The African Grey Parrot is a native of West and Central Africa. Experts regard it as one of the most intelligent birds in the world. Their overall gentle nature, their inclination and ability to mimic and often understand speech, have made them popular and unique pets.                               

A missing person is a person who has disappeared and whose status as alive or dead cannot be confirmed as their location and fate is not known.                                 

                       ONE

                                    Dumfries.

            ‘Harry Dynes, please’, the nurse called.

             A rocking motion got him to his feet. His free bus pass served as a book mark as he returned his novel to his coat pocket. He thought he’d have read more before he was called.

            ‘Give me your arm. Now take your time Harry. This way old boy,’ said the nurse.  

            Harry did not feel old. People often questioned his age, their purpose defeated him.  He was led into an empty booth. The nurse closed the curtain. Thoughts turned to what brought him here, lingering on widowhood and a growing sense of slowing down. Yet he was content with his life and his life-long love.

            The sterile room was an unfamiliar setting. Three different sizes of hygiene gloves hung on the wall facing him. On the side wall, above a hospital bed, were a series of wires and tubes. He was glad his treatment would not involve such paraphernalia. Then he saw a piece of white plastic, partly obscured by a bin on the floor. Someone’s aim was not true. Surely it must be an oversight? Identifying it puzzled Harry, but only for a moment.

            ‘Good afternoon to you, Mr. Dynes? Now what have we got here?’ asked Dr Joe Hamilton.

Harry raised his swollen and bent left index finger.

 ‘Aha! A finger not looking so good. Tell me about it?’

            ‘It’s really rather silly,’ Harry admitted.

            ‘Oh don’t worry. I’ve heard all sorts of mishaps I can assure you.’

            ‘Well, I was cleaning my parrot’s cage. He was watching me from the scullery floor. It’s a heavy base; it has to be of course. I saw him approach the stand when I was scrubbing it and so I took my eye off what I was doing. Thud! Down came the base with my finger trying to hold it up! When I recovered it, it was bent and shaking as if it was doing a Shetland reel! Then I noticed I couldn’t straighten it, painful too.’

            The doctor raised his fist to inspect his finger. ‘You’ll need an X-ray first, just to see if there is any piece of bone which may have come away. Then I will see you shortly.’

            The X-ray was a little uncomfortable. His fingers were stretched in an awkward manner but he held the pose long enough for the pervasive image to be taken. Another photo focussed on the side of his hand but that exposed his damaged finger.  

            ‘Ouch!’

            ‘Sorry about that, Mr. Dynes,’ said the radiologist.

             Dr Hamilton raised the X-ray to the light.

            ‘It’s what we call a mallet finger, Harry. I’m going to have to put your finger in a splint.’          

Harry looked at the tray of jumbled plastic devices. An aperture at the top end exposed the finger nail and at the bottom it was cut back on the other side to enable sticking tape to hold it in position.  Strangely it seemed somehow familiar. The doctor selected one and secured it around his damaged finger.

            ‘How does that feel, Harry?’

            ‘Yes, quite comfortable. Not too big and not too tight either.’

            ‘I’ll apply the sticking tape then. Remember to use a short ruler or something to support the finger when washing it. That’s important. Keep it straight at all times. And here’s a roll of tape to keep you going. Now I’ll see you in two weeks time.’

            ‘Fine....thank you... umm ...on the floor over there, in the corner behind you by the bin, is that another splint?’ Harry asked.

Dr. Hamilton turned to focus in the corner.

 ‘You are right. That should not be there. Some cleaner must have overseen it.’ he replied.

‘Can I have it?’ asked Harry.

            Dr. Hamilton hesitated. He doubted if he had ever had such a request before.

            ‘It’s been used, I presume. I certainly can’t return it to the tray. But why would you want a second splint? They don’t break you know.’

            ‘Exactly, it’s not for me you see,’ said Harry.

            ‘Really!’

            ‘No, it’s my parrot Kofi. He’s always looking for a new thing to play with.’

            Dr. Hamilton smiled.

            ‘Here let me wash it first. It sounds as if you and your parrot have fun. There you are, make it a present from the NHS. Now do you need an ambulance home?’

            ‘An ambulance! No, thanks. I came by bus.’

             Seated on the No 6 bus to take him back to the town centre, Harry looked at his left index finger protrude from his clenched fist. The index finger pointed instructions. It was authoritative. It emphasised a point. It was erudite and the most important of fingers. Then a chuckle emerged from his seat causing a distraction momentarily to other passengers. What message would he be giving, had it been his middle finger, damaged and pointing upwards?

            Soon he would be putting the kettle on, sitting down with a cup of tea and relating his hospital experiences to Kofi, his African Grey Parrot. And of course, there was that present from the NHS. They would both have a splint. Just how would Kofi react to his?

            Harry’s injured finger was quite comfortable. It didn’t inconvenience him as much as he thought it might, even when he placed the house key in the door lock.  A splattering of mail lay on the floor. Harry bent down slowly, gathered the letters and made his way to the kitchen to boil the kettle.

            ‘That’s me back. Be with you soon and guess what? Yes, a toy for you today.’

            That was usually enough to warrant a reply from Kofi. But Harry did not hear him. He filled the teapot, opened two of his letters, recycling three others addressed ‘To Whom It May Concern’. If they could not address him correctly he assumed it must be junk mail. One letter was a receipt for his annual subscription to his Probus club and the other, a utilities statement which his standing order would have addressed. He poured himself a mug of tea, took a digestive biscuit from his tartan shortbread tin and entered the lounge to relax with Kofi.

            Harry noticed the parrot’s cage was open. Oh dear, yes, I must have forgotten to close it before I went to hospital, he thought.

            ‘Kofi, where are you?’

            He waited silently for some response.

            There was none. Harry laid down his mug of tea and went upstairs calling for his parrot. But he was not there either.  When he noticed the inside conservatory door slightly ajar, he feared the worst. He walked through the glass room and there in horror, the outside conservatory doors were open too, sufficiently to accommodate a curious parrot. Open to the wide, wide world. Kofi had joined the birds in the sky!