Pecking order, p.22
Pecking Order, page 22
He dropped a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster and stood by the machine, continuing to conduct the imaginary orchestra crowded into his kitchen. When the toast popped up, he spread the margarine in time to the violins' and harpsichord's gentle cadences.
He sat down at the table and, chewing appreciatively, began to compile a mental list of all the issues that needed his attention that day. In the background, the softly-spoken voice on the radio spoke briefly before a fresh piece of music began. The lone trumpeter gave the piece's first few bars a military feel and, with a sudden twinge of guilt, Eric thought of Rubble slowly settling back into the tedium of his life on the farm. He pictured him occasionally checking the mobile phone in his cupboard, waiting in vain for it to ring. But Eric would never call. Although he knew the number off-by-heart, he would never call again: never allow any further communication to pass between them.
In his study, he packed a few items into his leather satchel, put his bicycle clips and helmet on and then opened his front door. Immediately, he noticed fragments of broken eggshell littering his front step. He turned to the door itself and saw it was streaked with yolk and egg white. Great drips of it ran down the wooden surface, catching in the carved ridges at the bottom. Shocked, Eric stepped out on to his front lawn and turned to face the house.
More eggs had been smashed on the windowsill of his living-room window, viscous pools surrounding the crushed shells. Then he looked at his garage door. Yolk had been used to daub four enormous letters across the metal surface. As he registered each individual letter, he heard a door open to his right.
A voice said, 'What a lovely morning ... oh my God, someone's vandalised your house.'
Eric turned to Mrs Fleming, his head surging with thoughts, emotions. Possibilities.
'How disgusting,' she carried on. 'What have they used? It looks like, yes it is. It's raw egg, I can see shells on your windowsill! And look! They've spelled a word across your garage door. Oh, Eric, you must call the police: it says "scum"’
Eric smiled without humour. 'It does.'
'But who would do such a thing?'
Eric shook his head and tried to sound casual. 'I imagine it's just kids playing a prank. Perhaps a disgruntled student - some have just got their end-of-term grades. It's nothing.'
'But will you call the police?'
An odd sound came from Eric's lips and he had to smile so she would realise it was an attempt at chuckling. 'No, no. I wouldn't bother them with something so trivial; they have far too much on their plates nowadays.'
His neighbour frowned, 'Far too much to help find my Frank. They were absolutely useless when I called in at the station. They asked me if I'd had him fitted with an identity chip. The thought of it. Inserting a microchip under my poor Frank's fur! After that they just gave me the number for this cat rescue centre called Richmond's.'
Eric was already walking back to his front door. 'Sorry I can't chat, Mrs Fleming. I'd better get this cleaned up or I'll be late for my students.'
Inside his house he immediately phoned Julian, asking him to pin a note on his door cancelling that morning's tutorial for the few first year students that had opted for his module. By the time he came back out with a bucket of soapy water and a washing-up brush, his neighbour had gone back inside her own house. Methodically he cleaned away all the egg, starting with the letters. He had to scrub the bristles of the brush over the egg yolk where it had begun to form a crust. As he worked his mind raced, trying to calculate what this could mean.
His immediate conclusion was that it had to be somehow connected to Rubble; the imbecile had obviously told someone. But Rubble didn't know a single thing about his real identity. So, even if Rubble had talked, how had that person identified him and, furthermore, traced his address? And why take this course of action and not go directly to the police?
Even though he had come out with it on the spur of the moment, the more he analysed the situation, the more his comment to Mrs Fleming seemed to make sense. It had to have been kids or a student. His thoughts turned to the footballer from the day of the march who, thanks to his report, had been disciplined and fined by the university authorities. A third year history student, if he remembered the details rightly. He'd probably waited until his degree was safely awarded then decided to get his petty revenge. The fact he chose eggs was just an unfortunate coincidence, Eric hoped.
Chapter 45
The man walked up the steps to the pub doors where his way was barred by two bouncers, 'Three quid mate.'
The man raised his eyebrows, 'To get into a pub?'
‘Late night bar and live music,' came the explanation.
'But I'm not staying late, I'm just popping in.'
The bouncer grinned at him, but didn't move.
Shaking his head, the man pulled a handful of change from his pocket and picked out three-pound coins. Inside, people jostled at the bar, trying to attract the attention of the few exhausted-looking bar staff. A lot of young men in green and white striped football shirts were crowded round a massive TV screen. Celtic versus Rangers, two minutes to go. In the corner a group of seated musicians chatted happily amongst themselves as they tuned their instruments. Pints of Guinness covered the tables around them, and mounted on the wall above their heads was a violin case with the words 'Mulligan's of Dublin' painted on its side.
The man made his way through the crowded main bar and into a quieter backroom. Nailed to the walls at regular intervals was a variety of Irish memorabilia. A battered metal sign saying, Cork Ferry - 3 miles. A mirror with the words, 'Dunville's Old Irish Whiskey' painted across it. A wooden plaque announcing 'Ireland's finest, brewed in Dublin'.
Sitting behind a long table at the far wall was a panel of three men. The newcomer made his way over and nodded to each of them in turn.
'Drink?' asked the overweight one in the middle.
The man looked at the table and saw all of them were drinking lager.
'Why do you always meet here if you don't drink the black stuff?' he asked, sitting down.
They all shrugged and the man in the middle said, 'Anonymity. What are you having?'
'I can't stay, thanks anyway. My wife's booked us a table in town for eight-forty-five.' He lit a cigarette. In the main bar a solitary violin started up, followed by a whistle and then a drum. 'The man you want lives in Breystone - or a house just outside it going back towards the motorway. It's almost opposite the battery farm where your lady friend was nearly strangled. Look for two big gateposts with horses' heads on the top. A long driveway with those fake Victorian street lamps lining it and a large fountain of a female nude in front of the farmhouse.'
'And this guy owns the chicken farm?'
The man nodded.
'No doubt about it?'
'I'm positive.'
The fat man sitting in the middle turned to the sharp-featured man on his right who was smiling as he tapped the ash of his cigarette into a tray already brimming with butts.
For the first time he spoke. 'We've been trying to work out where this bastard lives for some time. And all the while, it was just over the road from the bloody farm.’ He laughed quietly to himself. ‘You're sure of your information now? Whoever lives in that place will end up in hospital for quite some time.'
Realising he was now speaking to the senior member of the group, the newcomer said, 'Please, I don't want to know any details.' As he got to his feet, the man on the right lifted his hand up.
The newcomer shook it in silence, did the same with the other two men then walked back out into the main bar.
Chapter 46
Large patches of the birds' feathers were now completely gone. They no longer preened but picked. Disagreements between the second and third birds were more frequent - pecks were delivered to sensitive exposed flesh. During one such squabble, the largest bird was almost knocked over. Pain flared up from the lesions covering the soles of its feet and it lunged savagely at the bald neck of the offending bird. Blood was immediately drawn and the animal sought refuge in the corner of the cage occupied by the fourth and smallest bird. Weak and malnourished, leg swollen and useless, it was unable to move when the other bird pecked at it. The bleeding bird felt its scabby back being attacked again and it began shoving at the bird in the corner more desperately. The smallest bird dragged itself into the centre of the cage where it lurched to one side, protesting loudly. The heads of the other birds all cocked to one side and they regarded it in silence for a couple of seconds. Then, as if a signal had been passed between all three, they simultaneously attacked it.
Chapter 47
Rubble spent the day in a subdued mood, collecting up dead chickens from the cages and piling them into a sack. When he reached the aisles' first intersection he removed a corpse from the stinking collection in his bag. Stepping to the gap between the cages, he looked into the slurry pit beneath his feet. Normally the hedgekens shadowed his movements from below in the same way ducks in a park paddle hopefully alongside anyone wandering round the edge of their pond.
But today he could see them all crowded below a cage further down the aisle. Squawking and pecking at each other, their attention was on something above. Rubble walked down to the spot and saw a chicken with its featherless neck poking through the bars. The head lolled sleepily against the squeaking conveyor belt carrying grain. The other chickens in the cage were viciously pecking at its back and blood was dripping through the bars and into the pit below.
Rubble unclipped the cage door and ragged the semi-conscious bird out by its swollen, twisted feet. After looking at the extent of damage on its back, he decided against keeping it for eating: it appeared that its cage mates had already been doing that. Instead he dropped it on the aisle. 'Extras!' he called out and kicked it under the gap below the lowermost cages. The body dropped into the pit and the hedgekens immediately fell upon it.
Picking up his sack of carcasses, he headed out of the shed and down the stairs to the incinerator.
In the early hours of the morning, he lay brooding in his bed, thinking about the mobile phone. Although it had been silent for under a week, it seemed far, far longer to him. Agent Orange's speech had taken him completely by surprise. There had never been any mention of resting him after just three jobs. Now, with his role as a Government Agent put on hold for who-knew-how-long, his life was unbearably empty.
Just the chickens and their never-ending chorus.
He got up and walked into the living room area and looked at the monitor. He flicked between the cameras but the view of each was completely devoid of life. Opening the cupboard, he sat on the floor, staring at the tiny light of the phone as it winked on and off, on and off. The way the bulb suddenly went out reminded Rubble of how the light behind Miss Strines' house had died, leaving behind a faint orange glow. He thought about how she'd locked the back door and replaced the key behind the drainpipe. If anyone needed putting to sleep, it was her, he decided, climbing into his overalls and pulling on his dark jumper.
In the egg-packing room, he rummaged around in the boxes under the sink until he found a yellow pair of marigolds. They were nearly as good as his government ones, he concluded, shoving them into his pockets and turning out the light. He would show Agent Orange that he didn't require any rest. He'd been selected as a Government Agent and it was the only time he'd succeeded at anything. It was his duty and he would stick to it.
Once again the wind was blowing. It seemed to pick up at night as if sunlight drained it of its strength. Or darkness increased it. But amongst the trees its progress was hampered, dense leaves and branches absorbing each gust so the air inside the copse felt motionless and heavy.
As he paced cautiously between the trunks, Rubble let his fingers trail through the waist-high bracken, enjoying how the marigold gloves numbed the sensation of the fronds brushing against his fingers. He bent his head back to look at the canopy above and saw the moon shining between the leaves. He got to the tree behind Miss Strines' house and leaned against it, studying the rear of her property. Staring at the black windows.
He thought of her curled up in her bed just beyond the thin layers of glass. Gleefully he imagined her face as he stepped into her bedroom. He decided then that he wouldn't speak, wouldn't risk replying to any of her cruel comments. He knew how easily she could exert the power of the classroom over him, making him stumble over his words, trip up on his thoughts. No, he wouldn't say a thing. Just walk up to the bed and twist her skinny wrinkled neck until it snapped.
As he vaulted over her back fence it creaked loudly. His feet connected with her lawn and he lifted his hands off the top of the fence, causing a horizontal strut to spring back against a vertical post with a thud. From the garden to his right he heard rustling; probably a foraging animal disturbed by the noise. He was halfway across the lawn when the security light mounted beneath her gutter came on with a click. The sharp light shone across the grass, partly spilling into the neighbours' gardens.
'Something's out there,' a small voice whispered.
Rubble looked to his right and saw a tent pitched on the back lawn. It shivered slightly as its occupants stirred. Sleeping bags rustled again as the glow of a torch shone from inside the frail structure, illuminating two forms sitting up inside.
'Daddy! Something's scaring us!'
He had just made it back into the trees when a bedroom window was pushed fully open. 'Right you two! Any more noise and you're coming back inside,' a voice announced, in a hoarse whisper. 'You wanted to sleep by the forest, you better get used to sleeping near the animals that live in it.'
The zip of the tent opened with a lazy buzz and a little head emerged, 'But we heard something running. Something big, like a monster.'
'Laurence, there are no monsters. Now do that zip back up and go to sleep.'
The head disappeared into the tent and the window closed again.
Rubble waited for Miss Strines' security light to go out then retreated back into the woods. He was filled with frustration. The missions he went on with Agent Orange always seemed to work out fine. He was determined not to return to his caravan without a result.
Crossing the village green, he walked quietly along a side road until he reached a large house with handrails and ramps leading up to the doors. Even though he had never entered the building, he knew a load of old people were inside: it was where his own parents had gone when they were ready to die. He crept around the side of the building, stopping at each ground floor window and gently trying to pull them open. But all were properly shut. Looking up, he saw one or two on the first floor were slightly ajar. But he couldn't get up to them without a ladder. Angrily he walked back to his caravan, deciding that, on a warmer night and without this annoying wind, he could well have a bit more luck.
Chapter 48
Clare opened the front door and a delicate smell instantly made her mouth water. She paused for a moment before identifying it as frying chicken. She walked into a surprisingly tidy flat to see Zoe at the cooker, stirring pieces of meat round and round in a frying pan.
'What sort of chicken is that? It smells delicious.'
'Just normal stuff from the supermarket,' answered Zoe, glancing over her shoulder with a smile.
‘Then you must be using some sort of seasoning. It smells far too good.'
‘My secret ingredient.' She picked a small foil wrapped cube off the work surface and held it up.
Clare took it and said, 'Chicken stock?'
'That's right,' her friend replied, sounding pleased.
'You’re frying chicken in chicken stock?’
‘It's the only way to make the stuff actually taste of chicken. So come on - how was he acting?'
'I don't know. The bastard cancelled his tutorial. I was hanging around in the coffee room for ages. Heard footsteps and it was that creep Julian pinning up a note saying Eric was ill and his tutorial was cancelled. Thing is, he must be riled - that was his end-of-year tutorial for his first years. The note said to leave any work in his pigeonhole and it would be returned next term. That's a real cop-out.'
'Shame. It would have been useful to see his face. I bet he's shitting himself.'
'Maybe, but I need more. I've got to track down this Rubble bloke.' She pulled a notebook from her bag as Zoe tipped a bowl of sliced peppers and mushrooms into the pan. 'I went on the internet at the library this morning and got the number for the headquarters of the RSPCA down in this town called Horsham. I'm going to ring them and see if they have a list of battery farms around here.' She went into me front room and sat down in the armchair next to the phone. 'Oh - how's the job hunt going?'
Zoe appeared in the doorway, spatula in hand. She brushed the nails of her other hand up and down her shirt front, examined them and said, 'Got an interview tomorrow.'
'Well done, girl! You'll be needing to put me up soon. This flat's been booked for some convention being held at the university. We've got another three days and that's it.'
'No worries. I'll register with all the local estate agents this afternoon. With the end of term, there'll be loads of flats around,' answered Zoe, going back into the kitchen.
Clare picked up the phone and called the RSPCA. An automated answer service gave her various options. She waited on the line, refusing to press any buttons, until eventually a woman's voice spoke to her.
'Hello, the RSPCA. Can I help?'
‘Yes, I'm trying to locate the nearest battery farms in my area for a university project. Can you supply me with any such information, please?'
'To be honest, I'm not sure. Please hold the line.'
She waited for almost five minutes before the voice returned. 'I can give you the number of the British Egg Industry Council. They should be able to help.'
