‘What are you looking at? Fucking loser,’ snapped the dark-haired one, and stalked off to the pub entrance. The blonde raised her middle finger at him and followed.
Darryl’s face was burning as a horn sounded from behind, making him jump. A white van pulled out and roared past, muffled shouts echoing as the tail lights vanished around a corner into the trees.
Then the traffic lights turned back to red.
The road stretched away dark in both directions, but Darryl chose to wait. He tilted the rear-view mirror and regarded his face which was pale, pudgy, a little piggy-eyed, and topped with mousy hair. It didn’t feel like it belonged to him. The real him; the exciting virile young man was deep inside this ordinary loser. He thought of the dark-haired girl again: she had a harsh beauty, but her figure was hot.
* * *
Darryl had asked his father once why he employed Morris. This had been a few years back, when Darryl had also been working on the farm. Morris was constantly in trouble with the police, and had just been bailed after forcing himself on several of the young Polish women picking strawberries on the top field.
‘He’s a good lad really, and a hard worker. And a bloody good milker,’ his father had replied bluntly. ‘You could take a leaf out of his book.’
‘But he tried to rape those girls!’
‘It wasn’t like that, Darryl. He’s just being a lad! And young lads make mistakes.’
It hurt how his father seemed to admire Morris for his strength and masculinity. And how he regarded him in comparison as a disappointment.
* * *
Darryl saw that the road and car park were now empty. The lights went green, and he put the car in gear and pulled away. The last part of his journey was along dark, winding country lanes. The sky was clear for the first time in days, and the moon striking the snow on the surrounding fields was dazzling. He flicked off his headlights and slowed, enjoying the view. He passed two houses, the windows dark, and then banked down a steep hill which curved to the left. He slowed when he reached a large set of iron gates. They opened automatically, swinging inwards as snow started to fall again. He drove down the gravel driveway, past an ornamental pond, and the large farmhouse, its windows glowing invitingly, and he pulled in under the plastic roof of the carport.
He froze when he saw Morris’s car parked behind his mother’s Jaguar, and his father’s large mud-spattered 4 × 4. Darryl locked his car and went to the back door. As he opened it, there was a volley of barks. He went through to the boot room and a huge white dog with pale black spots came bounding up.
‘Hey, Grendel,’ he said as the dog began to lick at his hand. She was a Dalmatian crossed with a Staffordshire Terrier, which gave her height and power as well as a wide face and jaw. Her watery blue eyes had a blankness, like they were made of glass.
A toilet flushed behind an adjoining door, and his mother emerged. She was a short round woman with a bob of hair dyed a little too dark for her advancing years. Her eyes were bloodshot.
‘Good day at work?’ she chirruped as Darryl took off his shoes and placed them by the wall. They were neat and polished next to the row of muddy boots.
‘Why is Morris here?’ he said.
‘Farm business,’ she said with a shrug, skirting warily around Grendel and moving into the large messy kitchen. Raucous laughter came from behind the closed door leading off the kitchen to the farm office.
‘You want your tea?’ she asked, opening the cutlery drawer.
‘Yeah, I’m starving,’ he said, as Grendel went to her bowl and began to drink, the ID disc on her collar clinking against the metal.
The door from the office opened and Darryl’s father, John, emerged with Morris. They were both laughing.
‘Here, Mary, give Morris the rest of that pie,’ said John, giving Darryl no more than a glance. He was a tall, broad man with a weather-beaten face and a full head of pure white hair. Darryl looked to his mother but she was already taking the plate of steaming shepherd’s pie from the Aga. ‘Morris could do with a good feed, he’s been working up on Colin Harper’s land all day,’ added John.
Morris gave him a dirty gummy grin and hitched up his jeans over his skinny hips. ‘And Mrs Harper don’t feed us like you do.’
‘Ah well, she has other qualities,’ said John with a wink, and they both laughed again.
‘That’s my dinner,’ said Darryl in a small voice.
‘You’ve been sat on your fat little arse all day. Morris works the land on four farms,’ said John, fixing him with cold blue eyes.
‘I’ll put this on the table for you, Morris,’ said Mary. Darryl looked to his mother, but she avoided his gaze, and carried the steaming plate through the door to the dining room.
‘Aww. Look at that chubby little face,’ said Morris, moving to Darryl and gripping his cheeks in his hand.
‘Like his mother,’ muttered John, following Mary through to the dining room.
Morris kept his grip on Darryl’s face. ‘Tweek,’ he grinned. ‘Tweeek!’ Darryl panicked and tried to loosen Morris’s hand, but his grip was strong. ‘My brother used to do this to me, we called it a Tweek. You grip the cheeks, and look, your little pink tongue pops out. There it is!’
‘Come on, Morris, it’s getting cold!’ shouted John from the dining room.
‘On my way, John,’ he shouted. He turned back to Darryl, where his glistening tongue poked out between his teeth. ‘Then he’d make me taste his finger…’ he added touching the tip of his grimy index finger on Darryl’s tongue. He leaned in, and Darryl could smell his rancid breath as he whispered, ‘Can you taste that? It’s been up my arse—’
Grendel turned from where she had been drinking, and lunged at Morris, sinking her teeth into his left calf. Morris yelled and let go. Darryl fell against the counter, spitting into the sink and rubbing at his mouth. John came back into the kitchen at the sound of Morris’s shouts.
‘Darryl! Get that bloody dog off him, now!’ he yelled. But Grendel held on fast, her blank eyes looking up at Morris. ‘Darryl, call her off!’
‘Grendel, down girl, down,’ said Darryl. She let go of his leg and started to bark. Morris yelled and clutched at his trouser leg. Blood was soaking through the material.
‘Take that fucking animal out, and Mary, get yourself in here and find Morris some antiseptic, quickly!’ said John.
Darryl dragged the barking Grendel out to the boot room, and the moment he closed the door she calmed down. He heard through the door his father shouting at his mother. He went to the coats hanging on the wall, and took a little dog treat from one of the pockets and gave it to Grendel. She swallowed it down whole and barked for another.
‘Shush, shush. You’re a good girl, Grendel,’ he said, giving her another treat. He stroked her large white head and she looked up with her blank eyes, licking his hand with her rough tongue.
‘You watch out for Morris. He’s a bad man. You be careful.’
Chapter Twelve