Pecking Order (7 page)

He unbuckled his belt and hung it up, the weight of the air pistol and hunting knife making the canvas fold tightly over the coat peg. Then he undid the laces of his boots and placed them side-by-side on the doormat. Still in his filthy overalls, he crouched before the miniature fridge and took out the chicken he'd plucked earlier. He dropped it into a greasy saucepan and put it in the sink, pumping a handle up and down until the tap began coughing out spouts of water. Once the bird was submerged he put the saucepan on a gas ring, lit it with an almost empty
bic
lighter then moved to the sofa.

The caravan had obviously been built in the 1970s - the pattern on the cushions was of interlocking purple squares on a brown background. Both the carpet and curtains were similar, but with random red lines racing across their surface. Though the caravan had been motionless for years, the narrow shelves lining the walls were all fronted by a thin mock-brass rail to stop objects falling off. Now the barrier just served to hem in dozens and dozens of comics and magazines, many of which drooped forwards, such was the weight of the other copies pressing from behind.

Sitting at the table, he reached for the copies he'd purchased earlier that week,
Death Before Dishonour, Battle In The Clouds
and a larger size one titled
Karn Age
. He'd looked through them twice already, just able to follow the simplistic text and brief speech bubbles. Tonight was the night he copied out any new regimental badges or operational maps from their pages. The cupboard door next to the table opened with a ping and he took out the sketchbook Mr Williams in the post office had ordered specially for him. On the shelf below was a tin box full of pens and pencils which he placed on the table.

The first comic had a badge in the top right hand corner of the cover itself, so Rubble positioned his sketch pad as close to it as possible. Then, surprisingly quickly, he produced, in freehand, a near exact copy of it on the blank page - even transcribing word for word the regimental motto written in a swirling Latin text below the crest. Once it was complete, he flicked through the rest of the publication, copying down more badges and a map of Singapore that appeared inside. He carried out the same exercise with the other comic, faultlessly rendering a street map of war-torn Stalingrad onto the page. By now the chicken had been bubbling away in the saucepan for some time, so he created a space on the table and went over to the gas ring. A quick glance into the boiling water was sufficient - he'd been eating chicken long enough to judge when it was cooked. He took it off the heat and stabbed a fork into its breast, lifted the dripping lump from the water and dropped it onto a plate. Tomato ketchup was then liberally applied around the edges and he sat back down at the table.

Grasping both of its legs, he bent them back and twisted. The cooked meat gave way with a fleshy tear. A slightly harder yank pulled the legs out of the thigh sockets. He put one drumstick to the side, rolled the other in the red sauce then bit into the muscle. Before he'd swallowed the first chunk he turned the leg in his mouth and took another bite, repeating the process until his cheeks bulged. The drumstick had now lost most of its bulk, but still he rotated it between his lips, gnawing away at it as if it was an apple core. Only once he'd removed every scrap, including the tendons and gristle at the top of the leg, did he put the bone down. Then he sat back and slowly began to chew.

Rubble only ever used his fingers for eating chicken. It was far easier to strip the carcass down to bone that way - knives and forks seemed crude and ineffectual in comparison. Soon he had moved on to the body itself, ripping the fibrous meat from the breast bone, digging a stubby finger into the spinal area and gouging out the lumps of marrow hidden there. Quickly the bird was reduced to a dislocated pile of bones.

Licking his lips, he wiped his fingers down the legs of his overalls, got up, threw the remains out of the window and dropped the plate into the sink. Sitting at the table again, he turned his attention to the back pages of
Karn Age
. Most of the adverts were lost on him, but one - with women's faces lining its perimeter - caught his eye. Or more accurately, the face of one particular girl did. He stared at her thick black curls and deeply tanned skin, wondering what strange and distant place she came from.

Leaning closer, he studied her huge circular earring and fingernails that curved and stretched like talons. The darkness of her eyes, with their long lashes, fixed him from the page. Slowly his eye struggled over the words in the ad until eventually he located the one he recognised: 'horoscopes'.

He'd given-up calling these numbers over a year ago. What they told him would happen never did - he was still working on the farm and he neither looked for, nor wanted, any other future. Unless, of course, the army were to change its mind about letting him in. But after the number of times he'd applied, it was obvious that it was never going to happen.

He gazed into her mysterious eyes and something about the way she looked at him hinted she might be different to the others. Perhaps it was worth another try.

He went to the cupboard above the sink and removed the biscuit tin of change. Carefully, he took out almost all the fifty and twenty pence pieces inside and pocketed them. Then, after checking through the views of the security cameras showing on the monitors, he set off for the village green, comic in his hand.

Quarter of an hour later he was standing inside the phone box with the advert looking up at him. He inserted several fifty pence pieces into the slot and dialled the number next to the face of the girl that so intrigued him. A pre-recorded voice welcomed him to Manchester's 'Girl Next Door' line. It then told him that his call would only be charged at £1.17 a minute, almost ten pence cheaper than most premium-rate lines. The voice asked him to press '5' if he wanted to proceed with the call. Next he was asked to press ‘1' if he wanted an intimate chat with a horny babe from right up his street or '2' if he wanted to have his horoscope or tarot cards read. Rubble pressed '2'. A voice then told him that, if he knew the extension number of the particular astrologer he wished to speak with, please press it now. When he did nothing, the voice said he would soon be connected to an expert in the art of horoscope readings. The noise of wind chimes clinking in a ghostly breeze started up.

After about a minute the music faded and a voice that was strangely accented said, 'Hello caller. My name is Sylvie Claro, would you like a horoscope or a tarot reading?'

'I want you to read my fortune,' replied Rubble with unnecessary force, trying to hide his shyness.

'OK, my child,' replied the voice. 'First I would like to know the year of your birth.'

'Is it your picture in Karn Age?' Rubble suddenly blurted.

'Sorry my precious?'

'The advert in Karn Age. Is that a picture of you? Am I speaking to you?'

The voice faltered. 'Describe to me the lady in the advert.'

Rubble started awkwardly, 'You've got long dark curly hair. Um - and your finger nails are very long.' He dried up, unable to describe how beautiful he found her face.

'And my eyes,' the voice whispered seductively, 'what colour are my eyes?'

'Brown. Very big and brown,' he said in a small voice.

'Yes, that is me.'

'And your name is Sylvie?'

‘That is my name. Now my child, what year were you born?'

Rubble frowned. He'd been asked this question on previous calls and couldn't answer it then. 'I know it was on the sixth of March.'

'Gracias - and the year?'

‘Dunno.’

'You do not know the year in which you came into this world?'

 'Nuh,' Rubble grunted quietly.

'OK, let me see.’ The voice paused and he could hear vague sounds of paper being moved. 'It shouldn't be a problem - it will just take me a few moments longer to draw up your horoscope. Do you have grey hair?'

'No.'

'But you are not a youth?'

'No - Mr Wicks told me I was over twenty-one, but that was a few summers ago.'

'Stay with me. To see which stars were ascendant in that period, I must look at my charts. Please wait, they are up in my observatory.'

Clare took off the headset, walked slowly to me supervisor's office and popped her head through the door, 'Keep my line open will you Brian? I've got a punter on - I'm just off to look up his charts.' She winked and headed across to the kitchen. Inside were a couple of women she'd chatted a bit with before. She dropped ten pence into the tin, and as she filled her cup from the kettle, said, 'Hey girls, I've got a right one on at the moment. First, he thinks I'm the actual woman from that advert.' She pointed at the poster on the wall. 'Second, he's ringing a horoscope line and he doesn't even know which year he was born in! I've told him I'm in my observatory looking up his charts.'

'What - he's on your line at the moment?' one asked incredulously.

'Yup - he's buying everything I tell him,' replied Clare.

From the doorway an accusatory voice hissed, 'You're a disgrace to the astrologer's art.'

They all turned round to look at the purple-haired woman who had silently entered the room. Her round form was sheathed in a long black smock, over the front of which hung an enormous pentagram on a silver chain.

She held up a hand and pointed at Clare with a ring-covered finger. 'I hear you filling up those callers with rubbish. Speaking about things of which you have no knowledge. Take note: you are flirting with dark forces by doing it.'

Embarrassed, Clare looked down at her mug of tea.

One of the other women butted in. 'Well I am sorry, Gypsy bloody Lee, we can't all be members of the British Astrological Society.'

The woman let out a snort then turned back to Clare. 'I've read your tarot cards, young girl. And you’re heading into mortal danger!’ She turned on her heel and marched back out of the door.

Clare looked at the other two women. ‘Mortal danger? What did she mean?’

'I wouldn't worry about any of her predictions. If she was any good, how come she didn't foresee that they were going to kick her off Mystic Meg's “Live Line” in
The Sun
?'

The older women began cackling.

'Is that where she used to work?' asked Clare.

'Yeah, they caught her giving out her mobile number to callers. That's why she now works in a dump like this. Though she thinks she's above us, the snobby bitch.'

Suddenly the other woman said, 'Jesus, you'll be clocking up big time on that caller. The most I've ever kept one on for was nine minutes fifty-five. Just missed the ten minute bonus.'

'Nearly ten minutes? Most of mine have shot their bolt after about three!' said the other woman.

'Bloody hell - has my Ian been ringing you again?'

They all burst out laughing.

'Right,' said Clare. 'I'd better get back before he gives up on me.'

'Go for it girl!' said the older one as she left the kitchen once again.

Back in her cubicle she slipped her headset back on. 'Hello my child?'

'Yeah?' replied Rubble.

'I have studied my charts and the heavens look very promising for you over the next few weeks. As 3 a Piscean, the Zodiac's most energetic and forceful planet, Mars, is about to link with your star sign. This signals new horizons for you. The influence of idealistic Neptune is also growing, so if there are any ambitions inside you that you have long dreamed about, now is the perfect time to take action and go for them. What area do you work in my child?'

'I work on a farm. Have done all my life.'

Clare thought about the hard times faced by the farming industry. 'Well, perhaps...' she hesitated, 'perhaps changes will come from outside your present job.' Falling back on a fail-safe avenue, she said, 'How are your finances?'

'Finances?'

'Money. Could you do with more money?'

'Not really - I don't spend much.' The pips sounded. 'Hang on,' said Rubble, pressing his last two twenty pence pieces into the slot.

'You are on a pay phone?'

'Yeah - that's my last coins.'

'OK, then I must hurry. The future will smile on you. If not through your job, it will be another opportunity.'

'Could it be the army?' Rubble interrupted.

'Maybe.'

'I've tried to get into the army before.'

'Yes, maybe that is what I see ...' The pips sounded once more. 'If you would like to speak with me again, call my extension. Three zero four. I am here most nights each week, ask for Syl - '

The line went dead and Clare looked at the read out on her console. Twelve minutes eighteen seconds. She punched the air and shouted a silent Yes! at the ceiling.

In the call-box a moth crawled up the window, its wings a blur on its back. Rubble stood staring at the face of the girl in the faint light. 'Sylvie, three zero four,' he whispered. Then he pushed his way out of the booth and lumbered off into the darkness.

Chapter 9

Eric Maudsley sat in uneasy silence and tried to quell the feeling that he was a schoolboy, called before the headmaster. With hands folded in his lap he listened to the rapid tap-tap-tap of the secretary at her keyboard. Every couple of seconds she would strike the space bar with her thumb and the small thud it made gave her typing the semblance of some sort of erratic rhythm. Looking down at him from the surrounding wood panel walls were oil paintings of previous chancellors. Each one had their academic gown draped over their shoulders, the various coloured collars denoting which subject they had graduated in. He noted with interest how the style of portrait altered over the decades - chancellors from the pre-World War One period stared at him with an icy sobriety, the background of the painting a meticulous study of bookshelves. Later pictures were looser in style with sweeping brushstrokes, successive painters seeming determined to beat the preceding artist for some original touch; a hazy, impressionistic swirl of colour here, a blurred background of moving students there. One even faded away at the edges, leaving pencil markings exposed to view. He wondered how much of the university's money had been squandered on these self-indulgent shows of vanity.