“Never mind,” she said. “It’ll come again.”
She pointed up to the rooftop. The blackbird was up there, tipping its tail back and forth and squawking.
“That’s its warning call,” she said. “It’s telling its family there’s danger near. Danger. That’s you.”
She pointed up into the tree.
“If you climb up where I was and look along that branch there you’ll see its nest. There’s three tiny ones. But don’t you dare go any nearer.”
She sat on the garden wall and faced me.
“This is where I live,” she said. “Number Seven. You’ve got a baby sister.”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“We haven’t decided yet.”
She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes toward the sky.
She opened her book.
“Look at this,” she said.
It was full of birds. Pencil drawings, lots of them colored in blues and greens and reds.
“This is the blackbird,” she said. “They’re common, but nevertheless very beautiful. A sparrow. These are tits. And lovely chaffinches. And look, this is the goldfinch that visited last Thursday.”
She showed me the goldfinch, the greens and reds and bright yellows in it.
“My favorite,” she said.
She slapped the book shut.
“Do you like birds?” she said, and she looked at me like something I’d done had made her cross.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Typical. Do you like drawing?”
“Sometimes.”
“Drawing makes you look at the world more closely. It helps you to see what you’re looking at more clearly. Did you know that?”
I said nothing.
“What color’s a blackbird?” she said.
“Black.”
“Typical!”
She swung round into the garden.
“I’m going in,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you again. I’d also like to see your baby sister if that can be arranged.”
Chapter 10
I TRIED TO STAY AWAKE THAT night, but it was hopeless. I was dreaming straight away. I dreamed that the baby was in the blackbird’s nest in Mina’s garden. The blackbird fed her on flies and spiders and she got stronger and stronger until she flew out of the tree and over the rooftops and onto the garage roof. Mina sat on the back wall drawing her. When I went closer, Mina whispered, “Stay away. You’re danger!”
Then the baby was bawling in the room next door and I woke up.
I lay listening to Mum cooing and comforting and the baby squeaking and hissing. The birds were singing outside. When the feeding was over and I was sure everyone was asleep, I crept out of bed, got my flashlight, pulled some clothes on, and tiptoed past their room. I took a jar of aspirin from the bathroom. I went downstairs, opened the back door, and tiptoed into the yard.
The take-out trays were down under newspapers and a heap of weeds. They’d tilted over and lots of the sauce had run out. When I looked inside, the char sui was all gluey and red and cold. I dropped the soggy spring rolls into the same tray and went down toward the garage.
“You must be stupid,” I told myself. “You must be going round the stupid bend.”
I looked up at the blackbird on the garage roof and saw how it opened its yellow beak so wide as it sang. I saw the sheens of gold and blue where the early light shined on its black.
I switched on the flashlight, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
The scuttling and scratching started. Something skittered across my foot and I nearly dropped the food. I came to the tea chests and shined the light behind.
“You again?” he squeaked. “Thought you’d gone away.”
“I’ve brought something,” I said.
He opened his eyes and looked at me.
“Aspirin,” I said. “And number 27 and 53. Spring rolls and pork char sui.”
He laughed but he didn’t smile.
“Not as stupid as you look,” he squeaked.
I held the take-out tray across the tea chests toward him. He took it in his hand but he started to wobble and I had to take it back again.
“No strength,” he squeaked.
I squeezed between the tea chests. I squatted down beside him. I held the tray up and shined the light onto the food. He dipped his finger in. He licked his finger and groaned. He stuck his finger in again and hooked a long slimy string of bean sprouts and sauce. He stuck his tongue out and licked. He slurped out pieces of pork and mushrooms. He shoved the spring rolls into his mouth. The red sauce trickled down from his lips, down over his chin onto his black jacket.
“Aaaah,” he said. “Ooooooh.”
He sounded like he was loving it, or he was in pain, or both those things together. I held the tray closer to his chin. He dipped and licked and groaned.
His fingers were twisted and stunted. His knuckles were swollen.
“Put the aspirin in,” he said.
I put two aspirin in the sauce and he picked them out and swallowed them.
He belched and belched. His hand slipped to his side again. His head slumped back against the wall.
“Food of the gods,” he whispered. “27 and 53.”
I put the tray down on the floor beside him and shined the light on him. There were hundreds of tiny creases and cracks all over his pale face. A few fine colorless hairs grew on his chin. The red sauce below his lips was like congealed blood. When he opened his eyes again, I saw the tiny red veins like a dark net across the whites of his eyes. There was a smell of dust, old clothes, dry sweat.
“Had a good look?” he whispered.
“Where you from?”
“Nowhere.”
“They’ll clear all this out. What will you do?”
“Nothing.”
“What will you—”
“Nothing, nothing, and nothing.”
He closed his eyes again.
“Leave the aspirin,” he said.
I took the top off and put the jar on the floor. I had to push aside a little heap of hard furry balls. I held one up to the flashlight and saw it was made of tiny bones glued together with fur and skin.
“What you looking at, eh?” he said.
I put it on the floor again.
“Nothing.”
The blackbird on the roof sang louder and louder.
