Soon the large black was dominating all the other creatures on the farm. The cats and dogs gave it a wide berth. The wandering fell-sheep stayed well away. The chickens ran strutting and clucking at the sound of it.
It ate the slops and peelings. It ate worms and bark and shoots and flowers. It ate chicken carcases and mouldy bread and shoes. It ate rats from the rat traps and baby birds that fell from their nests. It ate dead piglets.
And it grew to weigh 600 pounds.
Six hundred pounds of wobbling black flesh with long lop ears framing its fat jowelly face and great teeth that jutted from its lower jaw.
The pig had free run up top and when any vehicle drove up the farm track it wheeled and bucked and screeched a warning shot across the dale.
Only when he scratched behind its ears and fed it scraps and whispered to it was the pig calmed. The rest of the time it ate and screeched and tormented every living creature who crossed its path.
It would snap and trample. Snarl and rip. Yes. The pig was the teenager’s only friend.
Once one of his mother’s men – a grubby mean-eyed man with a caliper on one leg – gave Steve a clump. A hard open-handed slap for no good reason other than he didn’t like the snot that was dripping from his nose. As he reeled and howled the pig charged the mean-eyed man and knocked him flat on his back in the straw and piss. It tore through his calf muscle on his good leg like a knife through butter; like it was nothing. Lacerated him. The man screamed. Rutter laughed and kept laughing.
There was potential in the pig and there was money in the pig so his mother decided to seed the pig – she wouldn’t let him name it; said that was sentimental – out to serve and stud.
One day two men came to take it away. They hog-tied it and muzzled it and Rutter protested until he got a belt from his mother but then they returned a day or two later. This began to happen often. Then when the pig was off the back of the truck the men would go indoors for a while. They’d stay with Black Tits a while and Rutter would take the hog out back to give it an apple and a scratch behind those flapping ears.
And it went on. The pig coming and going and spreading its genes all over the north of England.
And then one day the two men came again and tied the pig again only this time when it came back it was vacuum-packed in plastic in a hundred pieces. Porcine parts piled high.
His only pal. In parts now. In pieces now.
There you go said one of the men to his mother as he slapped one of the packages down on the kitchen side. No part wasted.
You’ve got the brains for brawn he said.
Then we’ve shoulder steaks and rib racks.
Over here’s what you call the hand for cubing.
These here are sides and blades for curing and hanging.
The loin for back bacon or roasting or chops.
The belly’s for rolling or roasting or skinning.
Trotters for jellying or the braising of shanks.
And then there’s a bucket of blood for black pudding and your offal for stews and stocks.
The man still had his apron on. His hands were unwashed and there was blood beneath his fingernails and some of it was matted in the brief streak of his knuckle-hair. He looked pleased with himself.
It was past it said his mother when she saw her son’s face crumpling. Old. That hog was eating us into poverty. Now help get this lot inside then make yourself scarce. These boys need paying.
THE BARKING OF the dogs sets the chickens off when the men arrive at his door.
There’s Jeff Temple and Johnny Mason and the one who stopped him before. The young one who looks barely old enough to shave. They all stand there looking at one another.
Just need to ask you a few questions Steven says Temple.
I’ve not got the fire on.
That can wait.
It’s cold but.
That can wait says Temple. Where’ve you been?
When?
Just now. Where are you returning from?
Town.
Which town?
Which town?
Yes. I’m asking you which town.
Which town do you think?
I’ve been through this with him Jeff says Johnny Mason.
What were you doing in town on Christmas Eve?
Rutter digs into his scalp with his fingers and twists at a matted hair-lick.
Shopping.
Busy was it? says Temple.
Rutter shrugs.
So where is it then?
Town?
Your shopping Steve.
I left it too late.
What were you after?
Christmas stuff.
You mean presents?
Rutter says nothing.
Who were you getting presents for? asks Temple.
None of your business.
It was for your Mam wasn’t it? says Mason. That’s what you told me out there.
Where’s your Mam at? says Temple.
Aggie Rutter took bad a few years back says Mason. Everyone round here knows that.
Are you expecting anyone for Christmas? asks Temple.
Rutter shrugs.
Answer the sergeant says the young officer. Yes or no?
Maybe.
Yes or no?
Yeah.
Who?
Rutter rubs his nose.
My cousin.
Your cousin.
Aye.
Where’s she coming from?
He says Rutter.
Where’s he coming from?
From London. For Christmas. That’s why I was in town. Getting some bits for us.
When’s he due?
Hours back.
Is that right?
Yes says Rutter.
He’s not lying Jeff says Mason. I heard them talking on the phone before.
Temple turns and looks at Mason for a moment.
Is that right. What’s he called – your cousin?
Michael.
Michael Rutter?
No.
Michael who then?
Michael Smith.
Whereabouts in London is he from?
Why? says Rutter. What’s he got to do with this?
I never said he’d done anything Steven.
We should get going says Mason.
Whereabouts in London is he from Steven?
Again Rutter scratches at his scalp. He looks from Temple to the younger policeman to Johnny Mason. Johnny and Bull Mason he thinks. A nastier pair of cunts you couldn’t meet.
Wembley he says.
Wembley?
Aye.
And this could be verified could it?
How should I know. You’re the copper.
He exists says Mason. We know that much – I’ve checked it out. Come on – let’s leave this one to his sprouts.
What does he do for a living? says Temple.
Rutter shrugs.
So where is he then? Hiding in the bloody kitchen cupboard?
I don’t know says Rutter. Reckoned he was setting off first thing.
Mason leaves the room for a moment. Temple persists.
How’s he getting here? he asks.
Driving.
Driving.
Aye says Rutter. Likely the snow stopped him.
Temple shakes his head.
What is that gloop anyway he says nodding towards the table where stew sits steaming in a pot.
Call it slumgullion.
Mason returns. His hand is on his radio.
Right he says. That’s enough for now – we need to get going. We’ve been called back.
Call it what Temple says to Rutter.
Call it slumgullion.
What the fuck’s slumgullion?
Rutter shrugs.
Meat and that.
You mean stew.
If you like.
Well what type of meat?
Rutter pauses.
Animal.
It looks like dog shit.
<
br /> THE DOGS ARE barking their alarm call again and when Rutter looks outside a figure steps from the shadows. The police only left five minutes earlier.
Hello Mr Rutter.
The formal address gives him away: it is Skelton.
It’s you says Rutter.
Yes. It’s me.
Skelton steps forward and Rutter sees him properly. He sees the healed split upper lip and the spectacles. The thin skin of his bloodless face. He looks older. He has aged.
The coppers have just been says Rutter then immediately wishes he hadn’t.
I know says Skelton. I know that.
You’re lucky they didn’t see you.
Luck has nothing to do with it. We’re one step ahead of them.
How do you mean?
You’re forgetting who Mr Hood’s friends are.
Rutter looks at him.
He asked me to check in on you.
Why but?
You know why.
Rutter rubs his nose again. Leaves a slug trail across the back of his hand.
Why couldn’t he come himself?
Skelton scoffs.
What – Mr Hood? Come here?
Why does he want you to check in on me though? says Rutter.
He wondered if perhaps you might have seen our mutual acquaintance.
What acquaintance?
Our mutual friend. The one who does a lot of work for charities.
Eh?
Skelton looks at Rutter and tries to establish whether he is deliberately playing dumb.
Off the television.
You mean Lar—
Skelton raises a hand palm up. Halts him. Halts Rutter.
Don’t say his name. Don’t do that.
Why would I have seen him?
Our friend has been quite complacent of late. He’s been doing things. Extra-curricular work. Taking risks. He has been doing things he shouldn’t have been doing. People have been talking and now those voices are of an increased volume. Recently he has not been seen and Mr Hood is concerned. You see there have been further allegations and our friend has gone to ground. Were he to surface we would want to know about it. They say he has a place near here.
I’ve not seen him says Rutter. I don’t know anything about a place near here.
Skelton sniffs.
As tight-lipped as ever. That’s good.
Skelton hesitates then says: and of course what with all this other business going on. Mr Muncy’s girl. How is Ray? Such a shame. Any sign of her?
Skelton looks at Rutter in such a way that he does not know how to answer. Does not need to answer.
Such a shame. Still it’ll be his downfall will that gob of his. But we can trust you can’t we?
Unsure Rutter nods.
And this girl. It would be a shame if the police were to find out anything else about it. Mr Hood does worry about these things. He hates to think of trails being left.
Again Skelton looks at him. A wordless exchange passes between them.
We’re all only ever seconds away from death says Skelton.
Yes says Rutter.
Good says Skelton. Good. Knowing that makes you feel so alive doesn’t it?
RUTTER’S THERE. HE is in Brindle’s head all night long. Scratching at his skull.
Brindle is processing. It is what he does. He is composting thoughts down until new ideas push through the murky morass of disjointed facts and theories.
The noise of the pub below keeps him awake. As he expected there is a lock-in. There is whooping and jeering and the same Slade song being played over and over. An occasional smashed glass followed by a cheer.
He runs through a mental list.
There is always the possibility of a boyfriend or boyfriends. Teenage girls have secrets.
Or the father. Ray Muncy. He’s right in it. Right in there.
There is the sound of more laughter and singing from downstairs. It is coming up through the floor and snow is falling outside to add a fresh layer to the square.
He turns over in his bed. The sheets are stiff. Too stiff. Stale-stiff. Starched-stiff.
And still he keeps coming back to Rutter and the facts that are stacking up around him. He fits the profile. He hears the reporter’s words.
Steven fucking Rutter.
There’s the dog to consider too. They all reckoned she loved that dog. Loved the bones of it they said.
He hears voices outside – of people spilling from the pub and slipping and sliding across the square. There is a snowball fight. Screaming. Bottles being drained and dropped. Men grabbing other men in headlocks. One has his top off and is rolling on the ground while others kick snow over him.
One thing Brindle has learnt: people never just vanish. He knows the statistics. One in thirty million people might fall into a crack in the earth. People disappear all the time but there is always a trail or a witness or an accomplice or a remnant of a conscience. Rarely nothing. There is always an answer to every question eventually. Something always comes up.
Usually a body.
And that’s what missing.
Her body.
Find the body – find it – her – then trace it back to Rutter.
Because she’s dead already.
The thought hits him squarely: she’s dead already so everything else now is just a process of walking backwards in the snow. Retracing the footsteps.
Brindle turns the bedside light on. The bulb is so weak it barely makes a difference.
He hears church bells. It is midnight. It is Christmas Day.
Then over them – cutting through them – he hears the same fucking Slade song again.
HE HAS BEEN summoned back. Back to that cathedral of humiliation and fear. To the Odeon X where a parallel world was unfolding in the semi-darkness.
Many months have passed and it is dreek out on the evening that he returns. It is slewing it. Rain lashes the windscreen of the truck all the way from the valley. He is anxious.
He shows his membership card and waits as cars slosh past on the City Road. He hears the clicking heels of a passing hen party who look and point and laugh and then pass leaving trails of cigarette smoke hanging behind them.
It’s a different girl doing the door now and they’ve got a new drinks machine in the lobby. The girl is pale and bored and bloodless-looking and the machine makes frothy coffee. There are free condoms scattered about in little baskets. They are fruit-flavoured. Some of them are ribbed.
The girl looks up and says no admission.
What? he says then: oh. He turns to leave.
No says the girl. You don’t have to pay. Management have marked it up.
Marked it up?
Just go in will you she says.
Inside the cinema is the same. The same cheap air-freshener that catches in the throat and the same worn seats. If anything it has got dirtier. There are dried stains on the walls and floor and the toilets have not been touched by detergent for many months.
It doesn’t bother him though. They are beyond him. He doesn’t care. Surfaces are just a type of skin.
Inside Screen One there are no women today no couples today only men today.
The midweek late-night hardcore.
They are desperate men they are lonely men they are unemployed men. Deficient deviant depraved men.
Some in knickers.
Some disabled.
He takes a seat. Presses himself down low. A Danish film dubbed in German is playing. The dialogue is out of sync but it does not matter. Nothing in here matters.
On the screen a doctor and a nurse are in an office. They are talking and their conversation quickly become more animated. Then they stop talking and the nurse strips off. She has large sagging breasts. The camera zooms in on the doctor’s inane face as he leers at her. When it pans out again the nurse is on her knees and she is sucking the doctor. He is large and he is still leering.
After a while the nurse stands and turns around and lifts her tunic and the doc
tor does her from behind while she makes a phone call. The film is grainy and keeps speeding up and then slowing down. It creates an accidentally comical effect.
After a while the doctor withdraws and finishes noisily on her arse and again the camera frames his face. This time he is gurning. Then a pregnant women enters and after a long boring conversation in German they – her and the first woman – both suck the doctor off together then he does the pregnant woman while the nurse sucks on her tits.
Watching the film he is not even hard.
Two sissies walk down the aisle and take a place in his row. Both have stout hairy unshaven legs and are wearing tight silk knickers. One is swarthy with a moustache and wearing thick glasses and the other has a thinning comb-over that fails to hide his visible crescent of flaky scalp.
They sit a few seats along from him. They watch the film for a while then they start playing first with themselves then each other.
He watches the screen and wonders if there will be any couples in tonight. He would like a floor show. He wants to see a woman. He wants to try the back room again. He has washed himself this time and the sissies are making him feel sick. The sissies are nothing like women. And it is different now. Management have marked him up whatever that means. He’s a non-paying guest. Invite-only.
He wants a woman. Young old fat thin doesn’t really matter. He has waited long enough.
The sissies are watching him watch the film. They stand and move into the two seats beside him. The one with the moustache sits to his immediate right.
He turns his head to one side and the man smiles in what he takes to be an attempt at flirtatiousness but is actually grim and pathetic. He has no front teeth.
A hand hovers over his crotch. Lets itself rest there like a bird after flight. Gently presses there. He moves it away. The sissy waits a minute and then slides from his seat and it flips up and then he is on his knees in front of him. He shuffles round to face him and licks his lips. Again he reaches for his zip. He snatches at it. Hungry.
He stands and his seat also flips up and then he knees the sissy in the face and the sissy falls backwards. Goes down. Perhaps his cheekbone is fractured. Perhaps it is not. His friend with the comb-over next to him jumps up and says hey in a deep rough voice and his penis is sticking out of the side of his women’s underwear and it is erect. It is abnormally large. One testicle hangs out the side of his knickers below it and for a brief moment the film reflects in the thick lenses of his spectacles.
The one on the floor growls a threat and his friend stoops to help him up and then he goes to say something but Rutter has already turned and left
Turning Blue Page 14
