Fuck you. Brix gave the whispering demon the mental bird and tore himself from the window, drifting to the fridge to take his chances. Nothing inspired him, which was unusual. It took a lot for Brix not to be hungry, but he felt odd this morning, like the wind had changed and the sea had brought a message to shore—he didn’t feel like eating at all. Too bad that leaving the house without breakfast was something he’d pay for. He didn’t have time for that crap today.
Brix grabbed some bread and a jar of Mrs. Ivy’s strawberry jam—his favourite fallback when he couldn’t face another bowl of soggy cereal. He hacked off a wedge and smeared it with jam, shoving it in his mouth as he searched for the keys to his rusty old van. If he was going to be in Truro on time to meet the farmer, he had to move fast.
He found the keys beneath a sack of corn, reminding him to feed the girls and dump it in the shed before he left. Outside, he scattered pellets and corn on the damp soil, amused, as ever, by the ballsy politics of his small flock of rescued hens—a dozen or so, in all, but soon to be more if he got his arse in gear.
With the girls fed, he climbed into the van, started it up, and reversed down his steep, sloping driveway, onto the street below. Porthkennack roads were notoriously narrow, and despite knowing the town like the back of his hand, it took all his concentration to manoeuvre the van through the twists and turns until he hit the southbound A road.
Truro was a forty-minute drive on a good day, and today was a good day. It seemed like he’d only just finished his slapdash breakfast when the sign for the small-scale commercial poultry farm came into view.
He made the turn and coaxed the van down the dirt track that led to the two huge barns. The farmer was waiting outside, leaning against his own truck, a stack of wooden crates to his left. Brix pulled up and jumped out, the cash he needed already in hand. Experience had taught him that these transactions needed to be done fast, before he wound up feeling guiltier than if he’d not come at all.
He handed the farmer the envelope. “A bull’s-eye, yeah?”
“Can give you another five if you’ve got an extra cockle.”
Brix considered it. Fifty quid was already a lot for forty chickens heading to the slaughterhouse, and five for an extra tenner made them expensive per bird, but then, he wasn’t buying them for their monetary value. “Sold. Load ’em up.”
The farmer crammed five more chickens into the cramped crates that were probably bigger than the cages they’d come from. Brix paid him, loaded the crates onto the van, and then made his escape before the plaintive clucking of the doomed hens still on the farmer’s truck reached his ears.
A little way away from the farm, he pulled into a lay-by and retrieved his phone from the dashboard. He brought up the group message he’d set up the day before and typed in the postcode of the meeting place, then sent the message with a smirk. These meets always reminded him of the warehouse parties he’d frequented in Brixton all those years ago, the ones that had no location until a van pulled up outside a disused factory and set up a rig. Oh, how life had changed.
With the message sent, he set off again, heading for the quiet location where he’d meet the band of folk who were as soft-hearted as him, mainly ex-city types who’d never kept birds before, wanting to do their bit to keep the countryside going.
Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the deserted quarry. He parked up and got out of the van, opening the back doors to give the hens some air. His fingers itched for the cigarettes he’d quit more than a year ago, a phantom tic he’d yet to shake. God, he missed a solitary smoke. Ironically, a snatched fag had often felt like the only time he could breathe. But it’s different now, ain’t it? And it was. Life back home in Porthkennack was as uniquely familiar as it had ever been, and for the first time in years, Brix wouldn’t change a thing . . . except one thing, maybe—
Brix’s phone rang in his hand. He jumped and studied the screen. Peg. Typically, she hung up after one ring, obviously trusting that he’d call her back and foot the bill. And she was right. Brix placed the call. She picked up straightaway.
“Ah, there you are, boy. I’ve been looking for yer all morning.”
“Yeah? Where’ve you looked?”
Peg clicked her teeth impatiently. “That’s enough of your cheek. Have you seen your dad?”
“Not since Monday. Why?”
“Ah, you know.”
Peg spoke, as ever, like Brix was a fly on the wall to every hustle and scheme she had her sticky fingers in, but he resisted the urge to call her out. Reminding her for the second time that morning that he’d spent most of his life trying to avoid his family’s dodgy dealings would only set her off, and he didn’t have time for a Lusmoore loyalty rant today.
“I haven’t seen him.”
“Aye, okay. Well if you do, tell ’im I’ve got his dosh here from the bookies. If he’s not home by tea time for it, I’m having it for housekeeping.”
Brix rolled his eyes. His father and Peg had been bickering for as long as he’d been alive. “He’ll be out on the boat till lunchtime. You know that. Have you moved those crates yet?”
“Lord, is that the time?”
“Peg, don’t take the piss—”
“Now, you listen here, boy. Don’t go giving me none of your lip. I’ll fetch them later when I’m good’un ready and not a minute sooner. Tell yer dad to get his sorry behind home.”
It was Peg’s turn to hang up, leaving Brix shaking his head. Damn woman was a hornet’s nest, and a royal pain in Brix’s arse, though her call had reminded him he was about due a check in with his cantankerous father.
A vehicle rumbled up the dirt track to the quarry. Brix pocketed his phone and rounded the back of the van to take a look. Another car was behind it, and a Land Rover behind that. Game on. Fuck Peg’s smuggled fags and booze, and counterfeit crap; it was time to do something that mattered.
Brix waited until all eight recipients of his group message had assembled by the quarry, and then unloaded his precious cargo. “Okay, folks. Who’s having what? I’ve got fifty girls here, all looking for forever homes.”
A man who appeared even less like a chicken keeper than Brix raised his hand. “We’re taking six.”