On and on and on the pigeon flew, its silver wings reflecting the late afternoon sun as it flashed homewards. Over mountain, over flatlands, over sea it flew, each beat of its sturdy wings taking it nearer and nearer to its goal. Instinct drove the bird on. It ignored the changes of weather, the wind at first driving it onwards and then later holding it back as it struggled ever on and on. Early the next morning it found what it was looking for, what it had spent these long hours striving towards. A flock of its fellow creatures circled below promising rest, shelter, food and company.

Bert Royce reached out and took the strange bird in his experienced hands. "Worra ya doin' 'ere ya daft bugger?"* he enquired of the bird, and then he noticed the strange canister fastened to the bird's leg. Intrigued, he removed it, opened it and took out the piece of paper he found inside. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the crabbed script, turning it this way and that, holding it near and far until at length with a brief "What the fuck.."** he screwed it into a tiny ball and threw it away. He didn't notice as the tiny cylinder leapt onto the wire mesh at the front of the cage with a satisfied magnetic 'ting'.

It was one of the strangest things that had even happened to him all the time that he had lived in the West End of Derby.

subtitles
* How odd, a strange bird
** I can't read it