The Magpie Trap: A Novel Page 9

  At Home with the Parkers

  Chris felt that familiar dread feeling creep up on him as he turned into the cul-de-sac on which his mother and father lived. It had the faintly whimsical name of The Cherryblossoms which ill suited the artificial forgeries, the not-quite-right copies of old masters which were the mock Tudor houses. Although darkness had set in, as Chris drove up the narrow road, the over-zealous security lighting of every one of the houses was alerted by his seemingly unwelcome presence and his arrival at the front of his familial house was floodlit.

  Casting an elongated shadow across the driveway, Chris walked with the halting step of a condemned man on the approach to the front door. The side door - the door which he had used when he had lived in the house - was no longer an option. Adjacent to the palatial twin garage, whose square footage was larger than his City Centre flat, ‘the tradesman’s entrance’ was reserved for the less formal guest. Chris’s visits were now an unwelcome, but necessary addition to the calendar, like dinner with old, but not well-liked work colleagues. Chris therefore had to squeeze between the large haphazardly parked Rolls Royce and the overhanging pussy willow tree and was rewarded by a shower of spray from the tree’s overhanging branches. Chris could picture his father returning from the golf course half-cut earlier in the evening, annoyed at the inconvenient visit of his son scuppering his night out and parking the car as though it was abandoned.

  Chris’s father, Mal, was part of the older generation which believed that the drink drive laws simply did not apply to them. He reasoned that: a) he had been driving for so long now that it was second nature to him; the odd beer would not affect his skills, and b) that the journey from the nineteenth hole was so short anyway that he probably wouldn’t pass another car or pedestrian that he could kill even if he’d wanted to. The golf course was, to be fair, a short but twisting half mile away from the house in the opulent North Leeds suburb of Shadwell.

  Chris reflected that the black and white of the front of the house had been somewhat spoiled since his last visit by the addition of a large dark blue EyeSpy Security burglar alarm bell box slap-bang in the centre. It had been installed as a favour, on the cheap by an engineering mate of Danny’s; Mark Birch. Mark had clearly not been thinking of the aesthetic qualities that the bell box would lend to the house, but rather the preventative effect that such high visibility security measures would have on the would-be intruder. It was an up-market ‘Beware of the Killer Dog’ sign.

  Luckily Mal had been dissuaded from placing the clichéd name plate ‘Dunroamin’ on the door, however his questionable tastes had clearly been channelled into the door bell’s perky, electronic version of a Rod Stewart number which brassily responded to Chris’s pushing the buzzer. It was Do Ya Think I’m Sexy, and Chris yet again had to screw up his eyes to try and get rid of that unsavoury image of his dad answering the door in PVC chaps, holding a whip.

  It was Mummy Dearest that finally deigned to answer the door, perhaps they were hurriedly clearing away the paraphernalia of their new ‘swinging sixties’ life, or perhaps they were simply waiting for the lift-version of Rod Stewart to finish. Margaret answered with a ta-daaah flourish, as if the front door was the stage curtain lifting. She was wearing a sea green cocktail dress and a huge gold necklace which made her look a little like B.A. Baracus. Clearly her dress sense was being impaired by the usual vast quantity of gin in which she swam on a daily basis.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she slurred, promptly dropping her theatrical act and reverting to normal behaviour. ‘Hello Chris. You’re early,’ she snarled, turning her back on him and flouncing down the entrance hallway without so much as her traditional airy peck on both cheeks.

  As she sashayed away from him, Chris was unexpectedly moved by the fact that her mermaid costume was not properly zipped up at the back. Her off-white bra was showing through. He imagined her carefully changing for dinner and asking Mal how she looked, or to zip her up, but Mal had probably not even glanced at her; she was the invisible woman.

  Chris could not summon up the energy to hate her for her pursed lipped disapproval; he could only pity her for the Stepford Wives existence she led. Thinking about it, even the bondage parties would have been something different, but now he was in the house he could see that they were no more feasible than their holding a circus in their front room.

  The front room of the house was reserved for entertaining guests and had a cold, unlived-in atmosphere. Chris was directed to a chair by his mother as though he had never been in the house before, and again he had to fight his urge to simply get back in his car, turn around and drive home, or rush out and dive into the pub on the corner for a quick sense-dulling shot before going back. Margaret offered him a drink and then left him alone in that oppressively silent, chilly room. He looked around him, seeing the familiar room through new eyes, noting that of all of the framed pictures of the mantelpiece, none featured him.

  Margaret finally returned with a staple gin and tonic each, and sat, awkwardly cross-legged in the chair opposite.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Chris, warily tasting the drink which, from his shudder, tasted as though there was no tonic in it at all. ‘So, how are you? Any news from leafy Shadwell?’ he chanced.

  ‘Your father will be down in a minute,’ was his mother’s only reply. He shuffled on his chair, sipped more of the toilet-cleaner strength drink, and at all costs avoided eye contact.

  Chris was almost relieved by his father’s boisterous entrance; a reek of strong aftershave preceding his arrival in the room. He always wore vats of the stuff to compensate for the smell of dead animals which in his paranoid mind always clung to him. He was a butcher by trade, but had long since given up actually touching the carcasses themselves. He had built up his business so much that he rarely even went near his premises, but the old habits of dousing himself with scent died hard.

  Chris’s initial relief was however, not to last long; the usual interrogation soon began. This huge beast of a man had refused to sit down, and instead loomed over Chris, bristling with annoyance and grievance. He barked a series of angry questions, without waiting for a response; Chris thinking; this place does not need a guard dog. Daddy dear is its very own rottweiler.

  Like Chris, he had a full head of sandy hair which showed no signs of receding. He was also almost threateningly tall, and radiated an intensity that had not been passed on to Chris. Signals warning ‘do not cross me’ pulsed from the protruding veins of his forehead.

  What are you doing with your life? Why don’t you come and work for me? Why don’t you buy a house, not rent a flat? Are you not getting married yet?

  It was like wave after wave of fists beating at him. Chris silently fantasized about spraying the room with machine-gun fire like in the film version of Billy Liar which he and Danny had constantly watched during smoking sessions when they were at university. He could almost imagine the look of shock and awe on his father’s face when he finally realised that his son was a man who could do things for himself; a man of action. But in the real world, his father remained the action man, a man who had seen and done it all.

  The happy family eventually retired to the equally formal dining room, where a cold buffet of meats and cheese had been laid out under fly-covers by his mother. She darted about, like a fly herself, from plate to plate, removing these fly covers, cling-film, and tin foil. She had almost triple glazed this food against the unwelcome attentions of any germs or insects.

  The dining room had a staid and charmless old-fashioned feel to it; features such as the paintings on the wall simply added to its show-room qualities. Frilled doilies, covers on the seats, a plastic table-cloth all clubbed together as if to shout out their warnings: Do not put anything on the surfaces. Do not spill anything. Do not sit too long. You are not welcome.

  The Parkers wordlessly filled their plates from the buffet which had been laid out on the ‘good plates’ on a folding table adjacent to the hatch which was the connecting thread to the kitchen. They re
verentially allowed Mal to cut the cold meats as per his traditional role.

  Plates full and condiments applied, the three then took their seats around the titanic mahogany dining table. Both Mal and Chris were forced to slouch in their chairs by the intrusive chandelier hanging from a ceiling which was too low to support such a feature without appearing over-the-top. A sunken position seemed to redress the balance between the two: height advantage was no longer a feature in the argument.

  ‘This pork is great; have you got a new supplier?’ asked Chris, making a concentrated effort to alter the mood.

  ‘Yes, it’s farm near Wetherby. Really looks after his animals that farmer. Thing is though, he’s got no business sense whatsoever.’

  Mal tore his teeth aggressively into a hunk of bread before continuing, mouth half-full: ‘He’s more concerned with the grants he gets from the European Union to be bothered about how much he gets for his meat.’

  ‘He must really look after the pigs well though… So, anyway, how’s business?’ asked Chris. He was still erring on the side of over-politeness to his father.

  ‘Picking up again; picking up. We got a major new contract through one of my mates at the golf club; a police chief. We’re supplying to all the police canteens in Yorkshire now. And most of the schools.’

  ‘Through the golf club,’ sneered Chris. ‘Who needs good marketing when you can just do a bit of horse-trading down the golf club?’

  ‘Your father doesn’t sell horse meat,’ said Margaret, rather ridiculously. Chris stifled a guffaw.

  ‘As I was saying; we’re doing pretty well these days. We have this sponsorship deal with one of the schools now; a PFI thing. It gets our name in the papers all the time; now that’s what I call marketing,’ said Mal.

  ‘But the schools get the cut-price stuff though eh? Can’t afford anything better. No concern about the health of the kids?’

  Chris, despite his efforts to take part in a civilized conversation, was riled by his father’s blasé attitude to the responsibility he held.

  ‘Listen to me; don’t come preaching to me with your egalitarian principles. What do you think paid your way through your three year doss at university?’

  ‘Why does it always come down to this? I went to university to further my education, and to make my own way in the world. I did not come to work for you because I have a talent for something else.’

  Chris’s instinct for going on the defensive in conversations with his father was now increasing the tension in the room. A heavy, oppressive atmosphere had set in.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. A talent… what are you talking about boy? Your only talent is for pissing money up the wall. Mark my words; one day soon, you’ll be begging me for a job at my place.’

  ‘Not if this new scheme that I’ve got going starts to work,’ said Chris. He didn’t really know why he’d started talking about his involvement with Danny’s plan, but now he had, he somehow felt that his father should know. He’d probably have a kind of nagging respect for his son if…

  ‘What scheme? What are you going on about?’

  ‘We’ve got a great idea for a start-up business. Security…’

  ‘What do you know about security? You probably leave your bleedin’ flat door wide open when you go to work in the afternoon or whenever you get out of bed, you lazy get.’

  Mal shook his head to emphasise his disbelief at his son’s attitude.

  Margaret finally spoke up: ‘Can we not enjoy a meal in peace without you two fighting? Can we please change the subject?’

  Chris cowered like a wounded dog on his side of the table, but suddenly like the dog that had been kicked that one time too many, he turned: ‘I can never win with you two. We are not fighting. I am trying to defend myself from his attacks. We can’t communicate properly because there’s a spectre at the feast. Ever since Todd, we all skirt around the real issues.’

  Mal’s cheeks ripened into a full purple hue; furrowed brows and gritted teeth signaled intent as he wildly beat his fist down upon the table, sending cutlery flying to the floor.

  ‘We do not mention that name in this house boy!’

  ‘Why? Why can we not? That’s what’s wrong with this so-called family.’

  Mal’s chair careered backwards through the air as thrust it backwards from under himself in wild disgust. Without so much as another word he stormed out of the dining room, the front door, and the next sound they heard was the revving of the engine of his Rolls Royce in the driveway.

  Margaret and Chris wordlessly cleared the table, carefully re-administering the cling-film and tin foil to most of the half-eaten food. They fell into the old routine of washing up together; or rather Chris washed and Margaret dried and put away the plates and cutlery. Mal still forbade the presence of a dishwasher in his house, seeing such a purchase as some kind of slight on his Yorkshire frugality. Not that he ever did any of the washing up himself; no, he was clearly a busy man, and Margaret was at home all day long, wasn’t she?

  The kitchen overlooked the vast expanse of garden. This gigantic playground had been one of the main reasons why the Parkers had purchased the house. In time, however, Mal had put his foot down and made the garden his own, taking pride in its neatness and banning the children from most activities in it. Even now, Chris regarded the garden, with its untouched patio furniture, gas heaters and rockeries, as some extension of his father’s domain. He had it as carefully sculpted as the green on his favourite golf course; the only surprise being that he hadn’t installed a flag and a hole as yet.

  As Chris watched, the security lights flicked on again, casting some light into the creeping shadows cast by the huge trees which flanked the grass. Perhaps an urban fox had strayed into the garden, or a rabbit, or a squirrel. Whatever animal it was, it certainly didn’t know how lucky it was that Mal had left the building.

  But Chris was not concerned by the presence of wildlife infiltrating from the border of the nearby woodland. Instead, his attention was captured by something else; a new feature on the lawn. There, to the right of the rockery, lay a complicated wire and wood contraption which resembled a chicken coop. It was about a metre-square and was separated into two, quite separate compartments.

  ‘What is that thing mother?’

  ‘That is a magpie trap. And a lot better at catching thieves than the security alarm your friends put in I can tell you.’

  ‘So what’s that all about then?’

  ‘It’s your dad. He can’t stand magpies, and absolutely hated it when they began to roost in the trees here. They drove away all of the other birds. Now, your father thinks of them as a group of rowdy yobs invading our territory, and he can’t stand that kind of thing. Sees it as a challenge…’

  ‘So he bought this to get rid of them?’ asked Chris, stacking another plate onto the pile.

  ‘You know how it works? It works by temptation. Magpies are the most human-like creatures I know; the only animals with real egos. They like to keep up with the Joneses.’

  ‘Hmm,’ muttered Chris, as though unsure.

  ‘You see the two compartments,’ continued Margaret. ‘Well, what you do is you install a fake, um, decoy magpie in one of the sides. This makes the resident magpies mad, and one of them invariably flies down and tries to attack the new magpie. What he doesn’t know is that as soon as he’s in there, he trips the wire and closes himself in- all because of his own arrogance.’

  ‘And what happens then?’

  Margaret raised her eyebrows. Do you really have to ask? Chris immediately understood. His father had always kept a baseball bat handily placed by the door, or perhaps he’d use a big kitchen knife; a cleaver maybe. He’d have no qualms about the dishing out of such punishment. Indeed, Mal probably would have used the same ‘disposal’ methods to deal with any human intruder on his property.

  ‘And this keeps going, does it? The magpies watch their mates being suckered-in and they just go and try the same thing anyway; wading in to their own deaths?�
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  ‘Pretty much so yes.’

  A sudden thought flashed across Chris’s mind. People did behave in similar ways to the magpies; Danny Morris being one prime example. The man kept plunging himself into the same disaster time and time again as though he thought that there’d be a different outcome one day. Unconsciously, he winced at the thought of Danny being caught in a magpie trap and having his brains smashed in. Margaret must have thought that he was wincing about something else.

  ‘We paid a lot of money to have our garden landscaped, you know. Your dad likes surveying his land and watching the birds through the conservatory window. He had to do something about them.’

  ‘Where did he get it from?’

  ‘I don’t know, but some of his clients are big in the hunting world and I think they gave him a few ideas about what he could do.’

  Ah! Chris could have predicted such an answer. What with the hunting ban, he could have guaranteed that these people would have found other animals to kill, and they’d have found other devices to kill them with, as though to sate their blood-lust.

  ‘Zero tolerance. The ends justify the means,’ muttered Chris, still staring at the cruel spiky death-trap in his parents’ garden. The two chambers were separated by a thin wire fence, which would have been invisible to the untrained eye. The grass underneath the trap was darker than the rest of the lawn; it was absolutely soaked in blood.

  Instead of dealing with the trapped magpies in a humane way, Chris’s father was clearly putting his butchery training to good use and was killing them right there in his garden. What would the neighbours think?