The Butcher's Husband and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “There is a lot of dust,” I explain. “Apparently it's even worse in the upper floors of the building.”

  “All of which will be noted down,” Mr. Dorchester says. “The case is in the system now, but we don't have the resources to come here and sort it out immediately.” He turns to Justin. “This isn't some kind of radioactive hazard. It's most likely just some cement that someone's thrown from a passing van.”

  Justin mutters a few curse words under his breath and storms off, heading around the side of the bog and going to take a closer look at the pipe that runs beneath the road.

  “Are you sure there's nothing you can do to expedite things?” I ask as I watch Mr. Dorchester slipping his clipboard back into his bag. “My dog totally freaked out when we got near this spot, and my previous dog did the same thing. There seems to be no wildlife at all out here. I'm just worried that whatever's in this bog might be reaching the building and causing people to get sick.”

  “I don't see anything to indicate that at all,” Mr. Dorchester replies archly.

  Sighing, I realize that there's no way he's going to take this seriously. The absolute best we can hope for, it seems, is that in six to eight weeks we get some answer.

  “I'll be in touch,” Mr. Dorchester says as he starts making his way back along the path. “And I'll get some signs put up, warning people to stay away from this location. That's really the best I can do at the moment.”

  Once he's gone, I look back down at the bog. The squelching sound is continuing, and I can't shake the feeling that something seems to be churning and moving in the bog's muddy depths.

  After a moment, I start picking my way carefully around the edge of the bog, heading around to where Justin is taking photos of the entrance to the run-off pipe.

  “He's going to put some signs up,” I explain. “I know it's not much, but at least it might help a little.”

  “And what about this?” he asks, getting to his feet and coming over to join me. Holding his phone up, he shows me a picture of the pipe, and then he uses two fingers to zoom into one particular spot. “See anything unusual?”

  I open my mouth to tell him that there's nothing, but then I realize that I can see what looks like a thick vine emerging from the bog and threading its way through the pipe. Looking past the phone, I squint for a moment, and finally I'm just about able to make out the vine, which is almost completely camouflaged against the pipe's concrete surface.

  “I'm sure it's nothing,” I say, although I'm not sure that I believe those words. “What do you think it is?”

  “I think it's evidence that something from this bog is reaching out beneath the road, toward our building,” he replies, his voice sounding stiff with tension. “That Dorchester ass isn't going to do anything about it. No-one is. All we can do right now is document what's happening, so that they can't pretend they weren't warned.” He zooms in even further on the phone. “Whatever this thing is, it's thick, like a root. And it seems to be growing out of the bog.”

  “It definitely looks that way,” I reply, before looking up at the road. “But where do you think it goes on the other side?”

  ***

  “There's more here,” Justin says a short while later, as he crouches at the corner of the apartment building and pokes at another crack. “That makes it six distinct spots.”

  “We should call that Dorchester guy and get him back here,” I reply, crouching next to him so that I can take a closer look myself. “This must be affecting the structural integrity of the entire place.”

  “No-one's going to come and look again, Paula,” Justin replies.

  “But if -”

  “Don't you get it? Don't you feel it? People don't like coming near this building. They make all the excuses they can to stay away. Unless you live here or you have family here, or you're the mailman, you don't come within several hundred meters.”

  “I'm not sure what you mean,” I say cautiously.

  “Dorchester came out today, which was a surprise,” he continues, “but I've tried over twenty times in the past few months to get someone from his department to come and take a look at the place. They're obligated by law to investigate any issues that we have, but they almost always find a way to delay taking action.”

  “Because they're... what, scared of the building?” I ask.

  “It's more subtle than that,” he replies. “It's something in the air, something people don't even notice. Something that gets to them on an instinctive level.”

  I wait for him to continue, but after a moment I realize that I think I know exactly what he means.

  “The dust?” I say finally. “You think the dust is scaring people away?”

  “You don't get wildlife around here much, either.”

  “So you're suggesting that the dust scares all living things so that they stay clear of the building?”

  “We live here,” he replies, “so I guess we get used to it. Although, you have to admit, everyone in these flats is kind of nervy and on the edge. No-one really relaxes.”

  I want to tell him that he's imagining things, but I guess he has a point.

  “You're the only person here with a pet,” he points out.

  “So?”

  “Your last dog had cancer, right? Tumorous growths, something like that?”

  “Yes, but -”

  “Those might have been caused by the same thing.”

  “There could have been some environmental factors,” I say cautiously, “but I think you might be over-reaching a little.”

  “And how did he react when he was here?” he asks. “Was he ever comfortable in your flat?”

  “He seemed fine,” I reply, although I take care not to mention the fact that he committed suicide while we were on our way home one night. “Anyway, I don't think my dogs are really going to bolster your case.”

  “And how's your new puppy?”

  “He's fine!”

  “But you said it yourself. He didn't want to go into the forest.”

  “That's probably because he could smell whatever's in that bog.”

  “Bingo! And whatever's in the bog, is also in the building.” He turns and pulls away a section of plaster from the wall, revealing that – sure enough – part of the root from the bog extends up from the ground and pushes through a gap in the wall itself. “There's your proof, Paula,” he continues. “The building and the bog are connected. The bog is reaching out to infect the building.”

  “You make it sound like it's sentient,” I reply.

  I wait for him to admit that the bog isn't somehow alive, but instead I see a hint of fear in his eyes.

  “We're jumping to conclusions here,” I continue. “Let's wait for Mr. Dorchester's report. Then we can figure out what's actually happening here.” I look back down at the root. “It can't be as bad as it looks,” I add, even though I can hear the doubt in my own voice. “It just can't be.”

  “I'm going to get to the bottom of this,” Justin says firmly. “You might be complacent, but I'm not. Whatever this thing is, I'm going to find out and I'm going to stop it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “When we go for a walk in the fields, I feel so free,” I whisper as I continue to read out loud from your diary, Jasper. “Then, whenever it's time to go home again, I hate thinking of the building.”

  Why didn't I finish translating and reading your diary sooner? I mean, sure, I wasn't entirely convinced that it was real, but I should have at least gone through it. If nothing else, I might have come up with some clues. Now I'm finally going through each and every page, and I'm learning so much about your life.

  You were in terrible pain, especially at the end.

  You hated our flat, and the whole building.

  You thought your tumors had a strange smell.

  You were terrified of going into the forest.

  You loved me, but you wondered why I didn't notice these things more.

  “I keep telling myself that I'm wrong,”
I read, as I move on to the next section of text. I've begun to read without writing down the translation first. I guess practice makes perfect. “If these things were bad, Paula would react to them, and she doesn't. So I tell myself to trust her.”

  I turn to the next page.

  “My growths smell like the dust on the stairs,” I read.

  A shudder runs up my spine.

  Leaning back in the chair, I try to make sense of all this madness. I now accept that this diary really belonged to you, Joseph, or at least that this is how it seems. I still haven't ruled out the possibility that I've lost my mind, but I guess that at some point I have to at least trust what I'm seeing. What's the alternative? Assume that I'm mad and just give up?

  “Hey,” I say as Larry comes over to the chair. He's been napping all evening, but now he starts pawing at my leg. “You're awake, huh? Had a long day?”

  I stare down at him, and I realize after a moment that these questions don't have to go unanswered at all. I grab a pen and a piece of paper, and I write how 'Had a long day?' in dog symbols, and then I place the paper on the floor.

  He immediately picks up the pen and write a reply.

  “I was asleep,” I read out loud. “I missed you.”

  Suddenly Larry lets out a series of low growls and grumbles.

  “What's that?” I ask. “What's wrong?”

  He puts a paw on the piece of paper, and then he produces the same growls and grumbles. This time, he moves his paw slowly along the symbols, reaching the end just as he falls silent.

  “Are you teaching me to talk dog?” I ask, sitting up straight.

  He writes the symbols for 'Yes', and then he emits a slightly different grumble.

  “Is that how you say it in dog language?” I continue, before making the noise myself.

  He opens his mouth and wags his tail.

  “This is totally nuts,” I reply, although at the same time I have to admit that just because it's nuts, that doesn't mean it can't really be happening. “Okay, I'm in. I might regret it later when I'm gibbering and barking in the corner of a cell in a psychiatric hospital, but right now I'm in.”

  So we sit there for the rest of the evening, as Larry painstakingly teaches me my first few phrases of dog language. And by the end of the evening, I don't know whether I'm crazy or whether I'm just lucky, but I do know one thing for sure.

  I'm barking.

  Part Five

  JUSTIN

  Chapter Twenty

  Three months later...

  “I want the salmon one!” Larry grumbles in dog language as he follows me through to the kitchen. “I had beef yesterday, and the day before! Why can't I have salmon today?”

  “They didn't have any salmon food at the store,” I reply in the same language, which to anyone else would sound like a series of low, guttural growls and harrumphs. “I'll try to pick some up tomorrow.”

  “Can you also get those strips of duck meat?”

  Turning, I look down at him and see the hopeful, expectant expression on his face.

  “I'll try,” I say after a moment, “but I can't promise anything.”

  “That's all I ask for!” he barks excitedly.

  “It's definitely not all you ask for,” I reply as I turn and start putting some food into his bowl. “Don't get me wrong, Larry, I love talking to you. But you're definitely not shy when it comes to telling me what you want to eat.”

  “This could all be resolved if you'd just feed me bacon and cheese for every meal.”

  “Do you want to be fat?” I ask.

  “I want to be loved,” he replies, “and I want that love to be expressed through food. Is that too much to ask?”

  Rolling my eyes, I finish setting out his food. Just as I set the bowl on the floor, however, I hear someone knocking frantically on the door.

  “This had better not be Mum and Dad doing another of their surprise visits,” I mutter as I head through to the hallway.

  I stop and check myself in the mirror for a moment, and then I pull the door open. As soon as I do so, Justin comes storming into the flat, holding up a letter for me to see.

  “Can you believe this?” he asks breathlessly.

  Taking the letter, I see that it's from Mr. Dorchester, and that he's confirming no further action will be taken regarding the bog on the other side of the road. Evidently the test samples came back negative for any serious toxins. Apparently, the bog is mainly muddy water, but with some kind of mold added. Either way, the bog doesn't score enough 'points' on the scale they use to assess dangers, so nothing's going to be done.

  “They don't care,” Justin continues. “They literally don't give a damn.”

  “Maybe you can appeal the decision,” I suggest.

  “What?”

  “Appeal it. You know, ask for a second opinion.”

  He stares at me.

  “It's worth a try!” I add.

  He furrows his brow.

  “Look,” I continue, “I'm only -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realize to my horror that I've been trying to speak to him in dog language. All he's heard is a series of growls, murmurs and whimpering sounds.

  “Never mind,” I stammer, trying to save face. “You did your best.”

  “Were you growling at me just then?” he asks.

  “Absolutely not,” I say, handing the letter back to him and then heading through to the front room. My mind is racing, and I know I need to distract him. He must think I'm a complete lunatic, and he might be right.

  Stopping, I turn to him just as he follows me through.

  “I haven't seen you for ages,” I tell him. “How have you been?”

  “I've been trying to fix this problem!” he says firmly. “Have you gone out to look at the bog lately?”

  I shake my head.

  “It's growing,” he continues, and he sounds as if he's at the end of his tether. “It's probably twenty-five per cent larger than it was when we first found it. And that root is getting thicker. The one that runs through the pipe and then enters at various spots all around the building.”

  “Maybe you could send some photos back to Mr. Dorchester,” I suggest.

  “No-one's going to help us, Paula,” he says firmly. “We're going to have to do this ourselves!”

  “Do what ourselves?” I ask.

  “What's going on in here?” Larry asks in dog language as he wanders through. “This guy smells funny. He needs to wash himself more.”

  Justin looks down at Larry, but of course he'll only have heard a series of growls.

  “Is your dog okay?” he asks.

  “He's fine,” I reply, glaring at Larry in the hope that he'll stay quiet while we have visitors. “Listen, I need you to tell me what you're planning.”

  “I'm planning to end this,” Justin says, turning to me again. “If the council won't do anything, and the local community won't do anything, then I'm going to clean up that bog all by myself.”

  “How?”

  “I'm going to destroy it,” he continues, and I can't shake the feeling that he seems slightly unhinged. He looks much thinner than before, with dark shadows under his eyes, and I'm starting to realize that Larry was right about the smell. “Are you in?”

  “You want me to help?” I reply.

  “You don't have to,” he says, “but I've been researching this thing. Or things like it, at least. Not that I've actually found any other examples of what's happening here, but I've been looking into how people deal with the unexplained, and I've come to the conclusion that our only option is to fight fire with fire.”

  “Fire?” I say, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “What fire?”

  “It's killing us!” he snaps.

  “Are you sure you're not taking this a little too far?” I ask.

  “Look at me!” he says, stepping closer to me.

  I'm about to tell him that he looks fine, but at the last moment I realize that I'd be wrong to say that. Now that I can see Justin properly
in the light, I realize that he looks absolutely terrible. His eyes are reddened, with flecks of yellow, and the skin all over his face is pocked with tiny little marks. His hair looks much thinner than before, and I'm starting to really notice the stale smell that Larry mentioned a few minutes ago.

  I open my mouth to ask if he's seen a doctor, but somehow I know that he'll have already considered that option.

  “You're okay down here,” he continues. “For now. It's getting worse and worse up there.”

  “Why don't you -”

  “Down here now,” he adds, interrupting me, “in your flat, is how my flat was a few months ago. This thing, whatever it is, is affecting the upper floors first but it's also moving slowly down through the building. Do you know Deborah Morgan, who lives opposite me?”

  “I know her to say hello to in the stairwell. My old dog Jasper used to hate her cat.”

  “She's sick,” he continues. “She won't admit it, I think she's scared, but she looks like she's going to drop at any moment.”

  “Maybe -”

  “And I'll prove it to you,” he adds, cutting me off yet again. “When was the last time you actually went to the top floors of this place, Paula? Leave the dog down here, it wouldn't be good for him. But I'm taking you up there, so you can see for yourself what's really happening.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “This can't be real,” I say as I get to the top of the stairs and find myself between the doors to apartments 4a and 4b. “You can't live like this!”

  Looking around, I'm horrified to see that there's bluey-green mold everywhere. Some of it's redder, and some's more orange. It's caked on the walls, and I can feel myself breathing it in. I raise my right arm and use my sleeve as a kind of basic filter, but I still feel as if it must be dangerous just to be here. Looking around, I see more mold running across the ceiling, and even more lining the walls as the stairwell rises up toward the building's fifth and final floor.

  “How can this happen?” I gasp. “I mean, there are rules. This has to be some kind of hazard to public health. I had no idea it was so bad up here. You have to get someone to come and look at this mess right now!”