The Lace

A short story about two wood pigeons, magic water, and Leo Burdock's chips.

Even the trees look miserable in the rain, bark all dark with the wet. Time stands still on an evening like this, the sky pulled all the way down to the rooftops, turf smoke clinging to the shiny road and stubbornly seeking refuge in my feathers. I think I’ll fly to the city, see if I can get a drop from The Lace.
 
“Where are you going, Jerome?”  asks Paudie, the question muffled as he combs his feathers with his beak, waterproofing himself for the evening that’s in it.
“I’m fed up. I’m going to Dublin.”
“Dublin’s no place for wood pigeons, Jer, what are you going there for?”
“I’m going to get a drink in The Lace”
“What’s the Lace?”
“You don’t know The Lace?”
“Well would I be asking if I did?”, Paudie retorts, continuing to comb himself as if he didn’t care much for the answer anyway.
“The Lace, you know, the magic water”.
“Nah, never heard of it, Jer”.
“There’s a stretch of the Liffey river……Paudie, I can’t talk to ya while you’re grooming yourself, your feathers are as flat as you’re gonna get them…”
Paudie flaps his wings and shuffles his feet and wiggles his arse and settles down, tilting his head slightly to show me he’s looking at me and being polite.
“You know the Liffey river, yeah?”.
Paudie gives a single affirmative dart of the head.
“Well, about sixty percent of the Liffey’s water flow is used to supply water for the city, right, and most of that makes its way back into the river again after it’s purified and treated and all, in the sewage plants like. Ya with me?”
Paudie gives another dart of the head.

“Right”, I continue, “they remove all the crap and paper and grit and fats and oils and all, but they can’t remove everything, the really, really fine particles. There’s heavy trace levels of all sorts of magic in it still – MDMA, Methamphetamine, Cocaine especially ….ketamine, antidepressants, pain killers, caffeine….all sorts that people piss out of themselves...”, Paudie starts combing his plumage again, “…Paudie, if ya don’t stop with the grooming...” He reassumes his attentive pose apologetically.

“There’s a thin stretch of the river, not too far from the sewage plant where it’s the most potent, that’s The Lace, but after really heavy rain the storm drains overflow and untreated wastewater floods in too, that’s the best shit.”
“Literally”, says Paudie, delighted with himself. It’s funny in fairness so I give it to him and chuckle despite the frustration of trying to talk to him with his fidgeting and quips.

“It’s been lashing all day, Paudie, and I can feel in my vitali organ it’s gonna clear up in an hour or so. Plus, it’s Sunday evening, the Liffey will soon be awash with the remnants of last night’s revelry. You coming with me?”
“How do you know all this, about The Lace and all?”, asks Paudie, tilting his head further, giving me a questioning side-eye.
“Colm was telling me about it”.
“That culver? And what would he know about the Liffey, he’s a Brit pigeon, cockney git always with a swelled neck on him and the chest puffed out, strutting around like he’s a peacock….and Colm isn’t even his name ya know, couldn’t be, I’d say he just calls himself that here to fit in”. 
“His granny is from here, Paudie, my granny grew up with her in the same kit sure. And besides, as good as The Lace is, The Thames is a thousand times better, and not just after weekends, all week. Colm used to be off his beak all hours there, he knows what he’s talking about”.

Paudie ruffles his feathers and I know well it’s just so he’ll have to start combing them again. “I dunno, Jer, I don’t like Dublin, them city pigeons are pricks, and the seagulls have no manners on them. And I’m too wrecked to be flying all that way”.
“It’s only twenty minutes as the crow flies, P, you’ll be grand once we get up…”
“Don’t mention them cawing bastards to me, you wouldn’t be dead a minute and they’d be eating you…”

“You’ve a lot of hate in ya, don’t ya Paudie? You need to chill out, buddy. C’mon with me and we’ll have a buzz”.  He doesn’t respond; perhaps he’s reflecting on what I’ve just said to him. “What else are you gonna do, Paudie, sit here all night watching the puddles grow?”

“We’ll go down to the square”, Paudie suggests, “McBrides and Gleeson’s will be closing up in a few hours, and I saw the chip van drive past a while ago so there’s gonna be plenty of chips missing drunken mouths for the taking, Jer”.
“Ah fuck them wiry chips, cuz. I bet you’ve never had a Leo Burdock’s chip, have you?”
“No, but I’ve heard about them alright”.
“They’re unreal, Paudie, proper chunky, and not from frozen either like that scaldy chip van. You have to have one. Anyway, look, I’m going now, c’mon if yer coming”.
“Can we get a Burdock’s chip then so?”, Paudie asks quickly. “Absolutely”, I tell him.

The heavy clacks of our wings bounce off the wet tarmac and echo up the empty street as we take off skyward, Dublin-bound.
                      
                                                                                                  *

The rain fizzles out and the air turns crisp enough to crack with our clattering wings. The evening starts to taste like blackened hops as we approach The Lace. It’s busy. Intimidatingly so. A lot of big birds. We descend into one of the many trees canopying the banks of the thin stetch of river, a London Plane.

“There’s a lot of birds here, Jer. And there’s a mean-looking Marsh Harrier down there. He’ll devour us”.
“I dunno, Paudie, there’s two bluetits beside him and they don’t seem too worried. Fair amount of mallards and swans floating around too".
“This is mad”, Paudie says, starting to walk on the spot, shuffling his feet anxiously on the branch.
“Oh wow, look, there’s a curlew, P. I’ve never seen a curlew before, my ma used to tell me about them – he’s gorgeous, the dainty legs of him – lovely singers too apparently, did ya ever hear them?”.

“Focus, Jer, how are we gonna do this?  It’s well enough for the ducks and swans and all, and the curlew on the fringes with his long legs and the bill on him, but we can’t float or wade, how are we gonna get a drink?”
“It’ll be fine, it’ll be shallow at the edges, we won’t go in far, you’ll get wet but you won’t drown like. Here, I’ll go sus it out. You keep an eye on me”.

I pass cautiously beyond the Marsh Harrier, keeping ample enough distance to fly up into the trees should she feel the urge to lunge at me. It’s terrifying but exhilarating, my heart thudding rapidly in my breast. She doesn’t give me so much as a second look, she’s baked and happy out. I glance back up to Paudie in the tree, his eyes wide with the worry. I continue my march over the brow of the ridge and down the slope towards the water’s edge. A heron stands up tall beside me from a hidden grassy hollow, waking the swan that was dozing next to him.
“Howya?” I offer. “What’s the story, bud?” the heron responds.
“I’m just checking how deep it is here at the edge, that alright?”.
“Woooah, lil dude, you’re new, aren’t ya?”. I don’t answer. “Look…what’s your name?...”.
“Jerome”.
 “Look, Jerome, you can’t just come swanning in here….” - he stops, turning to his swan friend - “no offence, love”. The Swan doesn’t say anything, though she may be a mute swan, or maybe she’s just coming down, like the harrier above.  “You can’t just arrive and do as you please, you’ve got to talk to the Owl Dubliner first”.
“Who?” I query. 
“The Owl Dubliner” he replies, pointing his beak down and gesturing with his eyes to a Rowan tree across the river, its trunk reaching up into a dense, dark crown of foliage.  “She rules the roost here, kid”.

He startles me with a sudden precision strike of his head into the water, emerging as swiftly as he’d lashed into it, with a shiny brown trout impaled and thrashing on his beak. He releases the speared fish to the grass, trapping it beneath his talons, nonchalantly letting it flail and flounder its last gasps. “They do get fierce buzzed in the magic, the trout, and the eels…” the heron explains, “…wear themselves out darting around and then they get all chilled out and forget what they’re at, lingering in open water like eejits. It’s too easy”. I dart my head a couple of polite juts. “Talk to the Owl before you do anything…” he says “…or she’ll have a murder of murderous crows on ya quicker than I caught that trout”. He dips and picks up the flaccid fish and returns to the swan in cool, casual strides.
 
I beckon to Paudie to come down from the tree.
“We’ve to talk to the owl Dubliner first”
“Who?”
“An owl in the tree yonder. She’s the boss, apparently”
“Boss? Of the Liffey? Ya must be joking”
“Shudup, Paudie. It’s just how it’s done, right! C’mon”
 
Up and under, into the leafy chamber of the Rowan, our eyes adjusting to the darkness before realising we’re already face to face with the owl perched on the thickest limb and flanked by eight black crows, four either side of her. Paudie retreats in behind me. Next to her is a thin stick nest, I recognise it as an old pigeon nest, good and sturdy, minimalist. The nest is stacked high with dead rodents, fish, frogs, a few grubs, bits of sandwiches, and a chocolate hobnob like we get the crumbs of at the café at home when they have tables outside in summer. Tasty biscuits them.

“Ms. Dubliner?”, I ask.
“The one and only”, she answers.
“Hi. We….my cousin, Paudie, here and I, we’d like to get a drink from the magic water please. I was told to speak to you.”
“Who told you about the magic water?”
“Eh….a friend of mine. Colm. He’s a pigeon. He’s from London”
“Is that supposed to impress me? See those three swans beneath you? They were in Iceland not three days ago. And see the Warbler over there? He’s been to Africa. AFRICA!”
“Oh, no, I was just mentioning it in case you knew him is all”
“No, I don’t know him, and I don’t give a hoot where he’s from. Tell him to keep his beak shut though or I will know him, and he doesn’t want that. And you two don’t go telling any more about it either, there’s already too many know.”
“Understood, Ms. Dubliner, we’ll not say a word. Is it alright if we have a quick drop though?” 
“It isn’t free, son. You’ve to pay your way like everyone else”, she says, gesturing to the mound beside her. “And I have a craving for chips today”.
“Chips. No worries, we can get you chips”.
“Burdock’s”, she says, “you know where that is?”. I give two confirming darts of the head. “Off you go so, fellas”.
 
                                                                                            *
 
We see Christchurch Cathedral stretching out over Winetavern street and land on the lip of a round Romanesque window, high up, a good vantage-point across to the corner of Lord Edward street and Werburgh street.

“See the corner there, Paudi, down there is Leo Burdock’s”.
“coo coooo coo cu cu”, we hear from above us.
“Ah damn, Jer, a city pigeon cooing at us. She’s not bad looking, though”
“Never mind the dirt-birds, Paudie, we’ve a job to do”
“Youse culchie pigeons, aryis?”, our admirer asks. We ignore her.
“Ha, look, Jer – there’s a seagull robbing a bag of Tayto from the corner shop – cheeky bastard haha”

A fat man appears from around the corner, clutching a steaming brown paper bag. He places it down on top of a dark-wood barrel reserved for punters’ pint glasses outside of the Bull & Castle bar. He eagerly rips the brown bag and unfurls the grease-blotted paper before delicately picking chunky yellow chips out with nimble fingers, a grace and reverence for each chip quickly forgotten by his teeth and jaws.

“Right, Paudie, there’s our mark”.
“They look like class chips”, he says, “How’ll we do this?”
“I dunno. There’s a lot of chips there, he’ll hardly eat them all, and there’s a fairly stuffed bin beside him. I’d say he’ll wrap up what’s left when he’s had his fill and shove it in the bin. Then we can scavenge it.”
“Or, we could fly over and shit on them, Jer. He’ll hardly eat them then.”
“Can you shit while flying, Paudie?”
“I think so, yeah. Why, can you not?”
“Do you not shit on your feet though?”
“I don’t think so”
“Give it a go so”.
“But I don’t have to go, Jer. I haven’t eaten in ages come to think of it, nothing to poo out.”
 “Here, are youse Culchie pigeons?”, our curious observer repeats demandingly, doing a side shuffle along the ridge above us.
“Sorry, love, can’t chat now, we’re busy”, I inform her.
“Pff, I’m only being friendly like.”
 
The fat man wraps the remains of his feast as I anticipated.
“Now, Paudie, the bin”

We swoop, a straight line for the bin. The bag is free of his grease-glossed fingers no more than two seconds before I have my beak latched on to a sorry corner of it, my feet welded to the bottom of the circular opening of the bin, tugging and heaving with all my might. The fifth yank frees it, hurtling to the ground and I with it. Paudie descends beside me, the two of us pecking in careful coordination, undoing the twists of brown paper and revealing the coveted golden spoils.

“Thanks for that lads, yis can be on your way now”. We look up from the prize. Four seagulls, seemingly lead by the Tayto thief. Paudie puffs his chest out and fans his tail, a deep gurgling coo from his swollen neck.
“We Just want one each, lads, to take with us. The rest are yours”, I amicably negotiate.
“They’re all ours” the brazen gull counters, “and we’ll be having youse two for dessert if yis don’t scramble”.
Paudie takes a step out in front of me, guarding the gold. The bully gull, a good deal larger than Paudie, even with all the puff and bravdo, waddles forward. A face off that will most likely end with Paudie losing face, literally and figuratively.

“Leave it, cuz, it’s not worth it”, I reason.
“We’ve come too far, Jer”
“Listen to your pal, he’s making sense”, one of the three lingering seagulls pipes up. The gull involved in the stand-off suddenly makes a threat of a lunge at Paudie. Paudie flinches.

“Ha, I knew it”, says the seagull, “pure chicken”.

This was not a wise choice of words. For some reason, Paudie is probably a little too proud of being a wood pigeon and calling him another type of fowl seems to ignite some sort of bird-brained madness in him. I see him winding the head back in slow motion, the wings lifting slightly, and a purposeful thrust forward with a duck and twist, striking his beak hard off the side of the gull’s crown. It’s followed by another swift jab to the body, and another to the gull’s breast. That’s it so, Paudie has dragged me into the fracas. I want to fly away but I can’t abandon my old cuz – he took me under his wing when my aul pair were shot, he did his best for me and now I’ve to repay him, perhaps with my life.

As the other three gulls come to realise what’s happening, the larger of them turns his attention to me, his head down and pointed forward, wings pinned back, stealth-like, racing towards me. I pirouette, pivoting with my left wing extended to draw his eye as he misses my body, matador-style. I hover up behind him and clasp my beak down hard on the nape of his neck and squeeze. He squeals and thrashes his wings to dislodge me. I dig my feet into his back to stay on.
The other two opportunistic gulls occupy themselves frantically pecking the chips, while Paudie and I peck lumps out of their comrades. I suppose it makes it a fairer fight, but they certainly aren’t covering themselves in glory.

I release my grip on the gull’s neck and start hammering my beak at the back of his head before realising I’m disgusted with my hitherto unleashed viciousness. It’s a lapse of concentration that costs me the upper hand. The gull hops forward, spinning onto his back into the middle of the other gulls’ dinner, prompting them to launch an attack on me. Three on one, I don’t stand a chance. A squall of squawks, a flurry of feathers and tossed chips, I duck my head and shield myself with my wings, taking a battering.    

“Duck, Jer”, I hear Paudie instruct. I glance out from beneath my wing to see the main gull retreat in staggered flight, defeated. Fair play, Paudie. I make my body smaller and hear a thud, and finally some relief from the onslaught. I lower my shield. Paudie has two of them bulldozed, flailing the wings across the head of one. The other escapes, dazed, but still with it enough to pluck a stray chip before departure.

Two on two. We’ve the measure of each other now but seeing two of their group picked off surely has them thinking twice about sticking around. All that’s left in the chaos surrounding us is brown paper, liberated feathers, and two chunky chips. The four of us have the same idea, all racing towards the deep-fried delicacies. A sharp sting to the head. I’m down. The clever bastard took me out – I wish I’d thought of that. He’s won the chip. He’s gone. I rise, dizzy. Two Paudies blend into one again. He’s playing tug of war with the last remaining gull, beady eye to beady eye, the length of the chip separating them. Both are tussling fiercely but with enough finesse to retain the structural integrity of the potato.

A swoosh - a cannonball of plumage plummets into the scene - our observer from the Cathedral, once our irritant now our hero. She fearlessly extends a mangled, stumpy leg straight into the left eye of the gull, his squeal bursting open his clamped beak. “Get out of here, lads”, she instructs, and is gone as quickly as she arrived. The gull tends to his eye with a tattered wing as Paudie, the solitary surviving chip dangling from his beak, looks at me, his eyes saying “I think I’m in love”.
I echo our rescuer’s advice, “let’s go, Paudie”.
 
                                                                                               *
 
The adrenaline keeps our hearts pumping frantically, though not our wings. We haven’t the energy left in us to fly as far from the ugly scene as we’d like. A quiet spot in the aptly named ‘Peace park’ opposite the cathedral our best option for some much-needed recuperation and a drink from the shallow decorative pond. It isn’t magic water, but it’s a welcome taste right now. The magic water will soon be our reward for the journey, provided the Owl Dubliner is happy enough with just the one chip.

“D’ya think she’ll be alright with the one chip from both of us?”, I ask hopefully, “or maybe we can peck it in half and make it look like two small chips, one each…” I look to Paudie for some feedback, “…..where’s the chip, Paudie?”

Paudie’s fierce guilty looking. “I’m sorry, Jer, I couldn’t resist…it was too tempting in my mouth, so soft, and fluffy, and salty, and the vinegar, Jesus the vinegar…..you were right, it’s an exceptional chip, Jer”.

I can’t muster a word. If I wasn’t exhausted, I’d be fit to kill him.

“Can we go home by the zoo, Jer, get a look at the citron-crested cockatoos? They’re awful sexy.”
​
“Fuck you, Paudie.” 

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