Read My Shorts

The Bird Man of Alcatraz Road

We found the Bird Man's wallet on the path next to the bench.

Unlike the seasons, he never seemed to change; a darkly dressed, slender, immutable shadow in the early sun. A man with a smile for the children, a biscuit for the dog, and a polite nod for anyone who greeted him. He was there every morning without fail, surrounded by birds, and breathing in the scents and sounds of the park.

We never knew his name back then, and the moniker of Bird Man had been handed around the locals for years as, wherever he went, his shuffling gait would be interrupted at irregular intervals by inquisitive pauses. He'd inspect the ground, and if deemed suitable, he'd allow himself the peculiar habit of depositing small piles of bird seed on the path, a rock, or a wall. Over many months, I'd followed trails of freshly placed seed whilst walking the dog, and there was of course always a pile next to the bench on the hill where the white-haired man sat every morning.

But now I knew his name: Albert.

He looked a bit like an Albert. The picture on his driving license showed an Einsteinian halo of hair, and dark, sad, intelligent eyes looked at me from the faded photo. The card had an address too, and a surname.

Curiosity got the better of me, and the internet beckoned...

Never ask a question unless you are prepared to receive an answer.

He'd been a teacher. But there was more to it than that. He'd set up an academy for troubled children and he and his family had devoted their lives to helping those shunned by society; the kids labeled as abused or troubled, the disturbed, the lost, the unteachable, and those gifted with mental abilities that didn't conform to 'normal'. The school motto was 'none ignored, none forgotten'.

But for one he was too late.

Places that succeed through difference always garner attention, sometimes negative to the point of extreme. And for one young man who'd not been able to join the school, jealousy turned to hate and destruction.

And there was nothing Albert could have done.

As Albert spoke passionately about his life's work at a conference, the young man who'd been missed by society rampaged through the school in an orgy of violence and fury, leaving a trail of bodies, fire, and hate. Many students and Albert's family died.

There were two pictures: one of Albert kneeling in the ashes of his school, his hands blackened by the remains of those he'd tried to save, the other a dark-eyed teenager held between two uniformed policemen. Love and hate cried together on the page, and even the grainy black and white images failed to reduce the horrors of the past.

I knocked on the door of 27 Alcatraz Road, the dog patient on his lead. The front garden was a riot of flowers and their fragrance enveloped me as I waited. The door opened and dark killer's eyes gazed steadily back at me.

To this day I don't know how long I stood there. He said nothing but eventually moved aside as Albert appeared alongside him, resting a liver-spotted hand on one shoulder. "Go and put the kettle on Michael please," he muttered quietly.

Mutely I'd held out the wallet to him.

"Thank you, I wondered where that had gone. Would you like to come in?"

My gaze followed dark-eyed Michael as he walked into the kitchen and I shook my head.

Albert stepped out into the sun, quietly closing the front door behind him. "I take it you know my story then?"

I nodded.

"And now you want to know why?"

I nodded again, and the old man sighed. "I failed. I missed one. And so many people died because of my failure."

"So you took him into your home?"

"Yes. None forgotten..."

"... none left behind. " I finished.

"Yes."

I couldn't think what else to say, so I simply shook his hand and left him standing in the sun, the sound of a whistling kettle receding as I walked away with the dog. 

That sound and the scent of wildflowers still follows me through the seasons. The children are older now, the Bird Man is no more, and the bench at the top of the hill carries an inscription in his memory. But we still see small piles of seeds around the city, particularly as the sun dims to winter. These days few people know who places them, but I know dark eyes of a once killer named Michael watch the birds, making sure they will survive the winter months.

None are forgotten... 

~~

It's been a while since I posted a short story, but this one's been hanging around on my pen drive for a while and after talking to friend and colleague Tim over breakfast in Toronto one morning I thought it was about time I got something up on Wattpad again. 

Thanks for the nudge Tim, and for your most excellent company as always.