He wondered if DOB might need an extra pair of hands for his own “secret operation.”
He wondered, out of nowhere, if the Bull even knew his name.
What he didn’t know until he was out in the sodden air and the vehicle doors had been wrenched apart was that tonight’s haul was a different variety altogether. Fionn gasped, then tried to swallow it back and got a lungful of drizzle for his troubles.
“Anything the matter?” Fergus Hynes asked, pure neutral, as if he had mentioned the change in plan all along.
Fionn knew better than to give an answer; knew enough to just stay quiet and shake his head. Fergus Hynes just added four more words—“it was Goldsmith’s idea”—as much a statement as a sort of warning. It was the first time Fionn had felt anything but kindness towards the beef baron and his secret operations.
Because this wasn’t beef at all—no, these were beasts and they were very much alive, their breaths steaming like kettles, their feet kicking up like Riverdance, their lows sounding a deep and panicked chorus. Fionn turned to Mossy, expecting an ally in confusion or consternation at least, but Mossy was already busy setting up—not with a stamp and a pad of ink, but with a batch of tags and a plastic hook.
Fionn stumbled to piece the bits together. From what he could tell, the new plan of attack was to remove the tag from each cow’s ear, then clip in a shiny new one before it was loaded up and taken south. That way it would be marked as an Irish cow—as uninfected—and nothing ever else, a fresh counterfeit passport hanging down from its cartilage.
Fionn had seen many things in his time—litres of whiskey smuggled inside a cattle carcass; huge sides of beef wrapped in bales of hay and driven right under a border guard’s nose—but even in the olden days, he had never seen the likes of this. He had thought false tags were a notorious bugger to get away with. He sighed and didn’t even bother to swallow it back.
Briain led the first cow out and shoved her neck through the contraption they were using as a makeshift head gate, then hooked the remover and yanked too quickly so that he ripped the flesh of the ear. The beast kicked out in discomfort while Fionn flinched too. There was no need to be so rough. The pliers clipped the new ID in through the open wound.
But Fionn had to set his discomfort aside because there was a job that had to be done, even if it wasn’t technically the job he had been hired to do. He tried to soothe the animals as best he could as he led them up the ramp into the empty livestock trailer. He tried to keep one eye on the horizon in case anyone was watching.
By the time he made it home the rain had finally stopped, though when he locked up his 4×4 and made his way into the byre he could hear a steady trickle of water. There were holes in the roof and decay in the joists. There was an entire bloodline held together by tape and twine. Fionn still felt agitated, so he decided he would stay up and get started on the morning milk. He knew it would help calm down the worst of his jitters.
The fields were silent as he jimmied open the bolt. Even after such a torrential few days, Fionn knew the girls were delighted to be back out in the paddock. He had moved the fences yesterday to give them a brand-new strip to graze.
He led them into the parlour six at a time, then positioned himself in the middle pit. He cleaned down the tits and attached the clusters. He always wondered if it tickled. He caressed the damp velvet of their flanks while they filled the containers with the flow of their warm white milk, every drop sucked away to the giant refrigerated tank next door. They chewed the meal which he bought off one of the Bull’s side companies at a very reasonable price. It made Fionn glad that, even after scaling things down on the farm, he could still afford to keep his girls well fed.
He worked through them slowly, one batch at a time, going even more gently than usual, then made sure to finish up with Glassy, his wee pet. She was an Irish Moiled with brown map-of-the-world shapes strewn across her back and face. Her walk may have been a bit wonky, but the rest of her was a dream. He had named her after Glas Ghaibhleann, the great Irish cow whose milk was so plentiful it managed to satisfy the multitudes. According to the myth, she had travelled all four provinces filling vessel after vessel, her bounty knowing no end. So now the place names across the country bore testament to her generosity:
Knockglas.
Glasnevin.
Finglas.
Fionn listed them out as he worked, an incantation to ward off any worry, any residue of fear.
After he led the girls back to the field, he hosed the parlour down, scraping the muck and rinsing the dung, the water running wretched then crystal clear into the drains. The Lakeland lorry would come tomorrow to test the batch for butter content. Fionn gulped the glass he had kept for himself, unpasteurised and wicked-fat upon his lips.
He had been right—already his jitters had calmed. Sure, what did it matter that Fergus hadn’t mentioned the change in cargo? Hadn’t they managed just fine? And wouldn’t the Bull be only delighted with their work? Fionn hadn’t counted the envelope yet, but he was pretty sure the heft in his pocket felt bigger than last time around. If anything, it was the best result he could have hoped for.
He watched the sun crawl up through the mist, a reddish hue that revealed rowan trees and bracken clumps; hawthorn flowers with their dirty white petals and their sickly sweet scent. The view might not have been beautiful to some, but for him the familiarity was pure comfort, the copper light collecting in the furrows that streaked through the muck a bit like veins. And he was almost ready for his bed—almost ready to exhale—if it weren’t for the linger of some silly, throwaway words.
Just be careful.
Fionn flicked his gaze and found the coil of rope hanging down from the tree.
They say those Matador cunts are keeping a beady eye.
He shook his head and licked the cream from his lips.
God knows the Bull would hang you from a hook if you got caught.
He didn’t go to bed till long after the mist had burned off.
•
The following week, thanks be to God, Fionn’s paranoia had died a quick and painless death. He had counted the notes in the envelope—sure enough, there was an extra bit thrown in. And now he had another operation to be focusing on, not up in the borderlands or down the back of a midnight trailer, but right here waiting on his own front doorstep just as the Angelus bells tolled six o’clock.
Fionn stared out at the men, all eight arranged in a perfect semicircle. He thought they looked a bit like a group of carol singers come to sing “Once in Royal David’s City.” Then he remembered—feck’s sake!—they probably didn’t celebrate Christmas or the Angelus or any of that. Fionn’s paranoia was gone, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous.
Of course, the whole thing had been Davey’s idea—an elaborate plan he had managed to concoct in between the study notes and revision guides that were piled up on his desk. And all in response to that “strange dream” Eileen had been having recently.
You remember me telling you?
The one about the Butchers?
Fionn knew, at least for now, the main chunk of the tumour had been excavated from her brain. There were times he wondered if something else had taken root there instead.
Eileen’s family had been believers since way back, whereas Fionn’s family had always been Catholic to the core, so when their whirlwind romance began he insisted he ate what he liked and worshipped Christ and that, if she loved him, she would do the very same. Surprisingly, she had agreed—if anything, it seemed to make her even keener on the whole affair—any excuse to gobsmack her backward clan. Although she did say there was a little sister she would miss something terrible; said she would try to convince her to run away with them too (truthfully Fionn hadn’t been so keen on that part of the plan).
For the duration of their marriage, though, the Butchers had never been mentioned again. It was only recently that Eileen, out of the blue, had started to utter their name. And then Davey had uttered it too when he ap
proached his dad in the yard one evening and explained his idea; his logic, despite Fionn’s better instinct, actually made a bit of sense.
It will make her happy.
We owe her that at least.
Sure, what have we got to lose?
But the answer to that, Fionn knew, was plenty—especially at this particular moment in time. Because what if Fergus and the lads found out? Fionn was only beginning to gain their respect—the last thing he needed was to draw the wrong kind of attention. He swallowed. He wondered if the Bull and the Butchers had ever crossed paths somewhere on the road. He wondered, daftly, if the Butchers had a cure for BSE.
As it happened, on the last borderland expedition, there had been a bit of chatter about the ancient group; about their imminent arrival to the county to visit the few locals who were still rumoured to believe.
“I once knew a lad,” said Briain Ní Ghríofa, “who reckoned they could cure a cow of blindness—could touch its eyes with mud and make it see.”
“Sure, some say they come from the Holy Land.”
“Well, I heard the old bitch who made the curse was descended from St. Patrick himself!”
Fergus Hynes, though, hadn’t shared their curiosity. “Glorified knackers. Still stuck in the past.” His spite had reminded Fionn of his daddy—God knows he had always detested the Butchers too.
But Fionn had to remember that this wasn’t about the other men and it certainly wasn’t about his father. This was about Eileen—she had been through so much—the tumour, the seizures, the drugs, the beating delivered from his own two hands. The waiting list for the clinic was probably as long as the Shannon, but in the short term it seemed this would make her smile.
And really, wasn’t that everything to him?
So eventually he had said “yes” to Davey, and Eileen had said “thank you” when he told her the date.
“You’re very welcome.” He had placed his hand on top of hers.
She had looked at it, taking a moment to find her focus and make a choice. She hadn’t taken her hand away.
“You’re very welcome.” This time the words were meant for eight sets of hands, not just one. “Fionn McCready. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His attempt at formality betrayed the full extent of his nerves. He had thought of combing his hair earlier, then felt a total thick. But luckily two of the men stepped forward now to meet the introduction smiling—an old lad called Sol and a slightly younger one called Cúch. Fionn checked over their shoulders, terrified for who might be driving by. Thanks be to God, the road was silent as a prayer.
Eileen had advised that the best thing to do was to let the Butchers get on with their killing, then to invite them inside afterwards for a pot of tea. So Fionn led them through the yard, watching the way all eight of them walked; the way all eight of them were dressed. They wore overalls and sturdy boots that were tied in double—or maybe they were triple?—knots. There was a calmness about them that was almost serene; something that wasn’t easy to describe.
Apart from the sag in the middle of the roof, the byre was looking halfway decent. Fionn had spent the afternoon cleaning and laying fresh bedding, while Eileen had busied herself with the tidying of the house. For all Fionn’s reservations, it seemed Davey’s theory had been spot on—already the visit had done her good. She was a bundle of energy; had even applied a swipe of lipstick.
Fionn tried to remember the last time his wife had put on make-up for him.
Out in the byre, it was all business, the men asquint as they adjusted to the semi-darkness. In the corner was the pen where Fionn usually kept the newborns. Sol and Cúch stepped forward to inspect the animals.
“So here are the girls,” Fionn began. “I didn’t know if you needed anything specific so I’ve given you a couple of options. This is Aoife and Bó, both about eleven hundred pounds and still milking like the clappers.” Here he paused, a bit self-conscious. He breathed in the earthy closeness of the animals’ hides. “Then we have their mother, Glassy. As you can see she is a slightly bigger animal. Although there’s not a whole lot of milk left in her, I’m afraid, even despite the name!” Here Fionn tried to laugh, but suddenly his self-consciousness had turned into a kind of guilt. He stared at his pet. Half her eyelashes were brown and the other half were white. She was fidgeting—lately her hind legs had been giving her more trouble than usual—but even if she wasn’t long for this world, what the hell was he thinking? Why had he chosen to bring her here and offer her up?
“Have you been busy?” In his panic, Fionn offered small talk to try to slow the proceedings down.
Sol kept studying the livestock. “Oh absolutely, it has been a very good year so far.”
“People seem to be feeling flush,” Cúch elaborated. “More inclined to welcome us in; put on a bit of a spread. Let’s hope this Celtic Beef Boom is here to stay!” As he spoke, his eyes did a scour of the place, taking in the sag of the roof and the peel of the rust.
Fionn felt himself blush. “As you can see, I might have jumped off the bandwagon a little early.”
But now Sol looked away from the animals. “Well, if you ask me, you’re wise—I suspect things are probably about to turn. Another case of BSE has been confirmed. People are being very reckless—I suspect the disease will be everywhere before we—”
“That’s a load of bollocks!” No sooner was it out, Fionn regretted the snap. He tried for another laugh to cover it up. “I mean, touch wood or fingers crossed or whatever you’re into yourself.” But it was too late—the conversation had already slunk off into the opposite corner of the byre. The Butchers returned to their business, mumbling quietly between themselves.
Fionn held his breath. Glassy looked straight at him with slow, knowing blinks. Thanks to some miracle, they opted for Bó and Fionn exhaled audibly. He wondered if the Butchers had a sixth sense for these sorts of things.
“We’ll let you know when we are finished.”
Fionn heard Sol’s words, but still it took him a moment to realise they wanted him to bugger off. He bristled, just for a second, then stepped outside where the air had grown cooler. As he waited on the other side of the corrugation, Fionn tried to resist the urge to press his eye up against it for a sneaky peek. He had heard there was a special prayer the men recited. Others said they all kissed the cow on the head. Others suggested far ruder things, but Fionn assumed that was only dirty talk—God knows there would be none of that queer stuff under his roof, that was for sure.
Fionn folded his arms and thought back to the house, wondering if Eileen had started pouring the hot water into the mugs to get them warmed up, while Davey hovered by her side for company. Or maybe he had disappeared upstairs, his face glued deep into his books, his mind a million miles and worlds away.
Fionn heard a lowing from next door. It was very steady, very calm—nothing like the panicked, painful squeals from the factory floor.
As always, thinking about his son flooded Fionn with a deep sense of regret. He had agreed to this whole idea for Eileen’s sake—to bring a bit of joy to her housebound days. But he had also agreed because it was Davey’s suggestion—a secret father-son operation at last. Fionn knew it might be the closest they would ever get.
Next he heard a thump, which meant Bó was gone. Fionn assumed they would string her up now by the feet—probably with ropes or chains from the byre joists—then slowly start the bleeding out.
That being said, even after Fionn had made the arrangements—had managed to get word to the Butchers on the sly—still Davey had been acting distant as ever. Maybe he was just nervous about those exams. Maybe he was still moping from his break-up with Faela Quin. Maybe there was something else Davey was keeping from him—a barrier locked with ropes and chains to keep Fionn firmly out.
This time it wasn’t a sound he caught but a smell. It was a bit like burning; a bit like something herbal. Fionn closed his eyes and sucked it deep into his lungs.
And thinking about his son always got Fionn th
inking back to his own daddy, for better or for worse. No doubt if the old man were here now he would suggest a couple of ways Fionn could snap Davey out of his spell. But there were traditions that should live and others that should be left to curl up and die alone.
“She passed peacefully.”
When Fionn opened his eyes, the youngest Butcher was standing before him. Fionn could remember being introduced to the lad as Con, not much older than Davey by the looks of him, but a good deal broader in the back.
“We’ll start preparing her now—it shouldn’t take long. If you could just let us know where we’d find your freezer and your—”
“But you’ll come in?”
“What?”
“Afterwards. For a pot of tea.”
“Well, I’d have to—”
“No you must,” Fionn said. “It’s for the missis, you see.” He wondered if he should explain about Eileen’s poor health or, again, if the men had a special sense for these sorts of things.
“We’d be delighted!” It was the older lad called Cúch who appeared next and who seemed to have the full meaning of the scene. “I’ve a serious thirst on me,” he said. “And trust me, I know very well what wives can be like.”
Fionn laughed with relief and set off, realising it was true that all men were the very same no matter their prayers or their traditions or their terrible mistakes.
By the time the Butchers had cleaned up and presented themselves at the house, Fionn saw that Eileen’s lipstick had been reapplied. He tried to catch Davey’s eye, but didn’t succeed. “Allow me to introduce the Butchers.” He took control as best as he could, holding out the kitchen chairs as if they were thrones and indicating that the men should take a seat.
Soon the room was full to capacity—elbows and teacups, local gossip and national politics—until the air almost had a touch of celebration to it. They discussed the Stormont Talks and the latest ceasefire; they discussed the Euro ’96 soccer tournament that had started on Saturday. Fionn glanced one more time for Davey, but in amongst the bodies he could no longer find his son’s.
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