Jane

“Aye, the poor sap couldn't even recognise a blackcap.” Mr. Buchanan rubbed his arm where the antiviral had been injected.

“Dad!”

He snatched his hand away. “Ach! A load of fuss over nothing.”

Jane wished mum would hurry up: the last Edinburgh flight was boarding and the old fools weren't even through security yet; dusk was falling on a car that seemed incapable of running both engine and headlights together; Year Two had given her hell all day; and now her father was wittering on about some bird. It had been wonderful to see her parents and spend the school’s in-service day with them but she didn't want to miss too much of that evening’s Cortinas tribute gig and there was a weekend of flat-hunting ahead. She couldn't keep living in one room.

“At your age,” she said, “the flu could be very nasty.”

“My age? My age? I’m as fit as lads half my years.” He was too – a miracle of Calvinistic preservation. “What’s your mother up to?”

“I should know?”

Why couldn't ma pee on the plane? They didn't charge for it. Yet. It was barely an hour in the air too, not as though they were going to spend all day getting to... well, yes, dammit, Australia. She could surely think the word by now.

“I do hope they're holding the plane for us.” Mrs. Buchanan bustled up. “They don't go without you these days, you know, what with – “

“Mum! Come on.” Jane stepped towards the escalator as though trying to encourage a couple of puppies to follow.

“You needn’t take that tone, Jane Louise.” Mrs Buchanan finished tying a headscarf, for which Jane could see no reason. “And in any case there's no point your going up there. We'll love you and leave you here.”

“Fine.”

The public-address system bing-bonged and in the following announcement Jane caught the word, Edinburgh.

“That has to be final call.”

But her parents were moving. She hugged them, distantly. They seemed inclined to dither again. She checked the departures screen to chivvy them along.

“Only...” where was the gate for the flight? Edinburgh. Edinburgh. Cancelled. Cancelled? Impossible. A minute ago it had been showing gate – whatever the bloody gate had been. Cancelled? “Wait on.”

Her folks had reached the foot of the escalator. They followed Jane’s gaze to the screen. Jesus, God, she thought, thirty seconds earlier and they'd have been through. Instead, thirty minutes later she returned to them at Café Ritazza, having gleaned the news that one of the cabin crew had fallen sick and there wasn't much chance of a replacement that late in the day.

Mrs. Buchanan seemed unruffled. “That’s bonny. We’ll enjoy another night in Bristol.”

“Ma, this isn't British Airways. They'll not be putting you up at the Hilton.”

“They won't?”

“It’s a budget bloody airline, remember?”

“Jane!”

Mr. Buchanan grunted. “Less of the language, girl.”

“Oh, brother.” Less of the gig, less of the search for accommodation too. Jane hadn’t space to put them up and couldn't dump them in the centre of town either; and they'd need bringing back to the airport in the morning.

And it was fully dark when they got back to the car. And the motor died as soon as she switched the lights on.

“I don't fucking believe this car!” Jane was past caring about language. “How do lights bugger up engines? And look...” She left the headlamps on and turned the ignition key twice, three times, to no effect; and buried her head on the steering wheel. She couldn't even cry. She had visions of Basil Fawlty thrashing his Mini with a fallen branch and actually began to chuckle.

Then she cried.

It was all shit. Bloody, bloody shit. ⇐ ⇒

The First Victim

The body’s thud preceded the last of the plastic cases skittering across the floor. The prostrate form groaned and in the shop a blanket of silence fell. From outside, traffic labouring up Park Street filled the void. A tableau: shoppers frozen, faces fixed; the shattered carousel, its CDs, cases and inserts strewn in all directions; Guy uncomfortably closest to the stricken lump, which shivered, mouthing bubbles of foam. A final CD insert parachuted down and settled by a trickle of blood snaking from the fat man’s nose. An Introduction to NLP.

Guy thought of Saul: he followed that sort of thing, especially since the split with Fiona. He was a doctor too. He would have sprung into action. Guy was blank. He had even forgotten the book he had been carrying to the checkout, so fixed was he on the mute drama facing him.

The white-haired Scot reacted first and knelt over the labouring victim. Guy blessed him and hovered and tried to look useful without wanting to see any of the details.

“An ambulance,” he said.

“Aye. And right quick.”

Guy pulled out his phone, even as a nurse bustled over, presumably on her break from the Royal Infirmary. Guy tapped in 999 and tensed, as though he shouldn't be dialling these sacred numbers, meant only for emergencies. Was this an emergency?

As though in affirmation the victim moaned, wheezed, and shivered. Was blood also flecking the foam around his mouth? Guy felt weak and tried to look away. He realised the phone was interrogating him. Good, an anchor to concentrate on.

Above it the nurse was saying, “We should clear the area, please. Please. Come along. There’s a risk of infection. Come along.” Behind concealing hand she muttered to the Scotsman.

Guy finished the call. “It’s on its way.”

The nurse nodded. “Good. Now you too, please.” She waved him away.

Guy didn't need prompting but he would have liked to know the outcome. For that there was always the Web and he still had Matthew’s wedding card to buy before the weekend. Not in this shop any more, as the staff were shepherding customers out, like a plan springing into action. A siren announced the approach of an ambulance – not an unusual sound in this part of Bristol.

With an odd sense of anti-climax Guy drifted back to the office, where Rani would be sure to soak up the story. Only as he got to Brandon Hill did he register the unpaid merchandise in his hand. How had he got away with that? ⇐ ⇒

The Birder

First, he needed to double-check that he was buying the absolutely best possible field guide. A sixty-year-old version of Andy Warhol was now browsing the bird shelves. Guy hesitated. He could just go with the book he had chosen.

From a neighbouring section behind him a thundering sneeze demanded attention. Some fat bastard in an overcoat -- an overcoat? In this weather? And fatty did glisten with sweat although he also looked weirdly cold with a faint blue tinge to his complexion. White shock-haired Warhol had also turned to look and now grimaced at Guy, committing him to make some show of examining the merchandise.

“Am I in your way?” – Scots tones.

Guy hefted his book. “I was just... I don't know if this is for me.”

“The Larousse, aye. Good for beginners.”

“Oh, I’m not... I mean,” Guy couldn't get away from the older man’s hair. Was it a wig? “Do any books organise birds by colour?”

“Ach, a real beginner.”

Guy mumbled. He didn't even know what himself. He gestured and that too was meaningless to him. He looked back at the overcoat, which had moved closer.

“What colour would you be wanting?”

“Brown, on the head.” Guy patted his own sparse thatch. “I think: it was quick.”

“Where?”

“The head, I’m sure.”

“No, where, as in place.”

“Brandon Hill.”

“Aye, let's try type of place, then.”

Guy pictured himself back in Latin lessons with that old twat, Symes, hammering on about tense? subject? declension? A snoring told him that the fat man was even nearer – a snoring interspersed with nasty, liquidy sounds.

Guy fought his way back to the conversation. “A bush?”

“Are you no sure this bird wasnae grey?”

Guy shook his head. “I can't remember.”

“Well, laddie, you need to write it down. Or draw a wee sketch.”

“Ha! With my O-level art?”

The avian expert’s blue eyes switched from interrogation to amusement. “Come now, a couple of circles, a few lines?”

Another mighty sneeze punctured the air. Guy almost felt droplets raining on him.

He brandished the book. “I've got to –”

“Of course, you'll find your bird in there.”

Guy wheeled in the direction of the cashier but a strangled sneeze, ominous silence and then the sound of cascading, clattering... what? He found a shower of CD cases, flying from a display carousel, and a large figure tumbling after them.

Jesus! If only Guy had bought the book straightaway. ⇐ ⇒