Gideon had now put down his half of the armchair and was leaning against the back yard wall, applying a flame to the half-spent cigarette he'd fished from his top pocket.

‘Wouldn't be bad, would it?' he mused. ‘Being a bird. Gettin' yer end away all spring, then fuckin' off to the South of France as soon as yer get a chill on yer bollocks.'

‘They don't live long,' said Cal.

‘Do they not?' said Gideon, drawing on his cigarette. He shrugged. ‘Short and sweet,' he said. That'd suit me.'

Shane plucked at the half-dozen blond hairs of his would-be moustache. ‘Yer know somethin' about birds, do yer?' he said to Cal.

‘Only pigeons.'

‘Race ‘em, do you?'

‘Once in a while-'

‘Me brother-in-law keeps whippets; said the third man, the idler.' He looked at Cal as though this coincidence verged on the miraculous, and would now fuel hours of debate. But all Cal could think of to say was: ‘Dogs.'

‘That's right,' said the other man, delighted that they were of one accord on the issue. ‘He's got five. Only one died.'

‘Pity,' said Cal.

‘Not really. It was fuckin' blind in one eye and couldn't see in the other.'

The man guffawed at this observation, which promptly brought the exchange to a dead halt. Cal turned his attention back to the birds, and he grinned to see - there on the upper window-ledge of the house - his bird.

‘I see him,' he said.

Gideon followed his gaze. ‘What's that then?'

‘My pigeon. He escaped.'

Cal pointed. ‘There. In the middle of the sill. See him?'

All three now looked. ‘Worth something is he?' said the idler.

‘Trust you, Bazo,' Shane commented.