The Butchers' Blessing

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

  Now her mother was sweating into the oven, trying to manage the various bits of meat that were roasting there. There was a random assortment—a special menu made up of the very last of the freezer’s stash. It felt strange to see her mam back wearing an apron—more and more recently it had been her father’s job. Úna supposed that, just for today, he could be called a Butcher again.

  She had felt guilty this morning without so much as a card to give him. Her mam had promised to pick one up for her in town, then forgot. Úna used to make them herself in Art class, but that felt a bit childish now. She supposed she could have just written him a letter.

  She filled the jug from the tap. She hadn’t replied to her cousin yet. Not for the first time today, she felt a growling in her stomach. She wondered if she was coming down with something (another animal disease? another plague?) or if something was coming over her. She thought of her aunt. Her mam hadn’t actually said how she had died.

  The doorbell rang to announce the first arrival, which was the Butcher they called Wyn. He was wind-faced and portly. “Úna, I’d barely recognise you!” She did her best to force a smile she didn’t feel. Next to arrive were Mik and Farley, followed by the blondie lad named Con. He was the youngest of the group. Úna wondered if his name was short for anything or just a trick.

  He was also one of the lads who had been sent back to the borderlands last month to try to discover the details of Sol’s death. When they had returned, their findings had been whispered to Úna’s mam, who was then tasked with delivering the news. Úna had accompanied her to Mrs. P’s, but had waited in a separate room, which meant she didn’t see the look in the widow’s eyes when she first pictured her husband’s body hanging upside down from a hook. She only heard the howl through the wall—the throaty, animal sound—and the sobs that followed after as if she were coughing an entire lake up from her lungs.

  On the walk home, Úna had dared to ask her mam. “I thought you said some answers would finally bring her peace?”

  “I did . . . Oh love, I was so naïve.” Her mam’s face looked as pale and drawn as the olden days. “Instead Aoife says her grief has only doubled.”

  “Why?”

  “Because now she has to mourn the loss of Sol’s dignity as well.”

  Úna pictured a second wicker coffin being lowered slowly into the dirt.

  They hadn’t seen Mrs. P much since that awful day—her mam’s new job left no free time for organising visits—so Úna was glad when the widow showed up at the house this afternoon. Then she saw the ache in the widow’s eyes and she wasn’t glad at all. She took the plastic bag from her and peeked inside. The shop-bought Victoria sponge was cracked down the middle, great jagged lines that would surely never heal.

  By the time all seven men were in, the house felt crammed to bursting. Úna’s mam had stuffed bunches of flowers everywhere. She didn’t say if they were free or if Helen would dock them from her wages. Úna glanced out at the garden, which was scraggier than ever—her mam was just too busy these days to take proper care. Úna supposed a gardener was another thing she could do or be.

  They served the lunch, then left the men to it and retired to the sitting room. Luckily, a new distraction had been put in place to diffuse the awkwardness. Úna’s mam had purchased the television for her husband’s birthday; had shown him how to plug it in and use the remote control. This time he had been the one to force a smile he clearly didn’t feel.

  So now they all focused on the screen where a man in a pinstripe suit had just appeared. Úna remembered the portrait from Civics class. “Eoin Goldsmith,” she said. “That’s him—that’s the Bull.” He was being led out of a car by a Garda while all around him lights flashed and cameras strobed. Sometimes the glare caught a glint of metal from the handcuffs that poked from underneath his sleeves.

  “It is.” When Mrs. P spoke, Úna realised they were the first words she had uttered since her arrival. “He’s been arrested for all sorts—scamming contracts, dodging taxes. They also think it might have been him making and selling the MBM that caused the Irish cows to get sick. Thanks to him, a lot of men have lost their livelihoods.”

  When the camera panned out, Úna saw there were indeed a lot of men, only these ones weren’t in suits; they were in fleece jackets and caps. They were penned in behind metal barriers, shouting their faces off and carrying homemade signs:

  BSE BULL!

  JUSTICE 4 FARMERS!

  GOLDSMITH ONLY CARES 4 GOLD!

  As Úna watched the chaos brewing, the photographers clambering over one another to get the best version of the very same shot, she thought about men losing their livelihoods and their dignity; about people losing their faith and their identity. She wondered if there was a special place these things went when they were lost and if they could ever be found again. She felt her stomach give another flutter. Maybe her butterflies had come crawling back after all.

  “I need water.” She had made it only as far as the door when she heard the two women gasp. She assumed it was something shocking on the tele—a man climbing over the barrier; a violent fist slamming into Goldsmith’s chiselled jaw. But when she turned, the women had abandoned the TV to stare at the stain on the couch. Next they stared towards Úna’s trousers, so she contorted her body until she could see the damp proof for herself.

  She thought of the spill on her bedroom floor from her very first mouse.

  She thought of a rusty hook piercing an old man’s frail foot.

  She thought of a red line trickling down Car McGrath’s neck.

  She ran up the stairs and straight into the bathroom where she sat on the toilet lid. She clutched her head in her hands so she didn’t see her mother appear; didn’t see anything except the floor and her trousers peeled gently away; the white contraption produced from her mam’s bottom drawer.

  She heard a surge of laughter—men’s laughter—from the kitchen below. She knew she was definitely going to be sick.

  “Love, can you hear me?” After a while, she heard her mother trying to talk to her, or at least, to this creature she had apparently become.

  Her mother offered her a bath.

  Her mother offered her the lake.

  Her mother offered her an explanation she didn’t recognise. “This is it, love, you are a woman now.”

  I’m Scary.

  I’m Sporty.

  I’m a woman now.

  But just when Úna was about to scream, her mother placed eight fingers on her skin and offered two final things. The first sounded like this: “They forget we know more about death precisely because we can give life.” This time, Úna didn’t need to ask who she meant by “they.” And then her mother offered the second thing—the one Úna liked the most; the one that made her stomach, just for a minute, settle down: “I tell you, love, we know more about blood than they ever will.”

  When she finally descended, the cushion had been flipped around. Mrs. P whispered “congratulations,” the tiniest glimmer back in her eye. But then she stood up and said it was time to go and her eyes were agony once more. “They are sacred things.” As she walked away, her voice croaked. “Our bodies, I mean. I just . . .” She shook her head. “I cannot understand how someone could possibly think otherwise.”

  Watching her shuffle into the hallway, her whole being cowered, Úna thought again of the small scissors, or better yet, the large serrated chopping knife. She vowed that if she ever discovered who had done those things to Sol—who had caused this gorgeous woman so much pain—she would hurt them every possible way she could.

  The farmer was standing out on the front doorstep as if he had been waiting there all along. In his hand was a rope and on the end of the rope was a black-and-white cow. Úna noticed her udders were swollen as huge as a head. She noticed, when he spoke, the man’s accent wasn’t local. “I’m looking for the Butchers.”

  Her mam stepped forward and smiled the way Úna suspected she did for her customers. “Just a moment,” she said, “I’ll g
o and fetch my husband.”

  Hovering in the doorway, Úna noticed a smell, a faint must, though she couldn’t decide whether it belonged to the heifer or to her.

  When her father arrived, his cheeks were blotched pink from the heat and the wine and the bitter-sweetness of reunion. The farmer hadn’t said another word. “I’m looking for the Butchers,” he repeated. The cow exhaled loudly through her nose.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald, isn’t it?” Her father wiped his hand and held it out. “Lovely to see you, sir—it’s been a while. But you mustn’t have heard, we—the Butchers, I mean—I’m afraid we have been forced to . . . retire.” Here he paused. The reality still hadn’t got any easier to admit, no matter what words he used. “It was no longer safe. And what with the new legislation on animal tracing, it makes it impossible—”

  “My wife is after giving birth.”

  If her father hesitated, it was only for a second. “Congratulations!” His smile matched his own wife’s perfectly. “But we still can’t help, I’m very sorry. There aren’t even eight of—”

  “I want my daughter to be a believer too.”

  Úna thought she saw her father’s eyes flicker in her direction. Her mother had missed a patch of hair on the back of his neck. There was no sound except the heifer swishing her dressing-gown tail.

  Soon enough, the silence bred more men—first Wyn, followed by Farley and Con—until the whole doorway was stuffed to the brink. Úna’s mam led her and Mrs. P back through to the sitting room where the tele was showing the very same clip of the Bull being dragged in his handcuffs from a car. Or maybe, Úna wondered, the footage was actually live and he was just being made to re-walk that gauntlet endlessly—a fitting punishment set by a canny judge. Because that way the farmers could shout at him and spit their anger over and over; could make sure he never forgot all the heartache his greed had caused.

  Úna assumed the scene was somewhere down in Dublin, which made her think again of her cousin. She promised she would finally reply to his letter tonight; would finally admit she used to know all about herself, but that she didn’t any more. She would also admit she hadn’t heard the myth about the Minotaur—could he explain it?—but that she did have a favourite myth of her own. It was called “The Curse of the Farmer’s Widow,” and even though it wasn’t very famous, it was probably just as ancient as his. It was about a woman who lost her husband and seven sons in a war, so she placed a curse that said no man was allowed to slaughter cattle alone. Instead, seven others had to be there to preserve the memory of her grief, otherwise it would come back and poison the land. So for hundreds of years the people of Ireland heeded her words and made sure to follow the proper protocol when killing their beasts. Then a group of men travelled around to do the killing for them; to make it easier to keep the old ways alive. But eventually they gave up and, sure enough, the land turned diseased and all the animals started going mad. Then the people started going mad too—some tried to blame it on England; some tried to blame it on the animals’ food. And some tried to escape to America, but America wouldn’t let them in for fear the madness was infectious, so apart from the wealthy beef barons who managed to smuggle themselves out, they all began to die and soon the country turned rotten until eventually it wasn’t even a country any more, just a shrivelled sod of earth that used to appear in some silly old stories. But even the stories became infectious, so people stopped telling them too, until no trace of the madness remained.

  When she walked out to the hallway, the chattering fell quiet.

  “I’ll do it.”

  All the eyes were aimed in her direction. In the silence she could feel it—the same feeling that had come over her in the playground with Car McGrath. And she knew she finally had the answer to her cousin’s request.

  Tell me all about yourself . . .

  My name is Úna and I am a Butcher.

  “Úna, we’ve talked—”

  “The myth only says no man can slaughter alone.” She threw a half glance over her shoulder. “It doesn’t say anything about women.” She saw Mrs. P, whose husband had been mutilated and who would never be told why or by whom. She saw her mam who gave the tiniest nod.

  They forget we know more about death precisely because we can give life.

  Úna stepped past the bodies into the night. “Why don’t you lads make Mr. Fitzgerald a cup of tea while he’s waiting?” She took the rope from the farmer’s hand. “We won’t be long.”

  The cow looked at her and followed at once.

  We know more about blood than they ever will.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Fionn

  Dublin, December 1996

  All around him, the reek of the place was a totally different reek to that of O’Connell’s—more alkaline than acid, if he had to say, though it was no less unpleasant. Beneath him, the envelope was tucked snug in the right arse of his jeans. Fionn thought of a hen squatting warm on an egg.

  He almost laughed, already gone on the farce of him being sat here on some wonky stool in some unfamiliar corner of some unfamiliar Dublin pub. On the walls and around the windows, there was a general smattering of festive tat. He noticed the decorations were more of the Santa than the saintly variety. He had also noticed the lack of television. He glanced from the clock to the door and back. He had nursed a pint of Coke and sucked the lemon to the rind. He still couldn’t get over the price.

  He was wearing a shirt even though he had packed only three to last him the entire trip. He had combed his hair, then got annoyed, scuffed it up, then combed it back again. On the table to his right, two lads were chatting about cricket or some other West Brit sport. Fionn had a hankering for a bag of crisps. He clinked his ice around his empty glass.

  He checked the clock and the door, but still there was nothing—no sign and no saints and no television screen. Fionn sighed. There was no trace of his only son.

  He could still remember his first ever trip to Dublin when he was twelve years of age. Ireland were playing the Spaniards in a World Cup qualifier and his daddy had managed to get some black market tickets off a tout. They had taken the train with Martin Fahey and his father; had packed ham sandwiches and a plastic bag of cans, which meant the older men were legless by the time Heuston Station stumbled into view, the two boys just as giddy; just as pink.

  There had been hours to kill before kick-off, so they had set about strolling the capital’s streets, Fionn’s daddy spinning stories of the 1916 Rising as they went along. They visited the GPO with its bullet holes, Kilmainham Gaol where the rebellion leaders were executed. More than once, Fionn thought he spotted a tear in his daddy’s eye. But later they had been turning on to the North Quays when they spotted the cattle penned in makeshift droves. Fionn had stopped, confused. There wasn’t a blade of grass in sight. Apparently the Liverpool boat had broken down so now the herd wouldn’t be loaded that day after all. Fionn’s father had noticed his mouth agog and laughed his arse off. Catch yourself on—you’d think you’d never seen livestock in your life!

  Of course, there would be none of that any more—the Dublin cattle mart shut down back in 1973. These days the capital felt further from muck and shite than ever. Fionn had forgotten it was the Faheys they were with that afternoon. He could remember him and Martin sharing a 99 ice cream; could remember feeling relieved when Ireland won because it meant his daddy’s temper wouldn’t be so bad.

  Davey had boarded a train of his own just two weeks after the funeral. Another week and he had phoned from his halls to say he had arrived in one piece. After that, the silence on the farm was so complete Fionn felt like the last man on earth—even the swallows had buggered off early this year. But then the lawyer had written regarding the Bull’s investigation, so straight away Fionn had booked his ticket; had phoned Davey and told him to choose an evening and a pub. It gave him six weeks to get everything in order and put into action the plan he had already been deliberating. It had nearly killed him, but finally he and his envelope were here.
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  And yet, when he checked the time again it seemed everything might not be in order after all. The clock’s face was wrapped in a tinsel headlock—deck the halls and the pubs and the timepieces. Fionn thought of the Millennium Clock and how the River Liffey kept wrecking the mechanics. The Council had finally decided to shut it down for good—two hundred and fifty grand down the toilet and all the way out to sea.

  Speaking of toilets, Fionn needed a go—the Coke had found its way straight through. He decided if there was no sign by the time he got back, he would return to his hotel. But as soon as he stood, the door flew open and the draught it brought was an icy mare.

  “Were you giving up on me just as easily as that?”

  The hinges slammed shut and the draught was gone. Fionn felt the warmth spread straight through his chest. “I was just getting in another round.”

  Davey uncoiled his scarf from his neck. “A G and T. And a packet of nuts if you’re feeling flush.”

  Fionn had to turn very quickly to hide his smile.

  As he waited at the bar, he banished his bladder and forced himself not to be looking back—not to be checking where his son sat awaiting, not standing him up or letting him down. It was less than three months, but already Davey looked older. Finer. Though also, truthfully, a bit gaunter—he had always had cheekbones, but Jesus those were a vicious pair of yokes.

  Fionn ordered the drinks from a lad in reindeer horns. A packet of nuts. “Actually, make it two.” He had eaten earlier, but he was still famished after the day of interviews in windowless rooms. He watched the Coke spit brown from the tap and barely wished it was something stronger.

  Still the envelope sat curved against his cheek.

  He carried the pint glass in one hand and the tumbler in the other with the little bottle wedged between the fourth and baby finger, because two trips were for country eejits who couldn’t manage or keep up with the pace. The nuts were in his left-hand pocket, one batch salted and one dry-roasted, because who ever knew the difference, really?