The Macaw Repeats the Sum

He started with the floor. A specific cocktail of chemicals to break down organic matter, followed by a steam clean, then a bleach solution. He worked with the detached precision of a surgeon. Every movement was efficient, every tool returned to its exact place in his kit. The smell of ammonia and citrus began to overpower the coppery tang in the air. Order from chaos. That was the mantra.

He was halfway through polishing the glass on the refrigerated pie case when he heard it.

"Don't you point that thing at me, Jimmy!"

The voice was a high-pitched squawk, but the words were perfectly clear. Arthur froze, sponge in hand. He slowly straightened up, his eyes scanning the empty shop. The voice had come from near the front counter.

He moved silently between the aisles, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the half-cleaned linoleum. He peered over a display of discount energy drinks. There, on a perch next to the lottery terminal, was a large African Grey parrot, preening its feathers.

Arthur let out a slow breath. A pet. He'd been briefed there was a cat, but it had wisely fled. No one had mentioned a bird.

He went back to his work. It was probably just a random phrase it had picked up from television. He was scrubbing at a stubborn spot behind the counter when the bird spoke again, this time in a different voice, lower and gravelly.

"You owe Mr. Gallo a lot of money. Time to pay up."

Arthur stopped. He closed his eyes. That was not a line from a film. He recognised the cadence. It was a perfect imitation of 'Fat Tony' Gallo's chief enforcer. The bird then followed this with a series of wet, thudding sounds and a grunt that was chillingly familiar.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Arthur whispered to himself. He looked at the parrot. The parrot looked back, its head cocked, its eyes like black, intelligent beads. It had heard everything. It was a feathered, walking, talking audio recorder.

A Hostile Negotiation

His instructions were clear: no witnesses. The definition of 'witness' had, until this moment, been exclusively human. Did it extend to parrots? Mr. Gallo was not a man who appreciated loose ends, regardless of their species.

"Here, birdie birdie," Arthur said softly, approaching the counter. "Nice Polly."

The parrot ruffled its feathers and took a sideways step away from him. "Polly wants a cracker," it squawked in a third, completely different voice—a sing-songy female one, probably the day-shift clerk.

"I don't have a cracker," Arthur said, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "But I have a nice, quiet bag you can sleep in."

He lunged. The parrot, with a squawk of what sounded like pure indignation, launched itself into the air. It was faster than he expected. It did a loop over the snack aisle and landed on top of the CCTV dome bolted to the ceiling.

"Right," Arthur sighed. He was a cleaner, not an ornithologist. This complicated things. His phone buzzed. A text from his lookout. 'Routine patrol car swinging by. ETA 5 mins.'

Panic, a foreign and unwelcome emotion, began to prickle at the edges of his calm. Five minutes. He had to clean the rest of the floor, dispose of his materials, and now, apparently, abduct a parrot.

He grabbed a long-handled broom and swiped at the bird. The parrot easily hopped out of the way, letting out a sound that was a perfect imitation of the shop's door chime.

"Come down from there, you feathered menace!" Arthur hissed, jabbing upwards again.

"Awk! Non-refundable!" the parrot shrieked, then fluttered over to the crisps aisle, landing on a rack of cheesy puffs. It picked up a bag in its beak, tore it open with practiced ease, and began munching.

This was a nightmare. A surreal, farcical nightmare. He was in a race against time, his career on the line, and his adversary was a junk-food-addicted parrot with a gift for mimicry. He lunged into the aisle, his hands outstretched. The parrot squawked, dropped the bag, and took flight again, showering him in orange dust. It circled his head, laughing—a deep, booming laugh that sounded unnervingly like the recently deceased Jimmy.

He could hear the faint sound of a siren in the distance. Two minutes, maybe less. The bird was now perched on top of a tall freezer unit, watching him with what looked like smug amusement.

"Please," Arthur begged, his voice strained. "Just... be quiet for two minutes. That's all I ask. Then I'll buy you all the cheesy puffs you can eat."

The parrot seemed to consider this. It tilted its head, then it opened its beak and, in the gravelly voice of Fat Tony's man, said the one phrase Arthur had hoped never to hear again.

"Leave the gun, take the cannoli... No, wait, that's not it," the bird muttered to itself, before clearing its throat. "The number for the Swiss account is..."

Arthur's blood ran cold. The sirens were getting louder. He looked from the incriminating spot on the floor he hadn't finished, to the chattering bird, to the approaching blue and red lights flashing through the front window. The time for cleaning was over. It was time for damage control.