“Con, don’t. Please, he’s not worth it.”
The final person to step forward, though, made Fionn flinch the most. Davey knew the Butcher’s name. Davey was laying a hand on the Butcher’s hand and their fingers, just for a second, were intertwined.
So now Fionn’s brain was reeling back through the week, through the station cell and the arrest, back to the Butchers’ visit and the strange noise he heard out in the byre, something like a man’s voice sobbing—or were there two men? he asked now—something like footsteps running away.
Next, he heard Fergus’s words from earlier:
A nation of faggots and divorcees.
And then:
First the gays and now this.
He heard the tourist with the camera above his head:
Careful!
He had heard more than enough.
“Don’t.” And suddenly the room was his, whether he wanted it or not. Fionn looked at his son with his Vaseline hair. He looked at the men all around them waiting to pounce—waiting for an easy target to take out their frothing rage. “Get away from him.” In truth, he barely touched Con—only gave a wee push and swiped Davey’s hand away. Like he was a child again, reaching for something he wasn’t allowed to touch; something that was forbidden or would cause him pain. But that was all it took to shatter the moment into a thousand razor-sharp smithereens. DOB launched the first punch, landing it right on the bridge of Cúch’s nose. The blood came exploding black as stout. And then the next blow rang out, another shatter of glass, months of hate and frustration erupting in eight different directions. Fionn thought of a gun in a glove compartment, loaded and waiting, the trigger finally pulled.
INTERLUDE
New York, January 2018
Three blocks down from the museum, the diner is heaving hot and wet, the whole of Manhattan seeking comfort food from the slush-drift of the streets. In the snug of their booth they order two cups of coffee and one slice of blueberry pie. Ronan flicks a sachet of Sweet’N Low, even though he has no intention in the world of opening it.
Across from him, the girl still wears her coat despite the swelter of the place. She still wears a face he is certain he has seen somewhere before.
“Here we go, folks.” When the waitress leans low to fill their cups, Ronan makes a point of averting his eyes. In the booth behind, an elderly couple sits draped in matching red woollen scarves. They are feeding each other from a glistening pancake stack, despite the fact that it is almost dark outside. Ronan is tempted to reach for his camera. The world in snapshots when you expect it the very least.
“So I wanted to ask you a few questions about The Butcher.”
The sweetener sachet bursts at the seam. He sweeps up the granules with the side of his hand, then cuts the pile into neat white lines, a ghost of his previous life smirking near but oh so far. Already her eyes seem an even more vibrant green, as if they have thawed out from the cold.
“OK.” He sips his coffee. “What do you want to know?”
“The man in the photograph,” she begins. “He belonged to a group of travelling slaughterers, am I right?”
He nods.
“Which existed for hundreds of years until they split in ’96?”
Ronan wonders what age she would have been back then.
“And am I right in saying that was the same year as all the drama with the BSE? Talk about a shitty time to be in cattle, hey?”
Unlike the others, this question makes him laugh. He remembers her saying this was her last night in New York. He wonders what hotel she is staying in.
Despite the insecurities and the pills, he has managed a couple of relationships down the years, though usually they end in the same argument. Something to do with him being aloof, putting his career ahead of everything—and everyone—else. But he points out that he isn’t aloof at all—that, clearly, he is very easy to read—because they are right, his photography has always been the priority.
He has been clean for five years now, though he has grown no less devoted to his work. In fact, even to this day it remains the only part of himself that he feels vaguely secure about.
Why, then, are her questions unnerving him?
“Blueberry with whipped?” The waitress has returned with a steaming slice of pie and a snowball of stiff cream on the side.
“You sure you don’t want some?” The girl wastes no time with her attack, seizing her fork and undoing the pastry lattice bite for bite.
Even as she eats, her movements spark something so familiar in him. He racks his brains—he is getting close. Though as she scrapes the juices up, he has a sense that she is getting close to something too.
“And wasn’t it June that same year there was the carnage in O’Connell’s?” She has demolished the main chunk of the crust. She makes light work of the rest. “When the locals saw red one night and lost their minds and beat the Butchers to a pulp?” She places her weapon down on the table. She knows far more than she first let on.
Over her shoulder, Ronan sees the couple wrapping up. They wind their matching scarves tightly around their necks. In his mind’s eye he sees a floor covered in shards of broken glass. He sees one man squeezing another man’s throat until it makes a “pop.”
The bell above the door rings as the couple leaves, bringing Ronan back to the diner. He watches the couple through the window, hurrying across the intersection and into the night. He would shoot their image in black and white so only they would ever know that their scarves were the same colour. He has learned that some secrets are never meant to be shared.
“Then a few days later, one of the Butchers was found dead, hanging from a hook, and someone called the Gardaí and—”
“Folks, are we all done here?”
When he jumps, Ronan could swear the girl lets off a grin. The waitress doesn’t notice, only whisks the plate away. “Can I get you anything else?”
He shakes his head. When they are alone again, it is finally his turn for questions. “Who are you?” he asks.
This time the girl’s grin is more than obvious. The steam from her coffee rises up to meet her cheeks. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
He suddenly feels faint. He should have ordered a slice of something after all. He closes his eyes and waits for the terrible blizzard in his head to pass. But it turns out it was just a bit of darkness he needed all along, because at last he has it. He has her. And now his head is out of the diner, hurtling east over the Hudson, travelling block after block until he reaches his Williamsburg studio where another unknown photograph sits—the only one in his portfolio he didn’t take himself. He found it weeks after their night together when he was developing the film. She must have stolen the camera while he was sleeping; must have stared straight into the lens and pressed the button.
She must have wanted, he realised far too late, just to be seen.
So this evening must be more of the same. He opens his eyes and says her name. He notices the features—so obvious now. The savage green eyes. The freckle constellations. The teeth not quite straight, but close enough. “Grá,” he says again, this time a little less convincingly. He knows that it is short for “Gráinne,” which is Irish for “grace,” but that also on its own it is the Irish, simply, for “love.”
He also knows it has been over twenty years, so maybe he is hallucinating? Even without the pills, his system still isn’t right—he sometimes has terrors in his sleep. He looks down at the black sludge of his cup and he realises. There are no hallucinations; there is only a final question that needs to be asked: “Tell me, Úna, what is it that you want from me?”
And Úna grins her best grin yet, commending him—finally—for joining all the dots; for lining up the granules in a row. “I told you, Ronan, I just want to ask some questions about what happened.” The berries have stained her lips a dark and dripping purple. “I just need you to tell me the truth.”
CHAPTER TEN
Grá
County Cavan, J
uly 1996
They walked the barren field in silence, their heads bowed as if in prayer. They must have looked like a procession of mourners—for a dead person or perhaps a dead fox—but that wasn’t it. Or at least, not just yet.
Instead Mrs. P bowed her head to watch her step—she was a little older now, a little less stable on her feet—while Úna bowed to scour the grass for treasures, the magpie-hunger of a child not quite gone from her yet. And Grá’s head was bowed by the weight of her thoughts and her guilt. She didn’t need to watch her step—she knew the lake route off by heart. She had visited daily for a time, first alone, then not alone, then utterly alone.
She paused, creaking her neck to the left and the right. She had lost weight again, her body back to bones.
Being honest, she might have preferred to make today a solo trip, but it was summer holidays now, which meant Úna was around all the time. Back in the home-schooling days, Úna had relished such freedom—had spent days on end in her own little world—while Grá had delighted in being asked, very occasionally, to join. But since that afternoon with the throwing of the meat, Úna hadn’t been quite the same. Grá had entered the kitchen this morning and found her staring listlessly into her lap. She had thought of the fox cubs. “Would you come for a swim with me, love?” She had thought Úna would reply straight away. Instead, she had taken a moment before she looked up, all smiles. “A girls’ day out?”
The weather could have been a bit kinder—the breeze was brisk, almost autumnal—though Grá was trying not to think about seasons. Because thinking about seasons meant thinking about dates. Which, of course, meant remembering that June was over.
Which meant Cúch hadn’t come home like he’d promised.
“This way?”
Grá glanced up. Mrs. P was on ahead, frowning next to a stile.
“Afraid so.” Grá tried to make her voice sound summer bright. She lowered her eyes again to give the older woman some privacy. No doubt it would be a graceless climb.
But Grá could pretend she was ignoring the date all she liked, when really she knew it was another reason behind the entire outing. Because the last few days of just sitting there, counting down the month and staring at the front door, hadn’t worked.
A watched pot never boils.
A longed-for husband never arrives.
For goodness’ sake, of course he hadn’t come.
Whereas by vacating the house, then surely his promise (give or take a day late) would finally come to pass; surely fate would conspire to have him arrive ten minutes after they left, so that when they returned from their swim he would be standing there, smiling.
What time do you call this?
The irony of him awaiting them would not be nothing.
Grá hadn’t told the other two about Cúch’s promise to come home halfway round this year. She couldn’t decide if it was greed or something else. She could only imagine what Mrs. P would give for Sol to pay a visit.
I could pop back.
Spend a bit of time with you both.
As it happened, Mrs. P had come by this morning while they were getting ready to depart. She had brought biscuits—chocolate chip, still warm. Grá had taken one look, then yanked her by the arm out the door. Her last thought had been at least Cúch would have something to nibble on while he waited.
The land began to descend, the smell growing stronger of muck and marsh. The air around the lake always tasted different. There was another one across the border they said was cursed by an ancient hag. Lough Doghra or “the Lake of Sorrow.” In her sorrier moments, Grá had decided that Cúch’s no-show was intentional—that he had discovered what she’d done and was deliberately punishing her. Other days, it was karma—that because of her transgression, some ill had befallen him. Other days it was this:
I hope that something bad happens to them out there.
Grá hesitated at the memory. She thought again of the cursed lake. Goodness knows she had never underestimated her daughter before.
But now Úna was calling—“I can see it!”—running the last of the way to the water, and Grá had to admit the view was not without its effects. The surface was brighter than the sky, glass-smooth and untouched, save for a distant corner where a group of grey-white birds had gathered.
They began to strip, their feet wincing against the spikes of the rush. Not a single toe amongst them was painted. Grá had known from practice to wear her swimming togs under her clothes so she was ready in a swipe. While she waited, she stole little glances at her daughter. The skin was pale as ever, but there was a newish stretch to it too. The beginning of hips. An underarm shadow. Something, maybe, about the chest.
And Grá had another memory then—weeks ago in the kitchen, when Úna had revealed the full extent of her dreams:
I’ve decided I’m going to be a Butcher too.
Grá’s reply had been pure laughter:
Oh, darling, you can’t be a Butcher.
And then:
You’re a girl.
Grá had hated the words—had hated herself for saying them—though that didn’t mean they were any less true. Because these would always be their bodies; those would always be the rules. She knew now that breaking them only made the pain worse.
“Mam, I’m ready and you’re greeny!” As ever, Úna brought Grá back to herself. They ran to the edge of the bank. On the count of three they held each other’s hands and leapt in unison.
Úna could do handstands; could dive to the bottom; could swim under their legs. “Now do me! Now do me!” Even Mrs. P was laughing, not because she was thinking of some memory of her and Sol once swimming together—it was just laughing. Just here. Just because.
Grá took in the view on every side, the distant mazes of gorse, the swathes of rapeseed so beautiful even despite the violence of the name. Local lore said the entire county had been founded by the O’Reilly clan, which was where the saying had first been born.
The life of Reilly.
Grá treaded the water and wondered about O’Reilly’s wife; about the kind of life she might have led.
Closer to the bank, she saw the scatter of rocks and stones amidst the grass; the limestone slabs that lay flung about. Some were altars where the druids had performed their sacred rituals, some were dolmens which were portals to another world. But one chunk of rock held a different association altogether—a man in sunglasses lurking for the very first time. Quickly Grá tried to turn her back on the land, though of course she knew by now such a thing could never be done.
Amid all the thoughts of her husband’s absence, there had been another absence too. Because Ronan was gone. Ronan hadn’t even called. Grá wasn’t sure if she had expected or even wanted him to.
Her body treaded water a little harder. It had opinions of its own.
She wondered if he had managed to find the Butchers and persuade them to sit for a photograph; if he had aimed the camera at her husband knowing what he had so recently done with his wife. She hated the power that gave him, but she forced herself to remember it was her own power that had brought the whole thing about—even if the sin was hideous, it had at least been her own.
Grá thought of her rebel sister, the final absence in the unholy trinity. She closed her green eyes and dunked her head below.
When she was ready to resurface, she felt something around her leg. It was just a weed, ankle-slicked. She kicked it off. When it stayed, she felt a flash of panic, then stemmed it at once. She would use her other foot to free herself.
She kicked again. The weed slicked around the other foot too.
Grá opened her eyes. The lake water was far filthier than she had expected. She squinted for other legs, for skin that was pale as ever. But the wall of shadows was eel black. She kicked out for a third time.
And surely by now the other two had noticed? They must have been worried? Must have seen the bubbles on the surface like a Morse code SOS! Unless, of course, they were deliberating whether or not to help—a flick
er of grudges; a list of recent slights. Like an old friend acting odd with book club visits and no invite extended, or a mother with a new friend and a new kind of laughter in her eyes.
Oh, darling, you can’t be a Butcher.
Grá felt her chest tighten; felt her limbs start to thrash.
You’re a girl.
Flapping like the wings of a swan.
There has never been a girl Butcher.
“You all right?”
The air, when her lungs found it, tasted different entirely. Grá opened her eyes.
“Silly goose. I thought you said you could swim?”
The sun, ever witty, had finally emerged from the clouds. Grá tilted her head like she could swallow it in yellow gulps.
When they arrived back, the house was empty as a promise. The biscuits on the table had turned chewy. Úna declared herself “starving” and ate five in a row, swallowing noisily, until Grá told her to stop. Mrs. P glanced out the window and remarked on the garden—she had never seen it grow so wild. She was clearly lingering for the offer of tea, but Grá was desperate to draw a bath; to wash off the lake and everything else.
Later, over dinner—no menu; no special tonight—Úna recounted all the things she and Mrs. P had discussed on the walk. Like the government’s promise to finally shut down the last ever Magdalene Laundry this year. Or that Irish swimmer Michelle Smith off to the Olympics this month. Or that journalist Veronica Guerin who was shot dead in Dublin. Apparently she had been working on a story about a group of gangsters—all men—so one of them had decided to try shutting her up.
Across the table, Grá shuddered. She had read the obituary, all right—mother of one; only four years younger than herself. Last Thursday afternoon there had been a national minute of silence. Grá wondered if, as the whole country fell hush, any of those men had heard their conscience at last.
“Did you know Mrs. P wanted to be a journalist?”
The Butchers' Blessing Page 14
