The Chickens and The Grave

The chicken's body exploded. One minute it stood there cawing. The next, a cloud of feathers, gore and white powder rained down on the tree stump it had stood on - confetti against the backdrop of the Australian outback at dawn. The nearby chickens fluttered their wings in alarm and stampeded away from the explosion before curiosity steered their feet back. And then they were pecking at the air. At the dirt. At the tree stump now covered in blood and powder. I stared through the scope of my rifle, in disbelief. I was no stranger to drugs. But it took a moment to really recognise what I was seeing. I pulled the trigger again. Another chicken exploded, releasing another fiery puff of cocaine and chicken guts. Someone had stuffed these chickens full of cocaine. I could see small plastic-wrapped pellets scattered amongst the birds; unscathed from the attack. It had to be cocaine. Despite the colour now tarnished with blood and dirt, it was too white to be anything else. Heroin was usually off-colour. Plus I knew my neighbour Billy. He wouldn’t have the balls to be dealing with such high-level drugs. But cocaine? That was Billy’s sugar and salt.

I swore. A week ago, Billy got these chickens and since then I haven’t had a good night's sleep. Every day I have yelled at him to get rid of these bloody birds. I thought perhaps shooting some of them would prompt Billy to. But now….. I slide the rifle back inside, standing up in the process. A loud crash sounded, and I knew without looking Billy had ventured out to investigate the ruckus in his backyard.

“WHAT THE FUCK”, He yelled.

It didn’t take long for Billy to march across the 250 meters that spanned between our houses (I liked to call it no man’s land). Nor did it take long for him to slam his hands on my screen door, yelling all kinds of things that would’ve shocked a nun's socks off. I took my time down the stairs; my right knee had decided to deteriorate - a gift for turning 60 earlier this year.

“I’m coming!” I shouted.

“You better, you stupid old fuck!”

“You’re the same age as me!” I yelled back.

The front door was right across from the base of the stairs. At first I saw his feet shuffling in flip-flops, followed by his patchy legs, a bandaid on one knee. And then his blue baggy shorts that could be swimmers. By the time I had made it down the stairs I could see his sweaty face. His grey t-shirt had a ring of sweat around his armpits. Billy’s eyes were wild; the few strands of grey hair still clinging on were wild too. They should’ve jumped ship long ago. Believe it or not, this fella used to have a pretty face. But that was years ago, before he switched to a complete alcoholic and cocaine diet.

“Did you shoot my chickens?!”

I leaned a hand on the wall beside the door. Dipped my head slightly - I was taller than Billy- and said through the screen door.

“That’s a strong accusation”

“DID YOU?!”

“Why on earth would I shoot them? They are such pleasant creatures” I couldn’t help myself; I rolled my eyes.

He slammed his palms on the screen door “ You did, didn’t you. Open this door! “

“I want food. I’m hungry,” I said, stepping away.

Billy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“OPEN THIS DOOR - I’ll call the police! I’ll get you arrested!”

I laughed, turning away “Call them! I’m sure they’ll love to know what those chickens were hiding!”

A silent pause.

“HOW DO YOU KNOW! You shot them! You little shit!”

I walked through the living room, which opened up to the kitchen at the back. The open layout meant he could still see me.

“I don’t know what you are on about Billy. I would never do such a thing. In fact, I have been thinking about becoming a vegan!”

“Get back here! John! Do you know how much money you have just cost me?!”

I blocked out Billy’s ramblings and opened the fridge.

“Go fuck yourself Billy!” I shouted.

Windows were one of the most useful yet soul-destroying inventions. And in this house I had six: four downstairs and two upstairs in my bedroom. In the kitchen, through the window above the sink, I could see my backyard. Three acres of dying overgrown grass and cracked red dirt. A single tombstone sat amongst the weeds where my wife was buried. Every time I looked out, I was reminded how awful a husband I was. And still am by letting the grass grow up to block the words “beloved wife Carol, missed by all”. Why I didn’t go out there and cut it was unknown to me. Perhaps it was the anxiety of standing in front of her tombstone knowing she was buried beneath my feet. Perhaps it was the wave of absolute grief that seemed suspended over me - threatening to crash down on my head. I turned the sink off and went to the window facing Billy’s house. It was situated on the threshold between the living room and dining room. I laughed. Billy was frantically trying to clean up the drugs and guts whilst chickens weaved around his legs, making him trip every few steps. The sound bubbled out of my lungs. It surprised me. I didn’t remember the last time I had laughed.

We didn’t always hate each other - Billy and I. In fact, we were close buddies during World War Two. So close that he bought the house next door 25 years ago. It had been a relief, knowing someone nearby had endured the same level of horror as me; almost a comfort. Death had a strange way of tying people together. Back then there was more hair on the man’s head and he was thinner. And the paint was fresh on both of our houses. His was pale yellow, ours was baby blue, with white trim. Carol and I would often bring lasagne over, laugh over a glass of wine. Sometimes Billy would yell from his window, “Goodnight!” And Carol and I would laugh before saying it back.

But a goodnight wasn’t what I would describe this night. No, tonight was filled with the shrieking of birds. Even worse than before. The sound drilled through my head, filled my ears and successfully fought off any sleep that tried to come near me. The chickens with all their brain cells must have ingested who knows how much cocaine from their dead loved ones.

Bawk bawk bawk!

Bawkak!

Non-stop.

I shoved myself out of bed, took my rifle, settled down on one knee, and looked through the scope. The sun had yet to rise, but I could see the chickens' shadows; they flung their body against the chain-link fence, collapsing onto the ground before jumping ten feet in the air like a fucking high jumper. It was nuts. And the unrelenting cawing and shrieking of the birds tore at my brain. The pull of the trigger was easy.

I kept shooting despite Billy now shouting from his back porch at me. Chickens exploded left and right like fireworks. Powder misting the air.

Bam, bam, bam.

Billy was waving his arms around madly, trying to catch the surviving chickens.

I kept shooting.

Another one, another one. I was back in the war now, in the trenches. Each time, the insistent hawking died down a notch.

I didn’t even notice when I shot through Billy.

Not until I had killed the final chicken. I expected silence to befall. I expected peace.

Not Billy’s wailing.

Fuck.

The screen door slammed shut behind me as I stormed across my front lawn and went into no man’s land.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Billy’s wailing suddenly stopped. I started running.

The man had half his body draped onto the porch. A trail of fresh blood behind him. I had shot him in the leg. I breathed out a sigh of relief. But then I noticed the phone. He was holding a phone.

I launched myself at him, ripping the phone out of his hand as I crashed onto my hands and knees. I hung up.

“Who was that?!”

Billy mumbled something under his breath. Squirming, reaching to get the phone back.

“Who was it Billy?!?”

He hissed underneath his breath as he flipped onto his back. “Go eat a bag of dirt” He was wheezing now, probably from the exertion of dragging himself onto the porch……and from the pain of the bullet wound.

I marched inside his house, grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen and stormed back onto the porch.

“You a drug smuggler now?!”

Billy pursed his lips and looked away. I stood over him and tipped the whiskey bottle onto his wounded leg. He screamed.

“Who did you call?”

“Fuck you!’

I poured another healthy amount. Spit bumbled on his bottom lip as he screamed. Deserved him right. And then I heard it. It was distant but there. Sirens.

I froze, “Are you stupid?!”

“They’ll put you behind bars for shooting me”, Billy said, cranking his head to the side to spit at my feet.

I eyed all the dead chickens. Then looked down at Billy and his bullet wound.

“No one will believe you” I locked eyes with him. “No one. The police are going to notice the bloody drugs in your backyard! And you will be locked up!’

“She didn’t deserve you. Carol” His eyes bored into mine. “You know what I was going to do with all the money I would’ve gotten from this? A new gravestone for her. I would’ve relocated her too. To my backyard. She -“

My body moved automatically. I poured the remains of the whiskey on Billy’s wound, the pain cutting his sentence short.

“She married me. ME,” I shouted.

I marched into his house, breathing heavily, empty bottle of whiskey in hand, as Billy demanded to know what I was doing in his house, as he went into vivid detail about Carol and him. It made me want to shut him up for good. Especially when the doubts started seeping in. And along with the doubts came the deep stomach ache of betrayal. Could Carol have done that? My lovely Carol?

The sirens wailed, getting closer. I only had a couple of minutes left.

I didn’t have to worry about the gun leading back to me. The serial number had been shaved off years ago. But the spent bullets could be matched to the gun. I stormed through his house to the front door. Paused, went back to the kitchen, wiped down the sides of the whiskey bottle with my long-sleeved shirt and set it in the sink. I then ran.

I grabbed my rifle still leaning against the wall, stormed down the stairs and back to Billy’s house. The sirens were loud now. I needed to hurry. I wiped down the rifle, took all the bullets out and pocketed them. And then I threw the rifle onto Billy’s front lawn.

The sirens were so close now, screeching through the air. I ran back to my house, put my clothes in the washing machine, ran upstairs naked, and changed into another set of pyjamas. I heard tyres crunch against the dirt road and doors slam. I slid into bed and waited.

It took nine minutes for the police to knock on my door. There were two of them. A woman and a man, both in their late 30s if I had to guess. The woman introduced herself as Maggie and her partner Walter; I noticed a bead of sweat on Maggie’s upper lip. Despite it being early in the morning, the temperature was already high.

“John”, I said as a way of answering. I peered past them. “Is everything alright?” I filled my voice with concern and confusion, rubbing my eyes as if to clear sleep.

“Can we come inside?” Maggie asked.

I opened the screen door, stepping aside to let them through.

“Of course. Would you folks like some tea? Coffee?”

“No, no, it’s ok”, Walter said, standing awkwardly in the living room. He took his hat off and held it in front of him. Maggie perched herself down on one of the couches, flipping through a notebook.

“Your neighbour Billy has claimed you shot him and all of his chickens”, Maggie said, looking up at me. She braced her forearms on her thighs, dangling the book in between. “Is this correct?”

I frowned “he must be joking”

Walter looked down at Maggie, then back at me.

“Did you hear any shots this morning?”

I crossed my arms “A little. But I thought I was dreaming. I used to be in the army. I still get flashbacks”

A look of remorse rippled across their faces. They both averted their gaze.

“Thank you for your service”, Walter said stiffly.

I nodded.

“What time were the shots?” Maggie asked.

I rubbed the back of my neck, taking the time to think.

“Around 5:30 in the morning, I would say”

“And did you see anything?”

“No, I heard shouting. But again, I thought it was still my dream. Every night I’m back in those trenches. A lot of screaming and shooting is happening”

Maggie hung her head.

“Sounds awful”

I grunted. Was this true? No. I was one of the lucky few that had blocked out many of the horrors…for the most part. Billy, on the other hand… I knew it plagued him. A prickle of guilt fled through me.

“Why would someone kill his chickens?”

Had they noticed the drugs yet?

Walter tilted his head “You seem more surprised about the dead chickens than Billy getting shot”

I could see the glint in his eyes. He knew about the drugs, and now he was waiting to see if I knew. I took his comment in stride as I walked to the fridge. “Billy is a loose cannon, drunk, but also an addict. He has many enemies. He’s always hated me too.”

“Any reason?”

I glanced at the window above the sink. I couldn’t see Carol’s grave from my spot at the fridge, but I could picture it clearly.

“He was in love with my wife. For many years up until she died. He harboured a lot of jealousy towards me”

I bent down, grabbed the milk and shut the fridge. I looked at them.

Walter had turned his body to face me from the living room. Maggie was watching over her spot on the couch.

“Love can make you do crazy things. But chickens? Who would want to kill them?”

I then drank straight from the milk carton.

I watched them leave through the screen door. I could hear Claire yelling at me. Telling me I’m a horrible person. Deep down, my mind already echoed that. I would catch her longing gaze at Billy’s house. I would notice how her beautiful smile would finally reach her eyes whenever she laughed at one of Billy’s comments. She loved me, yes. But she loved him more. I just couldn’t let her go; even when her brain slowly got destroyed by Alzheimer’s. Even when she started calling me Billy and the memory of us, of me, John, was erased. Eventually I stopped correcting her. I refused to let Billy come over. Not wanting him to know. He never forgave me. Perhaps that’s why I took such terrible care to her grave. An act of revenge. One that hurt my heart, and made it ache.

Not everything I said to the police was a lie. I did speak one truth.

“Love can make you do crazy things”

I didn’t sleep well that night. I should’ve. It was quiet. No sounds of those chickens. No sounds of Billy slamming his doors throughout the night. Just silence. Heavy, thick silence that made my ears ring. I could hear the wind outside. It was cold tonight. A chill that crept through my fingers, making the joints ache. I sat up and threw the blankets off.

The moonlight shone down on Carol's gravestone. I braced my hands against the sink, picturing her blond hair, streaked with grey. She would gather it up in a loose bun when she was in deep thought. Half of it falling out in the back. And she would never notice. It always made me laugh; that little blond rat tail. I rubbed a hand against my chest. She would hug me as I washed the dishes, wrapping her arms around me and placing her cheek between my shoulder blades.

I wish the ache in my heart would go away.

I wish she never started calling me Billy. I wish I could forgive her.

What did Billy say?

You know what I was going to do with all the money I would’ve gotten from this? A new gravestone for her”

I hung my head. That’s why he got himself into this mess. Who he was smuggling the drugs for I had no clue. But I did know he was telling the truth. Partially anyway.

I closed my eyes. And in the silence I knew what I had to do.

The police station was cold when I entered. Surprisingly, Walter was on his way out, coffee in hand. He stopped short when he saw me.

“John? Everything alright?”

I waved a hand, brushing his words off “I did it. I killed those chickens. Shot Billy. Stuffed those birds with drugs”

I turned, sat down in one of the plastic seats stationed against the wall, suddenly exhausted and looked at him. His mouth was slightly open, eyebrows raised. It was clear he didn’t know what to say.

I sighed “Love can make you do crazy things young man”