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A death toll of twenty-three.
Twenty-three.
Twenty-three lives gone forever. Twenty-three holes where someone’s loved one used to be.
It was an awful number.
A number I wasn’t responsible for. I knew that. But still... it was a number I couldn’t easily forget.
I also couldn’t forget about how, during the middle of the cyclone, I’d had moments of disassociation. Full mental reasoning that the cyclone wasn’t happening, that the deafening noise was no longer there.
That I could simply go out into it and risk the lives of everyone sheltering in the office to save a soaked and sodden bird.
A bird who, against all odds, was now thriving.
Mr Percival sat on the back of the couch, his favourite spot, and squawked for more food. We’d sought the advice from a local vet who provided us with more suitable dietary requirements that helped him learn how to feed on his own, and the little guy was growing so well.
He was losing the grey feathers, replaced with the more adult glossy black. He was curious and inquisitive and smart. He liked to perch on my shoulder and sleep against my neck when we watched TV.
Which was where we were when Tully and Ellis got home.
They’d been to work and then they’d had to sort out more insurance legalities for Ellis’ house. As most people in Darwin after Cyclone Hazer were finding out, red tape and bureaucracy slowed everything down.
But at least Ellis was insured. Many folks weren’t.
“How did it go?” I asked, not getting up.
Ellis threw a wad of papers onto the coffee table and then fell onto the couch. “Same shit, different day.”
Tully came around and stopped when he saw me. “That bird is in my spot,” he said. Then he came closer and gave Mr Percival a gentle stroke. “Lucky he’s cute.”
“He’s getting better at flying,” I said. “I think we should leave his cage on the patio with the cage door pinned open so he can come and go as he wants.”
Tully’s eyes met mine. “You want to get rid of him?”
“No.” Mr Percival ruffled his feathers and decided to jump down to my leg, then across to Tully’s leg, where he did his little hoppy dance on his thigh. “I want him to be happy and to be where he should be. Which is flying free with other magpies.”
Tully gave me his puppy-dog eyes. “Aw, but you’ll be sad.”
I chuckled. “I’ll survive. But he’s not ready yet. He still needs help with eating those grubs.”
Tully tried to stroke Mr Percival again, but Mr Percival pecked his finger instead. “Ow. That’s not a worm, little guy.”
Mr Percival decided to squawk and sing, just as Ellis’ phone rang. He stood up and answered it as he took the stairs two at a time. Tully gave me a nudge. “He’s been talking to Grace.”
“His ex?”
Tully nodded. “He called around to see her after the cyclone, helped her with a bit of damage, tapin’ up some windows or something. Anyway, there’s been some texts and phone calls.”
I had noticed him smiling at his phone lately. “Good,” I said. “He deserves some happiness.”
“He needs a good railing,” Tully said flatly. “Might not be such a cranky fucker.”
I snorted. He was so charming. “He just lost his house and everything in it. He’s allowed to be somewhat cranky. Plus, he’s living with you. His greatest agitator.”
“I don’t agitate him.”
“You do. You’re both as bad as each other.”
