The Fog - James Herbert [39]
‘You taking the piss, Harry?’ Herbert’s words were challenging.
Harry knew that after a few Scotches his friend could quickly turn nasty at the slightest hint of sarcasm. ‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘I just mean they’ll all be up there on the roof waiting for you. I’m sure they will. Here, it’s about time you had one on me.’ He turned to reach for a new glass and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Herbert’s voice droning on, now sentimental again. He didn’t want to upset Herby.
‘Thing is with birds, Harry, they don’t demand nothing. You feed ’em, an’ that’s it, they’re yours. They’re not like dogs or cats that creep around you, begging. They’re proud, y’see. They come to you for food and that’s it. If you don’t feed ’em, sod ya’, they’re off.’ He leaned forward and pointed a rigid finger at the barman. ‘But if you look after them right, they’ll always come back to you. They’re loyal, y’see. Independent, but loyal.’
He sat back as though satisfied with his statement. Harry placed the whisky on the bar before him, nodding his agreement, but annoyed that he’d been forced to buy him a drink. The landlord had eagle eyes so he couldn’t take too many chances with the till. He’d have to pay for it.
‘Claude’ll bring ’em back, I know he will.’ Herbert emptied the glass in two swift swallows, causing Harry to wince at the thought of the fiery liquid burning its way down his throat to eat away at the lining of his stomach. His insides must be made of cast-iron.
‘Can’t understand why they’ve been gone so long though,’ Herbert stood up, swaying slightly. ‘I’m off, Harry.’
‘Okay, Herb, see you tomorrow,’ grinned the barman and added maliciously, ‘Give my love to the old lady.’
He almost regretted his words when Herbert turned back to the bar and eyed him for three long seconds, his befuddled brain unsure of the tone of the last remark.
‘Fuck ’er,’ Herbert finally said, and weaved his way unsteadily out of the pub.
Once outside, he leaned against the wall for a few moments. He’d taken the last drink too fast and could feel the bile rising inside him. It was the thought that his beloved birds might be waiting for him that had suddenly caused his haste. He fought down the sickness and lurched across the wide main road, stopping at its centre to allow a No. 6 bus to crawl slowly by.
His wife watched him from their bedroom window above the shop.
She’d done it so many times before, had spent long, solitary hours gazing out at the busy main road from the darkened room, driven there not to watch for him coming home but by loneliness. She would study the people walking by, the young couples, the customers she knew, wondering where they were going, what they would do when they got there. The strangers, who were they, what were they doing in this neighbourhood? Sometimes her mind would go off into strange, often sordid, fantasies at the sight of them. There had been a time when the sight of one coloured person was enough to send her off into a frenzy of fancies, but now she was filled only with angry indignation. She could look directly into the brightly lit upper decks of the double-decker buses that regularly passed by her window. Although the glimpses were fleeting, they filled her mind with curiosity. And enhanced her loneliness.
Since the boys had left, she found she had too much time to herself, too much time to ponder over her marriage and the hard years it had brought her. They had their own lives to make, it was true, but you’d think they would visit more often even though they both lived a little way out now. She loved to see the babies, her grandchildren. It was Herbert who’d driven the boys away with his drinking, his belligerence. What affection had he shown them? What interest? But his pigeons were another matter. Oh yes, nothing was too good for his bloody pigeons! Look how worried he was when he thought they were lost, how anxious he’d been the last couple of days. What could he see in them?