the sounds: half-strangled cries, desperate squawks . . .
But now his eyes were becoming used to the gloom. He could make out rows and rows of wire cages piled from floor to ceiling on either side of narrow concrete corridors that seemed to stretch away for miles.
And he could see what was inside the cages. Not one chicken, but two, packed so close together that they could hardly turn their heads or move. Unspeakable things were happening in those cages. In one, a bird had caught its throat in the wire and choked; in another, a chicken driven mad by overcrowding was trying to peck out its neighbour’s eyes. There were cages in which one bird lay dead while the other was pressed against its corpse. And yet somehow, unbelievably, the wretched creatures went on laying eggs – large brown eggs which rolled on to the shelf below, ready to be driven to Wellbridge Market and make Ralph Ticker rich.
Daniel was turning back, knowing he’d be sick if he stayed any longer, when he heard voices at the far end of the shed.
‘There’s another seventeen birds died in the night, Mr Ticker.’
‘Well, mince ’em up, feed them to the rest and burn the feathers out at the back.’
‘I don’t like to, sir. People have been complaining about the smell. If they call the RSPCA . . .’
‘They won’t.’ And then: ‘Who’s that up there? Why, it’s a bloomin’ kid!’
Daniel tried to run for the entrance, but it was too late. Mr Ticker pulled down a switch and the building was flooded with light. There was wild clucking from the hens and then the chicken farmer, followed by his assistant, came running up the aisle. Then a hand banged down on Daniel’s shoulder and Mr Ticker’s red face, with its bulbous nose, was thrust into the boy’s.
‘What the devil are you doing in here?’
‘I was . . . just . . . looking.’ Mr Ticker was shaking him so hard that Daniel could scarcely get out the words.
‘Did you see the notice? Did you see where it says KEEP OUT?’ With each question he shook Daniel again. ‘You were snooping, weren’t you? You were spying. Well, let me tell you, if you say one word about this place to anyone, I’ll get you. I’ll get your mother too. I’ve got people everywhere. People who throw acid, people with guns . . . Got it?’
He pushed Daniel forward and the boy stumbled out and ran over the bridge of wooden planks, across the fields . . . ran, panting, for the safety of the station.
And Ralph Ticker looked after him with narrowed eyes.
‘It’s no good, sir,’ said the assistant when Daniel was out of sight. ‘Even if the kid keeps quiet, they’re beginning to talk in the village.’
Ticker said nothing. Twice before, the inspectors of the RSPCA, those snooping Do-Gooders, had closed down his chicken farms. Once in Cornwall, once in Yorkshire – and the second time he’d been fined two hundred pounds. But what was two hundred pounds – chicken feed, thought Ticker, grinning at his own joke. Each time he’d made a whopping profit before they got wise to him.
‘Time to move on, Bert,’ he said. ‘Scotland this time, I think. You know what to do.’
‘But, Mr Ticker, there’s four thousand chickens here. I can’t chop the heads off—’
‘Oh, I think you can, Bert. Yes, really I think you can.’
‘You’ve got to do something,’ said Daniel, trying not to cry into the ‘nice cup of tea’ which Heckie had brewed him. ‘You’ve got to turn him into a chicken himself and force him into one of those cages and—’ ‘Now, Daniel,’ said Heckie severely, ‘how many times have I told you that the second someone becomes a chicken he is not a wicked chicken, he is a chicken who needs only the best? And anyway, the zoo doesn’t want a chicken, what the zoo wants is an okapi. Now drink up and leave everything to me.’
The next day, without saying anything to the children, Heckie called the wizards and witches to a meeting. She had made a map of the Tritlington Poultry
But now his eyes were becoming used to the gloom. He could make out rows and rows of wire cages piled from floor to ceiling on either side of narrow concrete corridors that seemed to stretch away for miles.
And he could see what was inside the cages. Not one chicken, but two, packed so close together that they could hardly turn their heads or move. Unspeakable things were happening in those cages. In one, a bird had caught its throat in the wire and choked; in another, a chicken driven mad by overcrowding was trying to peck out its neighbour’s eyes. There were cages in which one bird lay dead while the other was pressed against its corpse. And yet somehow, unbelievably, the wretched creatures went on laying eggs – large brown eggs which rolled on to the shelf below, ready to be driven to Wellbridge Market and make Ralph Ticker rich.
Daniel was turning back, knowing he’d be sick if he stayed any longer, when he heard voices at the far end of the shed.
‘There’s another seventeen birds died in the night, Mr Ticker.’
‘Well, mince ’em up, feed them to the rest and burn the feathers out at the back.’
‘I don’t like to, sir. People have been complaining about the smell. If they call the RSPCA . . .’
‘They won’t.’ And then: ‘Who’s that up there? Why, it’s a bloomin’ kid!’
Daniel tried to run for the entrance, but it was too late. Mr Ticker pulled down a switch and the building was flooded with light. There was wild clucking from the hens and then the chicken farmer, followed by his assistant, came running up the aisle. Then a hand banged down on Daniel’s shoulder and Mr Ticker’s red face, with its bulbous nose, was thrust into the boy’s.
‘What the devil are you doing in here?’
‘I was . . . just . . . looking.’ Mr Ticker was shaking him so hard that Daniel could scarcely get out the words.
‘Did you see the notice? Did you see where it says KEEP OUT?’ With each question he shook Daniel again. ‘You were snooping, weren’t you? You were spying. Well, let me tell you, if you say one word about this place to anyone, I’ll get you. I’ll get your mother too. I’ve got people everywhere. People who throw acid, people with guns . . . Got it?’
He pushed Daniel forward and the boy stumbled out and ran over the bridge of wooden planks, across the fields . . . ran, panting, for the safety of the station.
And Ralph Ticker looked after him with narrowed eyes.
‘It’s no good, sir,’ said the assistant when Daniel was out of sight. ‘Even if the kid keeps quiet, they’re beginning to talk in the village.’
Ticker said nothing. Twice before, the inspectors of the RSPCA, those snooping Do-Gooders, had closed down his chicken farms. Once in Cornwall, once in Yorkshire – and the second time he’d been fined two hundred pounds. But what was two hundred pounds – chicken feed, thought Ticker, grinning at his own joke. Each time he’d made a whopping profit before they got wise to him.
‘Time to move on, Bert,’ he said. ‘Scotland this time, I think. You know what to do.’
‘But, Mr Ticker, there’s four thousand chickens here. I can’t chop the heads off—’
‘Oh, I think you can, Bert. Yes, really I think you can.’
‘You’ve got to do something,’ said Daniel, trying not to cry into the ‘nice cup of tea’ which Heckie had brewed him. ‘You’ve got to turn him into a chicken himself and force him into one of those cages and—’ ‘Now, Daniel,’ said Heckie severely, ‘how many times have I told you that the second someone becomes a chicken he is not a wicked chicken, he is a chicken who needs only the best? And anyway, the zoo doesn’t want a chicken, what the zoo wants is an okapi. Now drink up and leave everything to me.’
The next day, without saying anything to the children, Heckie called the wizards and witches to a meeting. She had made a map of the Tritlington Poultry
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