'Even the Collared Doves and Wood Pigeons Have All Gone' by Gina Headden

The weather is chilling and he needs looking after. For the past month, I’ve made fat-balls for him, peppered them with birdseed, porridge oats and raisins.

From behind the patio doors, I keep watch. I clasp my morning coffee in both hands, its bitterness sweetened by demerara sugar, brightening my day, in much the same way as Robbo does during long periods of isolation in this suburb of dead-ends.

I check the clock—10.30—and there he is. Right on time. He lands on the bird-table, looks over and greets me with his usual jolly chorus before pecking at the fat-ball, a mid-morning snack for one, the table to himself.

That’s when it strikes me. The blue tits, the blackbirds, the chaffinches, the thrushes – why even the collared doves and wood pigeons have all gone. I haven’t seen them since, well, since Robbo settled into his routine.

‘What have you done with them, little fellow?’ I ask out loud.

He stops eating, hops towards me, hops right to the table's edge.

We stare at each other. He tilts his head to the right, to the left and right again, his dark-eyed gaze never faltering. I want to look away, but I don’t. Heavens. He’s just a bird. A cheery, Christmas card bird.

‘What have you done with them?’ I ask again, dropping all terms of endearment.

He stares on, unblinking. This time, I look away and walk towards the kitchen.

‘Done?’

The voice is deep and sonorous.

I stop still, heart racing.

When I turn back to face the garden, he’s on the fat-ball, peck, peck, pecking, pulling out raisins, one by one, his gaze drilling into me, as bit by bit my vision blurs.