Feathered Friend

It was used to being handled, and gentled in his hands, the warm bundle of feathers soft in his palms. He stroked its back for a moment, then reached for the leg with the ring. Straight away he could see that the style of ring wasn’t one he used and the numbers confirmed this wasn’t one of his birds. Other than that they meant nothing to him; to track the owner he’d need to check the online register. And for that he needed his laptop, which was still indoors.

‟Well, well, who do you belong to?” he murmured, and reached for one of the carrying cases he kept just inside the door. The pigeon went in without complaint and he closed the lid, listening to the rustles as it bedded itself down in the straw. Only when he’d reassured himself that the other birds had survived their headlong flight did he take the strange one into the house to have a proper look at that ring.

The kitchen still had an old-fashioned fireplace, which no longer worked but held a cast-iron range as well as a good wide hearth that was perfect for pigeon paraphernalia. He set the carrying case down on it, then switched on his laptop. It always took an age to boot up so while he waited he plugged in the kettle and busied himself with tea bag, sugar, milk, and biscuits, while keeping one ear open for sounds of distress. All was quiet. The strange pigeon, worn out by its exertions in flying to the wrong loft, had probably gone to sleep.

By the time the tea had brewed the laptop had come to life and he called up the national racing pigeon register and tapped in the digits from the new bird’s ring. And waited, sipping, and waited some more. And... nothing. A brief message to tell him that there was no match for that number and would he like to try again.

‟Bugger it.” He tried again, typing more slowly with half the number of fingers he’d used before. It made no difference. The ring code didn’t match to anything. Which meant one of two things. Either the pigeon didn’t exist or he’d memorised the number wrong. The first was unlikely given that he’d handled the pigeon. The second was entirely possible. He’d have to check it again. Turning, he froze, feeling his heart hitch and the blood leave his face and hurtle towards his feet. Sitting on one of the stools at the farmhouse table, cool as the proverbial cucumber and munching on a biscuit, was the prettiest young man he’d ever seen. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of some feathers and the words Pigeon for Life in blue. His hair was longish and greyish-fair, his nose was sharp, and he had two huge grey eyes that were fixed on Derek’s face with a mixture of mischief and lust.