Another Man's Treasure

The pigeon flapped out of the charging toddler’s way, the child squealing in delight as she waddled after it again. Her tiny boots slapped on the damp pavement to match the beat of pigeon wings, echoing around a near vacant Trafalgar Square. Frightened, the bird flitted towards the couple leaning against a lion's hip, just missing their swatting hands.

“Ew! Don’t let it near me!”

The woman leapt to her feet to cower by the lion's backside, the little black notebook she’d been holding left forgotten on the ground.

“C’mon, it won’t hurt you”

He coaxed her back once the pigeon had swept to the fountain across from them. The man, perching on the fountain edge, whacked it away before returning to his newspaper.

“Rats of the sky.”

“You like doves though.”

“So?” Her eyes were still on the bird which had landed on the lion opposite. It pecked at a sandwich nestled in the lion’s paw.

“White pigeons, all of them”

She snorted. This sickly thing was far from a dove, hopping on one leg and missing feathers. She could’ve pitied it, if it hadn’t looked so vile, dragging the sandwich across wet concrete, bread breaking into a trail of mush.

“‘There is only perception’ after all.”

A much larger pigeon approached the first, swiping the soggy bread from her beak with a firm peck on the head. Indignant, she raised a talon at him though thought better of it, instead pinching a soft piece of lettuce that dangled precariously from the bun. She flew off as he gave chase, bun still in his beak. They circled above the couple, forming a disorderly grey halo overhead.

The man picked up the notebook, brushing dirt off its cover before handing it back to his partner. She flipped through it, returning to where she’d left off: a map of the Square.

“So, where were we?”

“Well, we’re at the Admiral. Doesn’t seem like there’s anything around the lions or the fountains.”

“You’re right.” She crossed them off with a sigh. “I bet it’s really obvious and we’re just too close to see it. Where could you stash twenty thousand dollars?”

“Wow, you’re taking this really seriously...”

“I took annual leave for this. Of course I’m serious.”

“Right, because Reddit’s so reliable. The riddle’s total nonsense!”

“Then why would the Times publish it? The guy uploaded the riddle from prison, and everyone but you thinks it’s real enough.”

“Who’s to say it hasn’t been found already?”

The woman said nothing. The pigeons continued twisting above them, swinging around the column and under lion chins. They stirred the air, sending a breeze that flipped her page and snapped her from her reverie.

“We’re losing daylight. Read it to me again”

He sighed, taking the book back from her.

“Duty calls me to tell you all about his treasure.

Address to the nines for your to-do,

And head straight for the Admiral,

Where another man’s prize awaits you.

See the nights tick away,

Every dawn I am closed.

The treasure's location?

One expects only pigeons to know.

They’re free from Merrie England”

He reached the end, rolling his eyes. The woman rested her head on the lion’s side.

“We’ll find it. A clean twenty thousand. We have to.”

The pigeon hadn’t managed to shake her pursuer. In a last ditch effort, she began her ascent to the stone man atop the column. She’d travelled a great distance from her home to come here. Exhausted and part delirious from hunger, she pushed on, wings pounding heavier than usual.

Pigeons didn’t often fly this high here - the food was down below among the moving. Sure enough, her pursuer had fallen back, opting to perch on a traffic light to devour his spoils. She dropped into the stone man's hat, finally swallowing the shrunken morsel of lettuce still pinched in her beak.

Regaining her breath, she cast a veteran eye on the world below. She hunted for food and warmth.

She spotted the man with the paper by the fountain. That paper would provide all the warmth she needed for the eggs tonight. She knew people often left those on the ground once they were done and resolved to keep an eye out for when he left.

Aside from him and the couple, there were few other people around. Just months ago, this place would’ve been packed with pedestrians and pigeons alike. But then, all people seemed to vanish overnight.

Hold for one vendor. She recognised the van with the red and white awning pull up on the pavement. He always came.

She dove down once he’d expanded the awning. Other pigeons flocked closer, cocking their heads at the steady stream of people who’d started to queue, leaving large spaces between themselves.

The pigeon stole past the couple, talking animatedly as they waited.

“...and “free from Merrie England?”, what’s that about?” The woman shivered, marching in place.

“You know, like the thatched cottage, Sunday roast... An idyllic image of England. You think he was trying to make some kind of commentary?”

“What’s a drug lord going to know about English autostereotypes?” She picked up the pace, her Nikes squeaking. “I don’t think it’s that deep.”

“Okay, well how do you explain, “Address to the nines?”

“What if it’s like, “A dress to the nines? Harrods?”

“Maybe...” Now at the front, he looked at the vendor. “Two halloumi wraps please”

“Nine o’clock?”

“What happens here at nine?”

“What if it’s not here?”

“Old Nelson’s here, and we’re clearly told to ‘head to the Admiral’...”

“No, it doesn’t. Look.” She prodded at the notebook. “‘See the nights tick away.’”

“Not following?”

“Look at Nelson. Which way’s he looking?”

He craned his head up and followed the gaze of the Admiral atop the column.

“Down Whitehall.”

“And what’s there?”

He paused, considering.

“Huh, I see your point. And it would make sense with the ‘ticking away’ bit…”

“Big Ben. Only pigeons would know. Might be something.” Her eyes shone despite the onset of the dark. “We’ve still got a couple hours.”

He paid the vendor before handing her a wrap. “Okay, let’s go.”

They hurried off, nearly tripping over the pigeon. Tens of eyes followed them, watching intently for any food that might spill. Sure enough, an errant tomato slice slid from aluminium foil onto the ground, and all pigeons descended upon it instantly.

The pigeon missed out completely. Tackled to the ground by her fellow birds, she scraped her way out of the scrum. Now limping, she hobbled back towards the van.

The queue of people had dissipated, the Square almost empty. Seeing no more customers, the vendor stretched and stepped outside for his smoke break. He noticed the pigeon. She’d edged herself down to the pavement, the feeding frenzy still ongoing some feet away.

“Mahir?”

“Ey!” came a voice from inside the van.

“How old’s that spinach?” The vendor gestured at the tray left on a pile of boxes.

“Jeez, I said I’d chuck it when we got home, Dad”

“Just hand it here.”

He took the tray from his son, and knelt by the pigeon.

“You can eat this, right?” He scraped at the sides, leaving a pile of dark green mush at her feet. He threw it back into the van and stood.

There was no time to appreciate the taste as heads were already turning.

Mahir closed the van doors as the other pigeons began their foray anew.

She pecked urgently at the spinach though she knew it would be too late

Suddenly, the van roared to life and a cloud of exhaust fumes formed a barrier between herself and the incoming raiders. She scraped the remaining pulp off the pavement, flying above the fumes and swarm, back to the lions. Burrowing into a lion chest, the dark protected her from the horde.

With the last gulp of the spinach, she was finally full. Still, she’d spent so long hunting, she never managed to find warmth. Since her mate was gone, taken by weasel some nights before, the eggs had only her to rely on.

As the night grew ever colder, she had to accept that she’d stayed away from the nest long enough. The reality of the situation was that the eggs would freeze if she didn’t return soon, and that she would freeze if the nest wasn’t warm enough.

She flew up once again, her eyes scouring every inch of the ground below. Trafalgar Square was empty now, rioting birds all gone, having scraped the place clean of any morsel of food. It started to drizzle, and she shivered.

The time had come to return to the nest and try to keep warm tonight. To try and live long enough to feed her squabs when they finally hatched.

Then she saw him. The man with the paper. He was still there, still on the fountain ledge, paper clutched in his hands. Alone in the dark. He got to his feet, and walked cautiously across the Square, edging closer to Nelson’s Column at its heart.

“I’m here,” he said, pressing two fingers against his earpiece. His hat and upturned collar obscured his face and muffled his voice.

She dove. She was done waiting. She needed that paper. She spread her wings wide, talons outstretched. She aimed for his hand.

“No, I’ve been waiting all day. No one’s around. Yes, I’m sur-”

He shrieked when a pigeon landed on his arm, claws sinking into his coat. He shook her off viciously, throwing her back with a hard smack of his newspaper.

The pigeon fell onto her side, sliding against the pavement. She didn’t move.

“Please tell me you didn’t see that,” he muttered to the laughter in his earpiece. “Effing rats of the sky.”

He walked towards Whitehall and turned at the Column base to look up at the Admiral. He now faced the large plaque depicting a roster of disorderly sailors. He lifted his phone to it, and the large bold lettering beneath lit up.

England Expects Every Man To Do His Duty

“Only pigeons know” he muttered, pressing his palm to the column. In the quiet, he could hear ticking inside. He peered at his phone screen, counting down the seconds. At precisely nine, the ticking stopped, the subsequent click from inside barely audible over Big Ben’s tolling.

The chiming roused the pigeon. She lifted her head and saw double.

He embedded his fingernails in between the cracks of the tiles.

She hopped back upright, swaying.

He could tell which one it was due to a small print of a pigeon on its bottom left corner.

Lifting off back into the air, all she could see was the newspaper still in his hand.

He pulled the tile back, and out slipped an envelope, landing at his feet. He knelt down and opened it.

“It’s all here.” He thumbed through the two fat wads it concealed. “All twenty grand.”

She dove. Wings outstretched, talons raised.

“And it’s ours”

She grabbed.

“No!”

She realised only after his shouts faded into the distance that she was clutching, not a newspaper but two wads of notes. They would have to do.

As she soared higher and higher, she felt her head clear and her vision focus back onto the world below. She flew past the clock, no longer chiming, past a couple arguing at its base. She flew over the bridge where one of the wads slipped from her claws and fell, towards a red and white awning speeding through the city.

She flew until she reached home, slipping into the church attic through a crack in the window.

The pigeon flapped towards her nest, landing softly so as not to bring rain into the rafters. She clawed at the remaining wad of bills until it was reduced to shreds. And then, taking great care to spread them evenly around her eggs, she finally settled atop them. Warm and full, she sank into a deep, well-earned sleep.