Mr. Trick Speaks Baby by Joel Willans

Mr. Trick stands, thumb out, next to a road that hums like a pipe. A Merc's brakes snarl. He knows it's a Merc without even looking because Mr. Trick knows cars. He knows cars better than he knows people and that's just how he likes it. Cars do what you tell them, they're predictable. More or less. Not that he drives anymore. He had no need and, until today, he had no reason.
    How they'd found him, he didn't know. But he supposed that anyone with the money, the time and the inclination could if they wanted to. He'd been in the park, the one with his favourite statue, sitting beside the pond counting his ducks.
    "Excuse me Sir. Are you Mr. Trick?" said a bald bulldog of a man wrapped in a long black Mac.
    Mr. Trick ignored him, and carried on with his survey. Ten mallards, six drakes and fifteen little 'uns. There were two new pairs he'd not seen before. Mr. Trick quacked at them, welcoming them to his park.
    They looked at him, surprised. Mr. Trick smiled. It always surprised the new 'uns that he could speak bird.
    "Sir, I understand you're Mr. Edgar Trick."
    Mr. Trick coughed and spat.
    The bulldog man handed him a letter. "This is for you Sir. It's from your daughter."
    Mr. Trick rubbed his hands over his face. It had been a long, long time since he'd heard that word used in connection with his name.
    "What she want?" He said, the words feeling like strangers.
    When the bulldog man spoke, his jowls wobbled. "I don't know sir, I've just been employed to find you and give you this."
    Mr. Trick took the letter. His fingers leaving grimy smudges on the swan white paper. The bulldog man said goodbye and with a lumbering gait walked away. Mr. Trick watched him until he left the park, then he sniffed the envelope. It smelt of stale trees innards and glue. He stuffed it in his pocket and carried on speaking to the birds.
    It was only later that evening, as he settled in one of his skips, that the envelope started teasing him. Scared to open me are you, Edgar Trick? No surprise there hey? Some things don't change do they?
    "You don't know a damn thing." He pulled it out of his jacket and ripped it open, enjoying the way the tearing silenced it. "I haven't been scared for a long time."
    When he read his girl's words, under the soft fizz of a street lamp, he instantly regretted his bravado. He never expected to have to see her again. Not after she'd gone and shacked up with the monkey she called husband. And now this. Now, she had a baby girl to share and shouldn't he care? He had a last chance to see her before they went far away. Crunching the letter into a tight, tight ball, he tossed it high into the air. An owl called out hello and he answered back, wishing he could fly, just once.
    Days passed as they do. And Mr. Trick finishing his bird survey found himself staring more and more at those duckling, skimming across the water, speeding yellow fluff balls, scared and hungry and excited all at once. He wondered if she was like that too. He wondered it more and more. He wondered it so much that this morning, when the sun ignored his beard and kissed his cheek, he said to the sparrows.
    "I've got to know, don't you think?"
    They twitted in agreement.
    Mr. Trick, dragging himself from his skip, pulled a fistful of crumbs out his pocket and tossed them into the wind. "You lot will say anything for a bit of grub."
    Yet that day, he scrubbed his face and he trimmed his beard and he dusted down his jacket. Later, he sneaked into a department store, squirted himself with scent and bought an orange plastic comb. He couldn't look the cashier in the eye, or bring himself to say hello or goodbye or even thank you. But that would come, he hoped, once he learnt to speak a few words of baby.

About the author:
Born in Suffolk, England, Joel Willans has lived in Canada, Finland and Peru. He currently works as a copywriter for a Helsinki ad agency. A Pushcart Prize nominated writer, he's been published in half a dozen anthologies and many magazines, including Pen Pusher, Brand, Southword, Penumbra and The Momaya Review. His fiction can also be found online at places like Prick of the Spindle, Dogzplot, Zygote in my coffee and The Battered Suitcase. In the last year, his stories were broadcast on BBC Radio and performed on stage. He also won the Yeovil Literary Prize and Global Short Story Award.