OUR FAB TEAM MEMBER AND AUTHOR, DAWN TREACHER, IS SHARING CHAPTER ONE OF HER CHILDREN'S NOVEL, 'A PANDEMONIUM OF PARROTS'

Pandemonium Of Parrots

Chapter 1

With a sweep of its wings the mechanical parrot flew from Otto's hands. It curved higher, its blue tail feathers catching the light. Otto watched the parrot glide through the puffs of white that belched from the cloud machine as it swooped across the orangery, joining the others that perched high in the branches of the orange trees. Climbing back down the ladder, Otto wiped a smear of blue paint onto his trousers. This last mechanical parrot looked even more majestic than the others. Otto had concentrated really hard, his tongue clamped between his teeth as he painted the slender lines of the tail feathers and the turquoise plumage on its breast. His uncle, Delderfield Macauley, had sat scrutinising every last stroke. Otto pulled off his neckerchief and used it to wipe the back of his neck. Small droplets of moisture had formed on the inside of the windows and he felt a draft of cool air. The orangery was a magnificent domed glass conservatory bursting with life. It had been built on the side of an austere grey bricked house, the largest in a row of terraced houses, that sat at the end of a street in Brummington.

Turning around, Otto noticed a long crack had split the blue tinted glass. He pushed aside the leaves that sprouted from a banana palm and traced his finger down to a large hole that had been cut in the lowest glass panel. It was hidden behind rubber plants and lush green ferns. Air from outside wafted through the hole, bringing with it the smell of smoke and rancid vegetables. It was an air tinged with the dirt of streets and factory chimneys. The leaves nearest the hole shivered in the cold draft.

Otto’s oldest memory was a journey through the cobbled streets. It had been a cold November afternoon, and Otto could not have been more than five years old. It was the complete lack of colour that Otto remembered the most, shades of dirty grey and black, just like the sky where thunder clouds gathered. That was seven years ago now and he hadn’t stepped outside the orangery since. He’d almost forgotten what it was like outside, how the grey smog smothered everything it touched.

The hole in the glass was large enough for him to crawl through, if he had the mind to and Otto wondered what could possibly have made it. He peered through it. Beyond came the sound of wooden carts splashing through puddles, the horses’ hooves clipping cobbled stones. A thick smog hung close to the street that wound its way past huddled terraces. Children shouted in the gutter against the chime of the factory clock.

He pulled his head back inside. It was only then that he noticed the girl crouched between the ferns, hunched over a notebook, a piece of charcoal clutched in her grubby hand. Her ragged, mouse-coloured hair flopped over her face as she worked busily across the white paper, capturing the parrots in a few strokes, smudging their plumage with her little finger.

“What are you doing in here?” said Otto, grabbing the notebook from the girl’s hand.

“Give that back,” cried the girl, pushing her hair out of her eyes and adjusting a small pair of round glasses on her nose.

“Who are you?” Otto looked at the picture the girl had been drawing. She had caught the movement of their wings, the glint in their glass eyes. “Did you make that hole?”

“What if I did?” She snatched back her notebook, stuffing it inside her dress. “I’m Florence, what’s it to you?”

“If my uncle finds you, he’ll...”

“Let him. See if I care.”

Florence crawled back through the hole where the thick, smelly air had already begun to hide her legs.

“Parrots aren’t black,” called Otto, as Florence turned to leave.

“Well there ain’t any colour out here.”

“Don’t go,” said Otto. Florence had already started to walk away, the bottom of her dress soaking up the water from the cobbles, her hands thrust deep into her pockets.

“Will you come back to finish it?” called Otto. He hadn’t spoken to another child for so long he didn’t really want her to leave. Otto looked at his blue fingers, the paint still sticky. “I could get you coloured paints,” he shouted. Florence kept walking, kicking a stone so hard that it clattered down the street.

Behind Otto, the parrots squawked in unison, their heads bobbing up and down, their gold metal claws shuffling them along the branches as they sang to each other. The sound of water trickling along a tropical river burbled out of a gramophone above Otto's head. The heady citrus of oranges swamped the air. Pushing the leaves back into place, Otto crawled out into the centre of the conservatory, picked up the ladder and made his way to the doorway. He tossed his thick mass of black curls out of his eyes as he struggled to get the ladder through the door.

Otto didn’t hear the lorry that drew up outside or the footsteps that walked close to the large wood panelled door with the golden knocker shaped like a parrot. Only one of the parrots saw the three faces against the glass and no-one heard the voices that whispered to each other.

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https://www.amazon.co.uk/Pandemonium-Parrots-Dawn-Treacher/dp/1913432556

COMING SOON: On Sunday, 22nd June, we have our amazing guest author, Ian Grant, who is sharing a blood-thirsty Chapter 3 of his novel 'The Reign of the Beast'