The Slaughter Man

by Parkin, Cassandra;

  Still smiling towards the spot where Willow waits, he slowly raises his arms, an unmistakeable mime of a man taking aim at a target. An invisible barrel rests in his cupped palms. An invisible stock nestles against his thin cheek. She wills herself to stillness, so fiercely that for a moment she imagines she’s managed to stop her own pulse. In the utter silence of the night, she hears the click of his tongue as he fires.

  Then, still smiling, he picks up his rifle, breaks it open and shucks something onto the veranda. His body is so long and twig-like that the supple bend of his waist looks almost unnatural, as if he might snap in two with the pressure of folding himself forward. He holds something up between his fingers, and she realises he’s showing her the cartridge from his gun, telling her that it was loaded and ready for action, and if he’d wanted to, he could have shot her for real.

  Then he steps backwards into his house and closes the door.

  For a moment she’s unsure if he may have somehow killed some essential part of her, his imaginary bullet flying straight and true to the place where her heart bangs and yammers. She crawls stealthily backwards, watching the door in case he comes after her. She keeps this up until she tumbles backwards over a tree root, and lands flat and painfully on her back and realises that if she tries to get back through the woods, in the dark, not looking where she’s going and without even her phone light to guide her, she’ll never make it.

  She gathers her courage. Is the man in the house watching? Will he come after her? No, there’s no point worrying about that; whether he can see her or not, she has to put the torch back on. There’s no other way. If he wanted to kill me he’d have done it already, Willow thinks, trying to find comfort in the thought. He was trying to scare me. That’s all. Stop being such a baby. Put the torch back on and go home. She holds her breath, presses her thumb to the screen and cups her hand around the light as if she’s trying to stop it from spilling. She will keep it as hidden as she possibly can.

  Nothing around her looks familiar, and for a dreadful moment she thinks she may be completely lost, but then she sees the cluster of signs nailed to the trees like sacrifices, and the world turns and settles around her as she regains her bearings. Once she’s on the other side of those signs, surely she must be safe. She stumbles gladly towards them.

  As she crawls back underneath the barbed wire and into what feels like safety, she feels something smooth and slippery beneath her knees, something that threatens to spill her off her course and into… into what? Is this a trap? Has he set a trap? Is she going to fall into a pit and starve to death? They’d look for her, her Uncle Joe would look for her, but how would he ever find her when she can’t call out to let anyone know she’s there? Her fingers scrabble for purchase in the ground, coil around the edges of something they can grasp. She regains her balance, forces herself to be calm. She’s not about to fall through space; she’s not balanced over a pit. She’s kneeling on a board.

  To prove she’s still sane and in control, she makes herself climb off the board and brush away the leaf litter that’s half-submerged it. It’s another sign, one that doesn’t match the others. They’re solid and neat-edged, thick planks joined firmly together, but this is a flimsy sheet of plywood with torn edges. The lettering of the other signs is precise and accurate, black as fresh newsprint, but this is written in exuberant splashes of dripping scarlet. The corners are missing, as if someone has torn it down and buried it.

  She scans her torch slowly over the surface, and forces herself to read the words.

  THE SLAUGHTER MAN

  PART TWO

  OCTOBER

  CHAPTER NINE

  Willow wakes the next morning late and reluctantly, anxious about facing the world and all its consequences. She’d got back to find her bedroom as empty as she’d left it, no sign that Joe had woken and wondered where his niece had gone; but what if the Slaughter Man had somehow known who she was? What if he’d followed her back to Joe’s house? What if he complained to Joe about what she’d done? What then?

  Her phone tells her that it’s 11:27, that she has no new Snapchat messages, no new emails, no new likes on Instagram, and (a possible comforting explanation for all the rest) no WiFi signal. She’d like to think that the absence of notifications is only because her phone can’t find the router through the thick walls, but she’s grown used to online silence. When she stands up, her feet feel pulpy and tender. What was she thinking last night?

  Gritting her teeth, she braves the bathroom, avoiding any possible glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She’s starving, but she makes herself get dressed first. Maybe Joe might believe she’s been up since the dawn, silently studying in her bedroom. Then, trying not to limp, she makes her way downstairs. Will she be in trouble for sleeping so late? She should have thought to set an alarm. But then, how would she know what time her uncle gets up?

  The house has that special sense of silence that comes when only one person is in it, but there’s a note on the kitchen table:

  I haven’t been a teenager for a while but

  I remember being able to sleep for England

  so I thought I’d leave you to it. There’s bacon

  in the fridge, eggs in the bowl on the side,

  bread in the bread bin, jam in the cupboard,

  cereal in the pantry, milk in the fridge…

  you get the idea.

  Back by one. J x

  The easy choice would be cereal, or ideally biscuits, but she’s committed to getting better, and better means not taking the easiest route. The bacon in the fridge is the kind that comes in a black packet, and has a slightly pornographic description of the extra ingredients that mean it’s twice the price of ordinary bacon. She isn’t sure how much she wants to eat something seasoned with juniper and hickory smoke and hand cured with sea salt, but this seems to be the only kind there is, and she wants some to go with the eggs.

  After some rummaging, she finds a frying pan, nestled tenderly in its own thin drawer. Its weight takes her by surprise and she almost drops it, catching it just before it crashes into the slate tiles. The thought of letting it fall and smashing her uncle’s beautifully kept floor makes her toes curl up inside her socks, and she lifts it onto the stove top with exaggerated care. The shells of the eggs seem thicker than usual, and the yolks are a deep rich orange.

  The food is delicious – even the poncey bacon, which she had her doubts about – and because there’s no one watching she can shovel it into her mouth without any fear of being looked at, and judged for taking such pleasure in her meal when her sister is dead. Even the slick of fat on the plate looks tempting. If she licks it off, who’s going to know? No, that’s disgusting. If she starts behaving like a pig because nobody’s looking, where will it end? Maybe this is why Joe’s house is so clean and neat even though he’s alone in it. Once you let yourself go, who knows how far you might fall?

  He isn’t always alone, though. There’s someone else who usually lives here, and there’s clearly something her mother doesn’t like about her, because nobody’s even bothered to tell Willow her name. Maybe she’s much younger than Joe? Or much older? She remembers the photograph she glimpsed by Joe’s bed. If she’s going to do some snooping, now is her opportunity, but the dirty frying pan in the sink, the splatters of grease on the stovetop, drag her back into the room.

  She has to at least make an effort.

  She scrubs the frying pan, washes her plate, rinses her glass, cleans her cutlery, stacks them all neatly on the draining board. The clock on the cooker says 12:15, so she definitely has time. She stubbornly refuses to listen to her conscience, which tells her that time isn’t the reason she ought to be hesitating. She climbs the stairs.

  The door to her uncle’s room is ajar. Almost, she tells herself, as if he’s inviting her in. Maybe that’s why he’s gone out, so she can get used to the place by herself and in her own time. Maybe he wants her to look. The bed’s neatly made, three cushions lined up in a row against plump
smooth pillows, giving it the look of an unused hotel room. Her own bed is a mess, the beautiful patchwork quilt crumpled in a heap at the end. She ought to be in there, cleaning up after herself and doing some of the worksheets her parents have spent money on so they can spring her out of school. But the house is still quiet and this will only take a minute and besides, what’s so dreadful about looking at a photograph? She takes the last few steps with a deliberate heavy tread, a show of innocent defiance for whatever spirit might be watching, and picks up the photo frame with a firm grasp.

  The frame holds two pictures. There’s her Uncle Joe, looking younger and fresher, standing on a black pebbled beach. Standing beside him, another man, a little taller, a little chunkier, a lot greyer. They’re wearing matching jumpers, creamy white with a complex geometric design knitted into the neck and shoulders. In the first photograph, they’re laughing towards the camera, the older man with his arm around Joe’s shoulders. In the second, they’re kissing.

  Oh, she thinks. Oh.

  Is this why her parents stopped speaking to Joe? Surely that can’t be it. But what if it is? She’s always assumed they think the same way she thinks, the way she’s assumed everyone thinks these days. But what if she’s wrong? Have they talked about this? They must have, but she can’t remember. She doesn’t think her parents actually know any gay couples. Is that a coincidence? Or a conscious choice? She tilts the photograph towards her again, wondering if she’ll catch a glimpse of a wedding ring, but both men are wearing gloves.

  And Joe, she realises now, has been playing the pronoun game, carefully not mentioning names. Does he really think he needs to keep this a secret? Does he think she’ll be shocked? How can she tell him she’s on his side?

  She wants, very much, to be able to call her parents and ask them about this, and then to raise her voice and drown out theirs. She wants to tell them that she’s right and they’re wrong and love is love, and they need to buck up their ideas right now or she won’t be able to respect them any more. How good would that feel, to reclaim her voice on behalf of someone else, who needs her help? She takes her phone from her back pocket and holds it to her ear. Hey, Mum. Did you really not speak to your brother for years because he’s gay, because I think that’s awful and you ought to be ashamed of yourself? I mean, what if I told you I’m a lesbian? Would you disown me too? She can feel the pressure of the words in her chest. This is important. This is something that needs to be said. She’ll find a way to say it.

  She opens her mouth wide, then wider. But even alone in this strange house, with her parents far away and no possibility of them hearing her, she can’t speak. She leans forward, pressing at her stomach as if she can force the words out that way, but only makes herself retch.

  She puts the photograph carefully down again, studying the possessions that surround it. Two combs; two hairbrushes; two cans of deodorant. She wonders which belongs to which man. Do they share the pot of hair gunge between them? No, that must be for Joe. The other man has his hair clipped short. He’d have no interest in a messed-up shape that will last all day. Curious, she unscrews the pot and sticks in a finger, withdraws a glob of something that smells waxy and faintly masculine. She rubs it between her palms. Now her hands are sticky and the smell of the wax makes her feel as if her uncle’s in the room with her. She wipes them on her jeans. As she replaces the little pot, she finds a long wooden box. Opening it up, she finds forbidden treasure: her uncle’s razor.

  Why is he keeping this in here? Because of her; he can’t leave it in the bathroom in case she finds it and steals it. Doesn’t he trust me? Of course he doesn’t trust her. Except that he does. He’s taken his razor into his bedroom, but he hasn’t thought to lock it away. He’s completely misunderstood the ways she’ll break the rules. She might have come into his bedroom without permission, but she’s not going to do anything stupid.

  Except that her fingers are already folded around the stalk of the razor, creeping up towards the head with its little cage of blades. She could have it apart in a few minutes, set the blades free to do whatever they want. How good would that feel?

  No, she thinks. I don’t want to die. I want to get better.

  But maybe this might be part of getting better? She’s wondered before if she might reawaken her voice through pain. Imagine if Joe came back from wherever it is he’s gone and found she could speak again. How incredible would that be? And all it would take would be a few little cuts…

  Of course, it might take more than a few little cuts to do the job properly. She might have to cut quite deep and dangerously. And perhaps while she was doing that, she might get carried away and find herself going further than she meant to, walking the path that will lead her back to Laurel.

  Caught between fear and longing, she glances up towards the mirror.

  Oh, she thinks. There you are.

  And then in a sudden flurry of movement, she flings the razor back into its box, drops the box onto the dresser and runs. She’s hurrying so much that she can hardly put on her trainers, and her hoodie becomes a mystery of tangled sleeves and strings that catch around her waist and wrist, but she doesn’t slow down. Another fierce minute and she’s ready, and she throws open the door and runs out into the yard, across the little garden where a plastic henhouse stands empty and barren, past the concrete animal pen where nothing lives, through the tangle of plants, over the fence and out into the woods that wait beyond.

  In the daylight, everything seems smaller and simpler, the expanse of the forest more manageable, the trees shrunk down to their usual size. She’d thought there might be birdsong now the sun’s come up, but she can’t hear anything. Maybe they’re afraid of the noise she’s making. She thinks about sitting down, but then she sees a long thin orangey centipede writhing across the leaves, and she shudders and leans against the trunk of a tree instead. (Did she really come through here in bare feet last night? What if a centipede had run across her foot? What if it had bitten her?) She’s reached the fork in the path, that last night led her to the Slaughter Man, and that strange communion as he fired his imaginary gun into her heart. Did that truly happen? Or was it a dream within a dream?

  Last night she was half-awake and terrified, stumbling through the dark. Today she’s in control, standing in the sunlight that slants between the trees. It’s not terror that makes her tread softly as she makes her way down the path. She’s simply being cautious. The barbed wire fence is dull and hard to spot, but she’s ready for it this time. She’s not going to fall over it or tear her skin against its points. She ducks beneath it without stopping to look at the signs, and slows her pace so she can move more stealthily.

  She hears him before she sees him. He’s singing to himself, not a continuous musical flow, but little chunks of song that seem designed to provide a rhythm to work to. The beats of the song coincide with the crack of whatever he’s doing. She remembers the split logs, stacked tight against the wall of the house. It sounds as if he’s chopping something. After a minute, the song smooths out and the chopping sound stops.

  The Slaughter Man is in the clearing in front of his house. He’s lit a small fire in the yard, and over it, he’s suspended a cooking pot on fat chains that hang from a metal tripod. She wonders for a minute why he’s cooking outside. Then the smell slithers into her nostrils and she has to force herself not to choke.

  How can he stand it? Is he going to eat it? The Slaughter Man takes a pair of gloves from his back pocket and puts them on, then reaches into the pot with a pair of long barbecue tongs and lifts something up for inspection. The thing he lifts up is brownish, whitish, steaming; little clots of something fall away from it into the water. She can barely move for nausea, but he seems oblivious to the stink, turning it around so he can inspect it.

  “Get you to my lady’s chamber,” he says. “And tell her, let her paint an inch thick…”

  Oh God, she thinks. It’s bones. He’s boiling animal skulls.

  “He was a wise man, that Mr Shak
espeare,” the Slaughter Man continues. “He knew a thing or two.” He touches his gloves cautiously to the surface of the bone, then discards the tongs and takes it into his hands, cupping the jaw with its long fangs to keep it in place. Then he turns towards the trees and bares his teeth in Willow’s direction. “I wonder if the audience agrees?”

  I’m not here. There’s no one here. You can’t see me. She’s frozen to the spot, even more still than the trees. Perhaps that’s how he can see her there; because she’s keeping too still. Or maybe it’s the treacherous red of her hoodie, shrieking against the green and brown of the forest.

  “Alone in the woods, talking to a boiled pig skull. No wonder people think there’s something wrong with me.” When he strokes the surface of the skull, a thin slick of cooked meat comes off against his gloves. Willow feels her breakfast rising in her throat. “They all tell their children not to come here. They’re worried that I might… do things to them.” He holds the skull up towards his face so its eye sockets are level with his own. “Maybe they’re right. Do you know what you call human flesh that’s been prepared for cooking?”

  She wants to run. She wants to walk out into the clearing and go closer. She can’t move.

  The Slaughter Man takes hold of the loose jawbone, and moves it up and down.

  “Long pig,” he says, and for a moment she imagines the skull itself is speaking to her.

  When she comes back into her head, she’s not even sure which way she’s going. She’s simply stumbling along a path, trusting that it must eventually take her to safety. The armpits of her t-shirt feel swampy and her knees are trembling.