The Butchers' Blessing

by The Butcher's Blessing (retail) (epub)

Of all the things Grá thought she would hear, this wasn’t one. “Really?” Her voice, she noticed, had the trace of a smirk.

  “She did a course and everything. Long before she was married. Even had some articles in the Irish Times.”

  Still Grá felt the instinct to laugh, to disbelieve. Or maybe it was more to do with hurt? That her friend had never shared these things?

  That she had never thought to ask?

  “Mam, why didn’t Dad visit in June like he said he would?” Her daughter’s question, though, quelled all the other questions.

  “You knew about that?”

  “I heard you,” Úna said. “The night before he left.”

  Grá blushed. “I wouldn’t worry, love—”

  “Well then, why hasn’t he come?”

  Despite her instruction, Grá heard the beginnings of worry, all right. “It’s just this BSE stuff,” she tried. “The whole country has gone a little mad.” Instantly, she regretted the joke.

  “But he’s definitely OK.” The way Úna said it was less of a question than a statement. And yet, Grá knew her answer still needed to come instantly. It could be Of course or Don’t be silly or even Why wouldn’t he be?, though the last one would bring its own set of complications. A better mother would take the lie even further. He already called—said he was coming in September instead. But Grá knew she wasn’t better. In fact, these days she knew she had gotten so much worse.

  He’s definitely OK.

  You’re a girl.

  You know, I have a feeling that he isn’t.

  “Like I said, love, I really wouldn’t worry.” Grá looked at the clock. The minute’s silence spilled into another and then another and then another.

  Úna, eventually, had been persuaded up to bed. Still their bowls sat dirty and untouched. Grá thought back to the water, wondering if maybe she shouldn’t have kicked; if maybe she should have just let Nature win.

  But there was worried and there was pathetic, so eventually she forced herself to stand. She slipped a small square of paper from behind the noticeboard and dialled the number written across. As she counted them out, she could have sworn each ring was louder than the last. She pictured her daughter swallowing those biscuits one after the other after the other. For a second, she had thought Úna was trying to make herself sick. There were so many things she didn’t want to pass down to her daughter, but that would be the very worst.

  After the seventh ring, Grá sighed and hung up, annoyed and relieved in unequal measure. She took the bowls to the sink and let the water run until it was scalding to the touch. When the phone rang, her hands flinched in fright, spraying technicolour suds. She wiped them on her jeans and allowed herself one last question before she picked up. Because of the two men she knew would be at the end of this line, which one did she most want it to be?

  It seemed, in that moment, the question that would decide everything.

  “Hi there, I’m sorry I missed a call from this number. Who—”

  In the silence her question played again. “Ronan? It’s me.” And then she added quickly to be sure: “It’s Grá.”

  From behind, she could hear the bubbles fizzing in the sink. It sounded the same as static on a wire.

  “Oh.” When he spoke, there was no denying his surprise, though there were all sorts of surprises it could have been. “Great to hear from you. How have you been?”

  She couldn’t decide if platitudes meant one sort as opposed to another.

  She told him she had been fine and he said he had too. She thought of his moods and the pills he sometimes took to help. But she couldn’t linger. “I didn’t know who to call. It’s the Butchers—I’m sure they’re grand, but I just wanted to check if you had heard anything?” Grá pictured him sprawled across his couch or maybe hunched in his darkroom, his face lit up by the red fuzzing light. She had asked him to describe the process to her, dipping his pictures blank into the liquid, then watching them emerge alive. It was a metamorphosis every time; a chrysalis into a butterfly; a change beyond recognition. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I phoned. I suppose if you hear anything just let me know. Otherwise best of luck with the exhibition—I hope you finally found that killer shot to pull it all together!” She was going to hang up—she really was—thinking now of the last time she saw him. The bedsheet had fallen below her breasts and she had left them there, cold and tender.

  “Grá, wait.”

  Those two words brought more relief to her body than they should have. Which was ironic, given all the things they brought next.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just, I assumed you would have heard. I knew they were waiting for . . . Jesus, Grá.” His tone had changed; there was breathing now and there was plenty. There was her name and then there was the Lord’s name too. She realised she had never thought to ask Ronan a thing about religion; about whether he had any faith of his own.

  “Grá.” The way he said it, she knew to close her eyes. “They found a body.” The darkness gave the picture a better backdrop to emerge. “One of the Butchers . . . Grá, I can’t believe . . .” Feature by feature, rising out of the liquid. “I assumed you would already know.”

  But how could she tell him that what we believe and what we assume and what we know are never really the same?

  As the night bled on, Grá watched the darkness rise up around her like a flood. From the back garden, she thought she heard barking, but she knew it was wishful thinking; knew there was little chance the orphaned cubs had managed to survive. Her body refused to move, whereas her restless mind began to wander, reaching for snapshots of the past to kill the time.

  There was her in her wedding dress, grinning amidst the clumps of marigolds she had stuffed fat into jars. There was Cúch in her parents’ kitchen the very first day she saw him, a dimple dug deep into each handsome cheek. And there was another image from another day, which proved—yet again, it seemed—she had been lying to herself all along. Because this wasn’t the first time her husband had promised to come home during his travels, although the last time, the promise had been kept.

  The nurse had warned them that the due date was rarely accurate, but that was the date he aimed for nonetheless. And sure enough, no sooner had he stepped in the door, her waters broke. It was a lake from her and of her and beneath her.

  He had filled the bath like they had discussed and dialled the midwife’s phone. Grá held his hand, the same hand that drew death every day. She heaved her pain into the water, an agony that was dulled, but fuck it was agony still.

  Úna didn’t linger, as if she knew there was only so long her father could stick around. The final push felt a lot like drowning—Grá’s head rushed with the pressure and the gasping and the bubbles on the surface like a Morse code SOS!

  When Úna screamed, Grá recognised nothing of herself.

  Some time later, after the midwife had guided her through to the bedroom, Grá’s vision finally returned. She found Cúch kneeling on the floor beside her, head bowed, muttering a silent prayer. When he lifted his face it was drenched. “You are a miracle,” he told Grá. “I believe in you more than I have ever believed in anything.”

  After a moment, Úna screamed again. This time Grá recognised nothing of herself but love.

  “Mam?” When Úna appeared now, she wore pyjamas and socks, her voice part concern, part croaky with sleep.

  The kitchen had begun to lighten, which meant it was almost dawn.

  “Mam,” she tried again. “Will I make you a cup of tea?”

  Grá opened her mouth.

  They found a body.

  “What about a biscuit?”

  One of the Butchers . . .

  “What about this?”

  She looked down. Eight fingers were placed on her arm. She couldn’t feel a single one.

  Grá, I can’t believe . . . I assumed you would already know . . .

  But that was the worst bit, because of course deep down she had already known, and for some reason
she had still thought that she could survive.

  Eventually Úna had persuaded her up for a bath and Grá had wondered, too late: Did I ever tell you, love, you were even born a special way? But the longer she stood, the more she couldn’t face the prospect of the water. Instead, she decided she might just never wash again. It could be a mourning ritual, plucked out of thin air, but didn’t everyone love a good superstition? The stranger and dirtier the better?

  The Curse of the Butcher’s Widow.

  She would spread the word far and wide; would let the dead cells gather around her like a shroud.

  She hadn’t thought to ask Ronan where the body was found; hadn’t even thought to ask how the body was killed. She looked out the bathroom window. In the distance, a tractor beheaded the grass. The trees listed their branches to the left. Everything was the same—the fields the clouds the muck the ruts from the cart wheels down the hill.

  Even as they approached, very slowly, they seemed to stay out of focus, the edges fuzzed like a dream or a memory. Grá counted the figures one at a time, then she counted them again. She craved every one of those awful biscuits.

  Sure enough, there were only seven—seven pairs of shoulders burdened with the news they were about to give, thinking they were the first. Grá looked down on her flesh as if she had just remembered. She supposed she should at least meet her fate in clothes.

  As she hurried to get dressed, she heard her daughter. “Mam, quick!” Grá fumbled the button on her skirt and ran down the stairs. Out in the driveway, there they were, standing solemn in an arc. And in the centre, there he was, looking up at her. “Hello, love.”

  Her heart stopped. Her head stopped seeing the world in snapshots. No, everything was clear and fluid again.

  Her husband was alive.

  Her husband was home.

  It was the third day of July.

  “Cúch!” She threw herself into his warmth and felt him flinch as if she had landed him a kick. “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t even begin to explain what for. But there would be time—so much time now—to make every kind of amends. When she eventually pulled away, she knew she was ready to start. “Let me do you some lunch.” She knew she was ready, even, to attempt a joke. “Although you realise you’re late, young man? Three days and counting?” She could have told him how many seconds, how many minutes, how many hours.

  Cúch’s face matched none of her laughter. It was only now that she noticed the bruises, yellow and black around his eyes. Grá thought again of rapeseed; of eels slithering in between legs. And then she checked the other faces where, sure enough, all six were battered too. She held her breath before she said the missing word. “Sol?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Davey

  County Monaghan, July 1996

  “Do you know what time the results are supposed to be in?” Davey sat sequestered on a stool at the O’Connell’s bar, wrapping knives and forks in red paper napkins. The pub had started serving lunch—more than just packets of crisps or Scampi Fries. The locals deemed it fierce fancy altogether. Behind the bar, Faela was down on her hunkers trying to detach an empty keg that had got stuck. Apart from them, only a couple of regulars were propping the place up. It had only just gone eleven o’clock.

  “If there’s no word by three,” Davey continued, “I’ll nip down to the police station. It is definitely supposed to be today, isn’t it?” He smoothed a napkin and swaddled the next cutlery pair like an infant babe, tucking it snug and tight around the corners.

  Except for the grey mid-morning light that filtered in through the windows, O’Connell’s looked much the same as it always did. There was no shattered glass or splintered wood; no banjaxed stools or dark spots of blood. In fact, the only trace of damage from the fight was the gap on the wall where the lucky hurl used to reside. Davey wondered what it meant for local luck. He wondered if they could get someone to whittle a replacement.

  “They won’t tell us everything, but at least we will know the cause of death. That should narrow it down, shouldn’t it?”

  All morning, Davey had been asking these unanswered questions. He had headed down to the cold store as soon as he woke. The perimeter of the site was still cordoned off with tendrils of yellow tape that made a smacking noise against the wind. The same Garda had been stationed there all week, a shortish lad with a moustache that looked almost definitely stuck on. Davey had plied him for details:

  “Any witnesses come forward?”

  “I heard the autopsy results are due today?”

  “Do you have any inclination yourself?”

  The Garda looked at him so blankly it was as if Davey were speaking in tongues.

  “Got it!” It was Faela speaking now. She rolled the old keg out on its side, then showed Davey the fresh one that needed bringing in. He reversed the proceedings and manoeuvred the thing upright under the pump, its metal arse sounding a boxing-bell clang.

  While Faela did the attachment, Davey recounted his own inclination. “I still think the Bull is the most likely suspect. After all, Sol’s body was found in his shed. I haven’t figured out why, but maybe he had beef with the Butchers, if you’ll pardon the—”

  “Davey, would you ever cop yourself on!”

  He stopped. He couldn’t tell if Faela was angry or just sick to death—he had been in here most mornings this week asking the very same things. But when she stood up, her face was softer. Her red hair was brushed shiny and smooth. “Look, Davey, I know what you saw in that cold store must have been horrific.” She swiped her hand through the air as if underlining the word. “But in terms of who actually did it . . .” He noticed her nails were painted bright pink. “I don’t understand why you care so much?”

  In the days following the O’Connell’s brawl, Davey had wandered around in a daze. Each night he lay awake until morning, then took himself off on a walk. And even when his ears had stopped ringing from the thunder of the fight, the reality of what he had wanted from that evening refused to go quiet. He had, very carefully, picked out what to wear. He had, very patiently, waited for Con. As soon as the Butchers had arrived, he had, very quickly, melted. And he had peeled his eyes for the moment he and Con could slip away and do . . . what—something? Everything? More than a confused fumble in a byre or a brief peck on the lips, that was for sure. So even if things had gone horribly wrong (Davey could remember the terror of the crush, the wet sound of knuckles pounding flesh), surely he could no longer ignore the new inclination he had about himself?

  Until one morning when he was out walking, struggling with all these unanswered questions, he passed the disused cold store and noticed its door was left ajar. Davey entered and saw the boots set neatly to the side, then he saw the hook and the feet and the two holes in the flesh. So regardless of how horrific it was, Davey was trying to stay focused on that image—everything else was another story entirely. And unlike the ancient myths, this one was happening right here and now, and it left Davey completely terrified.

  “Well, what’s the craic?” The next question came from the doorway of the pub where the backdrop of sunlight meant the figure was pure silhouette. Only as it approached could Davey make out the hulk of muscle and county colours—the GAA jersey stretched two sizes tight in white and blue.

  “Turlough!”

  There was a wee chain around the stranger’s neck and a wee sneer around his mouth. He gestured towards the cutlery pile. “Looks like you two lovebirds have been busy.” Faela came to meet him, pressing her pink mouth against his. Davey noticed one of the napkins had come undone.

  Eventually the couple pulled apart and Faela made the introductions. “Davey was just passing. Saved me Trojan’s work, so he did!”

  Davey noticed the classical reference. Trojan’s work. He wondered if she meant it as a kindness or maybe even a sort of apology.

  But then Faela introduced something else. “We were just talking about the body that they found.”

  “I heard the autopsy’s due.” Turloug
h let his sneer return. “Though frankly, who gives a shite how it happened.”

  Despite himself, Davey knew better than to bite so easily. “I was just telling Faela, actually, I reckon the prime suspect is the Bull. Given where the body was found—you have to admit it doesn’t look good.”

  Turlough’s laughter was so forced it didn’t really sound like laughter at all. Davey suddenly realised he looked sort of familiar. “Do you honestly think Goldsmith could be bothered with those gypos right now? And him busy trying to keep this country afloat?”

  “Ah, another loyal follower.” This time it was Davey who forced out a laugh. “Tell me, Turlough, why is everyone so devoted to that guy? He’s clearly crooked as fuck—do you really think he cares about anyone other than himself?”

  “Do you really think the prime suspect isn’t your da?”

  Davey had been on a bit of a roll, then suddenly he wasn’t. He leaned back and found the edge of the stool for support. He looked at his pile. He thought Faela had said the new menu was mostly toasted sandwiches, so why did they even need knives and forks for that?

  Of course, amid Davey’s focus, his endless unanswered questions, he had thought of his da, all right. In the chaos of the fight they had got separated, every man for himself, the tidal wave of violence and hatred hurling them every which way. When he finally fled O’Connell’s, the last thing Davey saw was Fionn standing on a stool, shouting like a maniac, his face blotched red and his old aggression wild alive. So despite the fact that, recently, Davey had begun to think that maybe—just maybe—his father was a changed man, if he was connected to Sol’s death, that destroyed everything again. Davey placed his hands in his lap and spread his fingers wide. It was another reason he cared so much about finding the truth.

  Faela had told him to grab a table while she fixed him some lunch for his troubles. Davey was about to protest, then realised he was starved; requested a pint to wash it all down. He picked a spot in the corner and watched as Turlough took his stool at the bar, then produced what looked like a mobile phone from his pocket. Davey wondered who the hell had bought him one of those; wondered what the hell he even needed it for.