The Secrets of Pain

27

The cock was a tumble of feathers, his neck coppery and gold in the late sunlight.

‘En’t a fox done this, neither,’ Gomer said. ‘Fox goes for the neck, and he don’t leave much behind.’

‘Maybe he was disturbed.’

Jane stepped back from the garden table as Gomer lifted up the bird’s head. She wasn’t squeamish, but an image from last night had stayed with her from when she’d first opened the sack under one of the lamps on the square: the ruined eye peeping up. The body was battered, feathers broken, maybe from the kicking Cornel had given the bin sack.

‘See the blood on his beak? That’s the real giveaway, ennit?’ Gomer turned to her. ‘You all right there, Janey?’

‘He’s beautiful, Gomer. That golden… like a lion’s mane.’

‘His hackle. Aye, nice bird, he is. You don’t see the ole breeds too often n’more.’

‘I mean, I don’t know much about chickens and things, but it didn’t seem like his neck had been wrung or anything. And the way they were talking about shooting anything in front of their guns…’

Gomer struck a match, ignited his roll-up.

‘Janey, I’d ’ave to say no man done this. Goin’ by the injuries. And the breed.’

‘I’m not following you.’

Gomer took a drag on his ciggy.

‘Gamecock, he is.’

‘Game-’ Jane sprang back from the table like it was electrified. ‘But that’s-’

‘Died in the ring, sure to.’

‘A cockfight? But that… It’s like bear-baiting and stuff. History. Illegal.’

‘Been illegal for over a century. But that don’t mean it don’t go on, see, on the quiet.’

‘Where?’

‘Few farmyards, gypsy camps.’

Jane stared at the dead cock, her fists and chest tightening.

‘Big money in it, see,’ Gomer said. ‘Betting. Lot of it about when I was a boy. Some folks then, they couldn’t figure why it was banned. Cocks fight – what they does.’

‘But they don’t kill-’

‘I’m just tellin’ you what the cockers say. All about mating. Like stags. Sure, once they seed the other cock off, it’s over. But you puts the buggers in a pit what they can’t get out of… the losin’ cock, he en’t got nowhere to go, do he? Far’s the other bird’s concerned, he’s still a contender. So it don’t stop. Specially with all the money ridin’ on it, and…’

Gomer looked uncertain.

‘Go on…’ Jane said.

‘Well, they got these… spurs, ennit? Metal spikes, couple inches long on their legs. See where this leg yere’s-’

‘That makes it more fun, does it?’ Jane took one look, jerked herself away. ‘More blood, more feathers ripped out?’

‘Most of ’em dies from head wounds… or eyes. Like this boy, I reckon.’

‘I just don’t believe this, Gomer. When’s the last you heard of it?’

‘By yere? Thirty year ago, sure t’be. Used to be a reg’lar cocking fraternity, kind o’ thing. Don’t mean it en’t been goin’ on ever since, on and off. Just means it’s more underground, kind o’ thing. Under cover of gamefowl breeders’ clubs.’ Gomer nodded at the dead bird. ‘Weren’t so terrible bright o’ that feller, just dumpin’ him in a bin.’

‘He offered him to Barry. For the kitchen.’

‘That weren’t bright.’

‘He was drunk.’

Jane turned away from the table, her eyes filling up. She heard Gomer putting the cock back into the bin liner, and felt suddenly heartsick.

‘You seem to know… like… a lot about it, Gomer.’ She turned back as he tied up the sack. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Uncle,’ Gomer said. ‘When I was a boy, I had this uncle bred gamecocks. He’d’ve died when I was mabbe eight or nine. I remember goin’ with my ma to clean out his house, and we finds all these photies. One’s the ole feller with his prize bird and another cock, dead, what the prize cock killed. And here’s my Uncle Gwyn, great big beam all over his face.’

Gomer shrugged.

‘Thing is, he never seen it as cruel, do he? Gamecocks, they had a real good life, long as it lasted. Spoonful of porridge, spoonful of treacle… eggs, barley… nothin’ but the best ’fore a big fight. And when you thinks of all these poor bloody battery chickens, fattened on drugs, never loosed out in the fresh air and then they dies on a conveyor belt…’

‘Yeah, that totally stinks, but it doesn’t…’

‘No,’ Gomer said. ‘It don’t. A cock don’t even have to die in the ring, see, but it’s like with them ole… what you calls them ole Roman fellers?’

‘Gladiators?’

‘One o’ them, he gets the thumbs-down – curtains, ennit? Specially if he en’t put up much of a fight. En’t the same for the crowd, see, if both of ’em struts out at the end.’

‘It’s sick.’

Gomer puffed awhile, watching the sun.

‘This that Savitch?’

‘Cornel was one of his clients… guests. I mean it’s bad enough they think they can go round just shooting anything, but… You think Savitch is actually staging cockfights?’

Gomer lowered the sack to the grass.

‘He can’t be that daft, can he? What you wanner do with this ole boy?’

‘Isn’t it evidence?’

‘You gonner be a witness, girl?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘In court? Against the kind o’ lawyer this banker feller’s gonner hire? That’s even if it went that far. One dead cock is all you got. We don’t really know where he died or how. En’t nothin’ there for certain to say he went in the ring. Hell, Janey, I might be wrong…’

‘You wouldn’t’ve told me if you thought for one minute you were wrong. What about Barry? He saw it.’

‘All he seen was a dead fowl in a bin bag. He’s been around, that boy, but it don’t mean he’s ever seen a cockfight.’

‘Yeah.’ Jane shook her head gloomily. ‘And like is he going to want to tear up his meal ticket? And the cops couldn’t give a toss about rural petty crime. Apparently.’ She looked up. ‘There just has to be a connection with Savitch. It’s the kind of thing he’d do, give the city guys a little extra thrill. Show them how hard people are in the sticks.’

‘This banker feller… don’t seem likely he owned the cock, do it?’

‘He said it was rubbish.’

‘Mabbe he had money on it.’

‘Brought him back… the loser… to eat? Because it had let him down?’

‘This other feller…’

Twin brownish suns in Gomer’s bottle glasses. Pretty savvy for an old guy who, Mum reckoned, had rarely been north of Leominster or south of Ross the whole of his life.

‘I didn’t really see him and I didn’t recognize his voice.’

‘You figure they was both at the cockfight, Janey?’

‘Sounded like it. He was sneering at Cornel. This was before he hit him. He said it was about manhood. He said Cornel wasn’t ready. I have no idea what he meant. What do we do, Gomer? How about the RSPCA, the League Against Cruel Sports?’

‘Mabbe I’ll talk to a few folks,’ Gomer said. ‘See what I can find out.’

‘You know people who might be involved?’

‘Gotter get their fowls from somewhere. Mating season now, ennit? Cocks is well up for a fight.’

Gomer tapped the sack with the edge of his trainer, looked at Jane.

‘Bury him, proper?’

Jane nodded. The sun had sunk terminally into cloud, and the air smelled sour. She watched Gomer pick up the black bin sack with its sad bundle of feathers. Her fingers were curling tight.