by Ally Kennen
When I was a kid and lived at home, my uncle worked in an abattoir and was always bringing us bags of steaks and joints of pork. He called it a perk of the job.
Outside I just stand for a minute, feeling the rain on my cheek. It’s warmer out here and it’s March! The air smells really fresh. I get in my car and watch the students climb into a minibus. The girl is with them. I hope that doesn’t mean she’s a student. I hope she’s a dropout like me.
I watch the minibus drive away and I try to work out how much I’ve earned. My hours are seven thirty till five, that’s nine and a half hours, minus half an hour unpaid lunch break. I wished I’d managed to stick school for longer. Then this sum would be easy. I can’t believe the number of child haters who work in schools. I don’t know how other kids stick it. I get there in the end though I run out of fingers very quickly. Forty-two pounds and thirty pence, that’s what I’ve earned today. Kazumba! Petrol money for a fortnight! Two hundred and eleven pounds 50p a week. Times that by four, that makes eight hundred and forty-six pounds a month. I’m going to be bloody rich. I can afford the odd pig on that, and food and rent. I’m not going to be on the streets. I’m able to look after myself. The only problem is I have to go back down into that freezing basement for nine hours every day. I don’t know if I can do it.
So I’m driving home. It’s about five p.m. and I’m knackered and I see an animal lying by the side of the road. I dip my lights in case it’s scared, but it doesn’t move. I drive past and pull over. I put my emergency lights on so I can see and I get out of the car.
It is a badger and I think it’s dead. But it’s hard to tell by the red flashing lights. Somebody told me that badgers can bite your hand off. I see a hairy body and teeth. It is not breathing. I cannot bring myself to touch it so I get the car jack from the boot, and poke it.
I know someone who would like you, I tell it. I am still scared to touch it with my bare hands but I want to put it in my car. It is too good an opportunity to miss, so I take my trainers off and put them over my hands. The inside of the trainers are warm and slightly damp. The boot is open and I kneel and try to pick the animal up. It is too heavy and the trainers are useless. I think of how I can’t afford any more pigs until I get paid and I let the shoes fall from my hands and just pick the thing up. It is still warm even though it’s a cold night. The hair is thick and wiry and the thing stinks worse than dog shit. It probably has fleas and ticks and God knows what, but I put it in the boot of my car and slam down the hatch. I wonder how long it will keep. The Beast isn’t going to be hungry for a while. Maybe I could freeze it?
Stephen, my boy, I tell myself, you’ll never be able to explain a frozen badger to Verity when she’s rummaging for her ice cream. I wonder if I should go straight to the reservoir. I would have a hard job explaining a dead badger to Jimmy. My old man is never going to eat that, is he?
I decide to go home. I’m knackered.
At the Reynolds’s house everyone is out except Robert, who is playing his Xbox and eating pizza. I immediately feel more relaxed. I like Robert. He makes me laugh.
He’s an odd little kid.
“Hey bro,” he says when he sees me. Not one other kid in any of the millions of foster homes I have been in has called me that. Not one. But I have known Robert since he was nine so he has got used to me being around. Unlike his sister.
“They’ve gone to a fucking barn dance!” says Robert.
I like that too. He’s this posh middle class kid, who has piano lessons and goes to school every day with a clean shirt, who swears worse than the butchers in the meat factory. I’ve been tempted to tell Robert about the reservoir and the cage and the pigs. But I can’t, he is after all one of the Reynolds family. He belongs to them, not me. And to be honest, if I did show him, I have no idea how he would react. This is part of why I like him. He’s unpredictable. A wild card. Sometimes he has lots to tell me, other days he doesn’t. He never pretends to be in a good mood when he isn’t. Sometimes he reminds me of Selby.
I’m not really a snooper, but I like to know what is going on around me. And I happen to know that Robert’s bedroom walls are plastered with pictures of naked women. He’s only eleven! There’s nothing too rude, just tits and bums and lots of hair. And you really wouldn’t want to look under the bed. I mean, where does a kid like Robert get this stuff from? Jimmy hasn’t got anything like it, at least not that I have found. I can’t imagine my gran putting up with that sort of thing. I’d be too embarrassed to have stuff like that, let alone display it on the wall.
“Has Carol gone with them?” I ask. I always like to know the position of the enemy.
“She’s gone out to one of her mates’,” says Robert. “Give us a fag will you?”
I tut. “Your mum wouldn’t like it.”
“Oh, don’t be so tight.” He holds out his hand. “I need one so I can concentrate on my homework.”
I give in. I’m a bit of a soft touch when people are being nice to me.
“All right,” I say. “But smoke it outside and throw the butt in the bin.” I fish a fag out for him and he wrinkles up his face in disgust.
“Low tar, you stingy minger.” But he takes it anyway.
I make myself a sandwich and decide that I might as well take the badger to the reservoir tonight seeing as everyone is out. I have this idea that the more I stuff him with meat, the quieter he’ll be. I admit I am feeling nervous. God knows what my little pet would have done to me if he had dragged me in that cage. That’s all the thanks I get for looking after him for over six years. I look outside to the porch where Robert is smoking the fag right down to the filter. I want to warn him not to burn his fingers. He is nothing like my other brother, Chas, though they are about the same age. Chas is in another foster home. He’s been there nearly a year now. I’ve only seen him once since he moved in. Maybe I should phone him, but that would mean I’d have to get the number off Mindy and I’m not talking to that cow if I can help it. Chas is a sweet little kid. People always want to look after him. My gran was mad when they took him away. She said they were denying her human rights but they said they couldn’t risk it. It’s because my mum lives with her and she’s not a very good mother. I won’t go into that now. The only other thing I’ll say about my mum is that she did try to look after us. (Unlike my dear father.) But some people, like my parents, shouldn’t have kids. There are three of us. Selby, me and Chas. Things got messy. My mum couldn’t cope, well she never could really. She’s not like other people’s mothers. For one thing, she shaves her head, even though she says she hates doing it. Like I said. I’ll leave it there for now. I need to think about the badger I’ve got in the back of my car and how I’m going to get it through the hatch without any trouble.
So I’m driving up to the lake. It’s really dark now, about nine p.m., and I see something scamper in the headlights. Everything is out on the roads tonight. I don’t know what comes over me but instead of slamming on the brakes I put my foot down and swerve towards it. I want to hit it, whatever it is. I’m on a feeding frenzy for my boy. I’m going to stuff him so full of meat he’s going to keep quiet for a month. I can’t afford any more pigs and I don’t want to work in that factory for much longer. Whatever this thing is, I’m going to mow it down and use it as food. If my boy isn’t hungry, he’s less likely to try and escape. It’s like the devil has grabbed hold of my hands and is steering towards these bright, unblinking eyes in the road.
There’s a knock from the front right wheel and I stop the car. I sit for a moment or two. What have I done? I’m a murderer. I deliberately set out to kill something. And it wasn’t a pheasant or anything little like that. It was something bigger. Something which I thought would keep my boy quiet for a bit. Something to settle his scaly old stomach. What the hell did I do that for? I open the door and get out. It feels like I have finally turned bad. I am like one of the psycho kids in the home. The really messed up
ones, like Alan Granger. The inside of my head is black.
I wonder if this is the beginning of a new me. A me who will end up in the nick. A me who does terrible things.
I look under the wheel. It is not a hare or another badger, or a fox. It is a small dog.
And it’s still breathing.
S i x
“You can’t keep him, I’m afraid,” says Verity. She wipes the breadcrumbs from the table and holds them in her fist. She looks tired and her eye make-up is smeared down one cheek. This barn dancing must be hot stuff.
“Why not?” I ask, though I know the answer. “Carol’s got her cat, you’ve got Robert. Why can’t I have a pet?”
“Oh Stephen,” she says and gives me the famous “Verity look”. It is intended to silence me and make me see sense. But I’m not letting her off that easily. I know I can’t have a pet because I am not going to be here much longer. But I want her to say that. To spell it out to me.
“We’ll take him to the RSPCA tomorrow,” she says. “He’s a nice little dog. Someone will give him a good home. The owner might even come forward.”
“He’s a stray,” I say. “Look at him.”
The dog looks like a cross between a whippet and a Staffordshire bull terrier. He has these big wet eyes and a square body. He has a bald patch on his knee and his head. He’s so thin you can see his ribs and when he does a turd in the garden there are tiny white worms wriggling in it. He has a cut on his back where the car hit him. Other than that he’s fine.
“Malackie,” I say. “I’m going to call him Malackie.”
I heard one of the meat cutters going on about some guy called Malackie. I liked the name.
“Oh Stephen,” sighs Verity. “Don’t get attached.”
Story of my life.
Malackie and I walk out.
I don’t go to work the next day. I wonder if I’ll get the sack but frankly I don’t care. I’ll get another job. It didn’t seem so bad when I was there but now it seems the factory is rank. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to eat meat again for a long time.
Malackie and I drive out to the reservoir. A tractor pulls in to let us pass and I stick my thumb up at the driver. He’s about my age. I wish I was him. Driving my daddy’s huge tractor around and milking cows and lambing sheep and cutting corn. Going on Young Farmers’ piss-ups and having my life all mapped out for me. That kid wasn’t due to be kicked out of his foster home and end up at a dodgy hostel with junkies and tramps.
I stop in the lay-by near the reservoir and take the badger out of the boot and dump it on the verge. Malackie sniffs it and backs away.
“You’re right, boy,” I say. “I shouldn’t feed him that. It’s not fit for anything to eat. But I haven’t got any choice have I?”
I wrap the badger in a couple of bin bags to carry it to the water. I’ve tied a rope to Malackie’s collar and wrapped it round my wrist. He trots behind me like he’s known me for ever. He digs his claws into me when I carry him up over the fence. Maybe he’s scared I’m going to drop him over like I did with the badger. We’re getting close now. Malackie stops to pee on a clump of nettles and I put the sack down and give my arms a rest. The dog sniffs the bag again and gives me a weird look.
When I’m sure nobody is around, I step from the path.
As we approach the cage I hear splashing. I hope he doesn’t make a noise when he smells me coming. It is too risky. Malackie won’t go near the cage no matter how hard I drag him. He sits down, digs his back legs in the ground and puts his tail between his legs. I tie him to a branch and creep closer. I peer through the bars. I see nothing but manky water but I know he’s there, waiting for me.
I used to lie on the bars at dusk and watch him, a dark shape in the water. When he was smaller he swam around his cage. Now he is so big he lies just beneath the surface and watches me watching him. Sometimes he sinks to the bottom. Just like that. One minute he’s there, the next he’s gone. One night I watched him climb out of the water and halfway up the bars. He clawed all round the walls of the cage, thrashing and roaring. I sat a long way off. Even then I was nervous, like part of him could reach out and flick me through the bars down into the water below.
There’s a commotion in the cage and I see flapping wings. A pigeon beats against the bars. How has it got in? I watch it for a minute. Come on Stephen, I tell myself, get on with it. I scramble up the bank, dragging the badger behind me. Willing myself not to look down, I drop to my knees and crawl on to the barred roof of the cage with the badger balanced over my shoulder. The dead animal stinks and I imagine insects crawling out of it into my ears. I make sure I spread my weight evenly over several bars and avoid the broken one. It is much slower this way and I have this fear that more bars will collapse. I unlock the hatch. I’m shaky. I can see where the broken strut has rusted through. It’s bent down into the cage. If I put any weight on it I’ll tumble into the water. I stop for a minute to try and slow my breathing. If I’m quiet, maybe he will stay where he is and not lunge for me. He’s grown so huge, he might be able to stick his head right out of the hatch. How am I to know? I can’t see him properly. Maybe the pigeon will distract him. I feel more confident in the daylight but as I open the hatch, I lose my nerve and boot the dead badger in, sack and all. It falls into the water and sinks. I push back the hatch and wait for the carnage. But pretty soon the badger bobs back up to the surface. There is an eerie silence and Malackie lets out a whine.
“Sshh,” I say. “You’re next.” I swear the dog gives me a dirty look. “Only joking,” I say. The bird settles on the ledge and begins preening itself. Suddenly my boy surfaces. One greeny eye watches me and his mouth is pulled into a horrible kind of grin. I blink in shock. I know he’s got big, but this is ridiculous. He must be nearly twelve or thirteen feet long. It must be all those pigs. But if I feed him less, he’ll be more dangerous because he’ll be hungry. To my horror the pigeon flaps up and perches on his head; I see the shine in his eye. I know what he can do to a pig in a matter of seconds. But there’s no massacre. The bird walks with skinny legs along the scaly head. Maybe they’ve made friends.
“Cool,” I say. “I got Malackie and you got the pigeon.”
I eyeball my Beast.
“What am I going to do with you?” I mutter. I stand there, weighing up my options.
Some of them aren’t very nice. Not very nice at all.
The bird flaps off to the side as the head submerges. The sack has been floating, the badger half in and half out of it. I can see one of its paws. All the hairs splay out. Then it has gone, pulled underwater. There is nothing except a swirl of water which slowly turns pinky red. I step back. I untie Malackie and we head back towards the car. I worry about the pigeon. I should have left the hatch open for a few minutes to give the poor thing a chance. I ought to go back. But I can’t. I just want to get away.
Back on the path I see a man walking towards me. He’s pretty fat with a snubby nose. He’s seen me and there’s nowhere to run. He looks annoyed. I recognize him though I’ve only seen him once before. That was in the car park in his van a couple of years ago. I remember the van had BEXTON WATER AUTHORITY written on the side in swirly white letters. I decide he’s got something to do with working the dam. But what’s he doing out here? The dam is about half an hour’s walk away.
“No dogs allowed, son,” he says. He has a wrinkled brown face and big shoulders. But what I notice most of all is this necklace he is wearing. It is a tooth on a chain. A long, pointy, sharp tooth. I must have looked shocked because he suddenly looks more friendly and goes on about farmers and insurance and dogs worrying sheep.
I nod and make to move on but he holds up his hand.
“Live round here do you?” he says.
“Sort of,” I say.
“Where?”
“Down the village.”
“What’s your name?”
I don’t miss a beat. “Danny Slater.”
Maybe he knows about my pet. Maybe he knows I feed it. He could just be playing me along. I can’t take my eyes off that tooth. He has bored a hole in it and the silver chain is threaded through.
The man eyes me up for a few seconds.
“Don’t bring the dog back here,” he says. “And you don’t ever swim here, do you?”
“No,” I say. I haven’t swum in the reservoir since I brought my Beast here.
“There’s dangerous currents,” says the bloke. “Especially near the dam. And the mud is deep. It can pull you under.” He steps closer. “And you have to remember this is drinking water. This is what comes out of your taps and your mum cooks your potatoes in.”
“Right,” I say. I am about to walk off when I do something stupid. I open my big mouth.
“Where did you get that?” I point at the necklace.
The Dam Man fingers it.
“I found it on the shoreline a few years ago,” he says, “just below here.” He points in the direction of the water cage. “Crazy, huh? No one knows what it is. I reckon it’s a tusk from a pig.”
On the shoreline! There’s a flow of water from the cage where it pours out of a hole in the concrete down into this overgrown channel and into the reservoir. It’s possible that my boy could have lost a tooth, and it was swept down by the current. But it should have sunk in the mud at the bottom of the lake.
I nod at the bloke, tug on Malackie’s rope, and walk on. After a few paces I glance back at the bloke. He’s going off the path towards the water cage!
“Oh shit,” I say. When he is out of sight I double back and follow him.
