Pecking order, p.14
Pecking Order, page 14
'Sleeping? You mean she was still breathing?' asked Eric sharply.
'I think so,' replied Rubble, less confidently.
Eric stopped the car. 'She wasn't dead?'
'I gave her the full dose - look,' Rubble took the empty syringe out of his pocket. 'I did as you said.' Voice now anxious.
'Yes, you did well,' Eric reassured him, taking the empty syringe and putting it under the seat. 'I'll just go and check.' He opened the car door, unfolded his legs and disappeared up the deserted street and down the side of the bungalow. With practised ease, he unlocked the door and went straight through to the front room.
Edith sat in her wheelchair and Eric stared at her chest, searching for the faintest rise or fall. Seeing no movement, he placed a finger on her cheek, the skin felt cool through the latex gloves. He knelt down and held his palm under her nose but the glove prevented him from feeling any exhalation.
Reluctantly, he leaned forwards and brought his face up close to hers. In the corner of the room a clock ticked. Licking his lips, he slightly parted them and waited for the sensation of moving air across their moist surface.
He didn't know it, but the drug was shutting down the old woman's internal systems, sedating her to the point that her brain - gradually suffocating - was desperately sending signals for more oxygen.
Suddenly her mouth opened with a loud, fleshy gasp. Eric fell backwards in terror. Scrambling to his feet, he stared in shock as another grotesque noise came from her. He couldn't bear to stay there any longer, waiting to see if the woman would actually die. So he fled the flat, dismissing the attempt as a failure.
Once back on the motorway Rubble quietly said, 'She squeezed my hand.'
Eric looked at his passenger. 'I'm sorry?'
Rubble frowned, 'When I was doing the injection, she put her hand on mine and squeezed it.'
'Just that? She didn't say anything?'
'No.'
Eric turned the information over in his head, 'A muscle spasm I should imagine.'
Rubble didn't say that her eyes had been open. He preferred to imagine the old lady's gesture had been one of gratitude; it felt so good when people thanked him for his work.
Chapter 27
Clare’s elbows were on the desk, her copy of Animal Farm before her. Three clicks sounded in her headphones, letting her know that a caller had dialled directly through to her extension. She looked at the display on her phone. Line five - Girl Next Door. A local caller.
She shut the book and reached for her horoscope cuttings. They were just arranged in front of her when the line opened.
‘Hello, Sylvie Claro speaking. Would you like a horoscope or a tarot reading?’
‘Is that Sylvie?’ Rubble almost shouted. For the entire day after his first mission he’d been bounding round the farm, unable to keep a smile off his face. One or two people had asked him what he was so chuffed about, but he’d replied, ‘Nothing.’ Desperate to tell someone. The urge grew inside him – his dreams had come true yet he had no one to share his happiness with. He wanted to shout his achievement to the sky. Then he’d thought of Sylvie.
‘Yes, it is me,’ replied Clare.
‘It’s me, Sylvie! From the other night?’
Clare remembered the tick awkward voice, but struggled to recall anymore. ‘Go on my child.’
‘You did my horoscope. Told me I would come into money.’
This prompt didn’t help her; she told most of her punters that. ‘And?'
'I have! £75 and he say’s more to come. Is it true?'
Suddenly, Clare remembered the conversation. It was the man who didn't even know his own birthday. What a stroke of luck. She slowed her speech, keen to drag the seconds out. 'Ah, you wish to know if you can expect more money from this person?'
'Yeah! He says there'll be more jobs. But he didn't tell me when. It's secret work,' he couldn't resist adding.
Clare picked up on the deliberate addition to his comment. 'Secret work, you say?'
'Yeah.'
‘Well, I'm finding your chart now. One moment.' She rustled paper on the desk, flicked through a magazine, pausing to read a caption below a photo of Brad Pitt. 'Ah yes, here it is. Neptune is now moving into adventurous Sagittarius. This indicates that there does seem to be the possibility of more money, but it isn't very clear. Tell me more about this secret work.'
'But I'm not allowed.' Aching to reveal everything.
'It will help me to discover if there will be more of this ... particular work.'
He couldn't hold back any longer. 'It's for the Government - but it's secret. You won't tell?'
'Of course not, my child. Everything you tell me is in confidence.'
'I put an old woman to sleep. I'm a Government agent now.'
Shit, this is a right one, thought Clare. 'You put her to sleep? How?'
'With an injection. The man taught me how to do it, once I passed the test. I'm a Government agent now,' he repeated, keen impress her.
'A test? I do not understand,' said Clare, eyes on the timer on the telephone's display.
‘I passed the test. Questions and pictures. Funny pictures. But I passed and now I'm working on this project. He said it was £75 for each one I put to sleep.'
The conversation had now begun to unsettle Clare. ‘Who was this person you put to sleep?'
‘Don't know. The man drove me there. It was an old woman. Sat in her wheelchair, she was. She'd had enough though, wanted to die.'
'And you injected her? What with?'
‘Dunno. The man gives me the syringe.' The pips sounded. 'Will there be more jobs? £75 for each one he said!'
Clare hurried, 'I think that there will be, yes. Call me if you do get more work. I don't know your name. What is your...'
The line went dead. Clare sat back in her seat and breathed deeply. She stared at the console, then pressed the call-wrap-up button and walked over to Brian's office.
She knocked on the glass and he glanced up from the switchboard, looking agitated. Flexing a forefinger, he beckoned her in. 'This bloody Girl Next Door thing is going off big time,' he said, head lowered again. 'The punters love it: shame the girls don't.'
'That's what I was going to ...' Clare began to answer.
But Brian carried on, rubbing a hand over his bald head as he did so. 'We're getting some real fruitcakes crawling out of the woodwork. Trying to find out which pubs and clubs the girls drink in. Think they're really talking to nymphomaniac Cat Deeley look-alikes.'
'That's what I wanted to mention, Brian,' Clare said more forcefully. Finally, he looked up. 'I've just had one, this guy said someone had paid him for killing someone. He wanted me to tell him if there'd be more jobs.'
'What do you mean, murdered someone? Like a contract killing?'
'No. He said he was an agent on some Government project.' Clare realised this was beginning to sound surreal. 'He said he'd killed an old woman who wanted to die.'
'Sweetie,' said Brian. 'It sounds like he's got some sort of a death fantasy going.' He pressed a few buttons and looked at his screen. 'You had him on line nearly five minutes. That's not bad. Is he calling again?'
'I think he will.'
'Well, get him to talk about it more. Sounds like you could get ten minutes out of him. And don't worry Clare, euthanasia isn't legalised yet, you know.' He lowered his voice, 'Though with some of the old hags working in here, it should be.' He winked and Clare couldn't help laughing.
'But seriously, if he sounds really unhinged, give him the number for the Samaritans. That's all you have to do to keep within ICSTIS regulations.'
'All right,' she said uncertainly.
Then, remembering about the slow progress of Zoe's job search, she scooped some change out of her pocket. 'Brian?' she asked, holding up a pound coin, 'have you got some twenties for the phone in the kitchen?'
He scowled, 'Don't bother with that sweetie. Nolan's set it so you only get about ten seconds per twenty pence. Use this one,' he nodded to the spare console on the corner of his desk. 'Press nine for an outside line.'
'Thanks,' replied Clare, smiling. She got the latest phone bill for the flat out of her bag and sat down. Once she'd slipped the earphones on, she called the enquiries line printed at the top of the bill. Soon, she was connected to another office – one, she guessed, that would be almost identical to the workplace she was in. After typing in her account number, a digitised voice told her someone would be with her soon. Pan-pipes playing Greensleeves started up, and Clare's head drooped; it was nearly as bad as the holding music played to customers on her horoscope line. Eventually, a customer care operator came on to the line.
'Good evening Miss Silver, how can I help you?' In the background Clare could hear the murmur of many other people as they answered similar calls.
'Hi, yeah. I'm just calling to request an itemised phone bill, please.'
‘For your next phone bill?’
'No, for the one you've just sent me.'
'That's no problem, Miss Silver. It will be with you in a few days’ time. Is there anything else I can help you with tonight?'
'That's it, cheers.'
‘Thank you for calling Top-Tel, we're with you 24 hours a day.'
She hung up the phone and stood. Brian was busy re-routing calls, panels flashing all over the computer screen. She tapped a finger on his desk and mouthed, Thanks Brian.
He held up one hand, little finger bent back, and gave her a dinky wave.
Chapter 28
Rubble was so elated that, once in the middle of the village green, he let his legs buckle so he fell onto his back. Spread-eagled in the damp grass, he grinned up at the stars and thought how wonderful the world suddenly was.
After a while he got back up and began the walk home. But it didn't seem right just to return to his caravan as usual. No, tonight he decided to indulge in a little tree-climbing. See what the villagers were up to on this special night.
He skirted round the pond, reached the other side of the green and set off down a narrow bridleway that led into the woods bordering the south side of the village. Amongst the trees, the air was heavy with the rich scent of ferns. He left the bridleway, brushing through the knee-high plants, stopping sharply for an instant as a female fox let out its grating cry from deep in the woods ahead.
Just a few metres to his right the trees abruptly stopped: cleared many years ago to make way for the back gardens of the cottages that formed the perimeter of the village. Near the garden fence of one, he could hear the undergrowth being disturbed. He listened more carefully, and amongst the rustling of old leaves and twigs he could hear snorting little breaths. A hedgehog rooting around for food.
He walked on another fifty metres or so until he got to one of his favourite trees; the one from which he liked to watch the family. He swung himself up into the lower branches and looked across to the rear of the house. As usual bluish light flickered from three of the rooms; in the kitchen the mum was watching a programme showing someone else cooking in their kitchen. In the sitting room the dad's crossed legs extended from the sofa as a boxing match was fought before him. Every now and again the half-curled up hand resting on the arm of the sofa twitched. Upstairs the two children were sitting on a bed watching something else.
Rubble squinted to try and make out what it was. It looked like a group of people roughly his age sitting in a large room talking. He watched for a while, but nothing appeared to be happening. Every now and again the picture would cut to a different angle, sometimes the camera so near to the people, he couldn't understand why they were unaware of it. In the kitchen, the mum turned her TV off and went upstairs, ducking her head into the children's room. Then she walked down the corridor and went into the bathroom. Rubble watched her barely distorted form on the other side of the dimpled glass as she picked a toothbrush from the pot on the windowsill and began cleaning her teeth. Back on the TV in the children's room a person had gone into the bathroom there and had started to brush her teeth too. Face inches away from the camera, just like she was using it for a mirror. From somewhere nearby he heard a faint mechanical whirring.
He looked at the gap between the family's cottage and its neighbour. On the pavement beyond the two homes he saw Miss Strines trundle past in her wheelchair. Far more entertaining. He dropped from the tree and bounded through the undergrowth, stopping three cottages along. Swiftly he climbed up into the lower branches of the nearest tree and awaited her arrival.
Soon he heard the wheelchair's approach, the whine lowering in tone as she stopped to open her garden gate. It swung inward and she manoeuvred herself on to the patio. Spying from between the leaves, Rubble watched as she slowly turned the wheelchair round and pushed the gate shut. Then she drove herself across to her back door, triggering an exterior light. The rear of the house was bathed in white as she reached across to the drainpipe running down the side of the house. From behind it she removed a key and opened the door. After returning the key to its hidden peg she entered the kitchen. The light inside then came on and the back door was shut.
Moments later, a lamp in the sitting room clicked on. To his annoyance, the first thing she did was draw the curtains shut. He watched as a variety of moths and other insects were drawn from the trees around him to the exterior light. Lazily they circled it, their flight paths becoming ever more agitated. But before they actually started flying straight at the bulb, it clicked off, glowing orange for a second before the darkness engulfed it. Rubble lowered himself from the branch and dropped to the soft ground below.
Back in the caravan he drew all his curtains, then sat at his table. He went over the conversation with Sylvie in his head; she seemed so interested in his job. He dwelled on her voice, the strange way she pronounced her words. How she slowly drew out the letter 'r'. He imagined what it would sound like if she were to gently whisper his name. Rubble, Rubble, Rubble.
Getting up, he went into his bedroom and carefully removed the picture of her from his wall. He carried it back to his table and propped it up against the drawn curtains. Then he went to his fridge and removed the small chicken he'd plucked earlier that day. He placed it on the edge of the table, severed neck pointing towards Sylvie's image, other end towards him. The hole at its rear gaped where he'd scooped out its giblets. Keeping his eyes fixed on the picture before him, he unbuckled his overalls and let them drop around his ankles. Then he freed himself from his grey underpants and pulled the chicken toward him. Once inside, he began sliding the dead bird back and forth, murmuring, 'Sylvie, Sylvie, Sylvie.'
Chapter 29
'Thank you, Sunai,' smiled the seated woman as the petite Thai lady filled her cup. Once she began pouring coffee for the next person the woman continued. 'OK, so we're all agreed? £500 to Respect For Animals, £500 to the Holland Park Hunt Saboteur's Society and, thanks to Rowena's vigorous lobbying, a special donation of £250 to the Labour Animal Welfare Society to help fund their research into the worrying rise in incidents of badger snaring.'
Everyone around the table nodded their assent and a middle-aged woman smiled her thanks. At the far end of the room china gently clinked as a young Thai man stacked their dirty dinner plates directly into plastic crates.
‘Very good, then this meeting is officially adjourned.' Theatrically she knocked the curved underside of her silver dessertspoon against the tablecloth and a tiny dot of lychee juice was left behind on the French lace. Various women gently clapped and the few men present sat back in their chairs to ease the pressure of their stomachs against their waistbands. After a few moment's satisfied silence quiet conversations began to spring up at different points around the table. The young Thai man silently carried the crates from the room as coffee was slowly sipped. Half an hour later and the evening had come to an end. Coats had been retrieved from the cavernous area beneath the stairs and the dinner guests began filing out into the hallway.
'You must give me the number of your caterers - the chicken and coconut soup was gorgeous.'
‘Was that a Barbara Hepworth in the dining room? I don't know how your Gerald does it, he has such a knack for collecting.'
'It's Poppy's birthday in two weeks. We've booked this superb place on the King's Road. Olly must come - I'll put his invitation in the post.'
The last person to leave paused in the stained glass porch to politely enquire about his hostess' son. 'How is Olly doing, Georgina? He seemed a little subdued as I arrived.'
The woman glanced up, as if she could see through the ceiling to where her son lay asleep. 'He's all right thanks, Martin. But he did have an awful experience a week or so ago.'
'Oh?’
She smiled graciously towards the road, waving at a Mercedes as it pulled away from the front of her house. Then she pushed the door almost shut and continued in a low voice. 'He spent the start of his summer holidays at a school friend's, the father of whom, I understood, owned a farm in Cheshire. It turned out to be a bloody battery farm. The family was absolutely grotesque. OIly said the mother wore a shell suit to breakfast. And the outfit she had on when I picked OIly up? Horrendous.'
The man nodded sympathetically, taking some cigarettes from his herringbone jacket and offering her one. She smiled briefly, waited for it to be lit, inhaled deeply, then carried on, smoke emphasising each hissed 's' of her next sentence. 'OIly was so quiet for the drive home. So quiet. But I eventually got it out of him. He'd had a truly horrid time. Their son had spent most of the time trying to make him kill things around the farm - aided by what can only be described as the village idiot, if OIly's account of him was anything to go by. And who, I might add, the farm owner employs to kill the wretched chickens.'
'The poor lad,' interrupted her visitor, 'which village was this in?'
'The village?' answered the woman dismissively. 'Oh, some place called Breystone. Just off the M56. I didn't have to witness the battery farm, thank god, but apparently it's on the opposite side of the road. The farmer's house though? Beautiful. Eighteenth century perhaps.' She waved her cigarette. 'They've ruined it of course. You can spot it as you leave the village - they've mounted these appalling horses’ heads on the gateposts at the top of the drive. Fake Victorian street lamps lining the drive. Sherlock Holmes style. The obligatory fountain in front of the house, complete with coloured lights under the water and a hideous statue of a nymph reclining on a sea-dragon. A kind of ruination of Rutelli's Fontana delle Naiadi in, I forget which piazza in Rome.'
