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“So how much do you lads know about chicken-rearing?”
Jim’s questions hangs in the frosty farm air as Vinnie, Cardi and Ash stand in silence. His words have a rhetorical ring to them, like it’s only a matter of time before the segue into the next bit, where he’ll explain why the hell he’s called them out here into the cold.
But the explanation doesn’t come. Instead, the three are left shivering, with their hands dug deep into the pockets of their warmest winter coats, to watch these two small but strangely gorgeous chickens, an iridescent blue-black from comb to talon, go at it. In fact, the two haven’t stopped shagging since they arrived.
“Well?” Jim demands.
“Nothing,” Vin finally blurts out. “We don’t know nothing about rearing bloody chickens—just get on with it.”
Jim only smiles, and points a knobbly finger at the birds.
“These two wondrous creatures are Ayam Cemani—the Aston Martin of poultry, alright? Quite precious in the farming community. Said to have magic blood.”
“W-what do you do with their blood?” Cardi asks, turning his entire body slightly away from Jim. He’s got his pigeon, Nigel, cradled in the neck of his coat, and he doesn’t want to be giving the old farmer any ideas.
“I don’t do anything with the fucking blood,” Jim explains, and though his tone is even, it’s already growing brittle with annoyance. “But their bones, feathers, flesh—it’s all black, down to the meat and giblets. Even their eggs have black shells, alright? Worth a pretty penny. The adults fetch 2,000 quid each, easy.”
“You telling me you paid 4,000 pound for two chickens?” Vin demands.
“No, no, see I played the fool. Managed to get myself a discount—only 1,500 pounds for the rare breeding pair,” Jim explains. “I figure, raise a few on my own and sell ‘em off at maturity—just 16 weeks or so. I unload the rest of the fertilised eggs—those’ll make me another hundred a piece. An easy fortune. Even the unfertilised ones sell for good money. I’m told they’re quite toothsome.”
“And you’re sure someone didn’t plunge ‘em both in a vat of Lose the Grey?” Vinnie wonders. Neither he, nor Jim, has been above dyeing farm animals for their own gain in the past, but if this is legit, it seems there are some major profits to be had.
“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” Jim jeers. “They just did their winter molt. Still black as death.”
“Alright, Jim,” Vinnie says, shaking his head. “So then why are we here?”
“What?” Jim shouts, exaggerated, like a pantomime act. He’s playing dumb, again, and it’s obvious, even to Cardi. Vinnie rolls his eyes.
“This sounds like an actual plan that could make you some real cash,” Vinnie says. “Why bring us into it?”
“Well—look, I need help insulating a coop,” Jim says. “These two are accustomed to tropical climates, you know. Weren’t meant to be this far north.”
“Alright, sounds easy enough,” Vinnie agrees, and with nods from the others, it looks like it’s a deal. Cardi probably won’t be too much help, but between him and Ash, this should be quick work. “Where’s this coop?”
Jim’s uncharacteristic silence says just one thing: there is no coop.
“Fuck,” Vinnie shouts, attempting to contain his irritation, but falling entirely short. “You really—you’re asking us to build a chicken coop from scratch, no knowledge, no plan. It’s going to be shit, dude. We’re not the people.”
“I just need a place to keep them warm,” Jim reasons. “It doesn’t have to be bloody Bridgewater Hall.”
“You can’t just keep ‘em inside?” Ash suggests. “It’s… it’s only two chickens.”
“I’ve tried that,” Jim explains. “They’re shy.”
“Shy?” Vinnie demands. Their repeated behaviour tells him they’re anything but. “How do you mean shy?”
Instead of answering, Jim counters with another question of his own: “Do you know how often the average chicken lays an egg?”
“Daily,” Cardi answers simply. The others turn to stare at him, surprised at the insight. Cardi brushes it off. “What? I like eggs.”
“Well, Ayam Cemani are different,” Jim says. “The hen lays about once a week. And do you know how many eggs this pair has yielded?”
“Enough with the bloody quiz show, you lemon,” Vinnie scolds Jim. But it’s Ash who breaks formation with the others and dares to step closer to the fornicating chickens.
“Zero,” Ash answers after getting his closer look.
“How…” Jim starts to ask.
“Well, you see your problem here is you’ve got yourself a pair o’ cocks,” Ash explains. “Gay cocks, at that.”
Jim lets out several sharp, annoyed grunts, bristling at the implication.
“My rare chickens aren’t anything but the most heterosexual…” he shouts as Vinnie comes in for a look of his own.
“They are dude,” Vinnie interrupts. “They’ve both got the big… what’s it calleds.” He fans his hand vertically over his head, right down the middle, like a mohawk.
“The comb,” Jim corrects. “And these aren’t typical chickens, the combs are poor indicators of sex…”
“Or you got swindled and had these two lovely boys pushed on you,” Ash explains, “cos they weren’t interested in fertilisin’ the ladies.”
The realisation takes a moment to hit, but once it does, it hits hard.
“Shit!” Jim hollers several times, and as he runs toward the chickens, shooing and yelling at them to break up the act, they’re still far too caught up in each other to pause for even a second.
Vinnie almost considers asking if Jim can just take them back where they came from, but he already knows the answer. He’s sure the transaction was illegal in some form or another—and that the seller would now be long-gone.
“Well, I suppose I could butcher them,” Jim thinks aloud. “Recoup some of my losses…”
“Wait, you’re killing ‘em?” Ash asks, his pitch high, and hurt. “Just cos they’re gay?”
“Just cos they’re bloody worthless,” Jim asserts.
“You could… you could train ‘em for cock fightin’,” Ash suggests as an alternative. “I’d bet good money on a bird like that.”
“It’s no use,” Jim says with the shake of his head. “They’re gentle souls, these two. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. So—like I said—worthless. Besides maybe going into a good broth.”
“I’d never make you into a broth,” Cardi whispers to Nigel, cradling the bird even closer to him.
“Look, they’re not going into a soup,” Ash says. “And they’re not wort’less. I’ll buy ‘em off yeh right now.”
“What for?” Jim laughs, his voice harsh.
“For… pets, I don’t know!” Ash retorts. “But I won’t have these beautiful birds be the victim of a hate crime under my watch, I won’t.”
Jim pouts and puffs like he’s about to argue further, before his face curls into a smile.
“How much?”
Ash digs around in his pockets. He’s got £400 on him—winnings from a bare knuckle brawl the previous night. He doesn’t hesitate to offer it up.
“400?” Jim groans. “That’s a bit low…”
“Here’s another hundred,” Vinnie offers his own crumpled note. “And, cross my heart, another hundred a week until you’ve made your 1,500 back.”
Jim seems genuinely taken aback by the offer—and Cardi and Ash are just as shocked.
“…and how do I know you’ll keep to your word?”
“You know me, Jim,” Vinnie says. That seems to be enough to have him convinced.
Ash collects the chickens, which, miraculously, immediately stop screwing. The moment the three are back in their van, both birds settle and fall asleep in his Ash’s arms.
“Yeh know I’m grateful but… why in the hell would yeh do somet’in’ like that?” Ash asks Vinnie.
“Because,” Vinnie says as he turns the ignition, “I’ve just came up with a plan.”
At Cardi’s, the lads rifle through every last jar and bottle and tin in the kitchen and toilet—though Ash’s search is hindered a bit as he cradles the chickens in one arm, refusing to let the newly named Farrokh and Reginald out of his sight. Many cartons of a dozen eggs each sit in a not-so-neat stack on the supper table, awaiting their fate.
Vinnie sorts, for the third or fourth time, through a collection of long-expired tubes of food colouring.
“And you don’t have any black?” he asks Cardi again.
“I told you, we don’t,” Cardi repeats. “You can’t just… make black by mixing all the colours?”
“That won’t work Cardi,” Ash insists. “You ever tried mixin’ every colour o’ paint toget’er?”
“Well, yeah,” Cardi nods.
“And what’d yeh get?”
Cardi shuffles his feet before answering.
“Shit brown,” he finally says.
“Exactly,” Vinnie mutters, continuing to reach his long arms up into the recesses of high cabinets, looking for something—anything—that can appropriately dye these eggs the right colour.
Then, suddenly, music starts playing out of nowhere—a jaunty horn tune. Cardi scrambles, searching his many pockets as a voice starts singing.
“If you lived in Pigeon Street, here are the people you could meet…”
He finally locates his phone and turns if off.
“Just a minute,” Cardi says as he disappears into the bedroom. He then scampers to the toilet, and the others hear the sound of the running tap before he returns with a huge glass of opaque, night-black water.
“What, pray tell, is that?” Vinnie asks him, as calmly as he can muster.
“Water,” Cardi explains.
“Water?” Vinnie repeats, because it doesn’t look a thing like drinkable water.
“W-with a teaspoon of activated charcoal,” Cardi elucidates. “Carol has me drink a tablespoon every day. Says it gets rid of t-toxins. The alarm’s so I don’t forget. Because… usually, I forget.”
“Show me,” Vinnie says, and Cardi ushers him into the bedroom.
Vin tries not to notice the sex toys scattered about on the furniture as Cardi points him to the massive jet-black, one-kilo tub. He unscrews the wide lid, revealing loads of very fine, very black powder.
“This’ll do nicely,” Vin grins. “Good on you, mate. Time to dye some fucking eggs.”
Vin lifts the lid of a carton—also coloured black, for consistency’s sake—and reveals a dozen stunning charcoal-coloured eggs to the latest curious passerby. The lads have set up shop in the van at the side of the road on the slightly more posh side of town. It turns out when rich pricks see two pure black chickens strutting about, they can’t help but stop to admire them—and make a purchase.
“How much?” the woman asks, and she’s already got her wallet out, flush with cash.
“Unfortunately, this is our last dozen,” Vinnie says—at least that bit is true. “I can let it go for 50 pounds?”
“A bit pricey, don’t you think?” she complains, even as she hands over her £50 note.
“Well, that’s just the market these days,” Vinnie sympathises. “Supply chain and that.”
The woman nods along sagely.
“Now, these are special eggs, alright, so they need to go right in the refrigerator when you get home,” Vinnie explains. “They’ll go off at room temperature.”
Just because he’s a con doesn’t mean he actually wants people to get ill. Cardi, who apparently knows a thing or two about eggs, has explained that the dyeing has probably washed away the egg’s nature barrier and made it susceptible to bacteria if not chilled. He doesn't know about all of that, but better safe than sorry.
“And could I get a receipt?” the woman requests. She’s not the first to ask, and though it was a bit of a mad scramble the first time someone did, they now have a system in place.
Cardi rips a sheet of lined paper from a notebook, and writes “Low End Farm, £50 EGGS” before handing it off to the woman. Satisfied, she carefully carries her carton back to her car.
“I cannot believe that worked,” Ash says, counting the money as Vinnie slides the van door shut. “There’s just over a t’ousand pounds here. And what’d those eggs cost?”
“68,” Vinnie smiles. “And better yet, we can come right back and do the same thing next week. Or tomorrow, if we felt like it. I think this calls for a celebration.”
The patrons at the Crow’s Nest are very pleased when Vinnie buys a round for the entire pub. Dylan’s on duty, and while he has half a mind to kick Ash out for bringing two chickens into the place, the free pint puts him in a better mood.
JJ’s there too, just a couple of sips into his own drink, and as Ash brings the chickens over and everyone joins JJ at the table, he seems nearly giddy.
“Are those Ayam Cemani?” JJ asks with glee.
“The very same,” Vinnie answers, proudly.
“I watched a documentary on them, a David Attenborough,” JJ explains. “They’re brilliant birds.”
“And,” Vinnie adds, “as it turns out, you can make quite a profit off their eggs. Pure black, they are.”
JJ squints, and his eyes dart between Vin, Ash and Cardi.
“No they’re not,” he corrects.
“What?” Vinnie asks.
“They’re not black,” JJ says. “The documentary showed them. They’re just like, normal chicken egg colours. White. Maybe brown.”
“That can’t be right,” Vinnie mutters, trying to convince himself. Of course, JJ already has his phone out to confirm.
“Yeah, mate, they’re usually light brown.” JJ shows the rest the photos. Instead of protesting, the others take another few gulps from their pints in silence.
“JJ,” Vin says, eventually, “don’t you ever say those words aloud again, you hear me?”
“I’ll keep quiet,” JJ assures him, “but I think you might have a problem.”
“What now?” Vinnie groans.
“It’s re-airing,” JJ answers, showing them his screen again. “Tonight. Prime time on the BBC.”
“That’s… what fraction of the inhabitants of Hawley watch nature documentaries on the bloody BBC?” Vinnie wonders.
“You might be surprised,” JJ shrugs.
“Fuck,” Vinnie says under his breath.
“See, sometimes you should google,” JJ insists.
Vinnie attempts to fume quietly as he finishes his drink, but his murmurs betray him.
“Or,” Cardi suggests, once he’s also finished his lager, “from now on, we could just sell eggs without colouring them black?”
“Yeah,” Ash adds, stroking Farrokh with one hand and Reginald with the other. “We won’t be able to sell ‘em for as much, probably, and we’ll have to find new clientele, but I t’ink that might work.”
“Now that’s some clever thinking,” Vin grins again, immediately replacing the glower on his face. “Dyldo! Another round for the table. We’re getting into the egg business.”