Chapter Eleven Margaret
Chapter Eleven
Margaret
It does.
Not a fast one, unsurprisingly.
If I wanted to watch a YouTube video, I’d have to wait a good half an hour for it to download.
But the connection is just about fast enough to let me do a little light browsing. Whether I want to or not.
His name was Anthony.
Anthony Silver.
The name of the man I killed was Anthony Silver.
‘You alright there?’ Lionel asks, from where he’s hovering over my right shoulder. ‘Only, your hand’s gone very tight on that mouse, and I can’t really afford to buy another one.’
You probably should, though, Lionel. This still has a ball in it.
‘I’m fine,’ I say through a tight smile. ‘Just seen . . . something that took me by surprise.’
Which I suppose is the truth. My victim had to have a name, after all. But I wasn’t sure I would actually find out what it is so quickly.
The local newspaper has done its job for once, though. The report on the accident is short, abrupt and to the point. But it lists the fact that there was one fatality, and, luckily for me, the name of the deceased.
From that, I spend the next ten minutes or so finding out everything I need to know about Anthony Silver.
He was very popular at the sailing club, for one thing. And took great pride in coming fifth at the regatta in the summer of 1995.
I don’t find any evidence of children.
But he certainly had a wife.
Her name is Margaret.
Margaret Silver.
The woman I made a widow.
‘Honestly, can you not grip it so tight? I can hear the plastic starting to crack,’ Lionel says in a tremulous voice.
I force myself to relax a little.
I also force myself to research Margaret, and there’s a fair bit more about her on the web than there is her husband.
She’s the bird lady, you see . . .
No.
Sorry.
That should be The Bird Lady. With capitals.
Because it seems like it’s an official title – of sorts.
The various news stories I find about her from down through the years certainly all call her it.
She’s famous. For having birds. Lots of birds.
Of all different shapes and sizes. Ones that have won awards.
Ones that have been used in TV commercials and movies.
I’m frankly amazed I’ve never crossed paths with her for my job.
It must be some kind of miracle that I’ve never thought of having a nice colourful selection of parrots and budgies at my events.
If I ever had, then surely Margaret Silver would have been the person I would have gone to for those birds.
She’s the only person in the area offering such a unique service.
Forty years she’s been The Bird Lady.
And for a good twenty of those years, she’s also run a pet shop on Carnegie Street. The bird-hiring business must not pay quite enough to sustain itself, I guess.
I can quite easily grab an Uber to Carnegie Street. It’ll take me maybe forty minutes to get there. If that.
My mouth has suddenly gone very dry.
Because it’s one thing to find out about your victim. It’s quite another to go and apologise to someone they were married to for killing them.
But that’s what I’m going to do, isn’t it?
Leo was absolutely right. Who people are does matter. I’ve spent so much of my time trapped in my own head over this that it didn’t occur to me for a second to think about the other people involved.
I have to go and speak to Margaret. I have to apologise. I have to . . . I don’t know what . . . seek forgiveness? Prostrate myself at her feet? Will that do any good? Will it make any difference?
‘Oops. That’s done it, you’re going to have to buy me a new mouse now,’ Lionel says, wincing at the poor, old broken thing in my hands.
It was a thirty-three-minute Uber journey, to be exact. Time enough for me to make something of a plan in my head. About what the hell I’m going to say to this poor woman, and how the hell I’m going to say it.
I’ve gone through multiple scenarios in my head about Margaret’s reaction. Will there be floods of tears? Extreme anger? An immediate call to the local constabulary to come and take me away?
She doesn’t need to worry about that.
They will be my next port of call after I’ve done this.
‘Are you getting out, mate?’ the Uber driver says, looking in the rearview mirror. He hasn’t once asked me if I’m going to poo myself. Which is ironic, because I’m far closer to doing it now than I ever was in Majad’s vehicle.
I look out of the window at Silver’s Pets and Supplies and try to take a breath.
‘Only I’ve got another pick-up due in five minutes,’ my driver continues, his voice laced with the kind of muted impatience that you’d expect from anyone who wants to get to his next ride – but would still like a healthy tip from this one.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I tell him, and get out of the car. He speeds off to whoever he’s picking up next. I envy him. He’s been able to happily drive himself out of this situation without a backward glance.
Silver’s Pets and Supplies sounds about as old school as it looks.
It’s the only shop I can see on this entire street, closed in on both sides by terraced houses.
Its broad glass frontage is home to a wide selection of bird cages and other avian ephemera.
Beyond that, I can see even more bird cages inside – these ones containing birds of various species and sizes.
A sign in the window promises 10 per cent off for anyone who lives locally, which is a nice gesture.
There’s a sign on the door that tells me the shop is open for business. This is unfortunate. Because now I’m here I really, really don’t want to be . . . and if the shop was closed it would give me a good excuse to run away. And possibly never come back.
I take a breath, and step towards the door.
No bolt of vengeful lightning from the gods on high strikes me down.
You can’t rely on cloud-borne deities to do anything right, can you?
My hand shakes as I push the door open. There is a light tinkling of bells as I do, announcing my arrival.
Run!
No.
It’s okay. This is something I have to do.
Inside, the world is full of cages. Which, if I was of a more literary persuasion, I might see as some kind of clever metaphor for my current situation.
I walk up the aisle between the shelves, setting off quite a few of the birds as I do so.
It’s more than a little unnerving to have every footstep you take be accompanied by squawking, and the ruffling of very many feathers.
The beady little eyes don’t help much, either. They have an accusing quality to them.
The small counter at the end of the shop is currently unmanned, but a dark, richly stained wooden door behind it now opens and I can feel the darkness closing in on me.
Not now.
No bloody panic attacks now, please.
I have to do this.
From the doorway emerges . . . clearly not Margaret Silver. Unless Margaret Silver has discovered the fountain of eternal youth. And a very effective sex-change clinic.
‘Good morning,’ the lad says, his voice reedy.
He looks nothing like the teenager in the third car. But he is also exactly the same as him in every way, shape and form.
One day I hope my brain stops making these connections between complete strangers.
I guess it’ll find it a little hard to, once I’m safely ensconced behind prison bars.
‘Morning,’ I reply, barely able to form the words. ‘Is . . . Is Margaret Silver available?’
The lad gives me a look of sudden concern. ‘Well, she kind of is. I mean, she’s here. Out the back.’ He jerks one thumb over his shoulder. ‘Only, she’s . . . er . . . dealing with some things. Might be a little . . . indisposed.’
Oh God.
She’s back there crying, isn’t she?
Every day since her poor Anthony was taken away from her, she’s tried her hardest to maintain the businesses that she’s loved all her life, but it’s just become too hard. So, she sits out the back and cries her eyes out, while Not Teenage Car Driver deals with the customers out front.
‘Oh dear,’ is about all I can manage in reply. ‘I came to see if I could talk to her.’
The lad shrugs. ‘I’ll just see how she is,’ he says, and pushes the door behind him open again.
‘Wank!’
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry?’ I stammer.
The lad looks at me with deepest embarrassment. ‘Please excuse the noise.’
‘Wank!’
His lips didn’t move. But I definitely heard the word?
‘Wank!’
Yes. That’s the one.
Can somebody please explain what’s going on here? I might very well be losing my mind.
‘Now, you stop that!’ another voice then says, clearly coming from somewhere at the back of the shop.
‘Wank!’
Whoever is doing the actual swearing is back there too. It’s definitely not the lad in front of me, who continues to look mortified as he goes through the doorway, leaving me briefly alone once again in the shop.
I spend the next couple of moments in a staring contest with a small, blue budgie, who thoughtfully chews upon some seeds, while giving me a look that speaks absolute volumes.
He knows.
He knows who I am and why I’m here.
Budgerigar is Aboriginal for ‘The Harsh Judgement of Nature’, I believe.
The door to the back office then swings open again.
‘Wank!’
The woman who emerges is wincing for all she’s worth. Tall and quite stately of appearance, Margaret Silver is someone you’d definitely run towards if you were five years old and had a skinned knee.
Her grey hair is tied back in a bun, and she wears a sensible black pair of slacks, with a jumper that’s covered in seeds and bird feathers.
‘Good . . .’
‘Wank!’
‘. . . morning,’ she says, continuing to wince.
‘Hello,’ I reply. I have to confess my deep sense of guilt, self-loathing and terror has taken something of a back seat to
‘Wank!’
Yes, that.
Margaret affects a look of deepest apology. Which is completely the wrong way around for this conversation. I’m the one who’s supposed to be looking apologetic here.