The Butcher's Husband and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  With that, I open the door and lead you out into the bracing night air. I know the cold won't be kind to your joints, but we'll be home soon, I promise. I could call a taxi, but I know how much you like the bus.

  “See you soon, Mum,” I call back as I let the door swing shut. “I'll call tomorrow.”

  The walk to the bus stop used to take us about two minutes, but these days it takes five times as long. You don't really stop and sniff things much these days, Jasper, do you? I remember when you'd scurry about from bush to bush, frantically smelling all the smells that were around. Now, as we head up the steps that lead to the side of the road, you seem to be totally focused on simply getting from A to B. I guess I understand but, hey, we're going on a bus soon! An actual bus! Going on a bus is always the best part of coming out to visit my parents!

  Eventually we reach the bus stop, where a single streetlight picks out a circle of brightness. I stop and check my watch, and I see that we're about seven minutes early. You sit next to me and let out another pained sigh, but I know you understand what's happening now. You must be excited about the fact that we're going to take a bus, and I promise I'll put you on my knee so that you can see out the window. If we get one of those drivers who tells me to put you back on the floor, I'll tell him that there aren't actually any laws against it. You love buses, Jasper. They've always been one of your favorite things.

  Hearing an engine in the distance, I look along the road and see a large vehicle heading this way. For a moment, I assume that the bus is coming early, but then I realize that the vehicle is actually just a coach. It's roaring toward us, and I can see already that it's empty apart from the driver.

  “Don't worry,” I say as I look down at you, “the bus will be here soon.”

  You stare up at me, and I swear your eyes look sadder and more doleful than ever.

  “I promise,” I continue, forcing a smile.

  You turn and look toward the oncoming coach, and then you look at me again.

  “We're going to the vet on Thursday,” I remind you. “Stay strong until then. It's going to be good news, I can feel it in my bones.”

  You look at the coach again. It's almost here.

  “It's going to be good news this time,” I tell you. “The operation'll be a big success, and then you'll feel better. I know it.”

  You watch the oncoming coach, and then you look up at me again.

  I wish I could read your mind. As you stare at me, and as the light from the approaching coach starts rushing toward us, I swear there's such intelligence in your eyes. It's almost as if -

  Suddenly you step forward, off the side of the pavement, just as the coach reaches us. I open my mouth to tell you to stay, but in an instant the coach rushes past us. Everything happens at once: there's a crunching sound, and the splatter of something against my shoes, and the lead is ripped from my hand so fast that I almost fall over. I just about manage to steady myself, and already the coach is roaring away at full speed.

  And in the pool of light cast by the streetlight, I see what's left of you.

  Chapter Two

  No no no no no no no no, why did you do this? Jasper, why? You were always so good, so obedient. Why did you step into the road?

  With tears streaming down my face, I step through my front door and then use my bum to push it shut. I took my coat off at the bus stop and scooped you up, and since then I haven't dared to look at you. The top of the coat is folded over to cover you, but I already know that there's no hope. You haven't moved since I started carrying you, and I saw immediately that most of you had been flattened by the coach. I can't pretend to believe that you might miraculously survive. I haven't even called the vet.

  I know.

  For a moment, standing in the hallway, I don't know what to do. My hands are trembling and my knees feel like jelly, as if I might collapse at any moment, but finally I make my way through to the front room and then I stop at the breakfast bar. I hesitate for a moment, and then I carefully place the bundled coat onto the counter, and then I wait.

  I have to look.

  I don't want to look, but I have no choice.

  I have to see for myself.

  I have to be sure that you're really gone.

  Reaching out with shaking hands, I take hold of the top of the coat, but I don't quite dare pull it aside, not yet. In my mind's eye, I keep replaying that moment when you stepped out in front of the coach. You were looking at me. It wasn't as if you'd seen something on the other side of the road and were rushing over to give chase. No, you were looking straight at me, almost as if...

  I blink.

  In a flash, I see you step out, and then I hear the crunch of the coach running straight over you.

  My bottom lip is shaking.

  I can't look.

  Turning away, I take a deep breath. The apartment seems so utterly quiet without you. Even when you're not walking around, I can usually hear you sighing somewhere. Now, standing all alone with my back to you, I listen to absolute abject silence, and I suddenly start wondering where the noise is going to come from now. I mean, I make noise as I go around doing things, but where's the noise of life going to come from? Is the only noise going to come from me now? That thought suddenly feels utterly horrifying.

  I pause, before realizing that I'm delaying the inevitable.

  I slowly turn back to look at my coat on the counter, and for the first time I notice that some blood has soaked through from inside.

  Your blood.

  I take a deep breath. For a moment, I actually feel stronger, as if I can do this. Then, in an instant, all that strength fades away and I feel as if I can never look.

  But I have to look.

  I reach out and touch the edge of the coat again, and this time I begin to oh-so-slowly lift the fabric. I tell myself that I can stop at any moment, that I can stop as soon as I see anything I don't want to see, but I keep going until finally I see a vague dark lump. I hesitate, but I don't close the coat, and then slowly I begin to pull it aside again, even when I see more blood that has been left stained all over the fabric.

  Your blood, Jasper.

  I expected that I'd flinch, that I wouldn't dare to open the coat all the way, but somehow I find the strength. I take a deep breath as soon as I see your broken, mangled body, but I force myself to stare at the mess. As I do so, I think back to the way you looked at me tonight, just before you stepped out into the road. I know everyone thinks that their dog is smarter than all the rest, but I swear I saw such intelligence and compassion in your eyes, and also something else, something that I've maybe been ignoring for a while now.

  Pain.

  I close the coat.

  This was my fault.

  Mum was right. I hate to admit that, but I should have faced the inevitable truth much sooner, instead of forcing you to keep going when you were obviously in a great deal of pain. I was selfish, Jasper, and for that I can only apologize. I hope you understand why I did it, and I hope you can forgive me. Wherever you are now, I hope you know that my every action was motivated by love and only love.

  I turn and look around for a moment.

  Can dogs come back as ghosts?

  I listen, just in case I hear the sound of your paws on the kitchen floor, or the sound of my bed creaking as you jump on or off, but there's nothing.

  After a moment I spot your dog bed in the corner of the room. I should move that, it's just a reminder of your absence. I make my way over and reach down to pick the bed up, but at the last second I hesitate. It would feel so callous to start removing all traces of you so quickly.

  Tomorrow.

  I'll get rid of your bed tomorrow, I promise.

  Then again, there's so much that I need to do tomorrow. Turning and looking over at the coat again, I suddenly realize that I need to decide where to bury you. So many possibilities fill my mind, and finally I start to consider cremation. Would my insurance cover that? Then I could scatter bits of you in different places that
you loved. The quarry. The beach. The forest. Starbucks. There might be some hygiene rules against that latter idea, but you always enjoyed going in there so much. Maybe I can sprinkle just a thimble's worth of your ashes in the corner where we always sat, behind the skirting board so that you don't get vacuumed up too quickly.

  Sighing, I sit cross-legged on the floor and put my head in my hands. I'm not crying, which is a surprise, but I feel as if tears are going to come at any moment. Ah, there they are now. My hands are trembling, and I let out a pained sob.

  As I start rocking back and forward on the floor, next to the counter where you're remains are still wrapped in my coat, I begin to think that maybe I'm in shock.

  Chapter Three

  Three weeks later...

  “Yes, Mum, I'm fine,” I say, struggling to carry my grocery bags through the front door. “Again. Just like yesterday. You really don't need to call and check up on me every five minutes.”

  “Why don't you come over for tea?” she asks. “Your father and I have nothing on.”

  “That's very kind of you,” I reply, “but I'm tired from working all day and I'd rather just relax.”

  As I set the bags of shopping down, I let out a faint sigh. I'm grateful to Mum for inviting me over, of course, but the last thing I need is another long evening like last night, watching TV and listening as Dad explains which local business he's going to report to trading standards this time.

  “Have you at least got rid of those things?” Mum asks.

  “Mum -”

  “It's time, sweetheart. You need to move on.”

  I glance through the door into the front room, and I immediately see your bed still sitting in its usual place. Your green pull toy is right where you left it, Jasper, nestled in the center of the bed. Every single evening, I tell myself that I should get rid of your bed, and every single evening I end up promising myself that I'll do it the next day. And so on, for the past three weeks. The problem is, that bed still smells of him, and I can already feel tears welling in my eyes.

  “Paula?” Mum says suddenly. “Are you still there?”

  “I'm still here,” I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on the bed. “And yes, I threw his things out. I did it yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh.” She sounds surprised. “You did?”

  “I did,” I lie, as I feel a heavy sense of dread in my chest. Mum and Dad are already planning to come over tomorrow, which means I've now inadvertently set a deadline for myself. “Are you happy now?”

  “Not happy, darling. Just relieved.” She pauses, as if she's not sure what to say now that she hasn't got something to complain about. “Well, I'm pleased for you. Three weeks is a long time and you need to move on. How are things going with that Matthew fellow at work, anyway? Are you going to go on a second date with him? It must be over two months since the first.”

  “I'm fine,” I say, taking a deep breath as I continue to stare at your bed. “I'm just tired. Do you mind if we continue this conversation when you come over tomorrow? Or I could always come to your place instead.”

  “No, your father and I will be in your area tomorrow evening anyway,” she replies testily. “We'll see you around six. Is that still okay?”

  I want to say that it isn't, but I know that she'd only get more agitated, so I tell her that I'll see her tomorrow. It takes another five minutes or so to actually get her off the phone, since she's fussing as usual about this and that and a hundred other things. Finally, however, I manage to end the call, which is a blessed relief as I set my phone down and slip out of my new coat. I glance at your bed, and then I tell myself that I'll throw it out tomorrow, and then I gather the bags and head through to the kitchen.

  A moment later, I step back into the hallway and look at your bed again.

  I have to do this now, don't I?

  After setting the bags back down, I make my way through to the front room. Every step feels heavy, and I keep telling myself that I can turn around at any moment and leave this task for another day. At the same time, in some strange way I feel as if you'd want me to get on with things. Wouldn't you? So many people have told me that I should get another dog, and I'm grateful for their advice, but that feels like too much right now. On the other hand, maybe grief isn't a single event, maybe it's more of a process, a series of steps. In which case, I have to do this, don't I?

  Just, please, wherever you are... I don't want you to think that I'm forgetting you.

  I crouch in front of the bed. Already, I can smell you, and I smile at the memory of you being close. Reaching out, I run my hand across the bed, and instantly I gather hundreds of dog hairs all over my fingers. No matter how many times I brushed you, you always shed hairs everywhere you went. Sometimes dog hairs even come out when I blow my nose. I bite my bottom lip for a moment as I contemplate how it would feel to get another dog, but in truth I don't think that I'm ready for that. I need time.

  So, finally, I get to my feet and pick the bed up.

  As I do so, however, I somehow manage to slam the left side of my head against the corner of my desk. Gasping, I feel a burst of pain crackling through my head as I fall back and land hard on my bum.

  I wince as the pain spreads, and when I reach up I'm relieved and a little surprised that there isn't any blood.

  “Damn it,” I mutter.

  I reach over to grab the bed again, and at that moment I spot the corner of a sheet of paper poking out from beneath the cushioned section. I set the bed back down and lift the cushion's edge, and to my surprise I see that there are lots and lots of lined sheets, which seem to have been torn from my notepads. Picking the sheets up, I find that they're covered in strange, indecipherable scribbles. I have no idea why you would have brought these things back to your bed, Jasper, or even where you got them from. But you must have found them somewhere.

  A moment later an old Biro drops from between the top two sheets and lands on the cushion.

  Okay, this is getting weirder. You were rarely ever out of my sight, Jasper, except for when I was at work. Getting to my feet, I turn and head over to the table and I set the sheets down, and then I start looking through them. There's not one word that looks like English, or that looks like any language I recognize, but at the same time the scrawls do seem to be arranged in lines across each page, so I guess there's some kind of order to the chaos. I just don't understand, Jasper, what these things are and how they ended up hidden under the cushion in your bed.

  What exactly is all this writing? What have I found?

  Part Two

  THE DIARY

  Chapter Four

  “Huh? What?”

  Startled, I look up from the sheet that I've been studying, just as I realize that Mum was talking to me.

  “Your father has every right to complain about it, you know,” she says as she continues to flick through the latest Radio Times. She's too stingy to buy a copy, so she always comes to my place on release day.

  For the articles, she claims.

  “That shop was advertising three-for-two on storage containers,” she continues, “but when he went in, they didn't have three the same size. They should have let him have a larger one for free, but they said he had to take a smaller one instead. It's a clear-cut case of misleading advertising, Paula. They can't be allowed to get away with things like that.”

  “No, they can't,” I murmur, looking back down at the sheet.

  Mum and Dad are happily grumbling as they sit in the front room, while I'm over by the desk. You know what they're like, Jasper. I claimed that I had to look something up, but in truth I've got the drawer open so that I can look at one of the pages that I recovered from your bed. I very carefully avoided mentioning the pages, because the last thing I need is for Mum or Dad to start coming up with theories. Mum would probably think that that it's terrorists, and she'd call the police, while Dad would just mutter and groan about things as usual.

  There's a pattern to these scribbles, Jasper, there has to
be. What exactly did you find? Is it some kind of code? Maybe Mum wouldn't be so wide of the mark after all.

  “Are you listening to a word I've been saying?”

  I turn and see that she's staring at me, and for a moment I'm lost for anything to say.

  “Are you still thinking about him?” she asks.

  She means you.

  “You can't let it get you down,” she continues. “Just pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and either try again or cut your losses and look for someone else.”

  “Sorry?” I reply, with a furrowed brow.

  “That Matthew chap at work. If he turned you down for a second date, just find someone else. Eventually you're bound to find someone who wants to go out with you.”

  Ah. Okay. She doesn't mean you after all, Jasper.

  “As nice as that sentiment sounds,” I reply, as I shut the drawer and head back over to her, “I think I'll be okay. Not everyone's desperately running around, looking for a partner.”

  “Your father and I worry that you're lonely.”

  “That's sweet.”

  “And you're not getting any younger. I know you say you don't want children, but sometimes these feelings kick in. I know you work in a small office, dear, but there must be someone there who'd be willing to at least go for a drink with you.”

  “I would imagine so,” I reply, forcing a smile as I sit in the armchair closest to the window. “Did you say you wanted to watch that film? We should start now, otherwise you won't have time before you have to get home for Dad's bath.”

  “That's true,” Dad mutters. “Put the film on, one of you.”

  I grab the remote control and start searching for the right option on the screen.

  “I've put a reminder on your noticeboard,” Mum says suddenly.

  “A reminder of what?” I ask.

  “The fact that you need to ask a man out.”

  I turn to her, and she nods toward the noticeboard next to the window. Turning, I'm about to say that I still don't understand, and then I see that she has indeed pinned a sheet of paper on top of all my bills, post-it notes and other items. Sure enough, in big letters on that piece of paper, she's written 'Ask someone out'.