Fatlands (14 page)

‘So Vandamed's right. This is going to revolutionize pig farming? I mean the meat yield of these animals will be really that different?'

‘Aye, well, according to the trials it certainly seems to be.' The man who spoke was small and wiry, with a shock of black hair peppered with grey, or maybe it was paint.

‘Come off it, Duncan. You don't need any trial to tell
you that. Just take a look at the buggers,' chipped in his fair-haired companion.

I was sitting at the table now, notebook open, scribbling furiously. The man to my right, Mr Silence, was watching me. I wrote ‘big buggers' , but in a squiggly handwriting so he couldn't read it. Then I looked up. ‘That's amazing. And what about the taste? Vandamed says the drug encourages muscle production and therefore leaner meat. Is that true?'

‘Well, that we wouldn't know.' The fair-haired man again, eager to chat. ‘Seeing as it's still in the trial stages we're not allowed to eat it. Still, we have it on good authority that it's delicious, don't we, Duncan?' And he grinned at his companion. The nudge-nudge implication was obvious. With so many pigs round for the slaughterhouse they obviously didn't notice when the odd one went missing.

I wrote down ‘meat delicious'. ‘So what about the pigs themselves? How has it changed their lives?' This time farmer number three seemed more interested. I nodded encouragingly at him. He was a ruddy-faced man with a definite touch of the Van Morrisons to his physique. In Oxford Street people would have turned to look at him. But he wasn't the one who was out of place here.

‘You a meat eater yourself then, are you, Miss, er …?'

‘Parkin. Helen Parkin.'

‘Miss Parkin?'

‘Yes. Course,' I said meeting his gaze. Well, one cod does not a vegetarian make.

‘So, you like pork?'

‘Yes. And ham and bacon.'

‘And you'd buy more if it were cheaper?'

‘I suppose so, yes.'

‘Then what does it matter to you how it is for the pigs?'

The wiry man shot him a half-glance. He pushed his beer forward on to the table and leaned back in his chair. ‘No, Duncan, I think we should talk about it. Our young reporter here is obviously interested, aren't you, Helen?'

He hit the Christian name with just a touch of the inverted commas about it. I nodded. Rumour has it that Van Morrison has a considerable temper. I've always assumed it was something to do with talent and the music industry, but maybe it goes with the build.

‘I expect you're too young to remember rationing, aren't you? One egg a week, a square of butter, couple of rashers of streaky bacon or Spam and a scrawny chicken every two months if you were lucky. It's all different now, of course. Now we've milk coming out of our ears and larders overfl owing with meat, poultry, fresh vegetables, the lot. And all cheap at the price. You work for the environment section, do you?'

‘Er, no. I work for everyone. General features, but I've an interest in country matters.'

‘Of course you have. Then you probably know most of this, anyway. I read a piece by one of your colleagues once. It said that the average British family now spends a third less than it used to on food. A third less. Bloody miracle, eh? And thanks to what? Us farmers? Well, we certainly do our bit, subsidies permitting. We're still working all the hours God gave us, still trying to earn an honest living, doing the best for our animals. But it doesn't make for that much more food. At least not in the quantities you lot want to eat it. No, to really increase production, you see, we need help. We need pesticides for the crops, and factory farming for the meat. Factory farming and drugs. And the more intensively we use it all, the more food you get. And the more food you get, the cheaper it is, and the cheaper it is, the more you lot want to eat of it.' He broke off for a last swig of beer. No one
said anything. But then it was obvious he hadn't finiished. I had stopped scribbling.

‘Don't suppose you need to write this down, do you? Intelligent girl like you knows it all already, eh? So, where were we? Oh yes, how is it for the animals? Well, put it this way. They've got a lot less going for them than in the old days when they were suckled until eight weeks and then sat out in the pig pens with their noses in the muck watching the world go by. Now it's a little more … well, intensive. Now your average piglet is weaned at twenty-one days and on the butcher's slab five months later. In between, it spends its life stuffed in with hundred of others eating, shitting and generally enjoying the pleasures of life. I doubt it'll notice AAR. It'll just grow a little faster and die a little sooner, with a little more help from the vet on the way. Either way I wouldn't want to be one of them. And I expect you wouldn't, either. But then until you, and all the folks like you, are willing to give up some of your meat, or pay one hell of a lot more for it, then that's how it's going to be, isn't it?'

The place was silent when he finished. And everyone was looking at me: the Ancient Mariner, the barman, all of them. Town versus country. They produce, we consume and both sides feel exploited. Old animosities, going back a good deal further than BSE. I played with my pencil. ‘So what about this new drug AAR? What does it do to the animals?' I asked quietly, staring at him. ‘You don't think it could have anything to do with Tom Shepherd's car being blown up?'

It caused a ripple among the other two, but Van the man didn't even blink. ‘You're missing the point, young Helen. It's not the drugs that are the problem. It's you lot.'

‘So why don't you take a stand? Make us listen.' He shook his head, as if he couldn't be bothered with me. ‘I mean it. If you don't approve of drugs, then why use a
new one?' It sounded good, but we all knew it was a lastditch attempt to get back in the ring.

‘Because if AAR saves one week in the rearing of two thousand pigs, that adds up to the kind of money that if I don't make, my neighbour will. Which means that me and every pig farmer like me would be out of business before you could say “free market” if we didn't use it. And because in the end it's a matter of degree, and when it comes to the best interests of my animals I still know more than the nutters who want to tear down the farm fences and set them all free. Although you, of course, may have some sympathy with that viewpoint. Now, which newspaper was it you say you were from?'

I swallowed. ‘I didn't. But it's the
Daily Telegraph
.'

And he gave me a big smile. ‘Well, then Miss Parkin, We'll look forward to reading your article. If, that is, they publish it.'

I closed my notebook and got up with what little dignity I could muster. I put out my hand, but no one took it. They were still looking when I went out the door.

In the car park it took me a while to find my keys. I wouldn't like you to think I was shaken, only a bit stirred. I had ridden into all of this on my white charger consumed with the ideals of justice and truth. Stupid, really. You'd think by now I would have learnt that in most cases the good guys are just less mean than the bad ones. The keys continued to elude me, so I upturned my handbag on the bonnet of the car and started all over again. Which meant that I had my head turned away when he walked out from what must have been the other entrance to the pub. Which also meant I didn't really look at him until he had reached the motorcycle on the other side of the car park and was lifting up the helmet. So I really have no idea at all if it was just a trick of the light, a trick
of my eye, or a trick of my desire that made that halfprofile look suddenly so familiar. Because by the time I registered it in my stomach and turned to face him, the helmet was on and he was already astride the bike. He stopped for just a second, to take the cigarette out of his mouth and toss it into the hedgerow. Then he kick-started the motor. It sprang into life just as I yelled out. He didn't hear. I scooped the debris off the bonnet, clutching the keys and fumbling with the lock. I was as fast as fast could be, but it wasn't fast enough. By the time I got the engine started he was out of the car park. And by the time I was out of it, he was nowhere to be seen, and the sound of the bike had faded, leaving no possible clue as to which direction or where to go.

I sat still for a moment, my heart thumping like the drum section of a Dave Clark record. I pulled the photo out of its envelope and stared at it. Who knows? I thought of going back into the pub to ask, but I just couldn't see them being that helpful. If it had been him, then what on earth was he doing so near to Vandamed? Unless, that is, his cover was better than I thought: just another young student who used to work at the research centre coming back for a couple of pints with the lads?

Too many questions I couldn't answer. Time to go back to higher education.

I
pswich Poly was a wretched, decaying sixties building, concrete streaked with rain and birdshit—the kind of thing to drive Prince Charles into a frenzy of carbuncles.

I waited in the reception office while they tried to track down a grant cheque for a girl who looked altogether too young to be so old. Grants. They were about as distant as childhood now. Maybe when I'm eighty, it 'll all come back. Will it be worth the wait?

The registrar couldn't put a face to the name. I would have shown her the photograph, only it might have made her suspicious. As it was, it didn't take her long to track him down. Barringer, Malcolm—third-year computer sciences. Where would he be? Well, why didn't I try the computer labs? I didn't hold out much hope. Somehow, animal rights aside, he just didn't look like the kind of chap to spend his days in communion with a machine.

The labs stretched out over two floors. The students, huddled around terminals in groups, reminded me of the pigs in their concrete compartments, making meat for people who didn't want to know how it was made. Between the philosopher and the farmer I was fast heading for a crisis of conscience. Maybe Malcolm Barringer would be my road to Damascus. I asked a girl at the coffee machine if she knew him. She said she did, and that she had just seen him come in. He was working at the end terminal
in the room opposite. Sometimes everything just falls into your lap.

I thanked her and headed on in. He was sitting with his back to me. He wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt, and there was a tatty leather jacket on the back of his chair—the uniform of yoof. I thought I remembered the jacket from the bike. I walked up behind him. He was deep in concentration, head down writing something. The nape of his neck had a splattering of blackheads on it. I took a breath and got ready.

‘Malcolm Barringer?'

He turned, and as the profile flashed by I knew immediately it wasn't him. Oh, the resemblance to the photo was there, all right. You could see how Grafton might have made the mistake: the same age, the same colour hair, maybe even something approximating to the same shape of face. But there it ended. The young man I was looking at now was still a boy, podgy and ordinary with a chin that was already giving way to weakness. Not at all like the young James Dean. Or Matt Dillon. I have to admit I was a tad disappointed. Disappointed, but not exactly surprised.

It didn't take long. But then there wasn't much to ask. Yes, he was who he was supposed to be, and no, he had never applied for any vacation jobs with Vandamed, although in his first year he had done some vacation work with a small subsidiary drugs company in London and they would probably have references for him. As for last summer, well, he'd been travelling round Turkey with his girlfriend. Didn't get back until the day after term began.

So whoever it was had simply used Barringer's name, his college details and probably even given his past vacation job as a reference. All easy facts to find out. And equally easy to check without exposing the fraud. Vandamed
obviously hadn't thought it worth probing any deeper. So much for their improved security service. Maybe Frank should tender for the contract. He could do better with his eyes closed. As for me I was bored already.

Over the top of his head I spotted the clock. Ten minutes past five. This time it wasn't that I'd forgotten, just that I'd got carried away with the job in hand. I tried calling the institute to warn him, but the trouble with having an affair with a therapist is that they are always talking to someone else. Had it been any road other than the A12 I might have made it. But the long, slow urban sprawl plus heavy-duty roadworks meant that by the time I got into the West End, it was gone eight o'clock. Then came the relaxing business of finding a parking place. You really need two cars in London. One to drive and the other to pick up from the pound. I eventually squeezed into a tiny space in Chinatown. By then there wasn't much point in rushing. I got to the theatre at twenty-five past. He had left the ticket at the box office, and had gone in without me. Not a great sign. And when I tried to follow, I discovered it was
verboten
till the interval.

I sat in the bar cradling a Perrier and sorting out my excuses, then moved on to an analysis of the day past. Funny. When I woke up this morning, pigs were just another form of fast food. Now they seemed set to become the meaning of life. Or worse.

In retrospect I should have thought less and spent more time feeling guilty. But then I didn't realize he was going to take it so hard. Well, even therapists have to lose their temper sometimes.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘You're always sorry, Hannah. It's becoming a theme in our relationship.'

‘Nick. I left enough time, I swear. It's just I got caught in traffic.'

‘Yes.'

‘Listen, come on. This way at least you don't have to queue for your interval drink.' I pushed a Scotch and soda across the table. He looked less than convinced, but shrugged his shoulders and took the drink. ‘OK. So now you can tell me what I missed.'