The Hawk That Bothered Flamstead

~ As Told at The Sly Badger, Somewhere in the Dales ~

You might’ve read about it—The Guardian ran the piece just yesterday:

“Flamstead man catches hawk that had been attacking villagers for weeks.”

Straightforward enough. Dozens of residents ducking and dodging a rogue bird with an attitude. One fellow ended up in hospital. Another swore the thing took his pie mid-sentence.

But what The Guardian didn’t print is what happened next. That came to light last Friday, round about the third pint, at The Sly Badger, a pub you’ll only find if you take a wrong turn twice and your GPS gives up out of respect.

Old Reg was by the fire, as always, hunched like a forgotten gargoyle with a Guinness. He tapped the paper with a yellowed finger and said, gravely:

“That’s not a hawk. That’s revenge.”

Nobody argued.

“Well I’m glad they caught the bloody thing,” muttered Derek-the-Younger (no relation to Derek-the-Elder, who is still alive but retired from all forms of socialising except voting).

“Saves me from killing it meself. Little bastard nicked my trilby off the washing line.”

“Bird’s been watching,” added Mags from behind the bar.

“You ever notice how it doesn’t go after joggers? Just folk it knows can’t outrun it. It’s selective, that’s what it is.”

Big Clive leaned in. Clive never speaks unless it’s either about tractors or vengeance. Tonight, it was clearly the latter.

“You lot remember ‘09? That kestrel went funny in Linton. Three lads got scalped. Real clean. We blamed the wind, but I knew.”

“Exactly,” Reg croaked. “Birds’ve had enough. Council’s banned pigeon racing, right? That’s their unions shut down. Now they’re freelance. Self-employed. Rogue.”

A silence fell, only broken by a damp wheeze from the spaniel under the darts board.

“That hawk,” Reg went on, “is just the beginning. First it’s caps and pastries. Next thing, it’s carrier pigeons handing in blank envelopes. Owls refusing Amazon Prime. You’ll see.”

Derek-the-Younger nodded, solemnly.

“That’s why I don’t trust birds. They remember things. Unlike council members.”