his sketch pad as close to it as possible. Then, surprisingly quickly, he produced, in freehand, a near exact copy of it on the blank page - even transcribing word for word the regimental motto written in a swirling Latin text below the crest. Once it was complete, he flicked through the rest of the publication, copying down more badges and a map of Singapore that appeared inside. He carried out the same exercise with the other comic, faultlessly rendering a street map of war-torn Stalingrad onto the page. By now the chicken had been bubbling away in the saucepan for some time, so he created a space on the table and went over to the gas ring. A quick glance into the boiling water was sufficient - he'd been eating chicken long enough to judge when it was cooked. He took it off the heat and stabbed a fork into its breast, lifted the dripping lump from the water and dropped it onto a plate. Tomato ketchup was then liberally applied around the edges and he sat back down at the table.
Grasping both of its legs, he bent them back and twisted. The cooked meat gave way with a fleshy tear. A slightly harder yank pulled the legs out of the thigh sockets. He put one drumstick to the side, rolled the other in the red sauce then bit into the muscle. Before he'd swallowed the first chunk he turned the leg in his mouth and took another bite, repeating the process until his cheeks bulged. The drumstick had now lost most of its bulk, but still he rotated it between his lips, gnawing away at it as if it was an apple core. Only once he'd removed every scrap, including the tendons and gristle at the top of the leg, did he put the bone down. Then he sat back and slowly began to chew.
Rubble only ever used his fingers for eating chicken. It was far easier to strip the carcass down to bone that way - knives and forks seemed crude and ineffectual in comparison. Soon he had moved on to the body itself, ripping the fibrous meat from the breast bone, digging a stubby finger into the spinal area and gouging out the lumps of marrow hidden there. Quickly the bird was reduced to a dislocated pile of bones.
Licking his lips, he wiped his fingers down the legs of his overalls, got up, threw the remains out of the window and dropped the plate into the sink. Sitting at the table again, he turned his attention to the back pages of Karn Age . Most of the adverts were lost on him, but one - with women's faces lining its perimeter - caught his eye. Or more accurately, the face of one particular girl did. He stared at her thick black curls and deeply tanned skin, wondering what strange and distant place she came from.
Leaning closer, he studied her huge circular earring and fingernails that curved and stretched like talons. The darkness of her eyes, with their long lashes, fixed him from the page. Slowly his eye struggled over the words in the ad until eventually he located the one he recognised: 'horoscopes'.
He'd given-up calling these numbers over a year ago. What they told him would happen never did - he was still working on the farm and he neither looked for, nor wanted, any other future. Unless, of course, the army were to change its mind about letting him in. But after the number of times he'd applied, it was obvious that it was never going to happen.
He gazed into her mysterious eyes and something about the way she looked at him hinted she might be different to the others. Perhaps it was worth another try.
He went to the cupboard above the sink and removed the biscuit tin of change. Carefully, he took out almost all the fifty and twenty pence pieces inside and pocketed them. Then, after checking through the views of the security cameras showing on the monitors, he set off for the village green, comic in his hand.
Quarter of an hour later he was standing inside the phone box with the advert looking up at him. He inserted several fifty pence pieces into the slot and dialled the number next to the face of the girl that so intrigued him. A pre-recorded
Grasping both of its legs, he bent them back and twisted. The cooked meat gave way with a fleshy tear. A slightly harder yank pulled the legs out of the thigh sockets. He put one drumstick to the side, rolled the other in the red sauce then bit into the muscle. Before he'd swallowed the first chunk he turned the leg in his mouth and took another bite, repeating the process until his cheeks bulged. The drumstick had now lost most of its bulk, but still he rotated it between his lips, gnawing away at it as if it was an apple core. Only once he'd removed every scrap, including the tendons and gristle at the top of the leg, did he put the bone down. Then he sat back and slowly began to chew.
Rubble only ever used his fingers for eating chicken. It was far easier to strip the carcass down to bone that way - knives and forks seemed crude and ineffectual in comparison. Soon he had moved on to the body itself, ripping the fibrous meat from the breast bone, digging a stubby finger into the spinal area and gouging out the lumps of marrow hidden there. Quickly the bird was reduced to a dislocated pile of bones.
Licking his lips, he wiped his fingers down the legs of his overalls, got up, threw the remains out of the window and dropped the plate into the sink. Sitting at the table again, he turned his attention to the back pages of Karn Age . Most of the adverts were lost on him, but one - with women's faces lining its perimeter - caught his eye. Or more accurately, the face of one particular girl did. He stared at her thick black curls and deeply tanned skin, wondering what strange and distant place she came from.
Leaning closer, he studied her huge circular earring and fingernails that curved and stretched like talons. The darkness of her eyes, with their long lashes, fixed him from the page. Slowly his eye struggled over the words in the ad until eventually he located the one he recognised: 'horoscopes'.
He'd given-up calling these numbers over a year ago. What they told him would happen never did - he was still working on the farm and he neither looked for, nor wanted, any other future. Unless, of course, the army were to change its mind about letting him in. But after the number of times he'd applied, it was obvious that it was never going to happen.
He gazed into her mysterious eyes and something about the way she looked at him hinted she might be different to the others. Perhaps it was worth another try.
He went to the cupboard above the sink and removed the biscuit tin of change. Carefully, he took out almost all the fifty and twenty pence pieces inside and pocketed them. Then, after checking through the views of the security cameras showing on the monitors, he set off for the village green, comic in his hand.
Quarter of an hour later he was standing inside the phone box with the advert looking up at him. He inserted several fifty pence pieces into the slot and dialled the number next to the face of the girl that so intrigued him. A pre-recorded
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