Prologue

Time: Towards the very end

Place: I told you, I have no idea, but it was a courtroom

(If you don’t trust a dead man, read no further.)

Judge Tie Grr gazed ahead, his green eyes gleaming like cut cucumbers in a crystal bowl. He decided to take a strategic pause before he delivered the verdict.

I could not keep my eyes off his tie. Rumour had it he wore a different tie each time. He had a humungous collection of hand-painted satin ties and the tie was the only clue to what was on his mind. Because he kept a poker face. And eyes that sliced through flesh and bones, lies and phoney evidence.

I knew Judge Tie Grr could feel all eyes on him—the Jury, the prosecutor, the defendant and the audience. The tension was palpable in the air—like static that made the fur on every creature in the courtroom stay erect, bristling and electrified.

This was not the first verdict he would spell out. But it was the most sensational case in his career, which was as striped in black and gold as his velvet coat. He straightened the curling fur on his paw, making slow, deliberate movements. Tick tock. . .tick tock.

Peeping Tom from the Hawk Eye News channel, leaned forward, ready to leap the moment the press was permitted in. “Exclusive coverage. . .right from the tiger’s mouth. . .” He had his opening lines ready.

Having worked in theatre, Judge Tie Grr knew the importance of timing his sentences. Timing is everything, he reminded himself. A beat too early, and it sounds hurried, a beat later, and the murmurs of dissatisfaction would encroach upon the moment.

So, Judge Tie Grr took a last look at Chi Kenny, the gawky chicken sitting next to the prosecutor’s attorney, Ms Fie Esty.

He skipped looking at the defendants altogether. Too many to look at. Defence Attorney Venn Geance smiled to exhibit all his teeth. Monkeys can be annoying.

And then, Judge Tie Grr began. “After a lot of deliberations, the jury has reached a clear verdict. And it says. . .”

1

Some Place Sunny

Time: The day I arrived there

Place: Chi Kenny’s cottage, on a farm, some place sunny

Ma Hen sat at the breakfast table, slathering yellow butter on slices of toasted bread. The first golden rays of sunlight fell in a stream on the small table, making the tops of the salt and pepper shakers sparkle. Chi Kenny walked in holding a pitcher of milk and a bowl of boiled, spiced corn.

There could not have been a more idyllic visual on a Sunday morning, but I was preoccupied with observing the curious beings in front of me. Ma Hen was a big, fat, black hen with the look of a mother who would take no nonsense.

She wore a chequered black and white dress, with frills at the hem. She was holding the butter-knife in a pincer-like grasp, between her talons, and went about her business as if it was the most mundane thing in the world—a hen buttering her toast.

Chi Kenny, an almost full-grown chicken, must have taken after his absentee father, because he had downy, golden yellow feathers. His scrawny, long neck and googly eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses gave him the permanent expression of bewilderment. His squeaky tone matched his boyish persona. He was wearing a simple shirt with a spotless red kitchen apron over it. One which he, without a doubt, shared with his mother.

Black coffee, toast, butter, corn, a slice of fruit cake and a tall glass of milk—the spread looked inviting. I was about to ask for eggs when I realised I was not invited, or visible, and decided to keep my mouth shut.

There was something else on Ma Hen’s plate, that her unassuming son did not notice—an agenda. She handed him his toast, which he accepted without looking up from the newspaper.

The headline read: WorthVile Farm Factory to expand, buys 3,000 acres in LittleTown.

“Wow! They are coming to our neighbourhood!” Kenny beamed.

He threw the newspaper to the side, and I skimmed through it with curiosity.

Ma Hen glanced out of the window. The corn in the fields gleamed golden, and the crop swayed with the wind.

“About that, Kenny, the landlord had written to me a week back. . .”

“Mr Cooper is back in the country? How is he? Did he like the pictures of the farm I emailed him? He never replied!”

“Oh, yes, he liked them very much. He was very appreciative of the way we have kept the property clean, was raving about the whopper produce last season, and was asking after Adam, but what he—”

“He remembers Adam! What a rooster! A major business tycoon and he remembers our Adam! Of course, he would. . . Didn’t you see how he fawned over him on his last visit? Who could resist Adam, after looking into those green eyes. . .”

Ma Hen sighed. She had often been a victim of Kenny’s infectious enthusiasm.

“Did you get peanuts for him?”

“No, Ma. I said I would get them with groceries over the weekend.”

“He has been sulking.”

“He has to learn to wait, Ma. Did you name him ‘Adam’ because he is so adam-ant?”

“Old joke,” Ma Hen yawned to show her disinterest, “Besides, he is your brother.”

“From another mother, of course. But bringing Eve next was taking the joke a little too far, no?”

“You cheeky chicken! Adam has accomplished something you still haven’t.” Ma Hen spoke with a sudden mischief in her eyes.

“And that would be. . .”

“He has found the one and settled down.” Ma Hen finished her sentence triumphantly.

Kenny rolled his eyes, balled up his claws and yawned.

“I’ll get some sleep, Ma. Wake me for lunch and then I’ll work on the farm.”

“Why don’t you leave that night school, boy?” Ma Hen tottered to the kitchen.

“Got to pay back, Ma. Got to pay back.” Kenny replied as he snuggled into his blanket.

Ma Hen hummed her tune, as she shoved the leftovers from breakfast into the fridge and all thoughts of Mr Cooper’s letter to the back of her mind.

A few hundred crane trucks hummed busily, clearing the grass, loading and unloading bags of cement several hundred miles away.