The Deviants by C.J. Skuse Page B

above our heads.
    â€˜Don’t mind the mounts,’ said Fallon, having seen Max staring up at the shelves of stuffed animals. ‘They all died naturally.’
    She retrieved three jam jars from a kitchen cupboard and put them on the breakfast bar. Not trendy jam jars like in some upmarket shabby chic restaurant either – actual old jam jars with the labels still glued on.
    â€˜Where’s your mum gone?’ I asked, moving aside a broken hamster cage to sit on a stool. Max stood beside me, hands still in his pockets.
    â€˜Gone to collect some pigs who died in the night. Sudden Pig Death Syndrome.’
    â€˜What does she do, exactly?’ asked Max. ‘I mean, I know she’s a farmer or summing.’
    Fallon turned to the fridge to get the Sprite and poured itout into the empty jam jars, handing them to us. ‘She used to be a farmer. She had to disintegrate, cos supermarkets are bastards with milk prices.’
    Corey smiled. ‘Do you mean diversify?’
    â€˜Yeah, that’s it. We sold off most of our livestock; kept a couple back for milk and wool. Nowadays she’s an ARS. Makes quite good money from that.’
    â€˜A what?’
    â€˜Animal Rescue Specialist. We look after sick animals, nurse them back to health. Kinda like vets, but a lot cheaper. We euthanise too, and cremate, all at cut-price. People report dead sheep or horses or large roadkill to Mum and she’ll go out to them and pick them up. We’ve got a furnace out the back where we burn ’em, if they’re no good for meat or black pudding.’
    â€˜Gross,’ said Corey.
    â€˜No, it’s not,’ said Fallon. ‘It’s a good business. I help out when I can, but it’s a bit difficult at the moment.’ She looked at me and smiled again, so genuine it was kind of unnerving. A three-legged white cat, wearing a small plastic tiara, limped across the worktops, stopping by the stove to nuzzle the kettle; the kettle, potentially, with the you-know-what in it. A guinea pig ventured in and Fallon picked up a broken tennis racket and lightly tapped its tangly little arse back down the steps. While she was gone, Max moved over to the stove, prized off the lid of the kettle and peeked inside. Corey looked at him expectantly but he shook his head
    After we’d gulped down the jam-jar Sprite and some stale smoky bacon Mini Cheddars, Rosie still wasn’t back, so Fallon said she’d take us round the farm.
    It was sad, really. The fantastic playground the farm used to be – giant tractors, rope swings, creeks, orchards,haunted corners and woods to ride our bikes through at breakneck speed – it was all still there, but we could see it now for what it was. Just a small, downtrodden smallholding in the middle of nowhere, housing dead or dumped animals, full of rust and mud. As kids, we saw the magic there. We saw magic in everything. Something about growing up kicks that out of you without you even realising it’s happening.
    â€˜It’s a shame Zane’s not here,’ said Fallon. ‘Do you remember when those boys chased us at the swimming pool, Ella? We told them to get lost, but they kept on trying to kiss us.’
    It was a memory I’d forgotten until Fallon unlocked it. ‘God, yeah, I do.’
    â€˜Zane saw them off. He hated anything like that. His dad used to beat up his mum.’
    â€˜I never knew that,’ said Max.
    â€˜Yeah,’ said Fallon. ‘They split up. Zane still lives in that ground floor flat on the seafront with her.’
    â€˜How do you know?’ I asked her.
    â€˜I’ve seen him a few times since the – funeral,’ she said, guiltily. ‘I’m so sorry about what Mum said at Jessica’s inquest, Max. She really didn’t mean any harm, I promise you.’
    There was a brief silence and awkward looks all round. Then:
    â€˜Where are we going, exactly?’ asked Corey, bringing us