I’m going to kill that fucking chicken.

I was sitting in my usual spot in the Italian campsite, overlooking the hillside where a distant church bell rang. Filo gave me a shout to say we were going to kill the rooster. I followed him on the electric bike as he went off in the truck. I pedalled hard along the dirt road that ribboned through the countryside. The sun was setting, casting orange light over hay bales in the golden field to my left, distracting me from the burning in my legs as I climbed the hill to their village. Many of the houses in their town, like most of the houses in the area, were empty. Only a few hundred people lived in the complex of villages surrounding us. Beautiful and abandoned.

I’d been staying with three Italian friends at their campsite for three weeks. They lived together in a village 5 minutes away from the campsite they owned. They knew everyone and everyone knew them. Friends came and went and I learnt enough Italian to impress but not enough to know when I was being spoken about. I was sleeping in a caravan and eating wonderful food in exchange for some manual labour five days a week. However, every morning at 2, 4, or 5am, a cockerel belonging to the next door neighbour would cry out for war. Ear-plugs did little to drown it. I learnt the Italian phrase, ‘Ucciderò quel cazzo di gallo.’ I’m going to kill that fucking chicken. For three weeks I said this. Finally, they swapped one of their own cockerels for the neighbour’s whilst his wife, who liked the proud old cock, was out of town. The day had finally come.

Filo went into the house and left me to lean against my bike at the back of the house, gazing at the pale moon in the just darkening blue sky. He came out with four bottles of beer. I drank a half. ‘Let’s go.’

Before we went to the chickens, he showed me to a metal structure designed to grow vines, but nothing grew there except the long grass beneath. On the metal structure, three ropes had been deftly tied, each made into a small noose. No, I thought. Surely not. He led the way behind a hedge of bushes and trees, up to the old brick-built shed with an extension of chicken-wire and a rusted metal roof. He stood impressively in the middle of the coop with his hands on his hips. The chickens were looking at him in a curious way, he gave me an excited smile and pushed his glasses up on his nose. ‘So, we’re going to kill three cocks.’ The hens began to sense he was not protector today but predator, and the clucking turned from friendly to fearful.

The biggest, the smallest, and mine were all going to die. As he chased the smaller one, the biggest of them began chasing him back. Its bravery charging a man ten times its size was not lost on me. Nor was it lost on Filo who, with legs now scratched, locked him with the ducks.

The little cockerel gave a good fight, bouncing around, nimble and light, but, finally, Filo caught him. He held it in one hand, pinioning the base of its wings with two fingers and thumb, it looked like an eagle mid-swoop. Its body was still but its voice would be heard. It crowed and cried in fear. I have no doubt, it knew it was going to its death.

We stepped out of the cage and I was struck by the warmth of the evening, the sight of the Italian hills over the hedge. It cried all the way to the gallows, where it became silent, giving up the fight. ‘So, you take one foot and…’ He put it through the noose and let the chicken dangle. He fished a pair of scissors from the back pocket of his jean shorts. ‘We have to cut the jugular from the inside.’ Gently, he put his fingers either side of its beak and squeezed to open it. I didn’t know chickens had tongues. He slid the scissors deep inside, pushing further than I thought possible. ‘It has to be deep, otherwise you don’t cut properly, it suffers more.’ Snip.

It gave a small twitch. He removed the scissors and, at once, blood began pouring from its beak onto the grass. He moved back and so did I. That’s when it started flapping. ‘It’s normal.’ His voice was hard but kind. He was more worried about me than the chicken, I think. ‘It just moves.’ He smiled at me and pushed up his glasses with the back of his hand, still holding the slightly bloody scissors. Finally, the cockerel stopped flapping. ‘It’s dead,’ he said as he clapped his hand to my shoulder. We gave a final glance at the dead animal before walking back to the coop.

Two ropes still hung empty.

We went back to the cage. The big rooster darted through Filo’s legs when he let it out of the duck pen. He was not fighting for his smaller comrade now, nor was any other fighting for him. He was alone. Running and bouncing, but inevitably, he was captured. He did not cry out. He did not make a sound. Maybe it was fear that kept its tongue, maybe pride. In that moment, I felt pride.

The noose, the scissors, the beak, the snip. The blood poured more slowly than with the first. It flapped frantically. It kept flapping. ‘It’s dead, don’t worry, it’s dead.’ More flapping and twisting, then it became still. But, as all humans do, both Filo and I were looking into its open black eye. It was looking at us. The horrible twitching and flapping started again and the blood sprayed more freely. It spasmed horribly before cooing softly. Finally, it half closed its eye. It was still. I looked at Filo, he looked at me. We both knew what had happened. He looked down and gave a grimace of a smile. Then, instead of going back to the cage, he went into the garage. He looked for a while and found a longer pair of scissors with an orange handle, and handed them to me with a wrinkled nose smile. Back to the cage we went. Me with the scissors in my back pocket.

Mine was in a cell of its own. At once, I could see why the neighbour’s wife did not want to part with it. It was beautiful and proud. White plumage with a red crown. Filo was behind me, holding the door shut.

I was nervous and clumsy in my approach. It got past me, around me, and over me. I half caught it against the fence but dropped it in the water trough before deciding I was causing it more harm by being gentle. I pinned it to the ground then carried it out just as Filo had done, holding it by the base of its wings. Its feathers were wet and clinging to its body. I could feel the warmth of its flesh. It is that warm, wet feeling in my hand which I remember most of all.

As I walked out, Filo said, ‘You have to kill it you know. You can’t worry if you hurt it.’ I nodded and almost smiled.

I put its foot through the noose. Filo showed me how to open its beak. I pressed my fingers either side unthinkingly. I slid the scissors down its throat. Up to then, it had all been a game, a brutal game. I quickly pulled the scissors out of the very real and now screaming animal. I apologised to it. I was killing this animal.

I pushed the scissors in further, snipped, then I pulled it out. Nothing happened. ‘Fuck.’ I hadn’t gone deep enough. ‘I’m sorry, brother.’ I pushed the scissors in further, then further, then I felt the jugular cut as I snapped the scissors shut. It flapped frantically for a second, splattering my arms and shorts with blood. Unlike the other two it did not begin to shake and jitter. Once again, he assured me it was dead.

It was still for so long that we went to the unlit garage to wash the scissors. I could see it, framed in the bright square light of the door, twitching and flapping on the gallows, like an actor in the spotlight of a stage. From the shadow of the wings I washed the blood from my hands.