Pecking Order (13 page)

Grabbing his heavy-duty gardening gloves off the shelf to his side, he put them on and, afraid of what he might see, folded back the blanket to reveal the cat's head. Its lips instantly curled back and it hissed up at him. The animal's defiance angered him and he grabbed it by the back of the neck and reached for its collar. It snapped at his hand, fangs sinking harmlessly into the thick rubber, and he carried on regardless. Once the buckle was undone, he threw the collar to the side, re-wrapped the animal and stuffed it into the plastic storage container ready in his car boot. He snapped the lid on, closed the boot, dropped the gloves back on the shelf, opened his garage door and drove out on to his drive.

After locking up, he set off for the university, parking by the skips outside the biology department. Jumping from the car, he walked round to the rear, opened up the boot and extracted the bundle. To his relief, the lump inside struggled briefly as he lifted it out. Then he jogged into the biology department. Negotiating his way through the building materials strewn along the corridor, he headed straight to the end door marked, K. Howard. Laboratory Assistant. Aware of the sounds of hammering and sawing coming from the labs he'd just passed, he urgently rapped on the frosted glass.

A hazy form appeared and the door was unlocked to reveal a woman with glasses, probably in her late-thirties. Frowning, she looked down at the blanket held in Eric's arms.

'Hello, I'm Professor Maudsley from the Social Studies Department!' he exclaimed breathlessly, the sharp smell of sawdust and urine catching in his nose. 'I've just run over a poor cat; I don't know what to do. It's horribly injured. You were the closest place I could think of.'

'Oh God, you'd better bring it in,' she said, stepping aside and waving him into a room piled with boxes and crates. Swiftly tying up her wavy mane of hair, she went to the side of the room, calling back over her shoulder, 'I'm having to pack everything up - they're gutting the place for refurbishment.' As she cleared a space on a work surface, Eric looked at the shelves of cages. Inside the highest ones he could see gerbils and hamsters - excited by all the commotion outside they scampered manically around on their wheels. Confined in the larger cages beneath were half a dozen rabbits. All were asleep except one - who regarded him through the bars with pink, suspicious eyes. In a glass container on the floor near Eric, locusts swarmed over the wire mesh separating them from a warm light bulb.

'OK, bring it over here and let's have a look,' said the assistant, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

'It just ran out from between two parked cars. I feel awful,' said Eric, as he carefully lowered the blanket down. Keeping his grip on the animal inside he added, 'Careful, it went for me when I picked it up.'

Taking one corner between thumb and forefinger, the assistant gingerly pulled apart the blanket's folds. Standing on tiptoes to keep her face as far away as possible, she peered in. Her features relaxed and she said, 'Oh Jesus, you needn't worry about it jumping out at us.'

Eric loosened his grip and she opened out the blanket. During the car journey it had both vomited and soiled itself - a mixture of diarrhoea and blood plastered its shattered back legs.

'Oh no. Oh no. Can it feel anything? It must be in agony. Oh my God,' Eric ran a hand despairingly through his beard.

The cat lay on its side, tongue lolling, its breath coming in little gasps. Similar, Eric thought with satisfaction, to the shrew it had tortured to death a few nights before.

'The best thing I can do is put it out of its misery. Now where the bloody hell is the Euthanol? I only packed it up this morning.' She looked around and then settled on a large cardboard box at the end of the counter. 'I hope it's in here - everything's in a complete muddle.' Lifting up the flaps of the box she said, 'Ah yes - thank God.’ She fished out a bottle of clear liquid then unlocked the wall-cupboard in front of her and took a thin syringe and hypodermic needle out from the large box inside. She put both items in the front pocket of her tunic and then carefully lifted the animal up, blanket and all. 'I'll put it to sleep next door - don't worry, it won't feel a thing.'

'Oh, thank you,' said Eric, his lower lip trembling slightly.

As soon as the side door shut he stepped over to the cardboard box and opened it. Inside was a haphazard variety of miniature racks - some full, others half empty with bottles. Spotting several more of the type she’d held up, he quickly grabbed two and put one in each jacket pocket. Then he opened up the cupboard, snatched a handful of syringes and needles and shoved them into the inside pocket of his jacket. Almost as an after-thought, he pulled several pairs of latex gloves from the dispenser on the work surface and rammed them into his trouser pockets.

Nervously he stepped back to where he'd been standing before and looked around. On the shelf in front of him was a dank aquarium, half full of water. A label on the front read, Xenopus Toad. He leaned forward and peered through the greenish glass. On the other side the amphibian hung motionless in the water, limbs splayed wide, bug-like eyes dead in its head. With childish curiosity, Eric placed a finger at the exact point where its stubby snout was pressed against the glass. The animal didn't move. Then, tensing the tip of his forefinger against his thumb, he flicked the hard surface. The toad exploded backwards, powerful hind legs scrabbling in the gravel. It shot across its tiny home with a single kick, and struggled to burrow its head into the far corner, stones snick-snicking under the water. Unnerved, Eric stepped back, glancing towards the side door.

On the work surface stood a row of microscopes, each one shrouded in a protective plastic cover. Beneath the semi-opaque sheeting twin viewfinders strained upwards, like the bulging stalk-eyes of suffocating insects. Eric realised all the animals were here on a kind of death row - waiting for the dissecting blade. Then his view of the apparatus was lost as the assistant opened the side-room door and stepped back out, Eric's blanket folded neatly over one arm. 'There - it's not suffering anymore.'

'Thank you,' said Eric, then sorrowfully added, 'I just couldn't stop my car in time.'

She smiled sympathetically, 'Don't feel guilty - it's just one of those things. By the way, it didn't have any collar on, so best I just put it in the incinerator, don't you think?'

Eric nodded. 'I suppose so.'

She stepped towards him, holding out the blanket, but Eric said, 'Would you mind burning that too? I couldn't bear to ever sit on it again.'

'Of course,' she replied gently.

'Right,' said Eric taking a deep breath, 'I'd better be on my way.’

‘Thanks again.' As he stepped towards the door he saw her looking down at his jacket. Then she pointed towards his side and said, 'Er - excuse me?'

Eric's heart lurched, and he heard blood rushing through his ears. She’d seen the vials of Euthanol. ‘Yes?' he said, fearfully meeting her gaze.

She held a finger towards his pocket and said, 'What's that?'

Eric looked slowly down as she added, 'There's something on your sleeve.'

He bent his right arm and held his elbow up. The remains of the slug from his windowsill were smeared across the tweed.

Back in his study he went on to the internet and typed in the word, Euthanol. The search brought up a variety of sites, many in foreign languages. He scrolled down, clicking on a promising-looking government entry. The site was titled, 'Medicines (Veterinary Drugs, Prescription Only) Order 2001.' It gave very general notes on drug classification by the Veterinary Medicines Directorate, but nothing on dosages.

He returned to the search results and clicked on a report titled, 'Too slow to win.' It was a review of a
Kenyon Confronts
investigation that exposed the widespread killing of greyhounds that were no longer at their peak for racing. The preferred poison was a barbiturate called Euthanol.

Eric picked up the bottle of the almost colourless solution and examined the label. The manufacturer was called, Merial. He typed that in and clicked on 'search' again. The company's web site came top of the list. He clicked on it and then, once the homepage appeared, selected a box titled, Veterinary Professionals. He was taken through to an inner screen where he selected, Information on Products. But his way was barred by a field asking for his username and password.

He logged off and examined the bottle, wondering how much would be required.

Chapter 19

As he passed the driveway to Embleton Farm he slowed the car right down - creeping along another fifty metres or so until he saw the narrow track on his left. A ditch just to the side of the road prevented him from pulling up on the grass verge, so he turned into the mouth of the track itself, parking a short way down. Immediately he killed his headlights, gathered his satchel off the passenger seat next to him and began walking down the path. After a couple of minutes he could just make out a glow from a window floating in the darkness ahead. Then, slowly, the dull white of the caravan surrounding it became visible.

He paused under the gently shifting branches of the beech trees, shoes crackling on the casings of nuts scattered on the ground around him. Once again he ran through everything in his head. Suddenly a shiver ran through him and he took a long breath inwards. Something inside him said that he had almost reached the point of no return; if he carried on now he couldn't go back. There was still time, he told himself, to just turn around and walk away; no one would ever know. As he stood there deciding what to do he was aware of a small ticking noise in the tree above him. Something hollow bounced on the track beside him. A beechnut shell, he thought, from a squirrel feeding above. Then one glanced off his head and it suddenly occurred to him that it was night: and squirrels weren't nocturnal. He tilted his head backwards and, as he squinted at the shadowy leaves above, something large and dark detached itself and dropped towards him.

Involuntarily he stepped back, eyes wide with fear and confusion.

Rubble landed barely a foot in front of him, sank instantly to his haunches and extended a set of knuckles to the ground to steady himself. A grinning voice said, 'Roy Bull, reporting for duty, Sir.'

Eric stared in astonishment at the black form bunched in the gloom before him, blinked several times and cleared his throat. 'You caught me by surprise.'

‘Thanks,' replied Rubble, straightening up. The top of his head came to just below Eric's chin, and the taller man wondered what to do. Should they shake hands? Deciding that, instead, a show of authority was needed, he gave a business-like cough as if indicating to a room of students that he required silence. Then he looked over Rubble's head towards the caravan and said coldly, 'Shall we proceed with the interview?'

Rubble stepped backwards. 'Was that wrong? It was wrong. I only wanted to show you my stealth skills.' He sounded dismayed, as if the pathway to his rejection had already been embarked upon.

 'No - I'm impressed. Surprised, that's all,' replied Eric.

'Oh right,' said Rubble. The balance tipped in his favour once more, he cheerfully set off towards his home.

Eric regarded the broad sloping shoulders and thick, bullet head, sensing the man’s hope in the spring of his stride. He followed in silence.

As they reached the caravan he looked at the mass of shapes that seemed to be swarming up the white plastic wall. 'What are those?' he asked.

Rubble didn't even look at them. 'Tails. From the vermin that come on the farm. I shoot 'em with this,' he pulled open the door and pointed at the air rifle mounted in its sling on the wall. Not waiting for his visitor, he stepped up into the caravan.

Eric quickly glanced at the darkness all around, then followed him in. Immediately he realised the ceiling was a fraction too low for him - he could feel a strand of hair on the top of his head brushing against it. Keeping his head slightly bowed he looked around from under his bushy eyebrows. The monitor in the corner filled the caravan with a weak, bluish light. He tried not to react to the smell of mildew that had closed in around him. Rubble looked expectantly at him, waiting for his instructions.

'Right, let's sit down,' said Eric, pointing to the soft seats on either side of the fold down table. Rubble immediately obeyed and Eric slid on to the cushioned seat opposite, its waxy nylon surface making it feel damp. 'Before we go any further, you're required to sign the Official Secrets Act. Nothing that is discussed in this interview can ever be repeated to anyone else. Do you understand?'

Rubble nodded solemnly, watching as Eric opened a leather satchel and extracted a plastic A4 sleeve. Inside was a single sheet of paper. Earlier in the day Eric had doctored a standard Departmental Confidentiality form used for clinical research and other projects. He'd deleted all reference to the university and replaced it with the words, Her Majesty's Government. He removed the lid of his Parker pen and pushed the sheet across the table, 'Would you like to read it first?'

With his hands nervously clutching his knees under the table, Rubble leaned forward and looked at the form. The page was crammed with text. He couldn't even begin to understand it - but he was able to make out the university crest at the top of the page. Automatically he committed it to memory. 'It's OK,' he whispered.

'Good - please sign here then.' Eric put a cross in the box at the bottom and handed the pen to Rubble. In an awkward, childish hand he slowly wrote, Roy Bull.

'Thank you,' replied Eric, whisking the form away. 'I needn't impress on you the importance of honouring the Official Secrets Act. Now, do you have the advertisement you used for calling Room 101?'

Rubble quickly reached for the card hidden under his sketchpad and handed it to Eric. It was swiftly returned to the satchel. Eric suspected the rest of the charade was hardly necessary, but he decided to carry it out anyway. 'What is your occupation?'

Rubble didn't reply and Eric, noticing his frown, rephrased the question, 'What do you do for a job?'