HOWZAT

He reaches down for it, gets it by both legs and hoists it into the air, and as he does so it swings round and he feels the other leg break, and the bird hangs there limply from its two broken legs staring at Tomasz in terror.

‘I’m sorry, little chicken,’ whispers Tomasz in Polish. Should he put it in a cage? He catches Neil’s eye.

‘Yeah, don’t worry, Mick. They’re always doing that.’ He moves round towards Tomasz, waving four chickens in the air. ‘Brittle. No strengf, see? They can’t move around to build their legs up. Should get ’em playing football, eh? Chicken football. Of course some of ’em do, but the chicken’s the football. Who’d be a chicken, eh?’ Tomasz picks up the broken bird and puts it into a cage, where it collapses beneath a pile of other chickens that scramble on top of it. He is beginning to feel sick.

‘Time for a break, pal,’ says Neil.

By the end of the afternoon, the floor is littered with dead and dying birds, some trodden into the sawdust and excrement, some still flapping and struggling to stay alive. Tomasz feels his own soul is like a dying bird, fluttering in the mire of . . . of . . . Maybe there is a song in this, but what chords could be plangent enough to express such desolation?

‘Did we kill so many?’ he whispers to Neil. ‘Nah, don’t worry, pal,’ says Neil. ‘Most of them was dead already. See if they break a leg, or if they’re a bit weak, they can’t make it to the feeding line, so they die of hunger. Mad, really, when there’s all that food there for ’em, but they just can’t get through to it. Anyway, they only live five weeks from hatchin’ to catchin’.

Five weeks! Not much time to develop a personality, eh?’

‘Personality?’

‘Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to develop – a personality.’

Another lorry arrives, and trundles away into the leafy lanes with another load of screeching misery. It is time for another break.

Neil carefully smokes another half-cigarette. The Portuguese- Brazilians race to the tap and splash around, laughing and wrestling each other’s heads under the water. Tomasz drinks gulp after gulp from the tap, then washes his hair and face under the cold running water. To have longish hair and a beard in this situation is definitely a disadvantage. If only he had some of Yola’s nice scented soap.

‘Uh-oh.’ Neil looks over towards the Portuguese-Brazilians, who are becoming increasingly raucous. ‘Bagpipes. Yer’d better not look at this, Mick.’

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