Pecking order, p.27
Pecking Order, page 27
The two Range Rovers were parked side-by-side. Beneath each one was a man. They were both busily cutting into the vehicles’ fuel pipe and plugging the jagged hole with a soaking rag. In the shadows on each side of the front door the other two men waited.
'Check out the number plates,' whispered one. Both vehicles began with the numbers 1 and 3, but the digits had been positioned so close together they looked like the letter 'B'. The rest of the registrations read, 'ABY l' and 'ABY 2'.
'Sad twat,' his mate replied.
The woman stood by the fountain, vision now drastically reduced by the two small eyeholes. Her knees trembled inside the suit.
'Hello?' Clare called out. 'Anybody in?' No reply. Stepping closer, she flicked the lighter and saw the objects on the side of the caravan were a mass of severed animal tails. A shiver went right down to her coccyx. It had to be Rubble's home. Awkwardly, she tried the little handle on the door and it swung open.
'Hello?' she called again, louder this time. When no one replied she stepped inside, immediately aware of the musty aroma. In the main part of the caravan she flicked the lighter on again and could just make out the stacks of comics and magazines straining from the shelves all around. On the table was a pile of ripped paper. A picture of a female face, judging by the eye. Suddenly she felt the urge to be out of there. She turned round, walked back to the door and jumped off the low step, glad to breathe in the clean night air once again.
Unsure what to do next, she walked round to the top of the caravan and spotted the narrow lane leading towards the road. Unwilling to go back inside Rubble's home, she decided to find a pen and paper in the Polo and write him a note. She began striding up the track, feeling better and better as each step took her further away from the foul lair behind her.
The gravel crunched slightly as both men, on tip-toes, ran to their mates waiting by the front door of the farmhouse. A barely visible blue glow scurried up both lengths of cloth and seconds later the fuel tank of the left-hand Range Rover exploded with a roar. A moment later the second vehicle also went up, glass from a side window flying outwards and peppering the front of the house.
Clare looked up in surprise. Above the trees a short distance away two mushroom clouds of flame slowly rolled up into the sky. A burglar alarm started up, its shrill tone further shattering the quiet night. She quickened her pace, and a few metres later, could make out the road up in front. Headlights were approaching so she stood still, waiting for the vehicle to go past. Their shine grew brighter and, just as the car was about to sweep by, it slowed to a crawl.
The long burst of light flickered round the curtains, like an impossibly long flash of lightening. Suddenly, it doubled in strength and a sound like gravel being hurled against their windows made them all jump in their seats. The boy ran to the window, opened the curtains and stared, open-mouthed, outside.
Both Range Rovers were burning brightly and, lit by their fierce glow, was an enormous chicken. It started high stepping backwards and forwards, flapping its wings and jutting its head back and forth.
'It's...it's doing the funky chicken,' the boy said incredulously.
From behind him his father snarled, 'It's fucking dead more like!' He started towards the door.
‘Don't go out there!' his wife cried, trying to grab him.
'Get off me, woman!' he shouted, shaking himself free of her long-nailed grip, shirt tearing.
She fell back on to the sofa as he ran down the corridor and threw the front door open. A baseball bat swung out from the shadows and, with a hollow tack, connected with his left kneecap.
Rubble twisted round in his seat to look at the silver car parked at the top of the farm's driveway. A VW Polo. Eric began to slow down as they neared the turn-off for the narrow lane. Ahead and to their right twin balls of flame slowly rose up over the trees.
'That's Mr Wicks' house,' said Rubble, undoing his seat belt. 'It's on fire. Let me out!'
Eric scrutinised the explosions as they gradually turned inwards and consumed themselves. 'Wait - we must not be seen together. I'll drop you off on your lane and you can investigate once I'm gone.'
Abruptly he spun the wheel and turned into the top of the track.
Mr Wicks' leg buckled and he fell forward on to the top step. Instantly, blows began raining down on him from all sides.
Toby stood speechless in the hallway as a balaclava-clad man turned to face him, 'Your daddy's a torturer, son.'
Mrs Wicks ran screaming down the corridor, slammed the door shut and drew the heavy metal bolt across. Clasping Toby tightly to her side, she reached for the telephone.
Out on the steps the men had pinned Mr Wicks' moaning form down. One lay across his knees as another unlaced his Loakes, pulled them off and positioned his feet on the edge of the lowermost step. The giant chicken slowly approached, lifting its clawed feet clear of the gravel. It reached the group of men, pulled the flaps of the hold all apart and removed the sledgehammer.
The man pinning down Mr Wicks’ knees then spoke. 'I want you to think about your chickens. Think how it feels to be trapped in those cages, your feet bent back, curled in and generally fucked.'
With some effort, the woman raised the sledgehammer to shoulder height and brought the metal head down on the top of one foot, shattering the delicate bone structure inside.
The scream carried across the grounds and went far into the black countryside beyond.
The car's sudden turn into the lane took Clare by surprise and she could only stand there, lit up by its headlights. Then, from the darkness beyond, came a terrible sound. It was a scream that went beyond human; the kind of noise any living thing is capable of making when subjected to unbearable pain.
Inside the car, Eric stared at Clare. 'Silver,' he hissed.
'Who is that?' asked Rubble.
'I thought you'd ...' Eric said quietly, his voice dying away. Things had spun completely out of control. 'Another subversive. You must eliminate her!'
The headlights of the car before her snapped on full beam and, even before the engine revved loudly and the tyres spun on the loose track, Clare knew she was in serious trouble. She turned around, and with the car lurching towards her, used its bright lights to sprint back along the lane. Hearing the vehicle gaining on her fast, she jumped across the grass verge and plunged into the copse. Halfway in she hid behind a tree. The car skidded to a halt and she heard both doors open. Then, to her horror, Eric's voice rang out. 'You must catch and kill her!'
Pushing the tree trunk away from her, she careered out the other side of the copse towards the nearest shed. Grabbing the metal rail she ran up the steps, feet clanging loudly, giving her position away.
From between the trees she could hear someone crashing through the undergrowth, quickly getting closer. As she reached the door at the top, she frantically grabbed the handle with both hands and pushed. To her relief it opened and she staggered straight into another door, something soft and spongy under her feet. Opening this one she found herself in a narrow room. Scrabbling against the wall she located a row of switches and, using her palms, turned them all on. As the strip light above her flickered into life, the whining sound of conveyor belts reached her. She looked desperately around: no phone. To her side were a small shovel and a pile of cardboard trays. On the far side of the room was a row of small doors. Picking up the shovel, she tried to jam it under the handle of the door - but the shaft was just too short to create an effective wedge.
A foot landed heavily on the metal steps below. Jumping across the narrow room, she pushed open one of the smaller doors. As in a nightmare, she realised she was standing at the top of a never-ending aisle: no gaps, nowhere to hide. Thick, musty air. A string of yellow bulbs stretching away in front of her, perspective decreasing the distance between each one before the gloom finally swallowed them. She was vaguely aware of a clucking sound building in strength all around her.
The footsteps were rapidly climbing the steps outside and she began to run, cursing herself for smoking so much as her lungs wheezed in and out. Seconds later the chipboard door behind her crashed off its hinges. Rubble's frame filled the doorway.
She staggered on, glancing back a few steps later to see the heavily built man charging up the aisle, head down like an attacking bull. The distance between them was closing fast and Clare knew she wouldn't make it even half-way up the aisle before he caught her.
The Volvo pulled quickly back onto the road, mud splattered around the wheel arches. It sped backwards towards the village, away from the motorway and any approaching police. As the car neared
the top of the driveway to the farm the man in the passenger seat nodded at the silver Polo parked there. 'Looks like Embleton Farm has got another visitor.'
'I hope they realise the caveman who nearly killed me lives there,' said the woman driver, unwelcome memories causing her to raise one hand to her throat.
'Let's stop and see if he's around,' came an adrenaline-charged voice from the back. 'We're ready for him this time.'
'No way,' replied the woman, carrying on up the road. ‘He was one scary bastard.’
Clare reached an intersection forming a small crossroads in the aisle and stepped round the corner out of the path of his frightening charge. Leaning on the edge of the cages she shouted breathlessly, 'Rubble!'
His head snapped up and seeing her standing there, he began to slow.
Battling to control the fear in her voice, she called out again, 'It's Rubble isn't it?'
By now he had slowed to a walk. With deliberate strides, he rounded the corner and turned to face her. Thick arms hanging at his sides, chest rising and falling, he took a step closer.
Resisting the urge to back away, Clare stood her ground and searched the eyes boring into hers, hoping for a hint of uncertainty - or even curiosity - about how she knew his name. But she saw only hatred.
'Rubble,' Clare repeated more quietly. 'It's me - Sylvie Claro.' She tried to smile.
He took in her cropped, reddish-coloured hair, blue eyes and almost boyish features. As he bellowed the word 'Liar!' a fist swung up and slammed into her stomach.
The breath was ejected from her mouth with the force of vomit and Clare's legs buckled. She fell painfully onto her knees as another blow crashed into the side of her head. Seconds went past and slowly the pinpoints of light filling her vision cleared and the high-pitched humming in her ears died away. She found Rubble sitting across her chest, knees pinning her arms to the concrete floor.
Opening her mouth, she tried to repeat that she was Sylvie Claro, but no words would come. She realised Rubble's stubby fingers were curled tightly round her throat.
'You aren't Sylvie,' Rubble murmured.
She began thrashing her head violently from side to side, 'Am, am, am, am!' she croaked frantically.
Something in her desperate insistence caused Rubble to loosen his grip a fraction. Gratefully, Clare sucked in air. 'I work as a fortune-teller for a chat line,' she quickly rasped, knowing every single word had to count. 'You've been tricked. You haven't been working on any Government project. Your contact is called Eric Maudsley, he's a lecturer at the University. He used you to try and kill another lecturer, Patricia Du Rey. The woman you found drowned in the bath.'
A tremor ran across Rubble's thick lips. In his mind's eye he pictured the front of the newspaper and the crest by the photo of the woman he'd found dead in the bath. It was the same crest as on Agent Orange's car and on the top of the Official Secrets Act form. He remembered the words of Mr Williams in the post office: 'The university crest you mean?'
'You've been calling me on the Girl Next Door line, extension number 304. I told you that you were going to come into money. Sylvie Claro is just the name I use at work.' She had read somewhere that in hostage situations it is important to make the kidnappers see you as a real person, and not just something to be bargained with or disposed of. 'My name is Clare Silver. I'm a student.'
The icy possibility that this girl was telling the truth fell heavily into the boiling anger filling his brain. It began to dawn on him that his newfound role in life could all be false and his posture lost more of its rigidity.
Clare felt the pressure on her arms ease slightly as he leaned back, a worried look now on his face. She immediately wriggled one arm free, 'Let me go, please.'
Movement away to her side. In the gap under the chicken cages she could see a pair of brogues slowly approaching along the main aisle.
With authority loading each syllable, Eric issued his command. 'Kill her!'
Slowly Rubble lowered his head. He looked down at the person whose words were threatening to destroy his recent happiness and made his choice.
Clare felt the tenseness return to his arms and just had time to say, 'No.’ Then her breath was abruptly cut off.
Gritting his teeth, Rubble began crushing harder. Instantly, the veins across her temples snapped tight and with each heartbeat, her eyeballs felt as if they were being pressed further from their sockets. The hum of blood returned to her ears as her free hand scrabbled across the concrete floor, fingertips catching on fragments of shell, chicken shit and feathers. She reached into her jeans hoping to find something to jab into his eyes. But Zoe's car keys were in her other pocket. Now the humming noise had drowned out the sound of the clanking conveyor belts around her. Fingers slid into her back pocket and with her vision rapidly dimming, she located a small laminated square. She pulled it out and bending her elbow, held up her Student Union card.
Eric reached the intersection and looked round the corner. Rubble was leaning forwards, elbows locked. All the weight of his upper body was being transferred through his ramrod straight arms and onto Clare's windpipe.
He looked at her purple face, eyes rolled up into her head, tongue lolling obscenely from her mouth. Deciding she was as good as dead, he checked once more for the syringe in the breast pocket of his jacket. Then he raised the shorthanded shovel above Rubble's head.
Rubble stared at the card, eyes focused not on Clare's name and photo but on the university crest in the top right-hand corner. Her wrist slowly drooped and the card fell from her fingers. Again, his grip loosened.
The narrowness of the aisle didn't allow Eric much back swing so he bent his knees slightly to help maximise the force of the blow.
Rubble began to look uncertainly over one shoulder. In the periphery of his vision something was moving very fast. Automatically he shrugged his shoulders and bobbed his head down.
The edge of the shovel glanced off the top of his skull, taking a large flap of skin with it. The blade carried on, clanging into the front of a chicken cage, wedging itself between the bars. Inside, the terrified birds tried to back away.
Rubble felt a hot sheet of blood slide down the side of his head. He let go of Clare's throat, and twisting his torso round, dived at Eric's ankles, grabbing both of them and pulling sharply. Eric lost his grip on the shovel and fell heavily, the back of his skull cracking on the concrete.
Blood coursing down his face and neck, Rubble started clawing his way up Eric's legs, hand reaching up towards the older man's throat. 'You lied, you lied!'
Trying to kick his legs free, Eric scrabbled backwards across the intersection, dragging Rubble with him. Suddenly there was no floor beneath his palms and pain shot through his spine as his upper body hung out over the pit. His arms flailed wildly. Only Rubble's weight pinning his legs prevented him from tumbling over the edge. Below him, the hedgekens began to gather, curiosity aroused by the commotion above.
Hugging his legs, Rubble accused him again. 'You tricked me.'
'Pull me back,' pleaded Eric.
With one hand, Rubble wiped the blood and tears from his eyes - and saw the full syringe lying in the aisle. Knowing it was meant for him, he picked it up, gripped the protective cap in his teeth and pulled it off. 'You tricked me, you tricked me,' he sobbed, looking down at Eric's exposed shin and seeing the thick vein running across his emaciated calf. Expertly, he slid the needle in and began pushing the contents into Eric's bloodstream.
From below the level of the floor, Eric let out a long screech of terror. Blood was now pooled around Rubble's elbows. Once the syringe was empty he rolled onto his side.
With the weight removed from Eric’s legs, he plunged into the pit. He hit the manure and one side of him instantly sank into the acrid, feather-strewn pile of droppings. Rubble raised himself onto one elbow and leaned over the edge for a better look. As he did so the feather fell from the front pouch of his overalls. In a series of lazy circles, it drifted down to join the remains of the bird it had originally come from. Seeing no movement from Eric, Rubble lay back and looked up at the fan slowly turning in the gloom above him.
When such a large object landed in their pit the birds had scattered, but now they began to edge out of the shadows. Eric felt as if his bones had turned to jelly. Part of him was aware of his surroundings and he tried to lift his free arm to shoo the gathering creatures away. But another part of him felt as if it was still plummeting downwards, deeper and deeper into a softly-cushioned world. And this part of him was quickly taking over, quashing the urge to ward off the approaching birds. Telling him that it was far too much bother lifting up his heavy arm. Much better just to relax and sink into the comforting layer below.
