The Deviants. C.J. Skuse

had been unleashed, and we were in the middle of it. Things squawked and screeched at me from branches, flapping about beneath the corrugated plastic roof. There were living things everywhere; creatures, birds, things crawling over my feet. Rabbits, ferrets, cats and an earless Jack Russell terrier brutally shagging a wig. Everywhere you looked were scruffy, eyeless or legless animals: a furry, flappy, feathery nightmare.

      ‘Shut the door, quick!’ a voice shouted, and Corey dived behind us to bang it shut.

      All the way to Cloud, I’d held on to one hope – that Fallon Hayes might not be home. That we could just ask Rosie if she’d seen Mort, commiserate with Corey when she hadn’t, then walk back to the pub on the main road and call a cab back into town. But the curt instruction had come from a girl – a long-legged, green-eyed girl with slightly buck teeth, a platinum blonde confusion of hair, and thick make-up. She had once been my best friend.

      I took a deep breath. ‘Hi, Fallon.’

       ‘Was it strange, being back there again?’

7

       Back at Whitehouse Farm

      That’s the weird thing. It was like the last four years hadn’t happened.

      ‘Oh, it’s you guys!’ she said, stroking a trembling white rabbit. ‘Hi, Ella!’

      ‘Yeah, hi.’ I nudged away a teacup Chihuahua in a sailor suit that was trying to piss on my trainers. ‘How are you, Fallon?’

      She was smiling. A genuine smile, full of joy. She still had the same riot of freckles, like a leaf blower had blasted them to the four corners of her face. I hadn’t expected her to be quite so happy to see us.

      ‘I haven’t seen you for ages!’ The rabbit wriggled in her arms but she held it steady. ‘Wow – you got cute, Max!’ Max laughed and rubbed his mouth. ‘And Corey! This is brilliant! Zane’s not with you, is he?’

      Max rose to the challenge of answering that one. ‘No. We don’t see him any more.’

      ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s almost like the old times, isn’t it?

      ‘It was only four years ago,’ said Corey.

      The joy disappeared from her face as quickly as it had arrived. I knew she was thinking about the funeral – the last time she’d seen us. ‘How are you, Max? How’s your mum?’

      ‘OK, thanks. Well, she has her days – you know. Dad’s cool, though.’

      ‘And, Corey, how’s your nan and granddad? Have you still got all your Harry Potter stuff? How’s baby Voldemort?’

      I cut in at that point. ‘Actually, Mort’s the reason we’re here. He’s gone missing, and we were wondering if you’d seen him?’

      I flapped away a rogue canary, nudging Corey. ‘Has he got a collar on, Corey?’

      ‘Yeah, a blue one. It’s brand new,’ he said, stepping behind me, cheeks so red I thought his head might explode. I’d forgotten he’d had a crush on Fallon four years ago. By the look of him, it had resurfaced.

      ‘No, I would have recognised Voldy.’

      ‘Mort,’ Corey corrected.

      ‘Actually, we haven’t seen any gingers lately,’ she pondered. ‘We had one come in with one eye. That was gingerish. You can have one of the tortoiseshells. Got loads of them.’

      ‘No,’ said Corey. ‘His collar says “Malinowski” and it’s got my number on it.’

      ‘Can’t you just take that one?’ said Max, pointing to a scrawny black cat licking its backside on an upturned bucket.

      ‘You can’t have Esmerelda,’ said Fallon. ‘She’s ours. Mum might have some more on the truck that she’s picked up this morning, but she’s not back yet. She shouldn’t be too long though, if you want to wait?’

      Max and Corey failed to answer – they were both in a trance, looking at her bottom as she bent over to put the rabbit down. She looked quite fat, under her frilly white vest, tiny denim shorts and mud-speckled moon boots. She started back up the steps to the farmhouse. ‘You can wait for Mum inside, if you like. She should be back soon. We’ve got Sprite.’

      Obediently, we all traipsed into the farmhouse behind Fallon, as if Sprite was the most golden carrot she could dangle. Cobwebs drooped in the corners of the kitchenette like forgotten Halloween decorations; the room opened up onto the same dingy lounge area, with the same tired leather three-piece and walls seemingly made from stacks of old newspapers. The shelving all around the top of the room was packed with ornaments, stuffed birds and woodland animals in small glass cases and clean white animal skulls acting as bookends and paperweights. The only light in the room came from two small windows and a box beside the fireplace with a nightlight inside, illuminating photos of Kate Middleton.

      A little bird fluttered in from the lean-to and landed on a beam above our heads.

      ‘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.

      ‘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.

      ‘Gone to collect some pigs who died in the night. Sudden Pig Death Syndrome.’

      ‘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 it out 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?’

      ‘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.’

      ‘A what?’

      ‘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.’

      ‘Gross,’ said Corey.

      ‘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