Jeremy Kyle: Revenge

Chapter 11

The van hummed steadily along the motorway. Outside, the countryside blurred into dark green smudges beneath a velvet-black sky. The occasional road sign flickered in the headlights. Leeds – 98 miles.

Inside the van, the mood had shifted from heavy trauma-dump to strange, post-trauma camaraderie. Jeremy Kyle sat near the back, sipping lukewarm tea out of a chipped mug Russell Brand swore was "ceremonially blessed." Piers Morgan was asleep, snoring through his nose like a dying leaf blower. Danny Dyer had taken off his neck brace and was using it as a footrest.
Dylan leaned his head back against the wall of the van. "Y'know," he said, "for a bus full of deranged celebrities hunting a psychotic chicken-man, this ain't half bad."
Gordon Ramsay grunted. "Just wait until the feathers start flying."

Jeremy looked across at One Direction, all sitting in a row near the front. Sunglasses still on. Too calm. Too coordinated.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Alright... I gotta ask."
The van quieted down.
Jeremy leaned forward.
"Why you lot? Why are you helping the victims of the Chicken?"
There was a pause. A long one.
Finally, Harry Styles exhaled. He took off his sunglasses and placed them gently in his lap.
He looked older. Tired. Something haunted his eyes.
"2015. Madison Square Garden," he began.
"We'd just finished our last set of the night. Backstage, Liam went to grab our celebratory champagne. He never came back."
"We found him an hour later. Dazed. Mumbling. Covered in feathers. The Chicken... he didn't do anything physical. He just stared at him. For thirty-seven minutes."
"Didn't say a word. Didn't move. Just... stood there in the corner of the dressing room. Breathing. Liam's therapist says it was psychological warfare. Broke something inside him."

Liam, seated nearby, stared straight ahead. Blinked once. Took a long sip from his bottle of water.
"I still see him in the shadows," he whispered.
Niall spoke next, voice trembling. "He left a rubber egg in my backpack. Filled with jellybeans. I still don't know what it meant."
Zayn chimed in, more serious. "We started tracking him after that. Following online sightings. Coordinating with victims. Forming The Flock. That's what we call the support network now."
Louis reached over and squeezed Zayn's hand.
The mood softened.
Then, with no warning, Zayn leaned over and kissed Louis. Not a quick peck. A full, emotional, slow-burn kiss. Louis kissed back. Soft gasps echoed through the van. Even Gordon Ramsay sat up straighter.
"Wait," Jeremy said, blinking. "You two are—?"
"Yeah," Louis replied, smiling. "Since the Chicken. Something about shared trauma, I guess."
Danny Dyer clapped softly. "Love finds a way, bruv."
Russell Brand began crying for reasons unclear.

Then it happened.
THUD.
The van jerked violently.
Harry slammed the brakes. Everyone was thrown forward.
Screech. Thump. Silence.
"SHIT!" shouted Harry, yanking the van into park. "I didn't see it— I swear I didn't see anything—"
Alarms were going off. Gordon dropped his sandwich. Piers Morgan woke up screaming. Jeremy grabbed the edge of the seat. "What the hell was that?"
"Something under the van," Liam said, standing up and grabbing a flashlight from a supply drawer. "Something big."

One by one, they all exited the van. Outside, the countryside was pitch black.
Only the van's red taillights cast any glow.
The wind was sharp. Cold. Wet grass brushed against their ankles. Crickets chirped, but too far away — like nature itself had retreated.

They gathered around the front of the van.
Harry crouched, slowly pointing the flashlight under the vehicle.
The beam danced through shadows.
Nothing. Nothing except.... Feathers?

A trail of feather. Scattered. Leading off into the woods.
A soft rustling noise came from the trees ahead. Something moving. Watching.
Jeremy whispered, "...Tell me that was a bird."
Harry stood, eyes fixed on the darkened woods.
"No," he said.
"It's him."