are chimneys up here among the ancient slates, and the storm seems to have tumbled a few, making a mess across the tiles. Adam disturbs the birds roosting in the gaps, and they flap away, leaving a clear space large enough for a helicopter to touch down comfortably at the centre. The helicopter in question is a sleek black affair, remaining dark even as it ceases to be a silhouette. Keeping his hands on his pistols, Adam watches it from behind an intact chimney stack. It’s not much in the way of cover, but it might be good to block a couple of shots, he thinks.

More tiles slip from the edges of the roof as the helicopter descends. The door rolls back and three figures hop down, ducking, their clothes flapping wildly around them beneath the whirling blades. Adam emerges from behind his chimney stack as the helicopter departs, its pilot wisely deciding not to remain parked on loose tiles. “You made it,” says Adam.

Crow straightens her clothes, her navy-blue coat and practical jeans, and smiles thinly, peering out over the ruined roof at the flooded estate. Butterfly seems more like herself again, dressed in bright reds and yellows and blues, with her rainbow hair plaited across her shoulder, and she passes Adam by, staring in wonder at the greenhouse rising like a lump of brilliant crystal at the rear of the house. Dressed darkly, Rook seems somehow taller than them both. He straightens his tie, which is today the colours of a peacock’s tail, and strides up to Adam, gripping his briefcase so tightly that his knuckles are bloodless. “Where’s Pig?” he asks.

“They’ve got him in the greenhouse.”

“I see.” Rook peers beyond Butterfly, at the enormous shatter-shard structure. “I’ve seen the blueprints. I trust you’ve had no luck getting inside?”

“Crab’s looking around.”

“Fine.” Rook removes his little round spectacles and cleans them with a dark square of cloth. “Take me to the airlock, Adam. It’s time this charade reached its conclusion.”

The corridor leading to the airlock feels darker than before. The ceiling sags overhead, dripping with moisture. Ahead, waiting beyond the glass, are Frank Sinclair and the rest of his party. They stand, naked and brazen, chewing on bits of fruit and gathered nuts, their idle laughter crackling through the hidden speakers. They share little jokes, and Frank Sinclair bares his dog-teeth at Adam, casting his bloodshot eyes over Crow and Butterfly hungrily before settling upon Rook.

It is strange, Adam thinks, how much presence Rook has. He is small in stature, and he stands before the airlock in his sharp, well-tailored suit alone, holding his briefcase in both hands, yet whoever he turns his eyes upon shies away from him, as if they have been suddenly embarrassed by their nakedness.

Rook takes his time, inspecting the vault’s contents as its occupants hurl ineffective insults his way. His gaze lingers upon the cherry tree and the figure chained to it. “Adam,” he says, eventually. “A word, please.” Adam wanders across and leans down, so that Rook can whisper confidentially into his ear. “Some of the trees. Some of the flowers. Perhaps some of the grass,” he says, softly. “Am I mistaken, or are they very familiar?”

“They’re from Eden,” confirms Adam.

“I see.” Rook frowns. “Once this situation has been resolved, I feel as if you and I need to have a longer conversation about the circumstances surrounding this place.”

“I tried, for years and years, to paint it,” says Butterfly, “but I always got it wrong. Eden, I mean.” She stands before the airlock with a frown. “The main problem was the colours. I could never get the right pigments. The pigments I could get were made of common flower petals and beetle shells, and if I wanted to capture the real splendour of paradise, I needed pigments made of Eden’s petals and Eden’s beetle shells. I think my paintings were as much copies of Eden’s flowers as Earthly flowers are, if you know what I mean. But this…” Her eyes slowly travel across the greenhouse. “This is it. It’s crude, and flawed, and drawn by an inarticulate hand, but it’s paradise. The colours are there. In the petals. In the grasses. In Pig’s blood.” At last, she faces the cherry tree, and her frown deepens. “It’s beautiful, and it’s vicious. You need to help him.”

“Of course.” Rook blinks, and clears his throat. Then he approaches the airlock. The jibes from the other side reach a crescendo, but all quieten as Rook flicks the switch on the intercom and speaks into it. “This has gone on for long enough,” he says. “Allow me