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

to introduce myself. You probably know me as Rook, which is my very real name. Today, however, I am here in my capacity as Roger Corvid, who is a senior partner in the Corvid & Corvid legal firm. As such, you may address me as ‘Mister Corvid’, should you so wish.” Rook turns to Crow, and gestures at a nearby plinth, upon which stands an enormous antique vase. “If you would be so kind,” he says.

Crow pushes the vase from the plinth, and it shatters across the carpet. Then she drags the wooden stand over to Rook. Returning to her place beside Adam, she makes certain to crunch across the shards of the broken vase.

Placing his briefcase upon the stand, Rook unlocks it and withdraws several pieces of paper. He takes his time, flicking through them. “Some of you were at the attack on my sister’s funeral,” he says. “You were sloppy. Scotland Yard identified the majority of you, and those who they did not identify I have identified myself through the use of private investigators. As such, you are all known to me. Further, your assets are known to me. I have spent the better part of the past few weeks cataloguing your estates. Some of you have protected your properties better than others, but rest assured that I have uncovered everything you have tried to conceal.”

There is no more mirth in the faces beyond the airlock. All eyes follow the pieces of paper in Rook’s hands. “You will be glad to know that I have come to an arrangement with Scotland Yard,” he continues. “They have generously agreed to allow me authority over your assets, in return for the extensive evidence I have collected against you.”

Rook straightens his papers. “To be clear,” he says, “I have your money. Your bank accounts, local and abroad, have either been frozen or seized. I have your physical assets. Your houses, and cars, and tracts of land all belong to me. The horses, and dogs, and guns you used to attack my sister’s funeral are now mine, and will be handed over as evidence. This house,” he says, gesturing at the sodden walls, “is mine. The ground you stand on is mine. The fruit you are eating is mine. The jewellery you are wearing is mine. The very air you breathe is mine.”

There is absolute silence from beyond the airlock.

“I will not return your assets to you,” Rook continues. “You will never know the wealth and luxury you have enjoyed again. You have forfeited your rights to comfortable lives. However, I am well aware that most of you have offspring. You have children enrolled in various expensive institutes, and invested in various business ventures, who rely on you for your money. Your children, so far as I can see, have done nothing to deserve punishment for the crimes of their parents. As such, should you surrender immediately, I am inclined to allow them to inherit. Modestly.” Rook lays the papers back in his briefcase, and seals it shut. “To be absolutely clear: you are to open this airlock, release your captive, and submit to arrest. Doing so will allow your offspring to inherit some of the money I have taken from you. I am certain that some of you will have questions, but I strongly suggest waiting until you have secured legal counsel for yourselves.” Rook flicks the switch on the intercom, and steps back.

There is a long quiet in the greenhouse. Then all inside start talking at once.

Some yell at Rook, and others shout at each other. Arguments quickly become heated, and everyone suddenly seems very aware of their nakedness; they hide behind each other, wrinkled expanses of flesh reddening with embarrassment. Those with rifles wave them, or drop them. Some stare at their hands, or through the glass at Rook. Fights break out; fists are thrown, bruising bones. Blood is drawn, spattering the grasses. Then, all at once, there is a scrum for the airlock controls. A crowd gathers around it, punching in useless numbers to try and release the doors.

“I changed it!” cries a voice, louder than the rest. All eyes turn to see Frank Sinclair, stood at the rear of the crowd. He is holding a plastic and metal pistol-shaped object, and his eyes are wide and wild. “I knew you were all weak, so I changed the code. None of you are getting out without my permission.” Some raise their rifles at him, and then lower them. The voices quieten again. “I have no children,” growls Frank Sinclair. The crowd parts to let him through. “You can apply no leverage to me, fowl. Adam saw to that when he murdered my wife.” When he is up against the glass, Frank Sinclair turns his plastic gun over in his hands, thoughtfully.

Adam advances on the door, so that he stands face-to-face with Frank Sinclair. He presses the intercom and speaks into it. “Open the door,” he says. This close, he realises that the gun is a bolt gun. A pneumatic thing, used to slaughter cattle.

Frank Sinclair frowns. “When I was a boy,” he says, “my father took me to Vatican City. We walked the streets, and there saw God’s glory in the rich churches. It was in the statues of the saints, and the brilliant murals devoted to Christ’s life, and the tall stained-glass windows. It was in the very architecture of the place – every stone of every arch devoted to God. At the end of the trip, my father brought me to see the Sistine Chapel, and there it was, Michelangelo’s most precious offering to God, resplendent. I knew, then – I knew with absolute certainty – that Michelangelo had been accepted into heaven. But do you know what else I thought, when I saw Michelangelo’s finest work?” Frank Sinclair meets Adam’s eye. “I thought: I can do better.”

“Open the door,” repeats Adam.

“You’re not listening to me, Adam. I’m telling you that this place – this greenhouse