Pecking Order Read Online Free PDF Page B

summoning a dog, Toby called out. ‘Rubble! It’s me. I’ve got your foo-ood!’
    Thick fingers curled over the top of the fence, black hair bristling at the knuckles. The flesh whitened as the fingers took the weight of the person on the other side. Rubble’s face rose slowly into view. Stuck in the stubble on his head was a downy feather.
    ‘Toby!’ grinned Rubble, chin now resting on the wood. Suddenly he frowned. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, looking at the other boy.
    ‘Oliver, a friend from school,’ replied Toby. Beside him the other boy tried to smile.
    Suddenly Rubble’s head and hands vanished and a second later he walked round the side of the fence, a shovel in his hand, scrap-like feathers plastered his overalls. ‘Burning chickens,’ he said, throwing a glance back over his shoulder.
    ‘Yeah, thought so,’ answered Toby, putting his bag of shopping down. Oliver nervously placed his next to it. ‘So, how’s things? Are you busy?’
    ‘Busy,’ said Rubble nodding. ‘Always busy on Sunday. Not many staff in see?’ He suddenly addressed Oliver directly. ‘Rubble does all the hard work. Dead chickens – they need burning. Your holidays, is it?’
    Toby said, ‘Yeah, just started. Olly’s staying for the weekend. We’re off to Chester safari park in a bit.’
    ‘See the monkeys? Oooh, oooh, oooh!’ shouted Rubble, jumping from one foot to the other and scratching an armpit.
    Oliver couldn’t believe someone with Rubble’s features would imitate an ape. Had he really no idea of his own appearance?
    Toby laughed out loud, encouraging the older man to ridicule himself. ‘Hey Rubble, how about giving us a go with your gun?’ He looked up at the trees around them. ‘Have a crack at that pigeon I can hear?’
    Rubble glanced up at the trees, quickly spotting the fat grey bird in the branches above. ‘Yeah!’ he exclaimed enthusiastically, throwing the shovel down. He bounded off through the long grass, weaving between the trees and heading for the caravan beyond them.
    ‘See what I mean?’ said Toby. ‘He’s a total retard.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Oliver cautiously agreed.
    ‘But check out his air rifle – it’s the business.’
    ‘And that’s where he lives?’ said Oliver; looking uncertainly towards the caravan Rubble was approaching.
    ‘Yup. His mum and dad used to own the farmhouse we live in. When they got too old to run the farm dad bought it off them and Rubble moved into the caravan.’
    ‘You chucked him out of his own house?’ hissed Oliver incredulously.
    Toby looked a little guilty. ‘No. He loves it in that caravan. Dad had it rigged-up with electricity, gas and all that. It’s got a proper flushing toilet.’
    Oliver frowned, smiling but shaking his head at the same time. ‘So how did your dad afford to buy the farm?’
    ‘He’s got another business besides the farm,’ replied Toby proudly. ‘Owns a centre for processing old cars, fridges, cookers: that sort of stuff.’
    ‘You mean recycling?’ asked Oliver, sounding impressed.
    ‘Yeah, that’s it. Recycling. When he bought this farm it was nothing. Dad said it wasn’t making any money. He turned it into a specialist farm for chickens. He had the sheds built and everything.’
    Toby looked back towards the caravan. ‘Here he comes.’
    Rubble was jogging back over to them, air rifle in one hand. ‘He’s a big ‘un. Who’ll pot him?’
    ‘Olly, you have a go,’ said Toby.
    Before Oliver could reply, Rubble thrust the gun into his hands. ‘Break the barrel over your knee,’ said Rubble, mimicking the required action.
    Carefully Oliver levered the barrel open, slowing bending the weapon into a V shape.
    Rubble held out a pellet. ‘In the barrel.’
    Oliver held the pointed piece of metal between a fore finger and thumb. ‘Where?’
    ‘There,’ answered Rubble impatiently, pointing a blackened fingertip at the thin chamber, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Reluctantly, Olly slid the