But I would rather not.
And my actual duties lie elsewhere. Very much so. In my opinion.
It makes me tired.
Jon shut his eyes to let his head settle — like covering a parrot’s cage to shut it up: so much noise to so little purpose …
I can rewrite anything, but we are — in this situation — talking about death and that does tend — even in commonplace birds — to be viewed as a negative outcome.
The blackbird shivered — which might be a bad sign, Jon didn’t know.
Nobody normal liked having a death on their hands. In their hands. In hands which, as it happened, seemed insufficiently evolved for this type of thing — too close to the ape: his had unsightly knuckle hairs and a deficit of manly dexterity.
One’s construction disappoints oneself.
Plus, this would be an Unforgivable Death, which was worse.
Pregnant women, dogs, horses, some cats, all chimpanzees, most children, the sprightly elderly, men with good hearts, pretty women, brave blind people and promising youths from troubled backgrounds with Oxbridge scholarships — and endearingly courageous baby birds — these are beings whose Deaths may be regarded as Unforgivable. Heart-clenching photographs across multiple media platforms may emphasise their tragic stature by showing them in earlier moments of unwary hope. (If a horse — for the sake of argument — can experience hope.) Their troubling loss may inspire campaigners, legal reforms, the provision and naming-in-their-honour of community facilities, or new diseases. Or else the provision and naming-in-their-honour of replacement horses.
The chick produced another urgently shrill lament — these were emerging at unpredictable intervals — pleas that were larger than itself and accusing.
Then it bit him again.
‘Oh just … Look … Please …’
We preserve the names, create the laws and the memorials, so that Deaths which are Unforgivable can also appear to serve a purpose. Although obviously it is we who do the serving. The dead and their deaths cannot serve — they are only a removal, an extinguishing. Nobody — this is an unwieldy example, overdramatic — but nobody died in the Holocaust in order to provoke a compensatory outbreak of human-rights legislation. That wasn’t their aim. Nobody threw themselves into the corpse mud of the Somme in hopes of inspiring commemorative artworks. And yet … These thoughts emerge, because we long for hopes and meanings and want them to spring forth from bitterness and permanently modify Again by adding Never …
This is simplistic as an attitude and could be quite dangerous in its ultimate effects. It could lead us to encourage suffering in others because it might conceivably give rise to quite ill-defined and therefore inspiring good. It could lead us to embrace the fruit of various poisoned trees. It could lead us to plant poisoned trees …
But no Death is anything other than Unforgivable.
I would have to be morally bankrupt to suggest there was such a thing as Forgivable Death. And I am not morally bankrupt — not entirely. Although others may be. Maybe. It may be that I’m saying others could, on occasion, misplace their moral centres and subsequently rank fatalities according to a graded scale, descending from … let’s say A Death of Shattering Importance Occurring to a Person of Celebrity Status to Inconsequential Deaths, Tedious Deaths, and then Distasteful Deaths and on towards Necessary and Solemnly Welcomed Deaths. All would be Predictable Deaths. Even the unforeseen can be predicted, its proportion of reality quantified — the emotional distancing and coarsening suggested by this type of quantification being perhaps undesirable. Conversely, taking the deaths of others lightly, or approaching them purely in terms of public relations, or a contest between cost and benefit, might not be something one ought to judge harshly and could indicate — rather than a spiritual lapse, or defect — a sensible effort to impose a form of triage on a busy compassion schedule.
I could retain a proper reticence and yet still make an observation along those lines.
An observation about others. Not myself.
‘I’m not a bad person.’ The bird seemed unconvinced. ‘But I am … I’m late. And I can’t be. Today is …’ Another sweat broke over him. ‘Today is today and is full of …’
Shit.
This was Valerie’s fault — because she’d changed things. Her patio was usually an area of grimly straightforward vegetation, potted clumps of foliage that didn’t mind her smoking at them. Now it appeared she’d decided to harbour a blueberry bush. Or somebody had given her this blueberry bush — much more likely — and she’d dumped it out here in response.
She’d dumped it where it would be dangerous.
She’d dumped it where it would act as the bait in an unnecessary trap.
Which meant the entire scenario was indicating the character of the bloody woman just clearly, massively — it absolutely showed the way she always was and would be.
The bird flexed within its confinement, its tiny efforts and huge distress managing to impregnate his fingers with yet more clumsy guilt, despite his efforts to be helpful.
He was aware this indicated his own character — a child’s terror, animal fingers — just as clearly, massively …
‘It’s OK. It’s OK. I’m making it better, you better. Honestly.’ He’d been speaking to the creature throughout — this fawnish, biting blackbird child — ever since he’d heard it calling. He’d run outside from the kitchen and into the dawn, found the bird struggling, punishing itself, in the especially dense jumble of netting left at the foot of the blueberry’s far too ornate planter.
Must have been a gift. She wouldn’t have bothered with something that needs any maintenance, not voluntarily. Unless — is it stylish this month to eat fruit fresh off the bough, or currently held to prevent appropriate ageing, or to offer defence against cancer?
Christ, she can be appalling. Although I shouldn’t say it.
‘Sorry … Sorry …’ Jon apologised, made efforts to sound soothing.
I do realise I ought to hate less.
In general, in my wider life, hate has grown to be almost a hobby. I walk between the rented fig trees of Portcullis House and hate. I practise quiet and detailed hate at weekends and in leisurely moments I wander the Natural History Museum and can no longer guarantee to really see anything, so thick is the fog of hatred that I peer through as I rush on and this is inappropriate. It helps no one. I acknowledge that.
‘Sorry.’
And in my current position, I mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t, hate anything or anyone because proper animals register negativity. Complete animals, as opposed to people, understand even the earliest traces of loathing and they hide and run and fly away from it.
Besides, I can’t be all covered in hatred — wet with hate, can one say that? I can’t — not today. I mean, I can’t hate anything today. Today is about — possibly — the opposite of hating.
So — even if I didn’t have to anyway, I need to think gently, feel kindly, or else my bird will know.
Not my bird. I don’t own it.