Barking by Tom Holt

what?’
    â€˜I never had either of them.’ I’m a vegetarian. ‘My mum and dad are vegetarians.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    Ferris shrugs. Duncan watches him. Even he can see that a great deal depends on what happens next.
    â€˜You poor bastard,’ says Ferris. ‘Try the ham.’
    He doesn’t signal, but a troll steps forward with a plastic packet, which he unwraps.
    â€˜That’s ham, is it?’
    â€˜Think so. Pete?’
    The troll nods. ‘Ham,’ he says.
    Duncan hesitates. ‘That’s murdered pig, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Mphm.’
    And now he has no choice. He takes the object in his hand, tries not to look at it, bites until his top and bottom teeth meet through the unfamiliar textures; chews before swallowing.
    â€˜Hey,’ he says, with his mouth full. ‘Cool.’
    Ferris nods slightly, acknowledging a truth too obvious to need expression. ‘Now try the chicken. That’s murdered hen,’ he adds.
    Yummy murdered hen. Duncan pauses for a moment, trying to catch words that come somewhere near the turmoil of lights and explosions inside his mind. ‘I like the ham best,’ he says, ‘but the chicken rocks too.’
    A troll grins; but not unkindly. ‘There’s murdered cow and murdered sheep too,’ he says. ‘My mum does me murdered cow on Thursdays - you can try some.’
    â€˜And murdered turkey,’ adds another troll. ‘And corned murdered cow. You want to try some of that, it’s amazing.’
    The trolls had closed in round him, but not in any threatening way. For some reason, Duncan almost expects them to start sniffing him. ‘My mum’s going to be so pissed off,’ he mutters.
    Ferris grins; a very slight movement, nonetheless showing the teeth. ‘Only if you tell her,’ he says.
    Which Duncan never gets round to doing; which is why, every lunchtime until the day comes when he dumps his tie in the bin on his way out through the school gates for the last time, he ritually discards an unopened tinfoil packet before seeing what his mates have brought him to eat. Over the years, he wavers in his loyalty. Sometimes his favourite is roast murdered cow, sometimes it’s murdered salami. (Nobody would tell him what sort of animal a salami was; at first he assumed it was short for salamander, until he saw a whole one hanging up in a delicatessen shop. For a while he felt guilty about eating cold sliced dachshund, but he came to terms with it in the end.) His greater loyalty, however - to Luke and the gang - never falters even for a split second, in spite of the detentions and suspensions and awkward times down at the police station; not for an instant, until the very end—
    â€˜Why?’ Luke repeated.
    â€˜Because—’ Duncan hesitated for a split second, then exploded, ‘Bloody hell, Luke, you can’t just spring something like that on someone and expect an instant yes-or-no answer. I’ve got to think about it.’
    His explosion had been more like a damp Catherine wheel: two or three unconvincing twirls and a few farted sparks. Luke was grinning, his teeth still as straight and white as ever. ‘Why not? I mean, what’s there to think about? You hate this shit-hole you’re at now, your whole life’s a complete mess. You need looking after.’
    This time, the flare of anger was hot enough to light the blue touchpaper of self-expression. ‘Absolutely,’ he snarled. ‘My whole life’s a complete mess—’
    â€˜Well,’ Luke interrupted reasonably, ‘it is.’
    â€˜I know .’ Not quite loud enough to silence the bar and turn heads, but almost. ‘You don’t actually need to remind me, thank you so very fucking much. And it’s been a complete mess ever since—’
    â€˜Since she dumped you.’
    In the Middle Ages, they hunted the wild boar with a spear. You dug the butt end in the