Pasha Malla - People Park

Oh man, Bailie, he called. You gotta come see this.

Olpert joined him: at the end of a trail of shattered glass and plastic, lying in a heap of feathers against the curb, was a dove.

Oh no. It isn’t.

Fuggin right it is.

No.

Have you ever seen any other doves in this city? In the wild ?

It’s not a pigeon?

What, an albino? Come on, Bailie. You know exactly what and whose that thing is.

I didn’t — I didn’t even see it, it came out of nowhere.

At the end of the street, the two Helpers had their hands raised in identical exaggerated shrugs — like, What the fug?

Starx waved. Nothing to see here! Back to work!

Hey, don’t! What if they come look? What are we going to do?

Whoa. Hold on. We ? This was all you, pencildick.

Me?

Yeah you. I wasn’t the one driving.

That’s — that’s not fair . You grabbed the wheel!

Which reminds me, said Starx, and he headed off into the bushes, unzipping.

Olpert crouched beside the dead bird. One wing was folded, the other splayed, the head tucked into its chest, the tiny gnarled treeroots of its claws. No blood. Though Olpert imagined the damage was internal, its organs pulverized to stew. Dead, dead, dead — and he had killed it.

Starx returned. He nudged the dove with his shoe. Then, in a single, swift movement, he scooped the little corpse under his toe, lifted it up, and launched it into the bushes.

There.

That’s where you peed!

Bailie. It’s dead.

Olpert stood. Still, some respect. .

Respect? Starx grabbed Olpert by the shoulders. Listen, you were driving, the bird should’ve been smart enough not to fly into traffic. Maybe that magician dopes his birds. Maybe he abuses them and they get suicidal. Whatever, it’s not your fault. The guy lets these things loose in the city? You figure he figures he’ll lose a couple. Partner, am I right?

Yes, but —

Hey hey hey. No buts. This is not a big deal. Dead bird? Who cares. A million of those things die every day crashing into skyscrapers.

Really?

Probably. Listen, why don’t I drive the rest of the day?

Will you?

Starx put his arm around Olpert and walked him back to their car, sweeping the broken sideview mirrors under the parked Citywagons as they went.

Sliding the driver’s seat back Starx said, Those Helpers won’t sell us out. Don’t worry.

Are they friends of yours?

Not really. . but silentium , right? It’s the first fuggin pillar.

Olpert looked over his shoulder: past the line of Citywagons, silver and symmetrical and identical, the two Helpers were taking turns putting each other in grappling holds.

And hey, Bailie, said Starx, what about that chick last night.

Debbie?

Yeah, that’s the one. Before your. . upset, I thought she seemed into you.

You think?

Sure. Just, next time? See if you can chat her up without puke-painting your khaki.

You really think she was into me?

You bet. Now let’s get out of here before that bird’s pals show up for vengeance.

POP LEANED IN and on a gust of eggy breath said, Lark! Birds.

A half-dozen pigeons had made their way to the foot of the sculpture. Get those stupid things out of here, Loopy told her assistant. The girl looked at Loopy, then the birds, and with a sigh tiptoed over flapping her arms. They scuttled around behind the sculpture, more aggravated than scared. The assistant followed at a crouch, clapping, and the pigeons hopped along, circled the sculpture’s base, and the assistant gently shooed them around again, around and around. Debbie watched with interest.

At the next pass Loopy went hurtling at the pigeons with the wings of her caftan spread wide, cawing and shrieking, and the flock ruffled up and came to rest on the lip of the fountain, cooing and cool. Returning to her spot by the covered sculpture, Loopy didn’t take her eyes off the pigeons, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

At last the Mayor arrived, wheeled by Diamond-Wood, who clattered behind on his crutches. Stop, she called, with a wary scan of the cobblestones. We’ll be fine here.

Those who had heard tell of Raven’s bisection gawked. Debbie wasn’t sure what she was seeing: a white sheet draped over the dessert cart gave the impression of an enormously wide-waisted skirt supported by a trestle the size of a writing desk.

Hello, good to see you all, said the Mayor. Now let’s get this shet-show on the road.

His ducktape gag peeled aside, Diamond-Wood offered a few hastily rehearsed words about the arts, the importance of community, and how firmly the New Fraternal League of Men were dedicated to these things, though the High Gregories extended regrets at not being able to attend personally. To Loopy Diamond-Wood said, Thanks, most of all, to our artist laureate for this wonderful sculptural work to commemorate our park’s twenty-fifth anniversary —

At which Pop growled, That’s not the point of it, evil one!

Diamond-Wood retreated to scattered, tepid applause, slid behind the Mayor, and retaped his mouth. All eyes fell upon their civic leader. Of the two white sheets hiding secrets, it was clear which one they wanted removed. The Mayor gestured irritably at the sculpture. Do it now, for the love of green.

Loopy bowed. I give you. . the Lakeview. . Memorial!

But before her assistant could perform the big reveal the pigeons came flapping at her in a ragged formation. Overwhelmed, the assistant tripped, grasped at the white sheet, which whisked away — and there was nothing beneath it. No pedestal, no sculpture, no plaque. Only emptiness. It was as if the cover had been floating there all along, inflated by some internal wind.

What the fug kind of art is that? said the Mayor.

That’s not it , shrieked Loopy. My work’s been stolen! Someone’s stolen my work!

Disgrateful, said Pop, shaking his head. A complete and utterful disgrate.

Debbie giggled. Which met with scowls from all around.

Hardly the time for humours, Pop chided.

Her smile faded. If only Adine were here, she thought. Adine would find this funny, would supplement the scene with the perfect wiseacre crack to tip Debbie’s amusement into hysteria. But if there’d been a humorous moment it was gone. She stood there awkwardly while Loopy wailed and, stonefaced, Pop demanded a detectivial assembly!

A noise disrupted everything then — a whooshing, a squawk, faces swung skyward and fingers pointed. Through the space where the statue should have been flapped what appeared at first another pigeon, but swooping back up over the trees it caught the light, blazing white against the blue sky. Through his viewfinder the photographer watched it loft higher and higher, zoomed in, at last snapped a picture.

Was that? said Debbie.

Yeah, said the photographer, lowering his camera. One of Raven’s doves.

HROUGH HANDS cupped to the window Calum looked into the Room: lights off, benches up on tables, Debbie’s deskchair wheeled back from her workstation, tilted at an angle that suggested a swift and drastic escape. And despite the CLOSED FOR LONG WEEKEND sign it seemed inconceivable that Debbie wasn’t puttering around in the shadows. She was always here. He pounded on the door, shuffled back to the window, blocked the light, and looked again: nothing, just grey stillness.

Overhead a Yellowline train went clattering south. Calum looked up at the underside of the tracks, at the flashing shape of it moving along, and thought of the Hand — suspended in space, the train ziplining her along.