The Butcher's Husband and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  All I know is that something is slamming down hard against the roof of my car.

  A moment later I spot the light at the end of my driveway. I feel a flicker of relief at the thought that I'm home, but then – as I race past the gate – I realize that I might have brought this thing with me. I slam my foot against the brake pedal, bringing the car to a shuddering halt right in front of my house, but the thudding sound is continuing on my roof and as I look up I can't help but think that there's something really powerful up there, something really angry, something that's trying to smash its way through and get to me.

  And then, just as suddenly as it began, the thudding sounds stops.

  I sit completely still, with the engine still running, and I stare up at the roof and wait for the sound to return. After a moment I look out at the windows, but there's no sign of anything at all. After a few seconds, I realize that nothing could have climbed down off the roof without setting off the sensors one more time. Does that mean that the thing is still up there? Or does it mean that it somehow flew off? Or does it mean that I imagined the whole thing?

  I wait, but as the minutes tick past I realize that I can't sit here forever. Just as I'm starting to despair of ever finding a safe way to my front door, however, I glance over at the far wall and I realize I can see the car's silhouette. I can see myself sitting in the car, and to my immense relief the silhouette shows the top of the car to be completely bare. So that means that I'm safe, right? That means that there's nothing up there. It means that there's no reason for me to be scared.

  Still, I spend several more minutes sitting all alone in the car, before I finally pluck up the courage to open the door and step out. I look around, and I finally breathe a sigh of relief as I see that there's nobody else here.

  V

  I pull the basement door shut, and then I hesitate for a moment before gently turning the key in the lock. I wipe a smear off the side of my hand, and then I head through to the kitchen.

  I definitely need to stop.

  As I reach the sink and pour myself a glass of water, I feel deep down that I'm coming to the end of my ten-year project. All the signs seem to be pointing that way. I'm even starting to believe that the strange thudding sound earlier – when something seemed to be hitting my car – was another signal letting me know that I've completed my mission. Maybe that was one last scare, one last message, a kind of demonic fist-bump designed to tell me that I can rest now. That I'm free now. And, wow, wouldn't that be great?

  To be free...

  Spotting some more dark smears on my left wrist, I take a moment to wipe them away. It's funny how easy it is to miss a few extra splatters here and there. I've even turned up at work a few times and realized, once I start preparing for surgery, that I've got blood on the back of a hand or near an elbow or even (on one occasion) on the side of my neck. No-one ever really notices, or – if they do – they don't bother to say anything. I guess they figure it's just par for the course, that it's part and parcel of being a veterinary surgeon.

  And that's all I'm going to be from now on. Tonight is definitely the night I stop my other activities. I can see positives in that move, even if it'll take a little time to adjust. I mean, ten years is a long time to be focused on one particular task, even if I've been given plenty of encouragement. I feel a little bad for stopping, and I'm worried I might be misinterpreting some of the signals. So I guess I should just leave everything up to fate.

  If I'm supposed to continue, then give me a sign.

  Just one sign.

  It can be anything.

  Give me a sign that I'm still needed, that my work is still important, and I'll get straight back to it.

  I wait, but all I hear is silence. Finally I drink the glass of water, and then I take a deep breath. I guess I had the signals right the first time, I guess it really is time for me to stop. Otherwise, I'd have been given a signal and -

  Suddenly I hear somebody knocking at my front door.

  I spin around and look through to the hallway, but I already know deep down that the sound was real. I briefly try to persuade myself that the supposed 'knock' was just caused by the wind, or that it was all in my imagination, but my heart is pounding and I know that there's no point being desperate. And sure enough, just a moment later, I hear the knock again.

  Three taps on the door.

  Tentative, not forceful.

  Timid, perhaps.

  I consider not answering, but I already know that this isn't an option. After all, I just asked for a sign about my work, and I can't deny that this knocking sound certainly seems to be a sign. Whoever or whatever is on the other side of that door, I can't refuse to go and look, so I start making my way across the kitchen and through into the hall, and then I stop for a moment. Maybe there won't be any more knocks? Maybe this is all some kind of sick joke.

  I'm holding my breath.

  Suddenly I hear the knock again, and I instinctively take a step back. Could this be the same thing that attacked me while I was in my car? I consider the possibility for a moment, before telling myself that this knocking sound seems completely different. Finally, realizing that I can't ignore what seems to be a sign from above, I step forward and slide the chain away, and then I very slowly and very cautiously pull the door open.

  “Hey,” a girl says, smiling at me nervously from the other side, “I'm really sorry to disturb you, but...”

  I wait, but her voice has trailed off and she seems terrified. She glances around for a moment, and then she turns to me again.

  “I know this is going to sound crazy,” she continues, her voice trembling wildly, “but I was walking along the road and I think there's something out there and... I don't know, I just felt like I was being followed.”

  “Walking?” I reply. “To where?”

  “Well, I...”

  Again, her voice trails off.

  “I'm sort of between homes right now,” she adds finally. “It's complicated. I left home and I'm trying to figure things out and I thought if I came out to the countryside, I could find a barn or somewhere to sleep but...”

  I wait.

  She's so scared, she can barely complete a sentence.

  “I could hear someone following me,” she says, turning to look over her shoulder. “I mean, maybe I was just imagining it, but it was like there was something keeping pace with me. I didn't actually see it, but I could hear it snorting and sniffing in the darkness.” She turns to me again. “I swear, I know how this sounds, but I'm scared and...”

  Again, I wait.

  She's young, maybe late teens or even younger, and she looks like crap. It's not hard to believe that she's been living rough for a while. Her hair is greasy and matted, and she looks pale and malnourished, and dangerously thin. To be honest, I'm also picking up a faint, musty smell.

  “Never mind,” she says suddenly, as she turns to walk away. “I'm sorry to have -”

  “No, it's fine!” I blurt out. “Wait!”

  She turns to me again.

  I hesitate, and then I step back and pull the door all the way open.

  “It can be scary out there,” I continue. “Trust me, I know. You shouldn't be out there alone. Please, come in.”

  She pauses, and then she cautiously steps through into the hallway. She looks around, as if she's worried that someone or something might suddenly leap out at her, and then she turns to me again just as I gently shut the door. I take a moment to put the chain back in place.

  “I'm sure it was just a cow or something like that,” she says nervously. “I swear, though, I really did hear something, or at least I think I did. I promise I'm not lying or making things up.”

  “I believe you,” I tell her. “You don't have to worry about that. Just try to relax.”

  “My name's Angela,” she replies, before reaching out to me with a trembling hand. “Thank you so much for letting me in.”

  “I'm Paula,” I say as I shake her hand, “and don't worry. You're pe
rfectly safe now.”

  VI

  “You're safe now,” I say as I set a cup of tea on the dining room table. “It's fine.”

  Wait, that must be the third time I've told her she's safe since she came into the house. I need to stop doing that, or she's going to start getting suspicious. It's just that she seems so nervous, and I can't quite believe that she's dropped into my lap like this. In all the years since I moved to this house in the middle of nowhere, not one random stranger has ever knocked on my door in the middle of the night. It's almost like...

  Well, I did ask for a sign.

  Maybe my work isn't complete after all.

  At the same time, this Angela girl seems so innocent and naive, it's hard to believe that she's been sent to me for punishment. I'm not one for reading a book by its cover, but I'm getting a completely benign, helpless vibe from her, and it's quite clear that she was guided to my house. She's told me about the strange sounds she heard out on the road, the sounds that clearly came from the same creature that attacked my car. At first I wondered why she hadn't simply been killed, but now I finally understand. The creature wasn't threatening her. It was guiding her, it was shepherding her to me.

  So that I can do what I do best.

  I smile at her.

  Nervously, and still shivering slightly, she smiles back at me.

  “You can stay the night,” I tell her. “That's no problem, I have plenty of space. As you might have gathered by now, I live alone.”

  “Don't you even have any pets?”

  “I'm a vet,” I reply. “I spend all day with everyone else's pets. Right now, given my schedule, I don't really have the time to devote to an animal of my own. One day, maybe.”

  “It must be weird living out here with no-one else around,” she says, before taking the cup of tea and blowing on its surface. “You're miles from anywhere.”

  “I like it like that,” I explain. “I've lived in cities before, and towns, but they're not for me. I like the solitude.”

  “Huh.”

  “It takes all sorts to make a world,” I add, echoing a phrase my grandmother used to use when I was a kid. “I'm not some kind of recluse, though. I like people, I just... Well, I guess maybe I'm giving you too much information now. Are you tired? Are your clothes wet? I can find you something to wear, and I can wash what you're -”

  “I don't want to put you to any more trouble,” she says, interrupting me.

  “Nonsense,” I say as I get to my feet. “Let me help, please. You look to be about my size, maybe slightly smaller. I'm sure I've got something that'll fit you. You can take a shower, too, if you want.”

  “Thank you,” she replies nervously, “I haven't had a shower in weeks.”

  I refrain from telling her that I'd already guessed that.

  “I'll find something for you to eat, as well,” I add, heading toward the kitchen. “And before you protest, I promise it's no trouble. I'm kind of peckish myself. I'll see what I can rustle up from the fridge, or maybe there's some pizza in the -”

  “I killed someone.”

  I stop in the doorway. For a moment, I'm not quite sure what to say, but slowly I turn and see that the girl now has tears running down her face as she stares back at me.

  “It wasn't my fault,” she whimpers. “It was last summer. I was learning to drive, and I made a mistake and I hit a kid, and he died. He just stepped out into the road, I swear. But because I'd had one beer, one lousy beer, everyone said that it had happened because I was drunk. Even my parents blamed me, but you have to believe me, it was an accident. It was the kid's fault for stepping out into the road!”

  Ah.

  Now I understand why she's been sent to me.

  “It was two beers at most,” she continues. “It was, like, two small ones or one big one, depending on how you look at it, but I wasn't drunk, I swear! It's just that the cops could tell I'd been drinking, even though I wasn't over the limit. I was right under it, but I wasn't over it, and that's what matters, right? I just couldn't get people to listen and understand. They looked at me like I was some kind of... murderer.”

  This all makes total sense now.

  “Do you hate me?” she sobs, and then she suddenly gets to her feet. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No,” I reply calmly, “it's fine.”

  “My parents... I couldn't stay there, not anymore. Every time they looked at me, I could see they hated me. They told me they didn't blame me, but I overheard them talking one night. They were so ashamed of me!”

  “Right,” I say. “I get it.”

  That's true.

  I do get it.

  I know exactly what I have to do.

  It's funny how, a short while ago, I thought maybe I was getting out of this life. And now here I am, right back in the middle of it all, with my most obvious case yet.

  “I have nightmares about the kid every night,” she continues, slumping down onto my sofa and putting her hands over her face. “People think I just got over it, but I dream about him every single night. He comes after me, he screams at me, and I can't get away from him. People think I didn't suffer any consequences, but I did! My life is ruined! It's over!”

  “Yes,” I murmur, keeping my voice low, “I see that.”

  “Everyone hates me and -”

  “Why don't I sort you out with a bed and some clean clothes?” I continue, interrupting her as gently as I can, so that she can't moan any more about her awful life. “Then I'll find something for us to eat, and we can talk and stay up late and I can hear all about it.”

  I wait, but she's simply staring at me.

  “You... don't hate me?” she asks finally, clearly a little in shock.

  “I don't hate you,” I reply. I turn to go through to the kitchen, but then I remember one thing. “Oh, would you mind helping with something” I ask. “Would you mind giving me a hand carrying some things up from the basement?”

  “Sure,” she replies. “You mean... now?”

  “That'd be great,” I say, as I head over to the door in the corner of the room. I fish the key from my pocket and slip it into the lock, and then I turn and smile at Angela. “The stairs are steep, and to be honest I have slightly dodgy ankles. Lame, I know, but it is what it is.”

  I open the door and stare down into the darkness. There's not so much as a single peep coming from down there, which is good. Reaching through, I pull the string that switches on the light at the bottom of the stairs, and then I wait a moment longer.

  Still no sound.

  He must be asleep.

  “After you,” I say, stepping aside and gesturing for Angela to go first.

  She smiles awkwardly and steps past me.

  “What's that?” I ask, suddenly putting a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Is that a tattoo?”

  “It's a snail riding a butterfly,” she says with a faint, pathetic smile. “It's dumb, really. I got it years ago, before... Well, when everything seemed like it was going to be okay. If you look closer, you can see that the butterfly is smiling.”

  “Yes, I see that,” I reply, peering at the tattoo for a moment before letting go of Angela's shoulder. “I don't have any tattoos, I've always been too much of a wimp, but I like your one. It's different.”

  “I designed it myself.”

  “Watch the steps,” I tell her. “Like I said, they're steep.”

  “Sure.” She hesitates, as if she wants to tell me something else about her stupid, ugly tattoo, but then she turns and starts picking her way carefully down into the darkness.

  “It's a big basement,” I explain as I grab a knife from the counter-top and then head down after her. “You won't believe some of the stuff I've got down there.”

  VII

  “Is Timmy going to be okay?” Karen asks. “Do you promise?”

  “It's just an injured paw,” I tell her with a smile. “I'll get the grass seed out, and then he'll be back to full health in no time. He will have to wear a cone for
a week or two, and I'm sure he won't like that, but you'll just have to give him extra fusses to make him feel better. Do you think you can do that?”

  The little girl pauses for a moment, as if she's thinking very hard, and then she nods very solemnly. She's worried about her puppy, and I understand that. Fortunately, the grass seed isn't going to be a major problem at all, and I'm absolutely certain that Timmy's going to be fighting fit again within fourteen days. Of course, a grass seed could be very dangerous, especially if it ended up in the chest, but that won't happen. It won't happen because I'm here to make sure that everything's alright.

  “Are you bleeding?”

  Startled, I turn to see Karen's mother Shayna staring at my hand with a furrowed brow.

  Looking down, I see that a trickle of blood is running from under the sleeve of my white coat.

  “Oh, that's nothing,” I say, forcing a smile as I wipe the blood away. “I just caught myself on something earlier, that's all. Looks like it still hasn't closed up properly.”

  I turn and head back through to the office, so I can get the forms that Shayna will need. As I reach the door, however, I realize I can hear Jackie talking in hushed tones to one of the receptionists. Maybe I'm just being a little paranoid, but the sound of lowered voices instantly makes me stop and listen. After all, why should my employees be trying to keep anything from me?

  “Honestly,” Jackie's saying, “you haven't been here long enough to see it yet, but Paula is the most boring person you've ever met in your life. No matter how desperate your brother is, don't waste everyone's time by setting him up for a date with her. He'll hate you for it.”

  “But it can't hurt,” Carla replies. “Who knows? They might hit it off. Miracles happen!”

  “There's a limit, even to miracles. Do you know what Paula does on her rare days off?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I swear, she never has one interesting story. If you ask her what she's been up to, she never has an answer. I honestly think she just sits around in her house, staring at the walls until it's time to come back in. She never seems to listen to music, she never mentions having seen a film. Have you noticed what she eats for lunch?”