Pigeon Variations - Ch 34 - The Giggling Child

Pyser called in sick. There was no chance of lifting boxes in his condition. Not after a pasting like that.

Russell, the warehouse manager, was unimpressed. “You’re not hungover again, are you?” he asked.

“Not in the slightest.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I have a migraine.”

The call ended. Pyser lay in bed, aching and sore. He envied people who suffered from migraines. It was like a free pass to escape responsibility. He liked how no-one was ever sure if someone was telling the truth when they played the migraine card, but you had to give them the benefit of the doubt.

The sparrow was perched on top of the wardrobe. Roland made it clear that he didn’t like how Pyser was deceiving Russell.  

“It wasn’t a lie,” said Pyser.

Roland thought otherwise.

“In some ways, I really do have a migraine,” Pyser went on, “it’s a migraine of the soul.”

Roland was as sceptical as Russell.

“No one understands me,” whined Pyser.  

He ignored Roland’s criticisms as he forced himself out of bed and dressed himself, pulling on his baptised pigeon coat. “I’m going out and there’s nothing you can do it about it,” he said to Roland, filling a plastic carrier bag with cans of lager from the fridge. He found a hunting cap and a pair of sunglasses and left the bedsit.

A cotton-like, diaphanous mist hung in the air. He hobbled to his favourite bench in the local park, his tinnies clinking in the bag. He could smell the frost, like when he had to go into the giant chiller in the warehouse of the supermarket. Walking was painful. Those bastards had worked him over good and proper. Still, probably deserved it. Seedy twat.  

It was safer to drink outside than in boozers. That much he did know. He lowered himself onto the bench. His bollocks hurt something chronic. No way he could lift boxes. The pigeons immediately started flocking towards him. It was nice to feel wanted. He cracked open a can. The first of the day was always the best. It barely touched the sides.

He saw a man carrying a boy on his shoulders. The boy couldn’t have been any older than three or possibly four. He had curly blonde hair and pale blue eyes. It was the child’s giggling that caught Pyser’s attention. As the boy stroked his father’s shaved, bristly head, he laughed wildly. The sound of both the father and child laughing in unison had a magical quality.

It was then that Pyser realised that he wanted a family of his own. Son. Daughter. Doesn’t matter. Everybody else has children. Why not him? Was it because he was scared of repeating the mistakes of his parents? Didn’t want to infect a child with his evil temper and backwards intelligence. Or was it that he didn’t have a clue when it came to women? Couldn’t be trusted. Always out for number one. Just another Pinker at the end of the day.

Fuck it. Drink. Doesn’t matter.

The sound of the child’s giggles made him feel sad. Couldn’t stop himself. Feelings have a life of their own. That’s why emotions are fuckers. And then the anger. Disgust. Jealousy. Yearning. Regret. He could feel his head starting to spin. A migraine of the soul was coming on.   

There’s no point bringing another life into this world anyway.

Too many people. Too little space. Typical Pinker thinking.   

“We’ll all be fucking birds before long,” he said, cracking open a can.

The pigeons landed on Pyser. He didn’t need to throw crumbs or use any trickery. They wanted to be with him.

That’s unconditional love for you.

He raised his tinnie.

“Here’s to the birds,” he shouted.