Pecking Order (4 page)

‘Good I’ve got bacon and eggs cooking downstairs. You can eat it in your pyjamas. And no dallying, I want to be at the Safari Park before lunch.’

She headed back down the stairs to the kitchen and the two boys slowly emerged from their beds. ‘You’ll want slippers on, the flagstones in the kitchen are freezing,’ said Toby.

Once they’d retrieved them from their trunks they padded down the stairs, name tags visible on the back of their pyjama collars. As they entered the massive kitchen, Oliver took in the heavy wooden beams spanning the ceiling. Mrs Wicks was standing at a red Aga set into a huge open hearth at the other end of the room. ‘Wicked – my mum really wants one of those cookers, but Dad won’t let her.’

Mrs Wicks turned round smiling. ‘You should tell him you’ll save a fortune in heating bills.’

‘My mum tried that one already. But apparently it would be too much trouble fitting into our house.’

‘Oh, where exactly do you live, Oliver?’

‘Holland Park, west London.’

‘How lovely,’ she said, lifting the copper frying pan from the metal plate. ‘Well, sit down, it’s ready.’

The two boys took their places at the oak table. Already laid out were two place mats. Oliver noted the gold rims on the plates and fake ivory handles on the cutlery. But Toby’s mum was too close for him to take the piss.

Toby had already poured himself a glass of orange juice. He took a mouthful then grunted to his friend, holding the jug out.

‘Eggs, Oliver? They’re free range, laid this morning.’

Oliver checked how many were in the pan before answering. ‘Oh, two please. Are they from your farm?’

Mrs Wicks smiled again. ‘Not the big farm over the road. We have a coop in the grounds here, near the front lake. It’s too far to walk over to the main farm every morning.’

Oliver nodded as she slid two eggs onto his plate and deposited the other two on her son’s. After lowering the lid on the Aga’s hob, she placed the frying pan to the side and sat down on a stool by the wooden work surface. Picking up a cup of coffee, she began tapping on its side with a bright pink fingernail. ‘So Oliver, how are you enjoying it at Cranbourne?’

‘It’s great. Even though I’m in the same house as my brother Charles.’

‘Isn’t that good?’

‘No,’ Oliver scowled. ‘He’s a monitor and makes me clean his shoes.’

‘That’s not very brotherly. I didn’t realise that sort of thing went on. Do you have to clean anyone’s shoes Toby?’

Her son looked up from his plate. ‘No.’

‘Oh good.’

Oliver piped up again. ‘When my father was at Cranbourne there was a proper fagging system. He was beaten by the monitors if he didn’t clean their normal shoes, cricket shoes and rugby boots.’

‘How awful,’ replied Mrs Wicks.

‘Didn’t Mr Wicks go to Cranbourne? He could tell you about it.’

Once again, Mrs Wicks smiled. ‘No, Alan didn’t.’ She walked towards the trough-sized sink. ‘In fact, Toby’s the first in the family to go there, aren’t you Tubby?’

Oliver widened his eyes and looked at the other boy. Tubby? he mouthed silently, a smile spreading over his face.

‘Mum!’ complained Toby through a mouthful of food. ‘Don’t call me that.’

Mrs Wicks turned around and Oliver quickly lowered his head to hide his mocking grin.

‘Sorry darling. I meant Toby. Now, once you two are dressed, can you pop the bags of shopping over to Rubble’s? They’re in the pantry by the tumble dryer. Then come straight back – I want to set off by eleven-thirty.’

Toby nodded and flashed an upright thumb at his friend, ‘OK mum, will do.’

Their feet crunched on the gravel as they walked past the gleaming pair of Range Rovers and up the drive. Water splashed form a female nude, the droplets cascading into the raised pond.

‘Nice tits hey?’ said Toby nodding at the statue.

Oliver stepped on the grass for a closer look. Then, seeing the mottled orange shapes in the water said, ‘Cool! Koi carp, and they’re monsters!’

‘Yeah,’ replied Toby, swapping the bag of shopping to his other hand. ‘Dad had to put the net over the water last summer. Herons took three in one day. Dad said the birds cost him six hundred quid, nearly got Rubble over to shoot them.’

‘So your farm, where this Rubble lives, it’s just on the other side of the road?’

‘Uh huh,’ replied Toby, ‘over there.’ He pointed to his left.

‘And who is this Rubble?’

Toby smiled. ‘He’s a right mong. The village idiot. Dad employs him on the farm – he lives in a caravan at the bottom of a field.’

‘How come your mum does his shopping?’

‘Don’t know – she always has. Probably because he’s too thick to do it on his own. Honestly, you’ve never met anyone like Rubble. He’s a caveman. Just wait.”

Oliver frowned, puzzling over the information. After a while they reached the track just before the farm’s main driveway. ‘He lives down here,’ said Toby setting off along the narrow lane. A few minutes later they caught sight of the caravan through the trees, a pigeon cooing softly somewhere above them. Toby peered between the trunks and saw smoke curling up from behind a six-foot-high fence. ‘He’ll be over at the incinerator, come on.’ He picked his way between the beech trees, and as they approached the fence, both boys could hear the scraping of metal and a toneless humming coming from behind it.

Allowing a singsong tone into his voice, as if he were summoning a dog, Toby called out. ‘Rubble! It’s me. I’ve got your foo-ood!’

Thick fingers curled over the top of the fence, black hair bristling at the knuckles. The flesh whitened as the fingers took the weight of the person on the other side. Rubble’s face rose slowly into view. Stuck in the stubble on his head was a downy feather.

‘Toby!’ grinned Rubble, chin now resting on the wood. Suddenly he frowned. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, looking at the other boy.

‘Oliver, a friend from school,’ replied Toby. Beside him the other boy tried to smile.

Suddenly Rubble’s head and hands vanished and a second later he walked round the side of the fence, a shovel in his hand, scrap-like feathers plastered his overalls. ‘Burning chickens,’ he said, throwing a glance back over his shoulder.

‘Yeah, thought so,’ answered Toby, putting his bag of shopping down. Oliver nervously placed his next to it. ‘So, how’s things? Are you busy?’

‘Busy,’ said Rubble nodding. ‘Always busy on Sunday. Not many staff in see?’ He suddenly addressed Oliver directly. ‘Rubble does all the hard work. Dead chickens – they need burning. Your holidays, is it?’

Toby said, ‘Yeah, just started. Olly’s staying for the weekend. We’re off to Chester safari park in a bit.’

‘See the monkeys? Oooh, oooh, oooh!’ shouted Rubble, jumping from one foot to the other and scratching an armpit.

Oliver couldn’t believe someone with Rubble’s features would imitate an ape. Had he really no idea of his own appearance?

Toby laughed out loud, encouraging the older man to ridicule himself. ‘Hey Rubble, how about giving us a go with your gun?’ He looked up at the trees around them. ‘Have a crack at that pigeon I can hear?’

Rubble glanced up at the trees, quickly spotting the fat grey bird in the branches above. ‘Yeah!’ he exclaimed enthusiastically, throwing the shovel down. He bounded off through the long grass, weaving between the trees and heading for the caravan beyond them.

‘See what I mean?’ said Toby. ‘He’s a total retard.’

‘Yeah,’ Oliver cautiously agreed.

‘But check out his air rifle – it’s the business.’

‘And that’s where he lives?’ said Oliver; looking uncertainly towards the caravan Rubble was approaching.

‘Yup. His mum and dad used to own the farmhouse we live in. When they got too old to run the farm dad bought it off them and Rubble moved into the caravan.’

‘You chucked him out of his own house?’ hissed Oliver incredulously.

Toby looked a little guilty. ‘No. He loves it in that caravan. Dad had it rigged-up with electricity, gas and all that. It’s got a proper flushing toilet.’

Oliver frowned, smiling but shaking his head at the same time. ‘So how did your dad afford to buy the farm?’

‘He’s got another business besides the farm,’ replied Toby proudly. ‘Owns a centre for processing old cars, fridges, cookers: that sort of stuff.’

‘You mean recycling?’ asked Oliver, sounding impressed.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Recycling. When he bought this farm it was nothing. Dad said it wasn’t making any money. He turned it into a specialist farm for chickens. He had the sheds built and everything.’

Toby looked back towards the caravan. ‘Here he comes.’

Rubble was jogging back over to them, air rifle in one hand. ‘He’s a big ‘un. Who’ll pot him?’

‘Olly, you have a go,’ said Toby.

Before Oliver could reply, Rubble thrust the gun into his hands. ‘Break the barrel over your knee,’ said Rubble, mimicking the required action.

Carefully Oliver levered the barrel open, slowing bending the weapon into a V shape.

Rubble held out a pellet. ‘In the barrel.’

Oliver held the pointed piece of metal between a fore finger and thumb. ‘Where?’

‘There,’ answered Rubble impatiently, pointing a blackened fingertip at the thin chamber, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Reluctantly, Olly slid the pellet in.

‘Close it,’ said Rubble, gesturing with hands to right the gun. It clicked together and Oliver held it away from his body, uncertain what to do.

Toby and Rubble regarded him for a second before Rubble pointed up at the tree. ‘Kill it!’

Oliver looked at Toby who grinned at him and said, ‘Just line it up in the sights and squeeze the trigger. It’s simple.’

Hesitantly, Oliver raised the weapon, still holding it away from his body. Suddenly Rubble’s rough grip was upon him, invading his body space. The butt of the weapon was jerked against his shoulder, his other hand was squeezed against the rifle’s stock. He could sense Rubble’s frightening strength, feel his hot breath on his neck.

‘’s better. Now aim.’

He looked into the sights, but could only see a wavery mass of green. Imperfections on the leaves showed up as if he was studying them under a lens in biology. He opened his other eye to see where the bird was, then directed the sites until its grey plumage filled his vision. He could see the bird’s throat puff out as it continued to gently coo. Subtly he shifted the cross hairs to beyond the animal and squeezed the trigger. A sharp retort and he shut his eyes.

‘Aaaaaah, missed!’ crowed Toby, as if it had been a penalty kick. ‘My turn.’

Quickly he cracked open the gun, took the pellet from Rubble’s upturned palm and loaded the weapon. Oliver hoped the pigeon might have flown away. But it was still sitting there, now with its head to one side looking down at them. Toby dropped to one knee and took aim. The gun went off again and this time the bird jumped backwards off the branch. It dropped through the air, one wing loosely flapping back and forth.

‘Shot! Shot!’ exclaimed Rubble delightedly jumping up and down before slapping Toby eagerly on the back.

‘Ow!’ Toby almost fell over. He straightened up, scowling at Rubble.

The older man was looking at Oliver while jabbing a thumb towards Toby. ‘Sharp shooter, he is!’

Oliver managed a smile, but he felt sick. His mum was treasurer of West London’s League Against Cruel Sports, and he knew he could never tell her about this.

Rubble and Toby had set off to the base of the tree and he followed along behind. ‘Chest shot, right in his heart,’ said Rubble, picking up the lifeless bird by its feet to get a better look.

‘Cheers Rubble,’ said Toby, glancing at his friend for approval. Oliver kept his eyes on the bird, wishing he were at home.

Toby looked at his watch, ‘Shit, it’s eleven-thirty-five, come on Olly. See you later Rubble.’ He handed the gun back and they set off towards the lane.

‘Bye bye,’ said Rubble, waving at them with the hand holding the bird. It jerked back and forth, drips of blood speckling his overalls.

Chapter 5

Seeking a more comfortable position on the wire mesh floor, the four birds shifted uneasily from foot to foot. The sudden change from the large open-floored building where they had lived up until their transfer to the lorry had disoriented and confused them. The journey was a source of terror; vibrations from the vehicle, lurching movement, air rushing through the narrow cages. Now they found themselves in another cramped space, the ceiling just centimetres above their heads. New sites, sounds and smells frightened them; the sharp tang of ammonia, the whining clank of the conveyor belt, the fine dust that hung in the hot air. For the first few hours none of the birds moved other than to hesitantly correct ruffled feathers with their beaks. Through the gaps in the bars that surrounded them they could see shadowy shapes of other birds also huddled in cages that stretched off in every direction.

Chapter 6

The lift doors parted and Clare Silver stepped out into the dull corridor. On either side of her was a set of double doors and, after a moment’s deliberation, she pushed open the ones to her left. The grey linoleum floor tiles stretched away down the length of the corridor. Doors off it led to various silent meeting and study rooms, but she strode straight past them. Next came two doors marked with lecturer’s names. Both had lists of students below them alerting the people concerned about overdue end of term assignments. Clare didn’t need to look and see if her name featured. It never did.

With a purposeful spring in her step, she walked to the last door on the right, which was wedged open with a doorstop.
Student Coffee-room
read the battered notice almost entirely covered with strips of Sellotape that age had turned a faint orange.

As usual, the place was deserted, empty padded blue PVC lining the walls. Only faint depressions on two of them and a pair of discarded vending machine cups on the low table in the centre of the room gave any indication that someone had been here since the cleaners had last visited. Socialist Worker posters and notices from various charities about impending famines or human rights abuses were dotted around the walls.