Five minutes, no more, and you turn out the light, or I’ll be down there to take out the light bulb.’

‘Would you like me to help him back to his room, Mum? Seeing as it’s his first time and he might lose his way?’ Darcy licked his lips expectantly.

‘No need for that, son,’ said his mother, firmly.

Jake found his own way back to his room and turned on the light. For a moment he sat on the side of the bed, numb with tiredness. He stood, weaving a little on his feet. He shook out the rough grey blankets, wrapped them around him without taking off his clothing, pulled the light cord, found the bed and lay down. For a brief moment he thought of his little sister, Janice. For a briefer moment he saw his father, and remembered the wry grin, the quick hug and the quick goodbye. For a fleeting second he pictured his mother, and then with eyes tight shut he put her picture from his mind.

Jake was too exhausted to feel anything, too exhausted to think anything. He fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

III

Jake worked. Jake learnt. He worked hard and he learnt quickly. It was just as well—most lessons were accompanied by a clip around his ear, a boot to his backside and a string of curses from either Pearson—father and son. Jake suffered at the hands, feet and mouths of both, and both were at their most foul-tempered in the early, dark dawns. Above all he learnt to keep his mouth shut. It was made quite clear to him that, given a very short time to learn the ropes, the work would be largely his, overseen by Darcy and not the old man; a prospect that filled Jake with dread.

Old Pearson he could live with, tolerate, and even understand. The younger Pearson was something else again. The boy spotted quickly that Darcy was obliged to take almost as much from his father as he was. Nowhere as much physical abuse but much of the verbal torrent was directed at them both. Jake knew instinctively that once the old man left the overseeing in his son’s hands his life would be even less worth living. The looks of pure hatred Darcy shot in his direction whenever his father was making him the butt of his ill-temper added to Jake’s fear, more so in the knowledge that he would soon be at his mercy.

Darcy Pearson delighted in brutality, took pleasure in the infliction of pain and was at his happiest when making the life of some other living creature an absolute misery. He took care around his father and their herd of milking cows. While the old man was not averse to giving the tail of a reluctant cow a sharp and painful twist, he had enough good farming sense to know that a tormented beast isn’t going to produce a good quota of milk. Milk was money. At least when his father was around, Darcy made sure he followed suit. He reserved his vengeful energies for when the old man wasn’t there or when a likely prospect didn’t count for much. Those that counted least on this farm were the bobby calves, redundant offspring of the milking cows. All of the bull calves and many of the heifers, separated from their mothers a day or two after birth and unceremoniously dragged to the farm gate; caged, collected and carted off to slaughter. Darcy Pearson was an expert at making the short life of a bobby calf a pain-filled, terrifying hell.

Jake stood, white-faced, trembling, as Darcy dealt with a calf that hadn’t wanted to be caught. ‘Teach you a lesson, useless little blighter,’ snarled Darcy, as his new-born victim bellowed satisfactorily. ‘You don’t take shit from these suckers,’ Darcy turned to Jake. ‘What’s the matter with you? Feeling sorry for it?’ The look that suddenly dawned on Darcy’s handsome face was one of ultimate satisfaction—he’d discovered a prime method of tormenting the younger boy.