Pigeon Variations – Ch 28 – The Pigeon King

Lobbing the sports bag over the park railings, Pyser heaved himself up. He struggled to climb over. He’d definitely piled on a few pounds over the last few months. Lost his strength. There was this pain too. In the liver. 

Need to sort it out. Do some exercise. Get fit. Healthy. It’s all everyone fucking bangs on about these days. Losing weight. Eat this. Don’t eat that. Avoid carbs. Only eat carbs. Fucking nonsense. Tubby fuckers stuffing their chubby faces wherever you look. Sauces for every fucking morsel under the sun. Show some self-control. Restraint. Always saying one thing. Doing another. That’s people for you. All the posey, picture-taking wankers putting on a front, secretly fucking hating themselves, hating how they look, crying into their anti-allergy pillows. 

Pyser slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the trees. Autumn was closing in and it was getting chilly. He pulled the collars up of his green parka. He fucking loved his jacket. Best thing he’d ever nicked. Brian had to be here somewhere, lurking in the shadows. Pyser walked through the foliage, he deliberately stepped on branches so they’d crack, feeling the crunch of soil and leaves under his feet, picking up a stick to swoosh through the branches and whack the trunks of trees. Come out, come out wherever you are, you total fruit loop.

Going back to London was far scarier than strolling around a park at night in Brighton. “A new adventure,” Kelly had said. You wish. Do me a favour. Fuck off.

London, it chewed you up and spat you out.

London detested the poor.

Look at London’s bullshit architecture. How it carried itself with its Marble Arch and Elephant & Castle roundabout. He’d watched Simon Schama. He knew the history score.

London’s been killing off the poor ever since the ordinary fucking Roman soldiers –  legionaries – were told to set up camp by the river. They didn’t have a say in the matter. Do it or else.

London’s for the rich. A capital’s for capitalists. Too fucking right. That Julius Caesar, he was another one, only out for himself – a lying, conniving, greedy, snidey Thomas Pinker. And then some. He came from a long line of Pinkers.

London’s not even a fucking city.

London’s a sprawling, slimy turd, scattered with warring maggot-like tribes.

Growing up on his estate was fucking brutal as you like. No money. No jobs. No fuck all except skanks tearing each other to pieces.

“Go away,” said a voice.

Pyser stopped in his tracks and raised the stick he was holding.

“You have to leave. This is my park.”

Pyser relaxed. “Brian – how is it going, son? You alright?”

“You have to leave.” Brian was shouting from behind a bush.

“I see you’ve got the place looking nice. I like what you’ve done.”

“You can’t stay here.”

“Show us your face,” said Pyser.

“Go.”

Another voice, a woman’s, said, “You really must go now.”

“I thought there might be a love interest. Rain Man and Rain Woman – fair play to you, Brian. How are you doing, sweetheart?”

Together, they said, “You have to leave the park.”

Pyser walked closer. “Can I stay here tonight?”

“No,” said Brian.

Pyser stepped round the bush. The woman was transitioning. Her nose and mouth all fucked-up like the Colombian. She wasn’t going to be anything special. She’d be a regular sort of feathery friend. A magpie, say, or a crow.

“You’re here because of the birds, right?” said Pyser.

“What do you want?” said the woman, drooling.

Pyser said, “Don’t think I didn’t notice, Brian, how your jacket’s covered in bird shit.”

Brian and the woman started whispering.

“Look,” said Pyser, dropping the stick, “I’m not here to cause trouble. I only want to hang out with you two and the birds, because that’s what you’re doing, right, hanging out with the birds? That’s what this is about. Let me stay with you. Go on. Please. I know it’s going to happen to me. I know it’s coming.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed Roland, holding the sparrow with soft hands. “This is a mate of mine,” Pyser went on, “he transitioned after a heavy night out. I’m not going to be far off myself. I can feel the changes happening.”

He’d read about people going to live among birds. Building tree houses, shacks, or simply sleeping in parks, woodland, so they could be closer to nature. Escaping humanity and the madness of a dying species. 

“Come with us,” said the woman.

He followed behind them, winking at Roland, who he placed back in his pocket.

“How long have you got?” said Pyser to the woman.

“A couple of weeks,” she replied. “No one knows for sure, do they? Sometimes it’s quick. Sometimes it drags out.”

Brian said, “The scientists and politicians pretend they understand what’s happening, but no one has a clue, not really.”

“You can say that again,” said Pyser.

“Usually, it’s around a couple of months,” the woman said.

They arrived at a small camp that Brian and the woman had made for themselves. Pigeons and seagulls strutted back and forth between the scattered bottles, sweet wrappers and old newspapers. There were sleeping bags in a cardboard box, which was covered in plastic sheeting to keep out the rain.

Pyser sat cross-legged on the ground, dropping his bag next to him. It was the pigeons who immediately walked up to him, moving in close, allowing him to pat and stroke their heads. “Why don’t they fly off?” he asked.

The woman said, “The ones that were once human tend to be friendlier.” She paused and watched Pyser with the birds. “But the pigeons do seem to have taken a particular liking to you.”

Brian chipped in, “They say that you lose your human memories once you transition, but we don’t think that’s true.”

“No,” said the woman, “we think they’re only saying that to stop people trying to care for their loved ones once they turn into birds.”

Pyser unzipped his bag and removed a large bottle of cider. He unscrewed the top and took a long draught of goodness. “The seagulls couldn’t give two fucks about me,” he said.

“The pigeons really seem to have taken to you, though," said Brian. 

Pyser handed him the bottle. 

“I’ve never seen them act like this before,” commented the woman.   

A pigeon jumped onto Pyser’s left shoulder. Then one landed on his head. “I hope Roland’s not getting jealous,” he said, laughing.

“Linda, do you want some?” asked Brian.

“I shouldn’t drink when in transition.”

More pigeons flew over. “Are these all transitioned birds?” said Pyser.

“It’s difficult to know,” replied Brian.

“We think so,” said Linda, “but you know, they’re pigeons, so they tend to look alike. It’s hard to keep track of who’s who.”

Pyser took the bottle from Brian. He felt the warm goo from their droppings sliding onto him. He held out an arm for more to perch on. It was unusual for him to feel this kind of affection. As much as he wanted to be an eagle or a hawk or a peregrine falcon, it felt comforting to have these pigeons acting so friendly.

“I’ve honestly never seen them behave like this,” said Linda.

Brian lit a cigarette. “It’s like they’ve been waiting for you.”

Pyser grinned as he turned into a human pigeon coop. He didn’t mind about his beloved jacket getting covered in stains. “I’ve found my tribe. Honestly,” he said to Linda, “the sooner you turn into a bird, the better. Anything has to be better than being a fucking person.”

“I’m trying to be positive and think like that,” she said, “but it’s not easy. Still, I know this is God’s will.”

“God?” said Pyser.

“Yes,” said Brian, “that’s why we’re here as we accept this is God’s will. Better to live with the birds and accept our fate than pretend otherwise, listening to the government’s lies and propaganda.”

“Fucking God,” said Pyser, belching. “What you on about?”

Brian was lost in his own train of thought. To Linda, he said, “I’ll miss you so much when you’re gone.”

“Did you hear that? God,” said Pyser to one of the pigeons, forcing out another belch.

“I’ll be here with you,” Linda said to Brian. “I’m not flying anywhere.”

Pyser decided to get off the subject of religion. It was a fucking dead-ender. “Brian, you’re not transitioning yourself, then?”

“No, unfortunately I’m not.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“He’s being so helpful. We gave up our jobs,” she said.

Brian took the bottle and swigged thirstily.

“What did you do?”

“I was a teacher,” said Brian, picking up his ukulele.

“Me too.”  

Pyser had guessed as much. It figured. Probably careers teachers. He felt warm pigeon droppings trickling down his face and the side of his head, running into his ears. Their shit was supposed to bring good luck. He could fucking do with some, that’s for sure. More pigeons flew over. Cooing and flapping their wings.

The ukulele had This Machine Kills Fascists carved into the wood. So very Brighton.

“Maybe you’re like a father to them,” said Linda.

“You could be a ruler of some kind,” Brian agreed.

Pyser the Pigeon King.

Bring it on. He fucking liked the sound of that.