Cal scanned sky and roof alike, making his way along Rue Street as he did so. And there - a thousand to one dance he caught sight of his bird. A solitary pigeon, dividing a cloud of sparrows. Years of watching the sky, waiting for pigeons to return from races, had given him an eagle eye; he could recognize a particular bird by a dozen idiosyncrasies in its flight pattern. He had found 33; no doubt of it. But event as he watched, the bird disappeared behind the roofs of Rue Street.

He gave chase afresh, finding a narrow alley whirl cut between the terraced houses half way along the road, and let on to the larger alley that ran behind the row. It had not been well kept. Piles of household refuse had been dumped along its length; orphan dustbins overturned, their contents scattered.

But twenty yards from where he stood there was work going on. Two removal men were manoeuvring an armchair out of the yard behind one of the houses, while a third stared up at the birds. Several hundred were assembled on the yard walls and window sills and railings. Cal wandered along the alley, scrutinizing this assembly for pigeons. He found a dozen or more amongst the multitude, but not the one he sought.

‘What d'you make of it?'

He had come within ten yards of the removal men, and one of them, the idler was addressing the question to him.

‘I don't know,' he answered honestly.

‘Maybe they're goin' to migrate.' Said the younger of the two armchair carriers, letting drop his half of the burden and staring up at the sky.

‘Don't be an idiot, Shane,' said the other man, a West Indian. His name - Gideon was emblazoned on the back of his overalls.

‘Why'd they migrate in the middle of the fuckin' summer?'

‘Too hot,' was the idler's reply. ‘That's what it is. Too fuckin' hot. It's cookin' their brains up there.'