bitten again. No not bitten but pecked. I looked down.
There was a pigeon standing on the ledge, looking up with bright, hateful eyes.
You get used to pigeons in the city; they’re as common as cab drivers who can’t change a ten. They
don’t like to fly, and they give ground grudgingly, as if the sidewalks were theirs by squatters’ rights.
Oh, yes, and you’re apt to find their calling cards on the hood of your car. But you never take much
notice. They may be occasionally irritating, but they’re interlopers in our world.
But I was in his, and I was nearly helpless, and he seemed to know it. He pecked my tired right ankle
again, sending a bright dart of pain up my leg.
‘Get,’ I snarled at it. ‘Get out.’
The pigeon only pecked me again. I was obviously in what he regarded as his home; this section of the
ledge was covered with droppings, old and new.
A muted cheeping from above.
I cricked my neck as far back as it would go and looked up. A beak darted at my face, and I almost
recoiled. If I had, I might have become the city’s first pigeon-induced casualty. It was Mama Pigeon,
protecting a bunch of baby pigeons just under the slight overhang of the roof. Too far up to peck my
head, thank God.
Her husband pecked me again, and now blood was flowing. I could feel it. I began to inch my way
along again, hoping to scare the pigeon off the ledge. No way. Pigeons don’t scare, not city pigeons,
anyway. If a moving van only makes them amble a little faster, a man pinned on a high ledge isn’t
going to upset them at all.
The pigeon backpedalled as I shuffled forward, his bright eyes never leaving my face except when the sharp beak dipped to peck my ankle. And the pain was getting more intense now; the bird was pecking
at raw flesh . . . and eating it, for all I knew.
I kicked at it with my right foot. It was a weak kick, the only kind I could afford. The pigeon only
fluttered its wings a bit and then returned to the attack. I, on the other hand, almost went off the side.
The pigeon pecked me again, again, again. A cold blast of wind struck me, rocking me to the limit of
balance; pads of my fingers scraped at the bland stone, and I came to rest with my left cheek pressed
against the wall, breathing heavily.
Cressner couldn’t have conceived of worse torture if he had planned it for ten years. One peck was not
so bad. Two or three were little more. But that damned bird must have pecked me sixty times before I
reached the wrought-iron railing of the penthouse opposite Cressner’s.
Reaching that railing was like reaching the gates of heaven. My hands curled sweetly around the cold
uprights and held on as if they would never let go.
Peck.
The pigeon was staring up at me almost smugly with its bright eyes, confident of my impotence and its
own invulnerability. I was reminded of Cressner’s expression when he had ushered me out on to the
balcony on the other side of the building.
Gripping the iron bars more tightly, I lashed out with a hard, strong kick and caught the pigeon
squarely. It emitted a wholly satisfying squawk and rose into the air, wings flapping. A few feathers,
dove grey, settled back to the ledge or disappeared slowly down into the darkness, swan-boating back
and forth in the air.
Gasping, I crawled up on to the balcony and collapsed there. Despite the cold, my body was dripping
with sweat. I don’t know how long I lay there, recuperating. The building hid the bank clock, and I
don’t wear a watch.
I sat up before my muscles could stiffen up on me and gingerly rolled down my sock. The right ankle
was lacerated and bleeding, but the wound looked superficial. Still, I would have to have it taken care
of, if I ever got out of this. God know what germs pigeons carry around. I thought of bandaging the raw