Daddy's Little Bird

The exterior security gate slid shut behind me with it usual finality. I paused between the fences, noticing the hawk circling overhead, its presence serving as an unwanted and grim reminder.

Deep within the high-security establishment, locked away, I imagined her, head slightly tilted, watching, much like that predatory bird above me.

The memory still lives vividly in my mind. Of a young girl covered in blood, staring silently up through thin blonde hair at another hawk, four years previously. I walked on, past the second security check, and inside.

Somehow, the hospital wore the same air of claustrophobia that prisons made their own. A place of rehabilitation, solace and recovery. That was the official line, but I didn't buy it. I trudged the off-white corridors to my own office, just another cell in the establishment and prepared to greet my visitor.

Once inside my small sanctuary, from a locked drawer under my desk, I pulled out the file. Nothing in this file was recorded on the main system computers. I lay it on the desk and opened it. I didn't need to read anything, my eyes just took in the contents I knew so well. As the expected knock on the door came, I closed the file.

'Come in', I said, in as neutral a tone as I could muster.

The door opened and was replaced by the frame of an elderly man dressed in black with a white collar.

'Father Johnston, please come in, take a seat.'

'Ah, thank you Dr Spencer, a chill day isn't it?''

I nodded, gesturing towards the worn leather chair by my desk. I wasn't particularly interested in any small talk, and I doubt he was, just going through the motions I guess. But perhaps he was nervous, as he should be.

I waited as he settled. The chair creaked under his weight despite how gaunt he appeared.Only then did he look up and directed himself to me, suddenly all business. His face, mottled red from the cold and lined from experience, held serious blue eyes, sharp and inquisitive that belied his age

'Dr Spencer, I know you opposed my visit, but the council agreed it was a worthwhile intervention'.

'So they did, but I don't have to agree with them.'

'Perhaps you should have more Faith? After all, there are more things...'

'Under Heaven and earth, yeah, yeah, I know.' I interrupted him. 'Are you a Jesuit, Father?'

“No, no I'm not, I'm a simple parish priest.'

'Well, I know something of the Jesuits, I was schooled under them.'

'Ah, so you're a Catholic boy then? You don't sound as though you had the best experience, Dr Spencer?'

'Let's just say they left an impression on me, Father. And no, not a good one.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, but times change.'

'Some things never change, Father, do they?'

He shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair as I held his gaze until he gave the slightest shrug of acceptance.

'May I see the patient?'

I looked down at my file and drummed my fingers on the green cover. I didn't open it.

'Sure. This way,' I said, gesturing towards the door behind him as I got up to lead the way.

I let him trail behind me as we walked the blank corridors in silence. Eventually we came to the cell where she was kept. An orderly stood waiting for us. We nodded to each other as I began keying in the security code on the screen by the door. It burst into life showing the cell interior, the modern equivalent of a door peephole.

Somehow the woman inside knew, turned and looked directly at us through the camera lens. Those eyes, large and wide, set in an oval face framed by strands of unkempt blonde hair, would normally be considered beautiful. But these eyes were cold. Reptilian. Bird like, bereft of mammalian warmth. Even filtered through the camera lens, there was no human empathy to be found there.

'Everything is recorded, 24/7, no exceptions.' I said, as we both stared at the screen.

Father Johnston didn't reply, only nodded.

'James here,' I tilted my head towards the orderly, 'will bring you back to my office when you've had enough.'

'When I'm finished, you mean.'

'If you say so, Father.' I said, as I turned on my heel and left. He may have faith, but I had none.

He lasted longer than I expected. A good two hours later, again the knock came at my door. This time the man who framed the door seemed diminished, drained. His face had lost its colour and was now pale and grey. Only the eyes remained the same, but even they had lost their sparkle.

I said nothing, just gestured towards the seat opposite me.

He fell, rather than sat into the chair.

'Would you like some water, Father?' I asked.

'Water? I'll take a feckin' whiskey if you have one.'

'It just so happens...' I said, as I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and took out a half bottle of single malt and two glasses. I poured us both a shot, slid one to him and he threw it down his throat in one. 'Another. Please.'

As he lifted the second glass to his lips, he shook his head, and said, 'I didn't know.'

'No, the reality is hard to appreciate.' I agreed. 'So, is your faith still strong?'

He gave me a hard look. 'It's always strong,' he said. But I knew it was shaken, even if he didn't admit it. I couldn't blame him.

Then he gave a long sigh.

'Look, long ago, as a young priest, I knew another priest, one who specialised in exorcism.' He held up his hand to my sudden derisive snort at this.

'I know, I know, but... well, I don't know. My mind goes back to old Father Clancy. He was, well, he was convinced... convinced there was evil in the world beyond our understanding, and this evil made it's way into our life through... through unfortunates.'

'And you think she is one of these... unfortunates?'

When Father Johnston looked up at me then, and well, I can only say he looked haunted.

'I do.' He simply replied.

I shook my head in disbelief. 'Well, I don't advise you take these thoughts back to the committee, Father. I doubt they'd think well of such an idea. She needs help, and I'm giving her that help. I believe she's responding. I don't believe there are such things as demons hiding within her. No, not at all'.

'Are you sure about that, Doctor?'

'Yes I am'. I said, but I don't think he believed me.

In truth, I had my doubts, but I was damned if I'd admit it to this priest. Sometimes the human ability for horror can't be excused by religion and faith and blamed on demons.

Father Johnston said nothing as he slowly rose from the chair, turned and left without another word.

Once I was alone, I took out her file again, but this time I opened it. Inside, were the drawings. Paintings, art, whatever you'd want to call them.

‘What do you make of it all, Doc?’

That question, asked long ago, remains in my head.

‘What’s your name?’ I had asked her, many, many times.

Eventually, hesitantly, three small words: ‘Daddy's little bird.’

Three words. In twenty years, just those three whispered words.

Inside the home where she had lived, the walls of the house were found covered with a kind of macabre art created from the blood and guts of a mutilated pet budgerigar. The DNA tests showed the bird's blood had been mixed in with the blood of her father's. The father's body had been found decomposing on the kitchen floor, his face frozen in a death grimace of surprised shock. His neck gaped, bloody and torn, slashed open.

The best guess was that she’d been about fourteen at the time. With no trace of her in any State records it’s difficult to tell. I photographed and recorded this grim and terrifying 'art', if it could be called that, and much later showed it back to her.

When she saw the pictures, her head tilted and twitched bird-like as she stared silently at the photographs. It was at least some sort of a response, a kind of progress. So I took a chance and gave her paint, paper and brushes. Eventually, she would use these to produce her art, painting every day. Presenting each one to me when I visited for our chats, as if it were her first.

In the end, medical, alongside my own psychological reports, offered enough mitigation for her sliding a hidden razor between her fingers and slicing open his throat. She had been found wandering around an outside park, drenched in blood, staring and pointing up into the sky where a hawk circled above her head.

It hadn’t been too hard to find where she’d been held. They just followed the blood trail.

Her latest painting show some hope. The usual angry colours reduced now to soft pastel show a kind of peace. A bird in flight.

It’s enough. It's all there is.