Con shifted around so his head eclipsed the sun.
Davey shifted so they were the same. “Come with me to Dublin.”
“I can’t.”
“I know.”
“You’ll be OK.”
“I know,” he said again, as if he had a clue about anything.
But when they finally kissed, Davey knew he was willing to learn; knew this was the real reason he would always remember today. Their tongues spelled goodbye in each other’s mouths as their hands reached for each other’s belts.
He was willing now to try everything.
When he finally got home, Davey stared around the mess of the yard as if he barely recognised it. The hose lay flaccid and unfurled. The rusted barrels were orange and full of recent rain. The blue Fiesta was nowhere to be seen—his father must have finally sold it on. Davey could feel a bit of a breeze, though he was sure his blush wouldn’t have faded yet.
In the kitchen, a raw lump of meat sat on a plate in a pool of pinkish water. Two flies were showing an interest, buzzing away, then landing back again. Davey swallowed his guilt, which tasted of apples. The celebration lunch. At least, he supposed, nothing had actually been cooked.
His limbs were still a bit tender as he took the stairs, certain he was leaving a trail of hay in his wake. He checked his own room and then he checked hers. The bed was made. There were no empty cups on the side, only a Bible, the spine completely smooth, the red ribbon flopping out like a tongue.
In the distance he heard Blackfoot barking. She was an old and noble thing, more part of the farm than Davey himself had ever been.
On his way back through the kitchen the flies were gone.
Already the sky had faded a little further, the daylight dragging downwards as if it weighed a tonne. Inside the byre it was almost black. The smell was sweet oats and saddle soap. Over in the corner, next to his beloved cow, his father slouched in an anorak and wellie boots. Davey thought of that photographer from O’Connell’s trying to capture things “as they truly are.” It would have been a perfect picture.
He stopped in the doorway, scuffing his final step to make sure that he was heard. He glanced at Glassy, the giant brown birthmarks patterned all across her warm white flank. She didn’t seem to pay his father much attention, but the feeling certainly wasn’t mutual. The old man leaned so hard on the railing Davey wondered if he was drunk.
“How did you fare?” The words arrived loudly, though the head didn’t turn around.
Davey took a step forward and felt tiny grains of meal crush to dust beneath his feet. “I’m sorry about lunch. I got held up.”
“Never mind, lad. But tell me—are you happy?”
The question felt so profound it took Davey a moment to realise it was referring to his results. “I am.” Then he remembered—Your father suggested we defrost the first of the Butchers’ cuts—so he tried something a bit more generous: “I’m really pleased, thank you.”
He waited, not quite knowing what was supposed to happen next. The cow had started to chew, shunting her jaw in slow mechanical rotations. Eventually, his father pushed himself up and around. One glance told Davey he was more than sober. “Davey,” he coughed. “Davey, lad, she’s gone.”
And for some reason, Davey’s first thought was that his father was referring to one of the girls—a positive test from the BSE inspector, which meant the animal had been led away to the slaughterhouse.
“I was at the shops. She had sent me down to pick up some last-minute bits for the dessert.” The smell of the place grew stronger, the pens around them strewn with clods of damp hay. Davey felt the little lines across his skin where the golden stalks had scratched. He looked up. The byre roof was close to falling in.
“She had a seizure. By the time I reached the hospital it was too late. Her brain . . . the doctors said they did everything they could.”
Behind Davey’s back, the sun had finally collapsed. In the darkness, the men’s silence made much more sense, though Davey could have stood there for ever and still not known what to say—not in English or Irish; not in Latin or Ancient Greek. Instead, he could only picture Achilles dragging that corpse through the muck, the dust caking black and rancid into the wounds. He knew he would have done the very same to any man, any Butcher, if he thought it might ease the pain.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Úna
County Cavan, September 1996
It was hard to believe this day last year was her very first day of school. Úna could still remember the creases of her white shirt, fresh and stiff from the plastic packet; could still remember the swell of her gut, filled with porridge and delinquent butterflies. Amidst the anxiety, though, there had also been the buzz of possibilities. Of new friends and new beginnings. Of finding someone who would love to hear about her father and her Lego and her plan for the mouse.
And now?
Now her hair had grown back just enough to cover the tips of her ears. Úna had combed it down to be sure, grateful for the bit of warmth. Not that her classmates would care about that—they would only care about her weird new look, pointing and staring and calling the usual names.
Cowgirl got a haircut!
Úna rubbed the back of her neck. Without her ponytail, it felt exposed.
The Baldy Butchers.
Over the summer, she had tried to think about her playground encounter with Car McGrath. She still didn’t fully understand what had happened; what, in that moment, had come over her. When she made it home, she had brushed her teeth for hours, but the strangely sweet burger taste had stayed on her gums for days. She had returned the scissors to the kitchen drawer.
This morning, though, when her parents weren’t looking, she had gone to the drawer and taken them back out; had hesitated, then placed them in the pocket of her uniform. Again, she didn’t fully understand why, but as soon as she did it she felt better. She knew part of it was to do with protection—if he did decide to come to school today, there was no doubt Car McGrath would be out for revenge.
By now, Úna had reached the main door. Stepping inside, the noise was colossal, her classmates gabbing a million miles an hour, swapping summer stories and asking question after hurried question. Like who had gone on the most expensive holiday? Who had heard the village McDonald’s was finally shutting down? Who had listened to that deadly new band called the Spice Girls?
I’m Scary.
I’m Sporty.
I’m Ginger.
I’m not allowed to listen to “bloody Brits.”
Úna cleaved to the walls as she worked her way along the corridor. The bell would go shortly for Assembly, then double English where they were starting some new book called A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. As she reached the lockers, Úna found all the young men gathered together and her butterflies braced so hard they smacked into her ribs.
I’m Baby.
I’m Posh.
I’m in trouble now.
Up close, Úna saw that most of the boys’ limbs had grown lanky over the break, white flashes of ankle and wrist poking out beneath their too-small uniforms. Meanwhile their faces bore flashes of pink where brand-new acne constellations had appeared. One or two bore the beginnings of stubble over their lips. It wasn’t clear which of them spotted her first, but the elbows started nudging, and soon all the eyes were aimed in her direction. Car stopped whatever story he’d been telling—something about his big brother and a naggin of vodka. Úna saw his orange tufts had mostly faded. When he glanced over his shoulder, she saw the cut on his neck had mostly healed.
Their stares met, though Car was yet to actually turn around to face her.
What the hell?
In the silence, Úna remembered the last words he had said to her.
I thought you wanted . . .
Most girls would . . .
She still hadn’t figured out how exactly he’d been planning to finish that sentence off. She still hadn’t figured out why he’d thought she was suddenly like mo
st girls.
What the fuck is that?
But at least Úna could feel the exact weight of the scissors in her pocket now; could remember the sensation of holding them against Car’s throat. She thought of a Butcher standing over a cow, looking it in the eye and letting it know who was in control. She thought how most girls hadn’t made Car McGrath beg for mercy.
Úna, please . . .
Úna, I’m sorry . . .
“So the bird in the garage takes one look at my ID.” When Car finally spoke, it had nothing to do with her. Instead, he had turned his head and resumed his story. “And she goes, ‘But you’re not Francis McGrath.’” “The other boys frowned in confusion, their eyes still trained on Úna, until the punchline commanded their attention. “Turns out she was the one who had given him a wank at the GAA club the week before!”
Úna’s shirt stuck to her back as she walked away. In her pocket, she had been clutching the scissors so hard she had managed to break skin. She stuck her finger in her mouth and tasted metal on her tongue. She knew she wasn’t out of the woods just yet—Car had had the rest of the summer to plot his retribution, so there was a fair chance he was saving his elaborate plan for later, maybe in front of the whole school during Assembly or lunch break out in the yard.
She imagined a bottle of extra-strength bleach poured over her head until it burned blisters across her scalp.
She imagined a whole retinue of Big Macs forced down her throat until she choked to death.
But by the time the bell rang out at the end of the day, there had been no plan, no sign of revenge. In fact, no one had so much as pointed or laughed or called her a single name. Úna couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten her sandwiches without any interruption or had asked to go to the loo without a chorus of “yee haws.”
So finally she understood what had occurred that summer night—finally she understood that the violence had brought her what she’d always wanted. She smiled. She suspected they wouldn’t be bothering her any more. She closed her locker and headed for home. Already her gut felt different from this morning. The butterflies were gone—it seemed she had warned them off too. In their place, a new kind of power had begun to swell.
When she made it back to the house, her father was in the kitchen, the beginnings of dinner splayed out across the counter. The sound of his knife on the chopping board was a pneumatic drill. The new arrangement meant he was in charge of dinner on the days her mother went into town for her job. She read novels on the bus to pass the time—Úna liked when she brought home bits of the various storylines. Úna wondered if she had ever gone back to that book club she had seen advertised in the Anglo-Celt.
And Úna liked the stories her mam brought home from the various customers in the flower shop—the people who swapped their hard-earned cash for things they could have just grown out of the ground. There were the regulars and the special occasioners; the awkward-eyed who spent the least time and the most money. Her mam said she suspected those bouquets were meant for apologies or sordid affairs.
Her mam went a little awkward-eyed herself.
But most of all, Úna liked the energy that was slowly returning to her mother. She had started wearing earrings again; had started finishing some of her meals. Úna liked her father’s energy, too—rushing around the kitchen, doing different things with different utensils, trying to find a new way, a new route to happiness.
Úna decided to leave him to it. She took the stairs up to her bedroom and closed the door. Glancing around at her own new arrangement, she was pleased—it looked so much more grown up. She had thrown all her Legos in the bin and peeled the faded map of Ireland from the wall. In its place hung a glamorous woman in a black dress smoking a long cigarette.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Her mam had brought it home as a present out of her first pay cheque last month. She had promised they could watch the film together once Úna had turned fifteen. For now, the other walls were blank. The whiteness looked nice, very clean, although it also looked kind of empty. Úna would have to figure out soon what she was going to put up there instead.
•
On Saturday night her parents announced that they were going to a restaurant on a “date.” Úna insisted she didn’t need to stay at Mrs. P’s—she was more than capable of looking after herself. She was glad when her parents agreed, but after a while she was mostly bored. She blared the radio to fill the silence. The Spice Girls kept asking her to tell them what she really really wanted.
The following week, Car McGrath and the rest of her classmates were still avoiding her like the plague. The phrase made Úna think about the CJD. Another person over in England had died. Apparently the disease turned them depressed, then gave them strange hallucinations. The scientists were nowhere near finding a cure.
By Friday afternoon, Úna thought she might be having hallucinations of her own, because when she got back from school there was a white envelope on the hall table with her name and address written on the front. She tried to think if she had ever received a piece of post in her life. There had been the birthday cards last month, but they were delivered by hand so they didn’t count. There was a giant thirteen-shaped one from her parents and a smaller pink one from Mrs. P. Úna knew, at the rate she was going, there was a fair chance there might never be a third.
Dear Úna,
My name is Davey McCready and I believe I am your first cousin. I didn’t even know you existed until a few weeks ago. But then I met your mother at my mother’s funeral and she told me everything. She seemed a lovely woman. She brought along the most beautiful wreath.
I am writing from Dublin where I just started a Classics degree. Do you know any ancient myths? My favourite is the Minotaur who was part man, part bull. If you haven’t heard it, let me know and I’ll explain.
Classical Studies was my favourite subject at school—what’s yours? What do you want to be when you grow up? Have you ever visited Dublin? A friend once told me it’s no promised land, but I suspect that he was lying.
Anyway, I’d love to hear all about you so I hope you’ll reply when you get the chance.
Yours sincerely,
Your first cousin,
Davey McCready
After she had read them three times over, Úna knew all the words by heart. Her favourites were first and ancient myths. She also liked promised and part bull. What she didn’t like was the final paragraph with its barrage of question marks. She thought again of a pneumatic drill, the relentless pounding in your skull. She had noticed before how some adults asked what you wanted to do when you grew up and others asked what you wanted to be. Úna wondered if the two questions meant the same thing, and if so, did that make it easier or harder to find an answer? Especially when you were suddenly having to start again from scratch?
“So you’ve finally found yourself a wee friend?” Her mother’s earrings today were a pair of red swirls Úna couldn’t remember seeing before.
She waited until she had her logic straight, then made her own enquiries: “You didn’t tell me your sister died?”
Her mam let her smile go slack. “The death notice was in the paper a couple of weeks ago.” She also anticipated what would follow. “I know you would have come with me to the funeral, but I needed . . . I decided I would go alone.”
In the silence, Úna was aware she was supposed to say “sorry for your troubles” next, even if “sorry” made it sound like she had done something wrong. Then again, it did feel strange that her mam had lost someone so important while she, apparently, was gaining someone new.
“I spoke to Davey at the reception afterwards—he seemed a lovely lad. Another only child, as it happens, so he was very interested when I told him about you.”
As Úna listened, she tried to match her mam’s enthusiasm. She knew she should be “very interested” too. Because this was her very first bit of post; this was her very first cousin.
I’d love to hear all about you.
The problem was that, increasingly, Úna had realised she didn’t have a clue at all about herself—who she was; what she wanted to do or be. She had discovered that holding a blade to a boy’s neck could get you the things you wanted, but she didn’t know what, for her, those things might be any more. Because everything had changed—everything that had defined her had vanished—or, technically, had been “disbanded.” In fact, ever since the Butchers had “called it a day,” she couldn’t even figure out what she should be called. In the past, there had always been special and believer. There had even, for a brief moment, been replacement Butcher. There had been freak and cowgirl, but now none of those fit and she was just as blank as a bare bedroom wall.
Úna looked up at her mam’s green eyes. Her pink cheeks had grown a little softer, no more bones jutting through the skin. Úna supposed she had started calling herself something new—a florist—so maybe Úna should try and do the same? Or she could be a photographer like Ronan or a journalist like Mrs. P before she became a wife who baked endless cakes or a widow called Aoife who polished dead men’s boots?
I’m Scary.
I’m Sporty.
I decided I would go alone.
Úna folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. She turned it over and stared at the words on the front. She wanted to reach for the scissors and cut out her name; to stare through the gap and out the other side.
•
By the end of the week, there were far more than just letters arriving to the house. Úna was down in the kitchen setting seven knives and forks; folding seven napkins the fancy way. Her father had turned fifty so now the Butchers—the former Butchers—were travelling from all across the country to join him for Sunday lunch. It would be the first time the group had been together since the end. Úna suspected their feet were long past itchy. The age sounded impossibly old—half a century!—but when her father entered the kitchen he looked the same as ever. He wore a new chequered shirt. Last night, her mother had trimmed the back of his neck while Úna swallowed down a surprising pang of jealousy.
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