Pecking Order (6 page)

'Ah, cheers Clare.'

She began to quickly jog up the steps and, on the next flight up, heard a wheezing voice below her say, 'Tell that useless prick of a landlord I'll sue him if he doesn't get that lift mended properly.' A walking stick clattered against the metal carpet grip.

As Clare climbed upwards, she imagined the reaction if anyone in her department at the university knew what she was really doing that night. True, some of the women she was working with could do with a lesson in English - but they certainly weren't refugees. She thought of Jayne and Vanessa puffing up the first flight of stairs below. Past-it prostitutes who had taken to working on chat lines because they couldn't attract any punters face-to-face. She thought about how she could try and explain herself to a fellow student. 'No, Adele - you misheard me. I didn't say "Iraqi destitutes", I said "Irate prostitutes".’ She started to giggle at her little rhyme then stopped herself, shocked that she could find her duplicity so amusing.

At the third floor, she entered the code into the door and pushed it open. In front of her, a maze of red felt partition walls were arranged into small cubicles. From each one came the whisper of a voice. Combined, they filled the low-ceilinged room with a pulsing murmur. She walked quietly along the top of the room and straight into the kitchen.

'Alright Clare,' mouthed a woman with thick blonde curls springing artificially from her head. She dragged hard on her cigarette and, as soon as the door had shut properly, said in a more normal voice, 'Doing a night shift, then?'

'Just 'til midnight,' Clare replied, dropping thirty pence into a tin and taking three cups out of the cupboard. 'How about you, Anne?'

'I'm done in two hours, thank Christ. Got to pick the kids up from their nan's.'

'The lift's gone you know,' said Clare.

‘Yeah, it's been out all day. Engineers can't come before Monday.'

‘God - don't tell Vanessa and Jayne, they're struggling up the stairs now. Should be here in a few minutes.'

'Poor loves, it's bloody ridiculous that lift. Those brews for them?'

'Yeah.'

‘You're a good one Clare. Though heaven-knows why you don't earn some real money up here. Get on the chat lines with us. You'll double your earnings.' She grinned impishly at the younger girl whilst pulling at a pendant hanging from an earlobe. Smoke from the cigarette held between her fingers curled up into her perm.

Clare tried her hardest not to, but felt herself blush. 'No - I'm all right with the fortune telling. Besides, I make pretty good money myself.'

‘You're probably right - and I certainly couldn't do your speeches. Not quick enough with the right words.'

'I bet you could,' Clare replied. 'It's not that much different. I just get my material from the horoscopes in women's mags, splice a few together and bingo - brand new horoscopes for the week.'

'See? That's what I mean - "splice". You're educated Clare, you know all the words; can think on your feet. Me? I can just talk filthy.' She laughed a dirty laugh and stubbed her cigarette out in the massive glass ashtray.

Clare was looking at an A3-size piece of paper on the wall. It was an enlargement of an advertisement for the classified section of a men's magazine.

The headline read, Girl Next Door. Next, her eye was drawn a large red star. Inside it were the words,
Local calls, lower costs
. Beneath, the copy bounced cheerfully along. “We've got dozens of stunners desperate to talk dirty with
you
. And because these horny babes are from your region, call charges are lower. So pick your nearest city and get dialling now!”

Forming a border around the ad were the usual shots of scantily clothed models holding phones to the sides of their heads. Mostly were lying in bed. Some were laughing, some looked sultry, whilst others caressed fingertips provocatively against their lips.

Only six cities were listed. Right next to the number for Manchester was a girl with the orange glow of a tanning salon. Black corkscrew curls cascaded over one shoulder. Her brown eyes were open-wide and, where her hair was swept back to allow the handset to nestle gently against her ear, a large brass earring was visible. Something about her expression suggested an air of mystery. At the bottom of the ad was the line, “More cities coming soon! Horoscopes and tarot readings also available.”

The base of the ad was taken up by a panel of microscopic small print that gave details of call charges and conditions.

'What do you think?' said Anne. 'It's Nolan's latest little plan. He reckons there's a market for chatting to girls from your local area. Same accent, same sense of humour. He's trying to cash in on all this stuff in the news about call centres being moved to India and places like that.'

Clare was scrutinising the small print, 'But it's still a premium-rate number. How can it be a lower call rate?'

'It isn't really. He's got chat rooms in other cities to come in on it. All calls are routed through the exchange here, but he's persuaded the other operators to cut charges by a few pence. That way the caller reckons he's getting value for money too. According to Brian, Nolan thinks it's going to make him a million.'

Clare thought for a few seconds. 'I suppose there could be something in it.'

'Anyway, how's the course going? You finish soon don't you?'

 'All right thanks. And yeah - graduation is in a few days. If I've passed.'

'Oh don't give me that, Clare,' said Anne, wagging her finger. 'You're a bright one. You'll get a top grade and then you can kiss this game goodbye. Get yourself a proper job somewhere.'

'I'll have to do something - got enough debts to payoff, that's for sure.'

'Well good luck to you. I'd better get back on the phones, talking about debts.'

At that moment Vanessa and Jayne pushed through the door, both of their faces covered with a damp sheen.

'Fuck,' gasped Vanessa. 'Can I pinch a fag off you, Anne?'

'Yeah, sure,' she took a Berkeley’s from her pack on the counter. 'Jayne?' she said, holding one out to the other woman.

'Cheers.' Jayne stretched out a hand, the fleshy underside of her arm swaying back and forth.

'There's your brews girls,' said Clare. 'I'd better clock on.'

'Thanks love,' they both replied. Clare and Anne left the two women leaning against the kitchen wall. In the main room, Clare walked over to the supervisor's Perspex-walled office.

He beckoned her inside. 'Hiya, you OK love?' he asked cheerfully.

'Yeah fine, cheers Brian.'

'Good. How late are you wanting to stay?' He was looking at the switchboard console before him. 'You've got a few hours to make up from last week.'

‘Till midnight then, if that's OK.'

'Fine love - take cubicle 16. I'm signing you on at,' he glanced at his watch, 'oooh - let's call it six.' He held a clipboard out to her.

‘Cheers Brian,' she replied, signing her name in the space next to her clocking-on time. As she picked her way between the cubicles the voice inside each one became momentarily audible above the general hum. She heard snatches of sentences as she walked along.

' ... go on, go on, tell me more ... I want you to take them off, then I want you to ... rub it on, spread it all over ... my eyes? People say I look like Cameron Diaz ... that's good, and what will you do to my... red silk, it's sliding off my shoulders ... oh God, you're making me hot ...’

She reached cubicle sixteen and placed her bag on the bare desk. Then she shrugged off her cardigan and hung it on the back of the battered and slightly wobbly office chair. A price label was still stuck to the black plastic on the rear of the backrest. Thin biro read, '£18 - front roller broken.'

From her bag she fished out clippings from various newspapers and magazines, a pack of tarot cards, a pack of normal playing cards, a book entitled, 'All you need to know about star signs' and a copy of
Animal Farm
.

She put on the headphones with their mouthpiece, then pressed the button on the console to let Brian know she was ready. A couple of seconds later the tiny display screen on her phone changed to 'Live' and the noise in the headset altered pitch as the line opened. Clare turned to the bookmarked page in her novel and leaned back, waiting for her first call.

Chapter 8

The sun had slipped to within an inch of the distant hills and from the top of the bulk-bin by the southernmost shed, a solitary blackbird sang defiantly up at the rapidly darkening sky. Submerged in the inky shadows pooled under the beech trees lay Rubble.

Completely oblivious to the cloud of midges jangling silently in the air above his head, he studied the bird's silhouette through the SMK 6 X 40 telescopic sights mounted on top of his Beeman FH5OO air rifle. As he did so his fingertip caressed the trigger of his weapon. The movement was so delicate he could feel the reverberation as each ridge of skin brushed over a microscopic imperfection in the metal.

Then, in the hazy borders outside the tight circle his vision had been reduced to, a lithe shape twisted. The movement shared no harmony with the swaying shadows cast by the trees above him, so the barrel of the gun lowered. Eventually the shape moved forward again. In the fading light its legs were barely visible and it seemed to flow over the ground with an impossible fluidity. Every now and again the head reared up, excited by the sheer intensity of the scent given off by the prey massed in the building above it. A mink.

Silently, it crept along the base of the shed, probing for the slightest gap to slip through, as pitiless a hunter as the person now bringing the crosshairs to bear over its flat skull.

The rifle cracked and his view was momentarily lost as the weapon kicked in his hands.

The blackbird cut away through the air, twittering a cry of alarm. He brought the sights back to the exact spot and there, twitching at the edge of his view, were the animal's hind legs. He shifted the gun to the side so that the prone form filled the circle. The animal shuddered briefly and then lay still.

Rubble rose from the long grass, unhitching the G 10 Repeater air pistol from the holster at his hip. Though he was certain he'd got in a perfect head shot, he'd also known these animals to suddenly recover their senses from a mere nick and flee, depriving him of the satisfaction of a kill.

He jogged towards the body and was still several metres away when he saw for certain no
coup de grace
would be necessary. He favoured Bisley Pest Control pellets because of their hollow points that flattened out on impact like dum-dum bullets. The exit wound above its jaw was the size of a ten pence piece. He re-holstered the pistol, propped the rifle against the shed and picked up the mink by its tail. The thin carcass hung straight down like a plumb line, blood dripping from the nose and mouth. He walked to the end of the shed then up the stairs to the rear door, holding the corpse out over the railings to stop blood dripping on the metal steps. At the top, he cupped his spare hand to catch the drips then turned and pushed backwards through the door with the faulty lock. Once inside, he used his elbow to push down the handle of the inner door.

Quickly, he crossed the narrow foyer and shouldered his way into one of the centre aisles. He seemed oblivious to the wave of heat and noise as he entered the main part of the shed. Though it was almost dark outside, the grubby yellow light bulbs in the windowless building wouldn't go off for another hour. At three in the morning they would come back on. In this way mid-summer nights were permanently maintained. The birds would respond by producing an egg and, because the lights came on so early, most birds would have laid before the egg collectors came round in the morning.

He ambled nonchalantly to the small crossroads where the two men had stood earlier. In the gap between the cages he held the animal out over the edge and shook off the blood that had puddled in his palm. Then he rubbed his hand up and down the animal’s back until the remainder of the viscous liquid had been transferred to its soft fur. Next, he slid the hunting knife free of the leather sheath on his belt and drew the blade across the root of the tail. The mink dropped silently into the abyss, landing with a soft thud on the deep pile of droppings below. Immediately, the bulky forms of the hedgekens raced from the edges and crowded round the corpse. The ones at the mink's head quickly pecked out its eyes, whilst the others jabbed futilely at the thick pelt.

'Have to wait for him to ripen,' he called down to the ravenous birds. A few beady eyes turned to the familiar sound of his voice. He slipped the knife back in its sheath and, with the mink's tail still in his other hand, left the building. Outside, dusk had fallen. He retrieved his rifle from the side of the shed and walked back to his caravan, imagining that, above him, the beech trees were whispering their appreciation of his skills.

As he neared the caravan he began picking his way between wooden stacking crates, half-full sacks of gravel and empty plastic chemical barrels. Chicken feathers lay scattered in the thick grass like litter. The side of his house was decorated with a mass of animals' tails. Spindly, hairless ones of rats, furry sausage-shapes of mink, ferrets and stoats and the bushy brushes of at least twenty foxes. He unlocked the door and slid his rifle into the sling mounted just inside. Then he took a sharp tack from the jar sitting on the workbench to the side of the door and pressed its point into the vertebrae at the severed end of the tail. Picking up the hammer lying next to the jar, he held the tail up to the side of his home and, with one sharp blow, drove the tack through the gristle and into the plastic surface beyond.

The caravan creaked and rocked slightly on its brick foundations as he stepped inside. Immediately to the right was the thin white door of his tiny bedroom, in front of him a similar door to the bathroom and toilet. The rest of the caravan was open-plan, consisting of a kitchen area with work surface, sink and two gas rings. Beyond that was a small sitting room complete with a table that could fold down to form the base of a double bed if necessary. Rubble had never lowered it since no one had ever visited him in his caravan, much less stayed the night.