The Butchers' Blessing

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

  After he hoovered his grub, Davey would head down the station and see if there had been any word yet from the morgue. Then he would phone the Anglo-Celt—it was a joke there still hadn’t been any news coverage of the case. He thought of that dead journalist, Veronica Guerin. He thought of that photographer lad wanting to capture the Butchers “as they truly were.”

  He knew that, all things considered, “capture” was a terrible choice of verb.

  But that only led him back to considering who would want to capture the Butchers, literally like? Who the hell would do such a fucked-up thing? Not to mention the issue of how—Davey wished he had taken a closer look at the pulley system. He assumed the meat hook had been sent off to a lab. “Tell me, Faela, roughly how much does a dead body weigh?”

  Faela’s tray bore a pint, a dish of condiment sachets, and a ham and cheese toastie on white. Although, Davey saw that “toastie” was a bit of a stretch—the bread looked more wet than it did particularly browned. “As in, would you need two people to lever it, or could you do it yourself?”

  Faela placed down the glass and the plate, but kept hold of the sauces. “Davey,” she said, “after this, would you not go home and have a rest?” He realised she hadn’t brought any cutlery. “Have you been sleeping?” When he didn’t answer, she turned, taking the sachets with her.

  The cheese, at least, was faintly pungent. The ham was salty and strong—apparently the pork farmers were having a field day at the moment. Without a napkin, the butter leaked yellow down Davey’s chin. He gulped the drink and glanced at the bar where Turlough had finished with the phone and was reaching across to place his hand on Faela’s pale cheek. Her eyelids batted like one of those American actresses from the films Davey’s mother always played on repeat.

  And now Davey found himself trying to remember—it had been only a few short months ago—if he had ever placed a hand on Faela’s cheek quite like that. And if so, had the story really changed so completely since then?

  And was it too late now to change it back?

  Davey drained the pint and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Enough of that—he had to stay focused; had to concentrate on other questions instead. He was about to stand up when the joke arrived from a jostle of men at a table in the opposite corner.

  “What do you call a Butcher with a big cock?”

  “I don’t know, what?”

  “Hung!”

  The punchline was delivered loud enough for the entire pub’s benefit. The sniggers around the room responded in spades. It was only a bit of messing, a bit of rudeness, but it was enough to let Davey know he wasn’t the only one in here with the dead body on his mind. So he decided he would order another drink and stay put a bit longer; would wait for the tongues around him to get a bit looser, just in case there were any new versions of the story that might be worth listening to.

  “I heard the corpse was castrated.’

  “I heard it was stuck up on a pole like a fucking scarecrow.”

  “Well, yous have it wrong—I heard your man was stripped down to his jocks and crucified like Our Lord.”

  Hours later and Davey had barely moved except to order more drinks and take a see-through piss. His head was finally feeling a bit less wired. The questions, at least for now, had eased right off. And the conversation around him had moved on from the dead Butcher—beef sales were way down; slaughter season was looming and prices per kilo were shite. The word “boom” hadn’t been uttered in a while. Beneath the grumbling came the musical clink of pocket change as the men struggled to count out the cost of another pint. Davey considered his own prospects. He had the munchies. What about another toastie? With some ketchup this time, pretty please? He looked up at the bar to catch Faela’s eye—maybe he would have a go at a whiskey—but she was busy, blushing as her new boyfriend whispered something in her ear. “Behave yourself, Turlough Hynes!”

  Davey tried to roll his eyes, but found they were already swimming a bit in his head, so he only moved them to Turlough and thought of all the meathead lads from school. He wondered if their end-of-exam rave had been a success; wondered if the Pez dispensers of pills had managed to lose them all their minds. But that only made the questions start up again, because hadn’t that been the Saturday after the exams? The very same night as the brawl in here? So what about a version where a gang of yoked-up eighteen-year-olds find an old man in the woods? A celebration prank gone very very wrong?

  Slaughter season.

  Davey closed his eyes. He thought of Sol’s kindness back at the Butchers’ camp.

  A tragedy for any man.

  God knows my missis would be beyond cure.

  When he opened his eyes, Davey’s vision was beyond blurry. He used the TV above the bar to bring his focus back. Although it took a couple more blinks to make sense of the strange image that was playing on the screen; the orange blaze that was leaping hot across. Davey’s first thought was that it was probably something to do with the annual bonfires they would be lighting up north next week. It was an old Loyalist tradition, a series of ritual infernos piled high to mark the eleventh night. But when the camera zoomed in, Davey saw amidst the flames there were arms and legs; there were tails and there were definitely eyes. So his second thought was a different ritual altogether—the ancient Greeks burning their animals on altars. A pyre. A sacrifice to their sinister gods.

  The camera panned away to a reporter standing downwind of the smoke, trying very hard not to breathe. Davey squinted at the caption beneath: Widespread destruction of English herds. His third thought was the Bible and the fucking apocalypse—pure Judgement Day fire-and-brimstone stuff. He knew at this rate Ireland would probably be next: the green fields scorched black; the muck strewn with ashes and bones.

  “Davey—there you are.”

  When he looked down from the screen, the picture in front of him wasn’t much more appealing. “What are you . . . ?” He tried to speak and heard the slur in his words. He stopped and swallowed, then went again. “What are you doing here?” The second time wasn’t much better. The corners of his mouth were clagged together. He reached for his glass and swilled the last of the liquid.

  “Faela called me.” His father took the opposite stool. “She said . . . she was a little worried.”

  Davey opened his gullet and downed the warm mouthful in one.

  Fionn sighed. “Be careful with that stuff, lad. God knows, you don’t want to end up like me.”

  When Davey heard this, he went to meet his father’s eyes, to tell him that they were nothing alike, but his vision had gone blurry again. He could just make out Fionn’s stubbled face, the grey flecked with bits of copper. He thought of embers; of tiny sparks that, very easily, could catch light.

  And then Davey had another thought and he didn’t give a flying fuck whether he slurred this time or not. “Tell me, Fionn,” he said, leaning forward, “was it you?”

  “What?”

  “Are you the one who murdered the Butcher? After I lost you the other night, did you go berserk and beat the living daylights out of your man Sol?” Even as he told it, Davey knew this version of the story wasn’t the most eloquent, the most complete, but he also knew it had just enough pieces to hold together. “Did you drag him to the cold store and hang him up by his poor wrinkled feet? Because for some reason your beloved Fergus Hynes said he would give you a bit of cash for it?” He didn’t know what answer he had been hoping for, but by the time the story was finished, he saw Fionn’s pale face was burning and Davey knew that he had it.

  He knew there could be no going back.

  “Good afternoon, everyone!”

  And now the pub door was swinging open and three men, one at a time, were stepping inside. The room took a moment, then fell hush. Someone switched off the television, though the man suddenly standing before them was a fairly regular appearance on the news. “So sorry to disturb.” The Bull was definitely better looking in real life. His face was tanned and cleanly shaved. He wore a thr
ee-piece suit with a Windsor-knotted tie, and a silk square peeked perfectly from the pocket. Behind him was the Garda with the awful moustache, who removed his hat and placed it over his chest. The third man had black hair with a grey clump at the front. Davey glanced back at Turlough and realised it was true that a lot could be read from the way a father teaches his son to carry himself.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Eoin Goldsmith. I am . . . I do a little bit of work on beef.” The hush gave way to a rumble of laughter, the room already putty in the baron’s hands. “I won’t keep you long, only it was brought to my attention that some O’Connell’s punters have been making a few insinuations. So I just wanted to pop by and clear things up, if that’s all right?”

  Beneath his breath, Davey snorted. Even if you hadn’t already known, there was no doubt this lad spent time in the company of politicians. The euphemisms and charisma; the faux concern; the exceptional polish of the brogues and the emerald green of the pocket square.

  “Over the weekend, a discovery was made in a former facility of mine. No one, let me tell you, was more surprised than me. But I am all about honesty, so I have been assisting the Gardaí with their investigations, and now they have some important news to share.”

  If there had been fidgeting before, there wasn’t a trace of it any more. Davey wondered if the men had placed any bets on the cause of death. It would be a way at least to win back a bit of much-needed cash; a way to scab the price of the next round of pints.

  The Garda didn’t step forward so much as the Bull stepped back. By contrast, the Garda clearly detested the spotlight. “We got the autopsy results,” he stammered, still clutching his hat over the left side of his chest. Davey wondered if it was a reflex or something they had been taught in training, and if so, was it out of self-defence or respect? “The heart,” the Garda said, as if he had overheard Davey’s thoughts. “It was a heart attack. Natural causes, like. Nothing more.” As soon as the verdict was delivered, he took a step back, his face coated in a thin film of sweat.

  “Well, isn’t that a relief?” When the Bull clapped his hands, they all jumped. He resumed his position centre stage. “God knows we have enough to be worrying about at present. Lovely lady?” Next he cocked his eyebrows high and far. It took Faela more than a moment to return the favour. “How about a pint for everyone on me? My friend Fergus here will settle up.” And then the Bull cast his clasped hands away as if releasing a pigeon or a snow-white dove. Davey traced the line of invisible flight, thinking of hubris and Icarus and soaring high enough to be among the gods.

  When he looked back, the Bull was already halfway out the door. Davey had expected a queue to touch his cloth; a line around the block to kiss his exceptionally polished feet.

  “Mr. Goldsmith.” But of all of them, Davey was the one who wasn’t finished with him just yet. He stood up and watched the Bull pause mid-step.

  Fionn reached out a hand, warning his son, but Davey brushed it off. “What about what they did to him after he died?”

  If the room had relaxed, it suddenly tensed again. Davey ran his tongue along his teeth. His feet were planted in one spot, but his body felt as if it were swaying in little circles.

  The Bull’s smile had the distinct look of a grimace. “Ah yes, you must be referring to the rumour about the position of the corpse. I did hear—”

  “It’s not a rumour,” Davey said. “I saw it.”

  Slowly the smile became a squint. The Bull glanced down to Davey’s right. “Of course,” he said. “Young Mr. McCready. I believe it was you who had the misfortune of having to phone the police. We all owe you a great deal for that.”

  Even through the fog in his head, Davey could hear the threat in the tone; could feel his father’s agitation next to him. But he was nearly finished. “Even if it was a heart attack, it’s still defamat—desecration of a corpse. It’s still a crime. Surely you can’t just leave it at that?”

  Of all the people, though, it was the Garda who delivered the final blow. “The body has been returned to the family,” he said. “They have agreed there will be no further investigation.” He placed his hat on his head and disappeared smartly out the door.

  And Fergus Hynes disappeared too—no word of farewell to his son—whereas the Bull chose to linger a moment more. He gave a sigh, his face relaxing for the first time all night; his eyes filling up with pure regret. “Look,” he said, “we may not understand these strange men—may not agree with their ancient traditions. But whatever rituals they choose to perform on their dead, ultimately we must respect.” He waited until the insinuation had worked its way across the room; until one version of events had been set down for good. Then he left, and Davey knew the story would never be told another way again.

  When they made it back to the farm, Fionn helped him upstairs and on to his bed. Davey lay flat on his back and watched the room reeling. He thought a bit about the gods and how a man decides what it is he truly believes. He thought about loving a man who thinks it is acceptable to defile another man’s body.

  He thought a bit about loving another man.

  Hours later he woke and the dusk had settled around him. His head had settled a bit too. His mouth was dry and foul so, very slowly, he stood up and crossed to the bathroom for a drink. On his way back to his room he heard his name.

  He found his mother sitting up in her bed, her fingers fanned regal across the blanket. “You look tired, love.” As ever, she went straight to the point. “I know it’s been a mad few days—an awful lot has gone on.”

  Davey nodded, but he didn’t speak just yet. Instead he took a step towards the window. In the yard below, Blackfoot was sprawled and chewing something large between her paws. Davey couldn’t see whether it was a bone or something else. He realised he was hungry.

  But his mother went on. “He was terrified when Faela called and said you were drunk. He blames himself, you know?” She went quieter then: “He blames himself more than we ever could. All I ask is that you try to remember that sometimes.”

  Davey took another step. Beyond the dog, he saw the blue Fiesta parked up. In the half-light, it looked as if the tyres had been freshly pumped. He wondered why his father even bothered keeping it any more.

  “Well, are you just going to stand there all night or are you going to talk to your dying mother?”

  This time Davey didn’t move. He closed his eyes as if that would block out the words, though the sound of “dying” still echoed through the room. And the sound of “talk” lingered too, because he knew his mother wasn’t looking for idle chat or gossip from the pub. No, he knew she was looking for so much more.

  So Davey thought of talking to his dying mother about the Butchers and how the Bull had just alleged that they were the ones responsible for hooking Sol’s body up; he wanted to ask how much she knew about their ancient traditions and whether it even mattered if it was true. He thought of talking about his father and how really, Davey struggled to let him in for fear that Fionn might just not like what he found there; how he would try a little harder, if only for her sake. The longer he stood there, though, the more Davey realised he wanted to talk to his dying mother about something else—about a certain inclination. He wanted to talk, finally, about the truth. He opened his eyes and turned around, moved to the bed and sat beside her. His body felt the generosity of the mattress’s give.

  Davey began at the very beginning and told the story of himself, of the kind of man he had become. Or really, he suspected, the kind of man he had always been. He told the story of Con and how he was the spark that had finally brought the whole thing blazing to life. He told her the burning inside him didn’t feel like shame any more.

  When he was finished, Davey felt lighter, emptied out. Although the bedroom felt emptied too—there were no words of approval or acceptance; no tears of shock or shame or savage disappointment. Davey looked at his mother and wondered if she had even been listening or if maybe her poor brain had decided to glit
ch at the perfectly imperfect moment.

  He wondered if stories could be passed down through generations without ever being told aloud.

  “You had better call the doctors.” When she finally gripped his hand, Davey was filled again, this time with fear; with the thing he had been dreading now for so long. He wondered if his father was out in the field or waiting outside the door; if he had somehow managed to overhear everything.

  “Tell them my headache is gone.” Davey’s mother moved his hand up to the side of her face. “Tell them,” she smiled, “my son is after getting me cured.” She let her skull rest against his palm as she closed her green eyes. Davey felt her pulse and her warmth and her relief.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Úna

  County Cavan, July 1996

  Ten o’clock sharp and Úna was waiting for her mam by the front door so they could finally set off for Mrs. P’s. It was about a forty-minute walk, depending on the weather and the traffic and the occasional flock of sheep clogging the road like a cotton-wool stopper in a bottle neck. Since the Butchers’ return, the trip had become an almost daily pilgrimage. Úna wasn’t complaining—without school, it was nice to have a reason to get them up each morning and breakfasted and dressed. Not that her mam joined her for porridge; Úna had noticed her eating less than ever these days. She had noticed her mam’s friend Ronan vanishing without a trace.

  Being honest, the visits to Mrs. P were also kind of nice because they were an excuse to escape the tension of the house. With her father home, the whole place was eggshells, hurried voices behind doors and under breaths. He had bruises on his face and all down one side of his body, but he refused to say how or why. He refused, despite his wife’s pleas, to see a doctor.

  As it happened, over breakfast this morning, Úna had heard a different kind of doctor on the radio. He was talking about the BSE, but also about other animal diseases. There was one called scrapie, which was for sheep and which also sent them mad. There was one, unimaginatively, called foot-and-mouth. He tried to explain how some of the conditions were genetic—passed down from a parent animal, which meant the offspring was doomed to be born wonky from the start.