The Mortdecai Trilogy by Kyril Bonfiglioli

Author:Kyril Bonfiglioli [Bonfiglioli, Kyril]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2012-07-23T16:00:00+00:00

14 Mortdecai’s interest in bird-watching falters

What does little birdie say

In her nest at peep of day?

Sea Dreams

I must say I do approve of seagulls. Most petty criminals nowadays are so bad at their jobs – don’t you agree? – while gulls are as dedicated as traffic-wardens and a great deal cheerier about their chosen vocation. They (the seagulls) gather in the grey light of dawn, shouting dirty jokes at each other and screaming with ribald laughter, waking up slug-a-beds like you and me, then when they have decided what to do that day, off they fly – and how good they are at flying, not an erg of energy wasted – scrounging, stealing, murdering and generally fulfilling their slots in the ecology. At lunchtime, when we are munching our first brandy-and-soda of the day, they congregate again in some spacious field, their bellies full for the nonce, and stand there in silence, sensibly digesting and loafing until it is time for another worm or two (in the case of the little Black-headed sort) or a tasty dead dog (in the case of the Greater Black-backed buggers). How wonderfully uplifting it is to watch them wheeling and swooping in the wake of a car-ferry, waiting for idiots to purchase British Rail sandwiches and throw them overboard after one disgustful bite! The very poetry of motion!

When all the world and I were young and people still knew their proper stations in life, seagulls were something that happened at sea, only occasionally calling in at the shore to defecate on your nice new sun-hat so that Nursey could give you a bad time. Nowadays you see them everywhere, raiding dustbins and queueing up outside fish-and-chip shops instead of swimming in their nice oil-slicks and eating up their nice, freshly polluted herring-guts.

The assorted seagulls who were grouped at the foot of the ANCIENT FORT were not exhibiting the poetry of motion, nor where they loafing, nor yelling like spoiled brats as seagulls should. Waiting is what they were doing. Waiting around a bundle of old rags. As I drew nearer they all rose into the air in a sulky fashion, except for a Greater Black-backed (Larus Marinus), big as a Michaelmas goose, who remained perched on the bundle of rags. Foraging for something. I broke into a run. The gull’s beak emerged from the raggedy man’s face, gulping something white and glistening from which scarlet ribbons hung. The bird gave me a murderous, yellow-rimmed glance from one of its eyeballs then flapped insolently away. I had nothing to throw at it.

When I had finished vomiting, I turned the raggedy man over onto his face and ran down the fell-side to the road. I should of course have searched him as ordered but, to tell the truth, I was filled with horror at the thought that he might still be alive. That may sound strange to you but you weren’t there, were you? I had, of course, left my car some miles away and had walked across the moors to the map-reference and the ANCIENT FORT and the raggedy man.

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