---

"Oi, you little shit!" Dad said, as the bedroom door slammed open. "Get your arse out of bed and downstairs, there're three blokes outside who want a word. What the bleedin' 'ell have you gone and done now?"

"Nuffin!" I yelled back and threw the duvet off. Pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt, I followed him downstairs. We were both grumbling as Dad stomped off into the kitchen and I went to the tableau by the front door. Mum was standing with her arms crossed, tapping her foot, as she prevented three large men, who were somewhat comically stuck in the door frame, from entering.

One of the three I recognised. Buster Tumpster was a class-1, grade-A bully, who was in the year ahead of me at school. As well as the usual 'give me your lunch money, or else', he'd recently started peddling grass. I owed him a fiver, and had serious hope that this visit wasn't about that, or Mum and Dad would go ballistic.

"Hullo, Buster," I said, squeezing my way between Mum and the wall. "It's okay, Mum; he's a friend from school."

"Is he?" Mum didn't sound convinced.

"Yup. We'll take it outside," I said, pointedly pointing past Buster's head to the front garden. "Good weather for a chat in the open air, innit?" I added. Buster, grudgingly, came with me, and as he'd been the cork in the middle of the three stuck in the door, the other two followed. I didn't like the look of either of them. Both older than Buster by years, I pegged one as his brother and the other as his father.

They followed me down to the gate where I turned around and crossed my arms, just like Mum had. The front door was closed, but I saw her watching us through the lounge window.

"Well, Buster. Whadda ya want?"

"Pigeons," he said. "Tell Da and Sid what you told the school."

"I'm not wiv ya, Buster," I said, shaking my head in genuine confusion. He sighed. Suddenly, he wasn't the Buster I knew from school. Now, surrounded by two members of his family, both glowering at me, he seemed to be the one being bullied. I almost snickered. Almost.

"Ya coulda WhatsApped," I said, frowning back at them all. "Now my Dad thinks I'm up to something, and Mum is still watching us from the lounge."

They turned as one and looked back at the house. Mum gave them a cheery wave and carried on watching. I could have hugged her.

"I would've but I ain't got your number."

"That," I said, "is because we're not friends. I almost thought you'd caught religion and had come to return my lunch money."

"Fat chance, ya little weasel," Buster started towards me, then his father's meaty hand dropped on his shoulder and he squeaked.

"What Buster is wanting to say," Buster's father rumbled, his voice so deep I could almost feel it through my feet, "is 'ow much 'e liked your presentation wiv regards to pigeons." I saw his father's fingers dig into Buster's shoulder nerves and felt for him as he winced. "Ain't that so, son?"

"Yeah, that's what I meant."

"He liked it so much he came home and told us all about it."

"Yeah." It was the first time I'd heard Buster's brother speak and his voice was oddly high, considering he was older.

"That's nice," I managed after a moment's consideration.

"So, we wuz wonderin' if you'd tell us all," Buster's father said, his mouth turning into an odd and rather frightening grimace that I realised was a smile.

"And show them pidge... please," Buster added, his eyes pleading with me to agree.

Just because people said I came from 'a bad family from the wrong side of the tracks' didn't mean it was true or that I was stupid. I'd run up against Buster several times at school, and if you were scoring it'd be five all. Or even six five in my favour, though that had involved dropping him into the shit with the school which had resulted in his temporary suspension. Why they wanted to know about pigeons and pigeon racing eluded me, but seeing as I had the whole family interested I didn't think there was any harm in it.

"McDonalds," I said. "You take me to McDonalds and buy me a meal, and I'll give you my presentation. How's that?"

A lengthy silence ensued. This time Buster's father's grimace was legitimate, and there was a deal of muttering. Buster, on the other hand gave me a genuine smile as his father removed his hand.

"Yeah," Buster's brother said.

"We can do that," rumbled his father, and pointed to a shiny black Jaguar parked outside the gate. "Come on then."

"Just going to tell Dad where I'm going." I said and with Buster accompanying me, presumably so I didn't emigrate to South America, I went inside and told the parental unit.

"McDonalds eh. Well, have fun," Dad said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Will do!" I said. Buster and I went to the car and got in the back. Buster's brother was driving and for an almost mute he was a hell of a driver. No blues and twos, yet we turned off into the car park and parked as fast as if the road had been totally clear.

I ordered a Big Mac, fries and a chocolate shake, which Buster promptly paid for.

"Isn't anyone else eating?" I asked, sitting next to Buster and opposite his father and brother

"No," his father said, then watched me eat with a kind of feral fascination. Finally, I slurped the last of the shake and sat back, contented.

"Thanks," I said, "lovely jubbly."

"So tell us about pigeons, then."

"Is there anything in particular you want to know?"

"Well..." Buster's brother was poked in the ribs.

"Everything," his father said with a winning grimace.

"Everything. Right," I said, pulling my earlobe. "Well, we were all told to prepare a lecture on our favourite hobby and I..."

"Yes, Buster told us that," Buster's father rumbled. "But we're interested in what you said about pigeons. As I said, Buster was well impressed, weren't you, son?"

"Yeah," Buster said, cringing as his father leant over the table and patted him on the shoulder, "Well impressed."

"Righty ho," I managed, realising there was a lot more going on here than I'd first thought. "So pigeons have been around for a good long while. And man has trained them for thousands of years..."

"What man?" Buster's brother Sid said, frowning.

"Umm... sorry, I meant to say mankind. I ain't got me notes, see. Brain like a sieve without 'em. Anyhow," I took a deep breath, "Pliny the Elder said they were used as messengers around the first century, and some think they were used to deliver post in Ancient Egypt. The upshot is pigeons have been around for a bloody long time." I took a pull on the milkshake to calm my nerves, but found it was empty.

"Oi, Buster! Get 'im another," his dad said, giving Buster a clip on the ear.

"Thanks, Mr Trumpster," I said, watching Buster beetle to the counter. "Throat's a bit dry, see." I tried for a chuckle, but didn't get a smidge of a smile from either of them. Buster returned with the shake and I took a long pull on the straw.

"So. I found a baby pigeon that had fallen out of its nest."

"Oh yeah," Sid said in his high voice, "'ow do you know?"

"Know what?"

"That it 'ad fallen out of its nest."

"Umm... because it was on the ground and there was a nest up the tree above it. So I got a bit of cardboard from the shed and..."

"Shed?"

"Shuddup, Sid." Trumpster rumbled. "Go on, son."

"Right. Well, to cut a long story short," I said, then paused as Sid opened his mouth and was elbowed in the ribs. He squeaked, then closed his mouth with a clack of teeth.

"Anyway, I rescued the baby pigeon and kept her in a shoebox in me bedroom. I'd never looked after a baby bird before, so You Tube was a big help. I 'ad to feed her almost all the time to begin with, and she fledged about a month later. Fledged means they start to fly," I added in response to a raised eyebrow.

"Dad lets me use a bit of the shed as a pigeon coop, though it's more a pigeonhole, really.

"Pigeon hole?"

"Smaller space. I've only got Pidge, see. If I had more birds then I'd need a proper coop, and dad's not very keen."

"And?"

"Oh, yeah... so I'm starting to train her for racing, which is way cool!" I grinned. "See, once they know where they live they always come home. The furthest I've released her is the far side of the park, which is a couple of miles, and she's always back home waiting for me, and for her treat," I laughed. "Pidge is the best!"

"So, son," Trumpster said. "You could attach a... a note to her and she'd bring it back?"

"Yeah, of course. That's what pigeon post is. 'Course, for racing there's a load of rules, and clocks 'n' stuff. And you have to join a club, but Pidge and I aren't in a hurry." I slurped some more milkshake.

"And how much weight can she carry?" Trumpster said, raising an eyebrow.

"I dunno," I said, "a few grams, maybe." I suddenly realised I was being a fool. This man and his family weren't really interested in pigeons for pigeons sake. They were interested in what pigeons could do for them.

"I should say that you can't tell a pigeon where to go. They only go one place, and that's home."

"So if I wanted a pigeon to deliver a note, it wouldn't?"

"Well, yes. But only home. Like, if you took Pidge down to the coast and put a note on her and let her fly, she'd fly back to her pigeon hole, and I'd get the note.

"There was a thing in Brazil, recently. Prisoners in a jail trained pigeons. Then the pigeons were taken out of the jail by visitors and they flew stuff back to the jail. Drugs mainly, I think. Guards only found out because some idiot loaded too much weight on the poor bird and it had a hard job flying." I snickered, and finished my milkshake.

"Hmm..." Trumpster said, and thumped the table. "I can't see Brian or Reg training pigeons, can you, Sid?"

"Naa."

"Thank you, young man," he said as the three of them got to their feet. "Mums the word, and all that." He took out his wallet and handed me fifty quid in tens. "Be seeing you," he rumbled as the three of them left. I watched as they walked over to the car, then changed direction, crossed the carpark, and disappeared inside 'The Drone Emporium.'

Idly, I wondered if Buster knew my uncle was a Detective. Then I put my trash in the bin and walked home.

---