Pecking Order (28 page)

'What do you mean?' asked Clare.

'Do you know where he lives?'

'Yeah - I had to drop an essay off at his house in my first year.'

'Start posting him chicken stuff. Eggs, feathers. See how he reacts to that. At the very least, it'll do his head in until this Rubble character rings again.'

Finally, Clare smiled.

Chapter 44

It was the best Eric had felt in weeks. A fresh supply of energy coursed through his limbs and, though his thoughts occasionally strayed to the things he'd orchestrated with Rubble, he was finding it easier and easier to push those memories away - especially with all the planning he had to do now he was sole head of department. He imagined that, when the fresh demands of a new term arrived, all recent events would be a dim and distant part of his past.

Humming Aaron Copland's
Fanfare for the Common Man
, he climbed out of me shower and, standing on a mat lying on the lino floor, briskly rubbed himself dry with a rough towel. Bending over, he worked a corner of the material between his toes, slack scrotum swaying between his legs as he did so. Straightening up, he selected the towel's opposite corner and pushed it into each ear and started making small, circular movements.

Hanging it back over the small radiator, he picked up his shaving brush and soap off the windowsill and turned the sink tap on. He held the brush momentarily under the stream of water then began rotating its end against the soap until he'd worked up a lather. Dipping one finger into the thick foam, he scribed a circle in the misted-up wall mirror, wiping his fingertip over the surface until all traces of the shaving foam had disappeared and a clear view of his face had been created.

Without his glasses on, he had to bring his face close to the mirror in order to see himself clearly. Carefully, he applied the brush to the lower edge of his beard where the stubble had begun to creep down his throat, forming a bridge with the straggling mass of greying hair that sprang up from his groin, coated his torso and congregated under his arms.

Picking up the bic razor, he brought the blade up to below his chin and scraped away the foam, creating a neat edge around his throat. Then he lightly pressed the blade over the upper part of his cheekbones, clearing away the individual hairs that had begun to emerge from the skin there.

Still humming, he removed what little foam was left on him with a musty smelling flannel then tilted his head back and examined his nostrils. Even though he'd trimmed them only a few days before, a few straggling hairs had begun to emerge from each dark crevice, like the tendrils of a creeping plant seeking the light. He snipped them away with the special blunt tipped scissors that sat in the pot alongside his toothbrush. Then he walked naked into his bedroom to dress.

Downstairs in the kitchen he decided against the demands on his attention that listening to Radio Four would require. Instead he tuned the machine to Classic FM, slowly scribing a triangle in the air with one forefinger as the gentle tones of Bach's
Concerto in D Minor
filled the room.

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.