The Magpie Trap: A Novel

by AJ Kirby

  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 - the_dodorises@dodecahedron.ma.

  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; they 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 fa
r 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.

  ‘Hello?’ he breathed.

  ‘Hi Danny; it’s Mark,’ said a faraway voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Mark? Look, I’m waiting for an important call… can I call you back?’ slurred Danny, who had now slumped fully onto the floor, alerting the attention of a couple of the older drinkers who were frowning at him from over the froth of their warm pints.

  ‘But something’s come up,’ said Mark. ‘Something, um, unexpected.’

  ‘You’ve not had the fucking pigs round there have you, cock?’ asked Danny. Mark paused for a moment before answering. To him, Danny’s question must have sounded like yervenorradvefakkinpigsroundvereahvyer, cock?

  ‘No. No police,’ said Mark finally.

  ‘Well, what is it then?,’ said Danny, although his voice was rather muffled. He was talking into his coat, trying to limbo dance his way back up onto his seat.

  ‘Well tonight, I started to feel worse and worse about the thing I’d done. I just didn’t feel right about it at all; it’s not legal…’

  ‘Shhhh,’ said Danny, and then realised that Mark wasn’t actually present and that he was talking to a phone. He looked around the room, embarrassed. The rest of the drinkers in the room looked back at him with barely disguised contempt. It was all very well to drink all day, but it was another thing entirely to be fall-down drunk. Somebody would probably alert the barman any minute now.

  ‘Somebody’s on to us. Not the police but somebody… We can’t very well go round messing with people’s security networks, Danny. We have to stop.’

  ‘Who is on to us?’ asked Danny slowly, concentrating on every word. It had the effect of making him sound even more drunk, as though he’d lost his command of the English language.

  ‘Oh right; I thought you had another important call to take. Look, is there something going on here that you’re not telling me about? What’s going on?’

  ‘Chill,’ said Danny, who now sounded stoned, not drunk. ‘Who’s this other person and what’s the fucker said to you?’

  ‘I’ve received a very strange email,’ sighed a frustrated Mark.

  ‘Oh yeah; a porn one?’ cried Danny, forgetting he was supposed to be pretending to be sober. He struggled to pull a cigarette from the mangled box on the table. Other drinkers looked round at him once again; this time, the barman had come to the door of the Lounge and was standing hands-on-hips.

  ‘From a foreign email address… a video clip. I wouldn’t have said anything but… but it’s a fairly savage clip. And he used my name, Danny. He used my name.’

  Danny was scarily quiet for once.

  ‘And I’m sure that in the background, the camera pans past a crate which has an Edison’s Printers logo on it. I couldn’t help but think that the two were connected. You know; what I did today and this email.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Danny, suddenly sounding properly sober. ‘You have done everything you needed to do, now forget about it. This will just be a random email scam that’s all. You’re reading too much into it.’

  ‘But they knew my name…’ said Mark, trailing off.

  There was no answer from Danny however. The barman had finally taken it upon himself to get rid of this lively interloper. He grabbed Danny under his arms and dragged him away from the table. The phone spun out of his hands and flew under the table. Danny staggered away from his aggressor and put up his fists in the kind of stance which Charlie Chaplin would adopt in his silent comedies. The old, hardened drinkers in the bar just
laughed.

  ‘Get. Your. Phone. And. Get. Out,’ said the barman, shaking his head.

  ‘I’ve got nearly a full pint of ale there, guvnor,’ said Danny, with a slight giggle. He was swaying on his feet now though, and looked vaguely sick.

  ‘It would probably kill you,’ muttered the barman. Then, he sunk to his knees and retrieved Danny’s phone for him. Danny snatched it from his hands and stumbled from the pub, occasionally altering his course by pushing against the wall if he found himself veering off back to the bar; it seemed that his bar-homing instincts were alive and well, even if the rest of his instincts were out of kilter.

  The fresh air hit him like a slap round the face. Danny leaned back against the wall of the beer garden and closed his eyes; this apparently only made him feel worse however, and he soon crouched down, closer to the pavement, clutching his knees for dear life. Only then did he look at his mobile phone which was in his hand still. It was the prop which reminded him of the previous conversation. A cloud of worry formed on Danny’s brow.

  All of Mark’s talk of foreign email addresses and of video clips had scared him. He remembered that now. Something was not right; he needed to speak to his contact. Things were beginning to spiral out of control.

  Then the phone began to ring again; it was as though somebody had been watching him, judging when just the right moment to further screw him up would be. Not wanting to answer it, Danny found his thumb had already slipped onto the ‘answer’ button, and he could hear the tinny sound of somebody speaking. Slowly, he lifted the phone to his ear.

  ‘…the information I require? You know how important this is to me…’

  A foreign-sounding voice; almost too-perfect BBC English gave the speaker away as not being from these shores. It was as though this man had learned the language by way of watching endless repeats of the Queen’s Speech.