This was a chance I had to take. I climbed about fifty rungs to the top floor. The window was a hinged one and it was open. Easy to open wider. There were extra rungs directly under it. All I needed to do was transfer sideways, put my leg over the sill and let myself in. First, I listened for sounds of movement from the room.
I could hear nothing.
I’m not much of an acrobat, but I succeeded in getting my legs through the window and scrambling into the room.
A voice I knew said, “Hello, squire.”
Roger!
For me, that reunion was on a par with H. M. Stanley meeting Dr Livingstone.
Roger was perched on the footboard of a double bed. He recognized me. He lifted his claw — a signal that he wanted to transfer to my arm and so to my shoulder. Elated, I took a step towards him. There was a sound behind me. I was not conscious of anything else, except a crushing blow to the back of my head.
I don’t know how long I was out.
When the world started up again for me, I was lying on the bed with my hands tied behind me. The foreign ‘gentleman’ had his thumb jammed into my eye, forcing it open. He spoke some words I didn’t recognize.
My head ached. My vision was blurred, but clearing. He looked evil. His shoulders were huge.
I said, “I don’t want trouble. I just want my parrot back.”
He said with a strong Spanish inflexion, “You own this parrot?”
I told him who I was.
He spoke again. “This parrot Roger, he is stupid. He tell me nothing. Nothing.”
I said, “He’s just a parrot. What do you expect?”
“You ask what I expect. I expect you have talked to this parrot, yes? He tell you where diamonds are kept.”
I said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
He raised his arm and beat me across the face with the back of his hand. My lip split.
He shouted, “Your uncle had many diamonds, yes? Why he send you this parrot when he die?”
I said, “Just who are you?”
He grabbed my hair and forced my head back. “Now you are here, you will talk to Roger. Then he tell you some number, some number of box inside bank.”
Box inside bank: I was beginning to understand. “A safe deposit number?”
“Si.”
“He doesn’t speak numbers.”
“Do it. Speak numbers now.” Still grasping my hair, he hauled me off the pillow and towards the foot of the bed where Roger was still perched, looking uneasy, swaying slightly, just as he had when I’d first seen him at Bird & Board.
Feeling incredibly stupid and helpless, I started chanting numbers to my parrot. “One. Two. Three. Four.”
Roger watched me in a stupefied silence.
“Five. Six. Seven.”
“This no good,” said the man. “Try three, four numbers together.”
I said, “One two three. One two four.” My lip had swollen. I could feel warm blood trickling down my chin.
Roger looked away.
“One two five.”
I continued speaking sets of numbers, trying to think how this would end.
I said, “Roger is nervous. You’ve made him nervous. They don’t speak when they’re nervous.”
This seemed to make some impression. Roger played his part by drawing his wings tight to his body and making a groaning sound deep in his chest.
The man produced a flick-knife and cut whatever it was that pinioned my wrists. I sat on the edge of the bed and wiped some blood away from my face. I needed to think. He was far too big to take on.
He said, “Now you try again.”
I said, “I’d like to be clear what this is all about. You want a safe deposit number, and you think the parrot will speak it, right?”
He pondered how much to tell me. Then he said, “George, he had diamonds. Isabella, his woman, she search the villa. No diamonds.”
“You were sent by Isabella?”
“Si. She think maybe there is one deposit box in his bank in Màlaga. No name. Only number, comprende?”
“Yes.”
“Isabella say George he was crafty old gringo. He teach the parrot this number and send it to you.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I hardly knew him at all.”
This didn’t impress my captor. “Stupid old man, he do this to cheat Isabella.”
“You’re Isabella’s friend?”
“Brother.”
I doubted if that was true. I said, “I’ve had Roger for almost a year now. He’s never spoken numbers to me. Basically, all he can say is ‘Hello’.”
Isabella’s “brother” struck me across the face a second time.
Roger screamed and spread his wings.
He took a swipe at Roger and just avoided being pecked.
In extreme situations, the brain works faster. I said, “If you’ll listen, I have a suggestion. You see the little silver ring attached to his leg? There’s something written on it. Very small. I don’t know if it’s a number. We can look if you like.”
“The ring! Si!” His face lit up. He reached towards Roger, who dipped forward and tried to peck his hand.
There was no chance of Roger letting him examine that ring.
He said, “You hold him.”
I said, “He’s nervous.”
He said, “You want me to kill you and the parrot?”
I spoke some encouraging words to Roger and held my wrist close to him. If ever I needed my parrot’s co-operation it was now. After some understandable hesitation, he put out a claw and transferred to my wrist. Continuing to speak to Roger as calmly as I was able, I fingered the ring with my free hand.
I told the man, “I need more light. I can’t read this.”
He said, “You come to the window.”
I stroked Roger’s back and stood up. The man led me towards the light. He said, “No tricks. You show this number to me. You hold the parrot and show me.”
Roger was amazingly compliant. He let me finger the ring again. In the better light, I gazed earnestly at the completely blank ring and started inventing numbers. “It looks to me like a three, a five, a nine. Is that a nine, would you say?”
The Spaniard moved to the only position convenient for viewing the ring. He didn’t dare come within range of that vicious black beak. He had his back to the open casement window through which I’d climbed.
It was my opportunity. I was poised to give him an almighty push, but Roger forestalled me. He screeched, opened his wings and reared at the man — who rocked back, lost his balance and pitched backwards out of the window. It was a long drop, three floors to a concrete yard. I didn’t look out to see the result.
I don’t believe Roger understood the consequence of his action. My theory is that he thought he was being taken to the open window. In the year I had owned him — as I discovered later — his wing feathers had grown and he was perfectly capable of flying. He wanted to test those wings. For him, it was the best escape route. When the man blocked his exit, he acted.
I’m not proud of my actions after that, but I ought to set them on record. I grabbed my parrot and pushed him into his travelling-box, which was just inside the door. I carried the box downstairs and drove off without speaking to anyone.
The inquest on the Spanish guest at the Marwood Hotel resulted in an open verdict. Identification was impossible, because he was found to be using a false passport. It was assumed by most people that this was a sad case of suicide.
Within a week, I, too, changed my identity. I moved away from England, sacrificing my TV career for an early retirement to the tropics. For obvious reasons I am not disclosing the name of this island paradise. The climate is a lot better than I’m used to and it suits Roger well. I have a fine stone house, a large swimming pool, servants and a speedboat.