Pecking Order (14 page)

Rubble didn't hesitate, 'Work on the farm over there,' he nodded to the wall. 'In charge of the chickens.'

'And how do you look after them?' Eric asked, steering the conversation towards the answers he wanted.

'Don't look after them. I just ... keep check on 'em.'

'So if one's ill, you call a vet?'

Rubble almost laughed. 'A vet? No, I'll wring its neck and throw it out. Can't keep ill ones. Might be catching. Egg production could go down.'

'And what about if it’s old?'

'Same thing. “If it's not laying, it's not living," says Mr Wicks. It's me kills them.'

'I understand,' said Eric, taking the ink blot cards and a clipboard out of his bag. 'Could we have some more light please?'

Rubble flicked a switch by his side and two wall-mounted lamps came on, little tassles swaying under the fake velvet shades.

'Right. I'm going to turn over these cards and show you the shapes on the other side. This isn't a test where your answers are right or wrong. I just want you to tell me what you see on the other side in one or two words. Is that clear?'

Rubble shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'OK'.

Eric propped the clipboard on one knee so Rubble couldn't see what he wrote. Then, with pen ready, he flipped over the first card and glanced up at Rubble, eyebrows raised.

Rubble looked at the card, at Eric, at the card again. Frowning, he said, 'It's a big drip of ink.'

Keeping his voice neutral Eric replied, 'Yes, that's correct. But what does it look like?'

'Look like?' repeated Rubble, picking at his lower lip.

'A ship, a fish, a ...' Eric looked at the spiky shaped lump, 'an alien?'

'Yeah!' Rubble agreed. 'A space monster.'

'Good,' Eric turned over the next card.

Rubble peered at the long jagged smear. 'The fire coming out of a US M2-2 flame thrower.'

Eric wrote 'aeiou' on the paper, 'Next.'

A squat shape, with a bulbous top and splayed bottom. 'A shell for a German Leichter mortar.'

The pronunciation was awful, but somehow the knowledge was there. Eric wrote out a line of exclamation marks. 'Next.'

A blurred horseshoe shape, edges blurred. 'The Sudetland.'

Shocked, Eric looked up, 'I'm sorry. Did you mean the Sudetenland?'

‘Yes,' replied Rubble. 'Sudetenland.’ All the emphasis was on the syllable he'd missed out. He sat back, awaiting the next card.

A round shape, with slightly irregular edges. 'A Mills Bomb, number 36.'

Eric looked at him questioningly.

'A British hand grenade,' Rubble explained. 'But that one's had its pin removed.'

They continued onwards and every answer Rubble gave had a military slant to it. After they reached the final one Eric said, 'That's excellent.' He packed the cards away. Earlier at his house, Eric had examined the two tests his colleague in the psychology department had lent him. But he'd decided the questions were too specific and detailed for his purposes. He folded the top sheet from the clipboard in half and placed it in his bag. Underneath, the list of questions he'd transcribed from his recent video recording of
Blade Runner
was written out.

'Right, I'm now going to ask you a series of imaginary questions. Just relax and answer them as quickly as you can.'

Rubble nodded nervously.

'It's your birthday. Someone gives you a calf skin wallet. Do you accept it?'

‘Someone buys me a present?' Rubble asked, sounding surprised. 'Yeah, I would.'

'You've got a young son. He shows you his butterfly collection, along with the jar he kills them in. How does it make you feel?'

'OK.'

‘You're watching television. Suddenly you realise there's a wasp crawling up your arm. What do you do?'

'Kill it.'

'You're in a restaurant. People are eating boiled dog. Do you have any?'

'If they give me some.'

'You are in a desert. You look down and see a tortoise lying on its back, belly baking in the hot sun. What do you do?'

 'Take it with me.'

'Why?'

'If I'm in a desert, I might need to eat it later.'

When he reached the final question on his list - the one asking how the subject felt about his mother, the one which prompted the replicant in
Blade Runner
to blast the stomach of his interrogator from under the table - Eric found himself hesitating. He looked into Rubble's emotionless eyes. 'Very good, that concludes the test.'

Rubble stared down at the table, resignation like a blanket round his shoulders.

'It's rare that I interview a candidate with a psychological profile as perfect as yours,' Eric announced.

Rubble looked up, registered Eric's smile, but his own expression didn't change. Eric saw that he didn't understand. 'You've passed. Well done.' He held a hand out across the formica.

Rubble looked at it for an instant. ‘I passed?' he asked incredulously. 'I have?'

‘Absolutely, you're now an agent for Her Majesty's Government.'

He grabbed Eric's hand with both of his and simply sgueezed.

After a couple of seconds, one of Eric's knuckles cracked. 'Congratulations,' he winced, pulling his fingers from Rubble's thankful grip. Then, just to satisfy his own curiosity, he continued, 'Last thing - and this is very much a formality. We conduct interviews in the applicant's home so we can gain a more thorough insight into their personality. May I look round yours?'

Rubble stared at him nonplussed. 'You want to look around in here?'

'Yes,' said Eric getting up.

'Well, I don't have much.' Rubble began pointing, 'Here's the sitting room. Kitchen. Over there's the bog. And shower.'

'These comics. Your collection?' said Eric, twirling a finger round, noting the slight pain in his knuckle.

'Yeah, been buying them for years,' he said proudly.

Eric removed a magazine from the shelf.
Great Battles of the 20th Century
. The top right hand corner of the cover was taken up by a yellow flash loudly proclaiming, First issue – introductory price!

Eric opened it up and saw a detailed diagram of EI Alamein. 'One of the inkblot cards reminded you of the Sudetenland. How did you know that?' he casually asked.

'Mr Williams in the post office,' said Rubble, getting up, too. 'He lets me ask him things about what's in the magazines. Explains bits to me.'

'I see,' said Eric, putting the magazine back. 'And this book?' Eric nodded at the child's sketchpad on the corner of the table.

'Maps. From my comics,' Rubble opened it, revealing an intricate rendition of a city centre. It was labelled, Berlin. May, 1945.

Eric went over to the fridge. 'What sort of food do you like?'’

 'Don't mind,' replied Rubble. Eric could see he was becoming flustered again. He opened the small white door and peered inside. Two chickens. Milk, cheese, eggs, yoghurt. Some carrots, partially covered in mud.

'Mrs Wicks brings me a bag of stuff once a week. Buys it from my wages. And I'm allowed all the chickens I want off the farm.' As he spoke Eric was opening cupboard doors, slowly approaching the other end of the room. He saw Rubble's eyes flick nervously towards his bedroom door.

'And is this your bedroom?'

Rubble stepped defensively towards the door, but didn't dare refuse the inspection. 'Yes.'

Eric turned the plastic handle and pushed the thin door open. A salty smell, one he recognised from his own bedroom. He flicked the light switch on, but did not step inside. A dishevelled single bed, blankets bunched at the bottom, a stain half way up the sheets. A yellowish pillow pushed up against the headboard. Taped to the wall above it was a large pencil sketch of the head and shoulders of a Romany-looking woman. Long black, curly hair, a large round earring, big brown eyes. He turned to the far end of the room. More animal tails.

'What are they from?' asked Eric.

'Cats,' whispered Rubble, shame filling his voice.

Eric turned and looked questioningly at the shorter man.

'Some of the villagers thought I'd killed their cats. You know when they come to the farm, hunting. Trying to kill the chickens. Miss Strines reported me, and Constable Jardine questioned me about it. But she didn't look in here. I said I hadn't.' His arms hung at his sides. 'Have I failed?'

Eric looked at the forlorn collection of appendages and allowed himself a brief smile. Cats. Vile things. As he pulled the door closed he said, 'Not at all. Your answers to the police questions show initiative. Well done.'

He pointed Rubble back towards the table and, as they stepped towards it, he regarded the back of the younger man's skull. Here was a brain all but untouched by the educational system, a mind at the opposite end of the learning spectrum to his. Yet, for all their differences, he felt a stirring of affection for the other man. He reached out and gave Rubble a fatherly pat on the back.

Chapter 20

Once he'd read the opening paragraph he turned straight to the conclusion and read that. It seemed to answer the questions posed at the start of the essay. He quickly skimmed through the pages in between, occasionally dropping red ticks on the text where he spotted dates or significant names. He reached the final page again, casually wrote a 'B' at the end and tossed it on the pile of other marked scripts on the floor by his desk. He turned to his computer and jiggled the mouse so the screen returned to life. He added the grade to a spreadsheet, leant back in his chair and sighed. Then, tensing the ball of one foot against the floor, Julian spun himself through one hundred and eighty degrees and looked out across the dark campus. Rising above the trees on the other side of the park was a hall of residence.

A multitude of windows glowed, various coloured curtains giving it the look of a strange mosaic. Once again he found himself wondering whether to bring a pair of binoculars into his office: after all, not every pair of curtains was completely drawn.

He imagined all the students in there. In their bedrooms. Socialising, drinking, planning which pubs and clubs to spend the night in. So free and full of life. Slowly he got up and went over to the photo on his middle bookshelf. His tutorial group from the previous year. Sat on the lawn outside the department, smiling at the camera, eyes in shadow from the sun directly above. His eyes lingered over one particular female student. Alice. He seemed so close to succeeding with her. Had given her plenty of undeserved 'A' grades, encouraged her to apply for a research position in the department. He looked at her sitting there, delighted with her 2:1. Days away from graduating. Days away from when it would have been safe to make his move. But then she vanished - lured down to London by a graduate trainee position with some multinational.

Eyes narrowed with regret, he slid his hand round the back of the photo frame. From the shadow behind he pulled out the feather he'd retrieved from the coffee-room floor a few days before. He held it before his face and ran a nail down the stiff edge, listening to the filaments rasp. And he thought about Clare Silver. Considered her.

Chapter 21

They sat facing each other, the satchel on the table between them. Rubble still couldn't relax. He fidgeted and scratched, uncomfortably looking around.

‘Is there something else you want to tell me?' the professor gently asked.

Rubble shrugged his shoulders. 'Just can't believe it. All this - me working as a Government agent.'

'Well, it's for real - you can believe it all.'

'But I've been turned down by the army. Lots of times. I never thought I'd work on secret stuff.'

Eric smiled condescendingly at his mention of the army. 'You can't compare the army and its personnel to the type of people we employ. Oh no.' He wagged a finger. 'This work is far, far more sensitive. It calls for a very ... particular sort of person. And your psychological profile and experience on this battery farm are both ideal.'

Rubble's crooked smile reappeared and he put his thick forearms on the table.

‘Now,' Eric carried on, 'you're familiar with euthanasia?'

Rubble's forehead bunched up and he struggled with the first vowel, 'Youth ...'

'Anasia,' Eric quickly finished the word for him. 'You know how there's so many old people around? Your village is probably full of them.'

Rubble's face was still registering blank and Eric, sensing the need for an actual example, said, 'That Miss Strines you mentioned. The one who said you'd killed her cat. How old is she?'

Rubble looked as if he was smelling sour milk. 'Really old.'

'There you go. Now, many of these old people have had enough of living. They don't want to struggle on any longer. They just want a nice peaceful death, in their own bed. And the Government can't afford to look after them all either. It costs us a lot of money, and they're not really much use any more. They don't actually do anything - not even work.' He paused, wary of loading on too much information too quickly. 'Everything clear so far?'

Rubble was thinking. Tentatively he raised a finger, as if in class. 'Like the chickens?'

Eric breathed a sigh of relief. This was the association he was looking to create. 'How do you mean?' he probed encouragingly.

'The chickens are no good either after a while. They get old and stop laying.'

‘And then what happens to them?'

'I kill 'em.'

Eric placed his palms together with a soft pat. 'That's exactly what this project is all about! You are very good, young man.’

Rubble’s grin widened.

‘Any old people who've had enough,’ Maudsley continued,  ‘they just contact us on a special phone number. We agree a night to visit. Then they take a sleeping tablet before they go to bed and we arrive later on, let ourselves quietly into their house and put them to sleep. They never feel a thing. No pain, no suffering. After that, we call the undertakers and they have a nice funeral, just as if they'd died normally. No one else, not even their family, needs to know that we helped them to sleep. It's all a great big secret.'

Rubble nodded his understanding.