55 Fiction A story by novelist Jane O’connor

What on earth had been going on in there?

The garden was a tangle of overgrown shrubs and tough clumps of grass. There were empty bird feeders hanging from the trees and the cracked patio was scattered with broken coconut shells. PC Geeta Singh made her way gingerly towards the dilapidated shed at the far end of the lawn feeling even more nervous than usual, wondering once again why on earth she had ever thought she was cut out to be a police officer.

It was Mrs Cook, who lived in the bungalow next door, who had alerted the emergency services when she realised she hadn’t seen old Ted pottering about in his garden for a while, and that his curtains weren’t being drawn at night. Ted was an eccentric, everyone in the cul-de-sac knew that, a harmless widower who loved birds. He fed them in his garden and had cages of canaries and budgerigars inside the house. But Ted had become increasingly scruffy over the past few months, Mrs Cook had told sergeant Williams, and his garden had gone to rack and ruin.

“Perhaps I should have checked up on him earlier?” she had asked the policeman, seeking reassurance that she hadn’t been remiss in her neighbourly responsibilities. Her question was met by a dry silence that made her pull her cardigan around herself defensively and purse her lips.

“I think he was looking after something, some poorly animal or another in that shed,” she had told the sergeant, trying to make up for her previous lack of action. “He was always shuffling in and out of there, carrying bits of meat and jugs of water.”

Sergeant Williams frowned and made a note in his book. “Alright, Mrs Cook, we’ll look into it,” he said, turning to leave. Mrs Cook waited for him to thank her for her help, but he didn’t and she tutted as she made her way back into her front room, not wanting to miss seeing the paramedics carry Ted out into the ambulance.

It had fallen to the reluctant Geeta to check the shed, on the

orders of her sergeant, who was busy finding out if Ted had any relatives who needed to be told that he was going into hospital.

Geeta hadn’t been in the force long and was still finding her feet. She had battled so hard with her family to be allowed to join the police, wanting desperately to have a different life from that of her mother and older sisters, that now she was here, she felt she had no right to admit she was lonely, lost and scared almost every day. She put a brave face on it and always tried to use a strong voice and confident body language, the way she had been taught on the training course, but she was full of doubts about whether she had taken the right path.

Geeta tried to ignore the familiar tremble in her stomach as she pulled open the splintery shed door. She fumbled for her torch as she squinted to see what was inside, the shed receiving only scant light through its cobwebcovered window. A rustle from the corner made Geeta jump and she moved the torch in time to catch a brief movement in the far reaches of a rabbit hutch in the corner. Her heart thumping, she crouched down and shone her light into the space. She gasped as she saw two round bright yellow eyes staring back at her, surrounded by dark brown feathers. It was some sort of owl, Geeta was sure about that, but what it was doing in here she had no idea. A creature as beautiful and wild as this surely did not belong in a rabbit hutch.

Geeta and the bird gazed at each other and tears sprung to her eyes for the little owl who had been trapped in this dark shed, alone and afraid for goodness knows how long.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, “I’m going to get you out.”

Mike from the owl sanctuary arrived just after 3pm in response to Geeta’s call, apologising for the delay and complaining about the traffic. Geeta led him to the shed and he galvanised into practised action, carefully scooping up the terrified bird and putting it into a carrying box. “What will happen to it?” asked Geeta anxiously.

“She’ll be alright, she’s just frightened and disorientated,” said Mike. “I’ll look after her now, hopefully get her back out into the woods in a couple of weeks. She’d hurt her wing, see,” he said, indicating a raw spot under the feathers. “The old fella must have been trying to nurse her back to health. Not done a bad job as it happens.” Geeta watched him stroking the bird, who had visibly calmed under his touch, and smiled at his gentle yet selfassured manner.

“Will you call me and let me know how she gets on?” Geeta asked, seeing the pleasant surprise on Mike’s face that a police officer should be concerned about the fate of an owl. He nodded and took a note of her mobile number. Two weeks later, an hour after dusk, Geeta found herself standing on top of a hillock in the middle of the woods behind Ted’s house, wrapped in a thick coat and scarf and full of anticipation. “Ready?” asked

Mike, who was standing by the large covered cage. Geeta gave him the thumbs up. “Here she goes,” said Mike, pulling up the wire door. The owl surged out with a loud cry, extending her wings to their broadest point and sailed elegantly up over the winter trees.

“That’s right. That’s the place for her,” said Mike. Geeta reached tentatively for his hand and he squeezed it back as they stood together and watched the owl’s silhouette grow smaller against the grey sky. The little owl was free to live her life now, no longer afraid or trapped, and Geeta laughed with relief.