The Magpie Trap: A Novel (11 page)

Margaret
and Chris wordlessly cleared the table, carefully re-administering the
cling-film and tin foil to most of the half-eaten food. They fell into the old
routine of washing up together; or rather Chris washed and Margaret dried and
put away the plates and cutlery. Mal still forbade the presence of a dishwasher
in his house, seeing such a purchase as some kind of slight on his
Yorkshire
frugality. Not that he
ever did any of the washing up himself; no, he was clearly a busy man, and
Margaret was at home all day long, wasn’t she?

The kitchen overlooked the vast expanse of garden.
This gigantic playground had been one of the main reasons why the Parkers had
purchased the house. In time, however, Mal had put his foot down and made the
garden his own, taking pride in its neatness and banning the children from most
activities in it. Even now, Chris regarded the garden, with its untouched patio
furniture, gas heaters and rockeries, as some extension of his father’s domain.
He had it as carefully sculpted as the green on his favourite golf course; the
only surprise being that he hadn’t installed a flag and a hole as yet.

As Chris watched, the security lights flicked on
again, casting some light into the creeping shadows cast by the huge trees
which flanked the grass. Perhaps an urban fox had strayed into the garden, or a
rabbit, or a squirrel. Whatever animal it was, it certainly didn’t know how
lucky it was that Mal had left the building.

But Chris was not concerned by the presence of
wildlife infiltrating from the border of the nearby woodland. Instead, his
attention was captured by something else; a new feature on the lawn. There, to
the right of the rockery, lay a complicated wire and wood contraption which
resembled a chicken coop. It was about a metre-square and was separated into
two, quite separate compartments.

‘What is that thing mother?’

‘That is a magpie trap. And a lot better at
catching thieves than the security alarm your friends put in I can tell you.’

‘So what’s that all about then?’

‘It’s your dad. He can’t stand magpies, and
absolutely hated it when they began to roost in the trees here. They drove away
all of the other birds. Now, your father thinks of them as a group of rowdy
yobs
invading our territory, and he can’t stand that kind of thing. Sees it as a
challenge…’

‘So he bought this to get rid of them?’ asked
Chris, stacking another plate onto the pile.

‘You know how it works? It works by temptation. Magpies
are the most human-like creatures I know; the only animals with real egos. They
like to keep up with the Joneses.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Chris, as though unsure.

‘You see the two compartments,’ continued Margaret.
‘Well, what you do is you install a fake, um,
decoy
magpie in one of the
sides. This makes the resident magpies mad, and one of them invariably flies
down and tries to attack the new magpie. What he doesn’t know is that as soon
as he’s in there, he trips the wire and closes himself in- all because of his
own arrogance.’

‘And what happens then?’

Margaret raised her eyebrows.
Do you really have to ask?
Chris
immediately understood. His father had always kept
a baseball bat handily placed by the door, or
perhaps he’d use a big kitchen knife; a cleaver maybe. He’d have no qualms
about the dishing out of such punishment. Indeed, Mal probably would have used
the same ‘disposal’ methods to deal with any human intruder on his property.

‘And this keeps going, does it? The magpies watch their mates being suckered-in
and they just go and try the same thing anyway; wading in to their own deaths?’

‘Pretty much so yes.’

A sudden thought flashed across Chris’s mind. People
did
behave
in similar ways to the magpies; Danny Morris being one prime example. The man
kept plunging himself into the same disaster time and time again as though he
thought that there’d be a different outcome one day. Unconsciously, he winced
at the thought of Danny being caught in a magpie trap and having his brains
smashed in. Margaret must have thought that he was wincing about something
else.

‘We
paid a lot of money to have our garden landscaped, you know. Your dad likes
surveying his land and watching the birds through the conservatory window. He
had
to do something about them.’

‘Where
did he get it from?’

‘I
don’t know, but some of his clients are big in the hunting world and I think
they gave him a few ideas about what he could do.’

Ah! Chris could have predicted such
an answer.
 
What
with the hunting ban, he could have guaranteed that these people would have
found other animals to kill, and they’d have found other devices to kill them
with, as though to sate their blood-lust.

‘Zero
tolerance. The ends justify the means,’ muttered Chris, still staring at the
cruel spiky death-trap in his parents’
garden. The two chambers were separated by a thin wire fence, which would have
been invisible to the untrained eye. The grass underneath the trap was darker
than the rest of the lawn; it was absolutely soaked in blood.

Instead of dealing with the trapped magpies in a
humane way, Chris’s father was clearly putting his butchery training to good
use and was killing them right there in his garden. What would the
neighbours
think?

Feeling sick, Chris said hasty goodbyes and left.

Magpies

Mark Birch hunched
uncomfortably over the computer keyboard as he typed. His face glowed
unhealthily pallid in the light of the bulky monitor. He appeared to be
sweating with the effort.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned,
he typed.
I need to confess.

As
he finished the brief email message, he reached for the mouse and clicked on
‘send’. But there was no discernible relief in his face; he still wore a mask
of desperation, of hopelessness. With one hand, he grasped the handle of the
out-size tea mug, as much for its warmth as anything else; with the other, he
began to massage his brow.

Mark’s
tiny study was dark; the only light emanated from his computer monitor, and
from the streetlights outside. There appeared to be no particular reason why
anybody would want, or need, to turn on the lights anyway. The room was
sparsely decorated; austere even, like a monk’s cell. There were no pictures on
the wall; there were no ornaments or photographs to give any indication as to
the personality of the man. Instead the room resolutely consisted of
substances; of rigid woodwork, brick and electronic equipment; it reverberated
with the cold, hard sound of functionality.

Mark’s
study was just about the only place in the house that he ever felt warm enough
to be truly comfortable. The other rooms I the house seemed to simply eat up
the heating and spit it back out as cold air. There was something wrong with
the design somewhere, he thought. If he’d been more architecturally-minded, he
could have perhaps worked out what the problem was. But he knew nothing about
building houses. All he knew was that there was something wrong with it.

He’d
moved to
Leeds
before the huge regeneration of the city, and the
new money. He had moved to Wortley in
South Leeds
,
mainly because of its close proximity to the motorway, so he would always be
available for work at the drop of a hat. He had put up with rising damp in his
rented house until his hacking cough made him almost unable to get into work,
before finally complaining to the landlord.

He
simply closed the curtains to the marauding gangs of teenagers who constantly
threw bottles and cans into his front garden, and he suffered the persistent
drum and bass music from his neighbours, which rattled through the paper thin
walls of his semi-detached.

Finally,
his computer made the jolly ‘ding’ sound which indicated new mail, and Mark
held his breath. Perhaps some hope did remain in this careworn man; perhaps
there was to be some kind of redemption. He edged forward on his chair once
again and manhandled the mouse onto the ‘new mail’ icon. Mark paused for a
moment and ran his fingers through the stubble of his hair, making a scratching
noise which seemed almost too loud in the quietness of the night. Then, as though
a big decision had been made, he clicked the mouse with some finality. A new
message appeared on the screen:

Sir; please understand that although
the Catholic Church is embracing new technology, we are still not at the stage
of accepting Confession over email. Our website was set up to handle more
general enquiries such as the time of the next fete, or perhaps some
information regarding our Sunday School. As this is the third email I have
received from you, I have ascertained that you are profoundly troubled. But
please let me remind you that a little faith can help. Might I suggest that you
come down to Saint Patrick’s at the nearest available opportunity and I will
make myself available to talk to you. If you are happy to do so, you might also
want to join our congregation. Like you, others seem mystified by the modern
world, and find answers by attending our services.

Mark
read through the message twice and then wearily tapped out a reply.

Thank you very much for your
response. I am not sure whether I do need help, but I know that I need to talk
to someone. When I was younger, I was forced to go to Church, and hated it. Now
I can see that at least it offered me certainties. Right now I feel as though I
am alone on a desert island… I need to do penance.

Mark
stared thoughtfully at the screen for a moment and then highlighted everything
he’d written, apart from the first sentence. His finger hovered over the
‘delete’ button for a second, and then, closing his eyes as though to emphasise
the finality, he erased his cry for help as though it had never been voiced.
Instead, he added a new concluding sentence:

I’m not ‘troubled’; I am merely
going through a bit of a struggle with my conscience at the moment, and that’s why
I wanted to do some kind of confession on-line. I don’t even know whether what
I’ve done is wrong.

           
This time Mark promptly sent his email, and he sat back
in his chair, drinking the by-now stone cold tea. His eye-lids began to droop;
depression translating itself into exhaustion. He wearily folded his arms
across the front of the computer desk and rested his head on them, as though
too tired to even get up and walk to the bed in the adjacent room. He was
shaken from his near slumber with a start, however, when the computer made yet
another of those high-pitched chirping sounds.

Mark’s
head suddenly shot straight back up again; he brushed his hand over his face to
try to clear off the sleepy feeling. With eyes still half-closed, he took
command of the computer once again. Like a man who’d fallen asleep at the wheel
his fingers searched for, and then clung to it. He renewed his acquaintance
with the mouse and slowly moved towards the new message.

           
Mark frowned when he look at the sender of the message; he’d
perhaps been expecting another of the persistent emails from St. Patrick’s
Church, imploring him to please come down in person to make his confession. The
mouse lingered over the message as though wondering whether to go in any
further. For the email was from a very strange sounding email address -
[email protected]
.

Next to the email address
was a small paper-clip icon which meant that there was also an attachment. Mark
immediately recognised the dangers of opening such a message; the attachment
was most probably a virus of some description. The risk was huge.

           
He got up from his seat
and walked towards the small window, parting the curtains to reveal the quiet,
moonlit street. For some reason he felt suddenly invaded; as though he was
being watched by somebody. The hairs on the back of his thick neck had begun to
stand on end. Maybe it was the email which had unsettled him, or maybe it was
his tired state, but whatever, he had to lean on the wall to hold himself
upright.

Then, almost out of the
blue, Mark retuned to the computer and double-clicked on the new message. The
attachment, as he now saw, was a video file which had been entitled ‘Magpies.’
There was only a brief message accompanying the video; it read:

Mark,
please watch.

Perhaps because his name
had been mentioned, Mark became even more intrigued, and a little more positive
that the contents of the file would not pick the bones of his computer system
clean, like piranhas. He opened the video.

An image on a
constant loop; two black and white birds face each other like gladiators in a
ring. But these are not the proud, upright gladiators of the start of a fight;
t
hey resemble hopping, wounded men
near the end of the fight. They look full of grim desperation in the way they
hobble unsteadily on their wrinkled, too-thin legs; in fact, they are hopping
mad. They circle; all beady eyes and flustered menace. Their weapons are drawn;
sharpened black claws, the flail-like wings, their piercing beaks. An
atmosphere of violent, unrestrained murderousness shrouds them. They are the
magpies, the Macbeths of the avian world.

Both magpies have their
heads cocked to one side, mimicking a very human gesture. They look as though
they are asking a question of the other, and perhaps they are. Perhaps
somewhere in their bird-brains, they are questioning the will of the other to
undertake this fight. For the fight requires a stubborn commitment; it will
only be ended by the death of one of the participants. It is the archetypal
vicious circle.

All of this can be read
from their battle-stances. It is in their nature to kill, as it is not in their
nature to question why. It is simply a matter of time.

Watch now; one bird
flaps his wings aggressively; they size each other up. Once the wings have
spread, the birds move far more smoothly, it is as though before they were only
half-engaged to fight. This is the signal for the next stage of the bout to
begin.

And then the first bird
lunges forward and into attack; beak craned open to bite, to rip, to tear.
Claws are outstretched; tail feathers fan out in warning. As if in a sinister
mirror image, the other bird imitates. The squawking, whirling, knife-edge
combat begins, and is over so very quickly. A rapier-like thrust of the first
bird’s claws has torn the second bird’s wing. It hangs lifelessly at his side
for a moment; he becomes the disarmed gladiator awaiting the emperor’s decision
on whether he should live or die. But of course, in this struggle, there is no
emperor to impress. Instead, with the first bird fixes him with cold, lifeless
eyes for a moment, as though taking a perverse pleasure in his power. Then,
with a sickeningly visceral cry, the second magpie contemplates his missing
neck, and slumps forward, dead. Blood and sinew trails from the mouth of the
first, victorious magpie.

But wait; the camera
pans out. It searches for its subject.
Focus…
And
then a small man walks into the picture. He is wearing a white laboratory coat
and a surgical mask covers the majority of his face. It is as though he has
moved from behind the camera and into the action.

He strolls into the
ring, making stabbing gestures with a large stick to keep the first magpie,
still insane with blood-lust, on the far side. He bends his knees slightly and
picks up the second bird by its broken wing, holding it up for the camera to
take in its horrendously battered and bloodied state. Then he tosses it away
and bends for another object from the ring; the man is so small that he hardly even
has to crouch in order to retrieve the tiny item. Again, he holds it up for the
camera to see; as though he is illustrating a point, and this small item is his
evidence; his conclusion. He moves closer to the camera in order that the
viewer can get a closer look, and gradually, you discern that it is actually a
very small jewel. It catches the light and glistens seductively.

 
Out of sync, what appears to be the small
man’s wispy voice begins a strange commentary on the scene. There is something
chillingly harsh in the voice; something is missing; he seems virtually
inhuman, a passive observer of events. He is little more than an extension of
the camera lens, a little like the non-interfering presenter of a nature
documentary.

‘There
can be no escape from the Magpie Trap. It is ingrained in the very bones, the
culture
of this sick society to destroy
itself through its own greed. To act out this dance of death is their one
remaining ritual,’ he says.

Mark watched the video
file three times; first uncomprehending, then becoming sickened before finally
settling on simple fear. His face moved through the spectrum of heavy emotions
which included, at one point, the angry
why
me?
frown, and then the wide-eyed imploring question of
what next?

It
was the thing he’d done at the printworks coming back to haunt him; Mark just
knew it. He bowed his head and joined his hands together; looking for the
entire world as though he was offering up a prayer. Soon he would call Danny;
this had all got a bit too serious already.

Danny Morris was in the
pub clinging on to the final threads of sobriety. He was clinging on to being
Danny Morris and to being alive, despite the poison he continued to pour down
his throat. He was clinging on, but was starting to lose his grip.

His
table was littered with empty glasses which the barman could no longer be
bothered to collect; it was also liberally sprinkled with cigarette ash, which
seemed to trail behind Danny every time his limbs made one of those involuntary
gestures which drunks always seem to make.

Danny’s
phone, however, remained untouched right in front of him. He was waiting for a
call again. In fact, he’d been waiting for the call since Mark Birch had given
him a security van- escort back into town. Not wanting to miss a call, he had
elected to stay in the pub where he knew that it would be quiet. Only the call
hadn’t come through yet, and Danny wasn’t allowed to make the call himself.
Instead, he had concentrated on drinking, on impending ruination. Now all of
his concentration appeared to be taken up by reading the back of his packet of
crisps through one screwed up eye.

Finally,
the phone broke into song and Danny promptly knocked it onto the floor in his haste
to answer. He almost fell off his seat trying to retrieve it from under the
table in time, banging his head along the way, and also breaking wind rather
loudly. Half-lying on the sticky carpet, back propped up against the stool,
Danny grabbed at the phone and pressed about ten buttons. One of the buttons
performed the function of actually answering the call.