It’s art and we’re doing portraits. We have to turn round and draw whoever’s next to us. I’m glad I’m sitting next to Rob. Rob’s good at art, everyone says so. He has a set of professional pencils: soft ones for shading, hard ones for fine lines. Each one is sharpened to an evil little point, and none of the ends are chewed. On the sides there’s gold lettering: HB, B, 2B.
‘Posh pencils,’ I say. ‘New?’
‘Not really.’
‘Expensive.’
Rob selects a pencil from the tin and examines it. ‘They were a present.’ He digs the point into his finger, like he’s testing it. ‘From my dad.’
‘What for?’
He looks to the ceiling. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Your dad buys you presents for nothing?’
He reaches for his sketchbook. ‘I should be drawing you.’
It’s always hot in the art room. There’s plants and skylights and sweaty boys and it’s a bit like a greenhouse. I take my jumper off and arrange my silk-touch blouse over my tits, glad that Luke McNeill is on the other side of the room, having his sketchbook marked by the teacher.
Rob rolls up his shirt sleeves. I watch his knobbly wrists move as he starts to sketch me in.
‘Wish my dad would buy me stuff,’ I say.
Rob doesn’t respond. He’s frowning at his page. Then he frowns straight at me and I wonder if I should look away. But his eyes go back to the paper before I can blink.
‘You must get some presents,’ he says eventually.
I notice the way his gold chain snakes around the base of his long neck.
‘My mum’s boyfriend tries to buy me things.’ I give my hair a shake.
‘Keep still.’
‘He’d probably get me anything I wanted, actually.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like anything.’ I try to think of something. Simon still hasn’t given me my reward for our tutorials. ‘He gave me the money for my coat.’
Rob’s eyes settle on mine. ‘That’s different.’
‘How?’
‘Just giving you money. It’s different.’
‘I got the coat.’
Rob gives a little smile, like he’s sorry for me. ‘But he wouldn’t know what to get you unless you told him, would he?’
‘Maybe.’ I lick my lips, lean forward. ‘But did you really want those posh pencils?’
‘Not exactly…’
‘So your dad might as well have given you the cash.’
He shrugs. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’
‘They never know what you want,’ I say. ‘Money’s better.’
Rob drops his pencil back in the tin and picks up another. Again, he digs the end into the tip of his finger and stares at it. I can see the skin there going white. ‘They never ask what you want,’ he says in a quiet voice.
‘Aren’t you drawing me?’ Luke sits down with a loud huff.
‘He’s doing me,’ I say.
Luke gawps over Rob’s shoulder. He’s got his blond fringe to stick up and stay in place now. He follows Rob’s eyes as they flick up at me, appraise, flick down.
‘Are you going to be an artist, then?’ I ask Rob.
‘Of course he is,’ says Luke. ‘He’s good enough.’
‘I bet that’s what your dad wants. That’ll be why he bought you those pencils.’
Rob gives a ‘huh’, but doesn’t stop sketching. His hands move across the page like they’re on wires.
‘I hope you’re not doing my nose too big.’
‘Keep still.’
I get sort of mesmerised by the whispery noise his pencil makes on the paper and I don’t say anything for a while.
‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘What are you going to be?’
‘Astronaut.’
He glances at me. Then he starts drawing again. ‘You could be an actress.’
I spit out a laugh.
‘You could,’ he says, not laughing. He looks at me with that photographing gaze. Snap. ‘If you could be bothered.’ Behind him, Luke sniggers.
‘Haven’t you finished that yet?’ I snatch the pad, turn it round, and see a careful line drawing, just like the portraits they sell in Oxford. The girl in it has massive eyes, pouty lips and a mane of hair.
‘Is that me?’
Luke looks over. ‘You’ve overdone her a bit.’
‘Perfect likeness,’ I announce.
Rob lines his pencil back up in his shiny metal box.
‘Are you coming down the farm tonight?’ Luke asks him.
‘The farm?’ I say, rearranging my silk-touch blouse.
‘Turkey plucking,’ says Rob. ‘I need the money.’
‘Your dad won’t give it to you?’ I have to smirk.
‘I can’t ask him for it.’ He looks straight at me. ‘I need it to get out. I’m leaving here. As soon as I can.’
‘Rob wants to go to London,’ says Luke.
‘We’re both going,’ says Rob. ‘To make our fortunes.’ He gives a short laugh.
‘Really?’
‘That’s the plan. Anywhere’s better than here, right?’
I flick my hair over my shoulder and nod slowly. ‘Definitely. In fact, I’m going, too.’
‘Yeah?’ says Luke, screwing up his eyes. Even his lashes are blond. His skin’s so pale it’s like you can see through it, right into the veins and muscle and bone beneath.
‘You’re going to London?’ asks Rob.
‘Of course. I’m not staying in this dump.’
‘Have you got the money?’
I look at Rob’s green eyes. There’s not a speck of brown in them. They’re clear green, like marbles. One of my primary school teachers liked to go on about people with pure green eyes. Saying they’re rare. Different. I told Dad about it once, and he said, ‘Irish, more like.’
‘Almost,’ I say. ‘I’m working on it.’
‘She should come and pluck a few birds,’ says Luke. ‘Sometimes their insides haven’t been cleaned out properly and they dribble blood and guts all down your hands.’
Rob gives him a look. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he says to me, ‘unless you really have to.’
‘I can do that,’ I say. ‘I already know someone who works there anyway.’
‘The spacky,’ says Luke.
‘Shane.’ Before I can stop myself, I add, ‘And he’s not really a spacky.’
‘How come he was in the Sin Bin, then?’
I think of the precision of Shane’s fingers in my hair. The way he knows all the words to every song he plays me on his cassette player. The way he knows exactly what to buy me. Or rather, steal for me. He was in the Sin Bin because the normal teachers couldn’t handle him, is what I think.
‘I can pluck a turkey.’
‘And the blood?’ asks Luke.
Rob rolls his eyes.
‘Blood’s fine,’ I say. ‘I can handle blood.’
That night after school, I’m the only girl in the turkey shed.
The corrugated iron door screeches as I pull it open with both hands. It scrapes my fingernails and sends a cringe right down my back. Inside, dead birds hang in two rows. Next to each bird, there’s a boy, plucking. White feathers fall all around like spiky, blinding snow. In the background, there’s a constant turkey racket from the birds who so far haven’t had their throats cut. It’s a weird gurgling noise that comes in waves, like Buggery’s stomach at the end of the day. And the place stinks like an old sanitary pad.
My skin flicks up its hairs in the cold air. I’m wearing my denim mini with red wool tights, red hoop earrings and red fingerless gloves.
I walk in and see Shane first. He’s standing with one hand round a pink turkey neck. His other hand goes in and out, in and out, in a blizzard of feathers. He’s doing it faster than I’ve ever seen him do anything. In front of him there’s a basket which looks like it should be full of washing. But instead it’s full of bald headless birds, all collapsed on top of one another.
No one’s talking to Shane. There’s more space around him and his bird than any of the other boys.
He turns to look at me. His big bottom lip hangs as he watches me walk over to Rob. He opens his mouth wider, as if he might say something.
Don’t look at him again, I think. Don’t look at him.
‘Hi.’ Rob flashes me a white grin and leads me to a man in a sheepskin coat. As I walk along the rest of the row, each boy stops plucking and looks. Their turkeys swing as I go by, claws groaning gently on the bar. The sanitary pad smell wafts over me.
‘This is the girl I said about,’ Rob announces. The man in the sheepskin nods, looks me over. ‘Next time, wear trousers. And boots. Don’t want you slipping on turkey gizzards.’ He huffs out a not-funny laugh.
The birds are much bigger than they look under cellophane. Some of them hang down almost to my knees. Their feet are tied to a hook and their claws stick up like killer fingernails. Their heads are missing, and their necks are still bloody. I’m glad their heads are gone. I wouldn’t want to see their beady eyes.
Sheepskin Coat hands me a turkey on a hook. ‘Secure your bird on the rail,’ he says, hanging it up. ‘Don’t want him flying away.’ He smiles. He’s missing a tooth. ‘Best way is to pluck quickly, but carefully. Don’t go grabbing great handfuls.’ He plucks the feathers out – one, two, three – and lets them drop to the floor. ‘See?’
All the time, Shane’s staring at me and the bird.
‘Shouldn’t look too hard, son. You’ll wear her out.’ As he walks away, he taps Shane on the head with his clipboard.
My turkey sways in front of me. Its wings are spread out like the bird in our school logo. Its white feathers are flecked with dirt. I tap it, lightly, and it swings some more. I dig my fingers into the greasy feathers and grab hold of a few. My fingertips meet warm flesh.
I let go, leap back.
‘You get used to it,’ says Rob.
‘I thought it would be cold.’
‘They haven’t been dead long.’ Rob looks serious, as if he’s apologising.
I try again. I wrap my fingers round a single feather. It’s hard and spiky. When I tug, there’s a tearing sound. It doesn’t come easy.
Then Shane comes over. He doesn’t speak. He just grabs my bird in one hand and starts ripping feathers out with the other.
Rob steps back and looks round to see if Sheepskin Coat’s noticed Shane’s doing something he shouldn’t.
Shane’s arm is going in and out, in and out. Grab, pull, rip. Grab, pull, rip. Grab, pull, rip. He chucks feathers over me like confetti.
‘Is the spacky helping her?’ says Luke. ‘Why doesn’t he help me?’
A glob of turkey blood hits Shane’s parka.
‘Don’t do that,’ I say. I put a hand on his arm. He can’t notice, because his elbow keeps moving back and he catches me under the chin, hard. My teeth slam together.
I cry out.
Shane stops plucking. He blinks, slowly. His eyes are black. He puts out a hand to touch my chin.
‘Don’t, Shane,’ I say. I step backward.
Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.
‘I don’t need your help.’
He lets go of the turkey.
‘I don’t need your help.’ I rub my chin and try not to look up.
Then Shane smashes the turkey with his fist like it’s a punchbag. White feathers and claws and a bloody neck swing towards my face. I duck. Feathers skate across my hair.
Sheepskin Coat comes over. ‘If you’re going to distract my workers, blondie, then you can forget it,’ he says. His voice is loud but he’s giving me a half-smirk. ‘Get on with it, now. All of you.’
He walks Shane back to the other side of the shed, leaving my bird swaying on its hook.
Rob leans over. ‘What’s with him?’
I don’t have an answer.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘You OK?’
I nod, try a brave smile.
On the other side of the shed, Shane’s craning his neck round his turkey, looking for me again.
I plunge my hand into the feathers and start plucking. Soon I’m stripping birds clean in under fifteen minutes.