Apocalypse Cow by Michael Logan Page B

out to be a karate black belt. Geldof had witnessed this fight, or rather massacre, and had enjoyed it immensely, although Maths Club and other assorted nerds had had to endure a tough few months as Malcolm embarked on a campaign of unprecedented brutality to win back his lost credibility. Tony was identifiable by the cauliflower ear, germinated by frequent exposure to sweaty thighs during rugby scrums.
    Tony snatched the book away and tossed it to one side without looking at it. ‘What are you geeks doing here?’
    ‘The first rule of—’ Stewart began.
    Nadeem clamped a hand over his mouth.
    ‘You two, piss off,’ Malcolm growled at Nadeem and Stewart. They complied instantly, shooting apologetic glances at Geldof.
    ‘I suppose you’re happy, Gandalf,’ Tony said once they had gone.
    The twins always called him Gandalf, thinking it a horrendous insult. Geldof actually preferred the moniker. He would much rather be named after the great white wizard than some scraggly old Irish bloke who spent his time banging on about starving Africans and thinking up even more ludicrous names for his own kids. When he turned sixteen, in two months, Geldof was going to change his name by Deed Poll to something solid and sensible, like Geoffrey or Brian.
    ‘Happy about what?’ Geldof asked, placing his wrap behind him to avoid the possibility of it being kicked after the book.
    ‘Don’t act innocent, cow-lover,’ Malcolm said. ‘My dad’s cousin Terry is dead because of people like you.’
    ‘Dead? I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m not following you.’
    Tony kicked the sole of Geldof’s shoe. He drew his legs up to his chest to make himself as small a target as possible.
    ‘That thing in the abattoir yesterday. He was there,’ Tony snarled, his face contorting so much his pug nose seemed to be sucked into his chubby cheeks. ‘My dad says it was probably animal rights people like your mum trying to set the cows free that caused it. And you’re going to pay.’
    Geldof was bewildered. As far as he knew, the abattoir deaths had been caused by a stampede. But David wasn’t the kind of man to let facts get in the way of his crazy ideas, and he had infected the twins with his paranoid fantasy. The problem was, the inaccuracy of their beliefs wouldn’t change how much his nuts would smart after coming into contact with an enthusiastically swung boot. He knew from bitter experience that reasoning with the twins was no use (‘I hear you called me a prick,’ Tony had said to him once. ‘No, of course not,’ a petrified Geldof responded. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Tony retorted). But he had to try.
    ‘I hate my mum and I hate cows,’ Geldof blurted out. ‘In fact, my mum is a cow, so that means I hate her twice as much.’
    Malcolm laughed as Tony bent over and grabbed Geldof’s tie. ‘Don’t give me that shite. You don’t eat meat, which means you love cows. And I know you’re a mummy’s boy. She dresses you like a retard.’
    Geldof cowered against the wall, staring wildly through Tony’s spread legs in the vain hope a teacher would appear. All he saw were two Year 9s sharing a sneaky cigarette.
    ‘No, really. I hate cows. They’re big and smelly and … and …’ Geldof cast about for an adjective that would adequately demonstrate his hatred ‘… the only thing they’re good for is burgers.’
    Tony sneered. ‘So why don’t you eat burgers, then?’
    Touché
, thought Geldof, and desperately scrambled for a valid reason.
    ‘I hate them so much I can’t even stand to eat them,’ he said, unable to avoid injecting a querulous note at the end of the sentence.
    Even as he said it, he knew the lame excuse failed miserably to convey how much he supposedly didn’t like cows. Tony drew back a fist, and Geldof screwed up his eyes in expectation of the blow to come. It didn’t land. He chanced a quick peek with one eye. Malcolm was holding his brother’s arm.
    ‘Hold up,’ Malcolm said. ‘Let’s