The third bolt went the way of its fellows and Omally swung the cage door slowly open. There was not a sound but for the tiny muted explosions of the drips. John stepped nimbly into the cage and peered up into the shadows. All was silent.

Without a second’s warning a vast multicoloured mass of squawking violence descended upon him. He was engulfed by a screaming, tearing oblivion of claws and beaks. Sharp horny bills tore at his tweeds and sank greedily into his flesh. Omally howled in pain and battered away at the wildly flapping horde which bore down upon him. He tore his jacket up over his head and blindly fought his way back to the door of the cage, the demonic creatures ripping at his shirt-tails and sinking their razor-sharp beaks remorselessly into him.

With a superhuman effort born from his infinite reserve of self-preservative energy Omally threw himself through the door, driving it closed behind him and flinging one of the bolts to. He sank to his knees before the cage door, blood flowing from countless wounds. His treasured tweed suit was in ribbons and he clutched between his fingers tufts of his own hair. Bitterly he looked back towards his tormentors, but the feathered fiends had withdrawn once more to their lofty perches high in the shadows. Nothing remained to signify their presence but a few prettily coloured feathers upon the cage floor.

Omally set a painful course for his rooms. His suit was in such exquisite ruin that there was no hope of restoration. His face had the appearance of one recently engaged in a pitched battle with a rampaging lawnmower. “Foul feathered bastards,” said John through clenched teeth. He ran a tender hand over his scalp and felt to his horror several large bald patches. “Feathering their bloody nests with my barnet.” He looked down at his hands as he steered Marchant somewhat erratically towards its destination. They were a mass of tiny v-shaped wounds. “Carnivorous canaries, what a carve-up!” Archroy would pay dearly for this.

An hour later Omally lay soaking in his bathtub, the water a nasty pink colour. He had affixed small strips of toilet paper to the cuts on his face, and made some attempt to comb his hair forward and up into an extraordinary quiff to cover his bald patches. He drank frequently from a bottle of Old Snakebelly and swore between sips. “I will set traps upon the allotment,” he said, “and catch the monster moggy – let’s see how those flying piranhas like that up their perches.”

When the bottle was finished Omally felt a little better, but there was still the matter of his suit. What a tragic circumstance. The remnants of his favourite tweed hung upon the bathroom door, he had never seen anything so absolutely destroyed. Fifteen years of constant wear had hardly impinged upon the hardy fabric, but five or so short seconds in that cage of fluttering death had reduced it to ribbons.

“God,” said Omally, “I bet those lads could strip down an elephant in under a minute, nothing left but four umbrella stands!”

An hour later Omally was out of his tinted bathwater and dressed. Actually he looked pretty natty but for the speckled face and bizarre hairstyle. He had found a pair of cricketer’s white flannels, a Fair Isle jumper and a clean cotton shirt. This had evidently been a Christmas present, as it was wrapped in green paper decorated with holly and foolish fat santas. As to footwear (the winged attackers having even played havoc with his hobnails) he chose a rather dapper pair of black patent dancing pumps he had borrowed from Pooley for some unremembered social function. He slung an old silk cravat about his neck and fastened it with a flourish.

Presently the clock struck seven and Omally wondered whether it might be worth chancing his arm for a swift pedal around to Archroy’s. If the bewigged one was there he could always think up some excuse for his visit. But if Archroy’s insatiable better half was home then he should at least be able to charm his way into a bit of compensation for the afternoon’s tragic events.

Archroy, as it happened, was not on the night shift. He had suffered the horrors of a tetanus injection, administered at the sneaky end by a sadistic nurse, and had received fourteen stitches in his thumb. The thumb was now liberally swathed in bandages and hidden within the overlarge folds of an impressive-looking sling. This sling now rested upon the bar of the Flying Swan.

“Caught it in the lathe,” he told Neville, but the part-time barman suspected otherwise. “Honest,” insisted Archroy, “nearly took my arm off.”

“Looks pretty bad,” said Jim Pooley. “You’ll be in for compensation.”

“Could be hundreds,” said Old Pete.

“Thousands,” said Neville. “You’ll be rich.”

“Mine’s a pint then,” said Pooley.

“And mine,” said Old Pete.

Archroy bought another round, there being little else he could do.

“Cut yourself shaving, John?” said Archroy’s wife as she answered the unexpected knock.

“In my eagerness to look my best for you my dear.”

“I like the strides.”

“They are all the rage in Carnaby Street.”

Omally was ushered hastily into the front room, where Archroy’s wife pulled the curtains.

“And who might this be?” Omally’s eyes had been drawn to a fine oil painting which hung above the fireplace in an ornate gilded frame, looking strangely out of place amid the pink dralon and mock veneer. It was the portrait of a stern, yet imposing figure of indeterminate years clad in crimson robes and sporting what appeared to be a skullcap. “Looks very valuable.”

“It is. Will you take tea?”

“I’d prefer something a little stronger if I may.”

“Gin then?”

“Absolutely.”

Archroy’s wife poured two large gins and joined Omally upon the quilted pink sofa facing the portrait. Omally found it hard to draw away his eyes as he received his drink. “There is something familiar about that painting,” he said. “But I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“It was a present,” said Archroy’s wife pleasantly. “Drink up John, here’s a toast to the future: Auspicium melioris gevi.”

Omally raised his glass and from the corner of his eye noticed that Archroy’s wife held hers towards the portrait as if in salute. “Surely that is Latin, is it not?”

“It is?” said Archroy’s wife innocently. “I think it’s just a toast or something, don’t know where I heard it.”

“It’s not important,” said John, sipping his gin. In vino veritas, thought he. “Shall we have one more?” he said, springing to his feet. As Omally decanted two large gins into the dainty glasses, he had a definite feeling that he was being watched – not by Archroy’s wife who sat demurely drawing her skirt up above her knees, but by some alien presence which lurked unseen. It was a most uncomfortable feeling and one which Omally threw off only with difficulty. He returned to the sofa bearing the drinks, his a single and hers a triple.

“To us,” he said.

“Ab aeterno, Ab ante, Ab antiquo,” said Archroy’s missus.

“Down the hatch,” said John.

After three more ill-proportioned tipples Archroy’s wife began to warm to her unexpected guest in the passionate manner Omally had come to appreciate.

“Shall we go upstairs?” he asked as the lady of the house began to nibble at his ear and fumble with his Fair Isle.

“Let’s do it here,” she purred.

“What, on your new three-piece?”

“Why not?”

Omally kicked off his black patents with practised ease and divested himself of his cricket whites.

“Been shaving your legs as well?” said Archroy’s wife, noticing the bloody scars about Omally’s ankles.

“Caught myself in the briar patch.”

The pink sofa was solidly constructed and well padded with the finest foam rubber. It stood the assault upon it uncomplainingly, but something was wrong. Omally felt himself unable to perform with his usual style and finesse, the spark just wasn’t there.