Beastings

by Benjamin Myers

  Go through there.

  He nodded to the living room.

  Sit on one of them other chairs. Else the bairn’ll burn up.

  The girl didn’t move. It was as if his words hadn’t registered.

  Move he said. I need to be at the range.

  She slowly stood and carried the baby into the front room and then sat.

  He stoked the fire one more time and when it was glowing he went into the pantry and came out with a jug a bowl of cold boiled potatoes and an onion. The dog followed him.

  He chopped the onion and put it into a pot with a knob of butter then set the pot on the range.

  When the onion had fried he put the boiled potatoes in and left them for a few minutes then added some of the colostrum from the jug. The girl watched him.

  He lifted the pot off the heat and mashed the contents together with the back of a ladle then spooned out two large portions on plates.

  He went back to the pantry and came out with a piece of ham. He cut off two thick slices and tossed them into the pot and moved them round in the butter with a fork. While they warmed he cut a round of bread.

  The girl and the dog both watched him. The dog stood by his side until he said get by and then it went through to the other room and lay down and watched the girl watch the baby.

  The farmer lifted the ham out of the pot with a fork and dropped a slice onto each plate and then he put the plates on the table. He put the slices of bread beside them.

  Scran he said and when the girl didn’t move he sat down and started to eat.

  Scran he said again through his food. It’ll get cold.

  She stood and put the baby down and then came and joined him.

  The man ate noisily. He ate hungrily and quickly. The first milk had made the potatoes creamy. He scarfed his food and it seemed to loosen something in his chest because between mouthfuls the farmer snorted and coughed and cleared his throat then swallowed whatever it was that his chest was producing. He thumped his sternum to be sure.

  When he had cleared his plate the girl was still eating and he said I forgot about the bairn.

  The girl spooned some potato into her mouth.

  Reckon it could take some milk bread he said. If it’s fat enough for the calf it’ll be good enough for a bairn.

  The girl chewed slowly.

  The farmer wiped the back of his hand across his nose then stood and poured more milk from the jug into the same pan and warmed it. He cut some bread and then broke it into the milk. He lifted the pan off the range to cool then poured it into a bowl. He found a spoon and gave it to the girl.

  Too late to put it back in the cow anyway he said. Here.

  She picked up the baby from the chair and brought it to the table and then carefully spooned the warm milk into its mouth. The baby was sleeping but it stirred to take the liquid. She tried to give it some of the bread but it was unable to chew and regurgitated it.

  The farmer half-watched awkwardly with sideways eyes.

  The baby took all the milk that the girl could give it. She tried to give it the bread again but it slopped from its mouth.

  I’ll not be asking what you’re doing out in this the man said. And he didn’t.

  The girl concentrated on the spoon concentrated on the milk concentrated on the baby’s mouth.

  When the milk was gone she held the baby to her chest and patted its back and then placed it on the chair. She picked up the plates and moved them to the sink but the man said leave them. She went to turn on the tap but he spoke again.

  I said leave them.

  She sat down.

  The farmer stood there for a moment and then he suddenly moved around the kitchen with purpose. He was clumsy. Too big for the cramped room. He shook more coal into the range then pulled the stoppers that fanned the flames and then spoke quietly into the fire.

  It’s late.

  The girl held the back of her fingers to the baby’s cheek and then held the baby to her chest and patted its back. Then she unwrapped it from its blankets and saw that it had messed itself.

  The man looked over sideways and grimaced.

  He went to the scullery where she heard the splashing of water and what she thought was cursing. The man came back and threw her a dirty sheet.

  It’s from the dog’s nest but it’ll have to do. There’s blankets upstairs.

  He hesitated.

  You can stop down here by the range where it‘s warm.

  She looked around the room. It was sparse and lacked furniture. A rug covered part of the floor and there was a brown sack in the corner and next to it an axe. The fireplace was blackened and there was a lintel stone above it and there were alcoves in the wall which held empty bottles and a sheep’s skull tinged green with damp and the stumps of candles that had dripped wax down onto the floor below. Even with the range glowing it was a cold space. A male’s place.

  The man turned to her.

  Did you hear me?

  The girl didn’t respond.

  Of course you did he said to himself. You’re not deaf are you. Dumb as an old yow maybe but not deaf.

  He stood and left the room and she heard him walk up the stairs. She could hear his feet moving around.

  He came back with a blanket.

  Sink’s through there.

  He threw the blankets to her.

  He stared at her and he stared at the baby. There was something about the way he looked at her that she didn’t like. She had seen that look worn by another face. It was a look that no man’s mask could disguise.

  There’s scat on it he said.

  Bleeding stinks it does he said.

  Worse than them pigs he said then stooped to climb the stairs.

  He paused halfway up with his back to her and spoke.

  I know it’s not yours.

  2.

  WHEN HE RETURNED to the vestry after service he lifted the stole from around his collar folded it and placed it on his desk.

  He sat down and smoothed the white surplice that he wore over a black cassock then gently patted his fine red hair down in place. He reached for his hand mirror and checked his reflection then patted it down again.

  Tea had been made and left on his desk.

  There was a knock at the door.

  The Priest lifted the strainer from the pot and poured himself a cup. From his cassock pocket he lifted out a small decorative snuff box whose lid was inset with tortoiseshell and using his fingernail he scooped up a tiny amount of white power from it then tipped it into the tea. He stirred it and tapped the spoon on the edge of the cup.

  Come in.

  The door opened.

  The Priest looked up. His face was pale and the colour of blotting paper. His eyes were rimmed red. Hinckley thought of the pelt of a fox.

  He removed his hat.

  I’m sorry to disturb you Father.

  The calm or disturbance of our mind does not depend so much on what we regard as the more important things of life as in a judicious or injudicious arrangement of the little things of daily occurrence. Do you know who said that?

  I’m not familiar Father. I’m sorry.

  The thief is sorry that he is to be hanged said the Priest. Not that he is a thief. Uncredited proverb. Origin unknown. What do you want.

  I need your help Father.

  The Priest lifted his cup and saucer and blew on the tea. He saw a tiny amount of the powder’s residue still floating on the surface and felt a small flutter of excitement; a pleasant loosening deep in his bowels. He sipped the tea. There was a quarter segment of lemon on the saucer. He squeezed some juice into the tea then stirred again and blew again.

  Sipped again.

  Do you.

  My bairn’s been taken.

  The Priest replaced the cup and leaned back i
n his chair. He resisted the urge to check his hair in the hand mirror again by spreading his hands out on the desk before him. Hinckley saw that his fingernails were abnormally long and manicured. They shone with polish. They were not the fingernails of a man. The Priest caught him staring and he looked away.

  By who?

  By our help Father. A girl.

  What girl?

  One of yours.

  From St Marys?

  Yes.

  Which one?

  The mute.

  The Bulmer girl.

  Aye. The dummy.

  The Priest said nothing. Something flickered across his eyes. A darkness or a sense of recognition. A rage quelled deep within.

  When did this happen?

  This morning. In the night.

  Which?

  In the night.

  Tell me how.

  She just went. On foot I’d reckon.

  A hand moved up and reached to the crown of the Priest’s head. He slowly ran it down the back gently patting each hair in place then he picked up his tea cup and drank from it slowly. He felt a tightening in his jaw and around his temples. It was the powder demanding attention.

  She’s not so dumb that she can’t get herself a job a bed and a bairn that isn’t hers though said the Priest.

  Hinckley said nothing.

  The Priest stared at him. He breathed in then slowly exhaled. He felt a new sense of sharpness. A cold clean hollowness. He tasted metal.

  Hinckley thought he had never seen lips so thin. The Priest’s mouth was a gash in his face as if the flesh of his mouth had been pulled tight across his skull then slit with a knife. He wanted to leave the room as soon as he could. He looked away.

  There are two things I’ll need to know. Why and where.

  Hinckley shook his head.

  I don’t know Father. I don’t know where. Most likely she’ll have taken to the fells. Anywhere.

  She’ll have a head start then.

  Aye. She could be anywhere.

  There are only so many paths out of town and the hunted will always take the easiest exit. That doesn’t concern me. What concerns me is why. Why did she take the child.

  Hinckley shook his head again.

  I wouldn’t ask a favour if –

  The Priest interrupted him.

  You already have.

  I’m not one for them normally.

  It’s not a favour said the Priest.

  I know said Hinckley.

  It’s beyond that.

  I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll pay.

  The Priest snorted and that loosened something within because then he swallowed and said it’s not about money. Do you think money is worth anything in the kingdom of heaven? Doesn’t a shepherd tend his flock? The girl belongs to me.

  And I just want the bairn back said Hinckley. I’ll give you owt you want.

  Don’t let your mouth say anything stupid.

  My wife –

  Your wife let an imbecile take your child.

  It wasn’t her fault.

  Then it is your fault. It is your skewed judgement that brought you here to rapidly accrue a growing spiritual debt to the church with every passing minute.

  Hinckley shook his head in confusion.

  If I find the girl or the baby you will be indebted said the Priest. Deeply. Whether the child is dead or alive the debt will stand. If you renege or you disappear or you die the debt carries over.

  I’ll do whatever I can to help.

  It seems like you have done enough.

  How do you mean?

  The reason.

  What?

  There’s a reason the dummy took your baby said the Priest. You haven’t said why. There is always a reason. Did you have her?

  Hinckley looked away. He shifted his feet and looked at the tea-pot then wondered if he could smoke in the vestry.

  I told you: she’s not right. She’s built up all wrong.

  The Priest smiled for the first time and when he did his thin lips drew back. His gums were large and almost blue in colour but his teeth were small and square. Set deep. Pegged like the milk teeth of children. He raised his tea cup and sipped. Smoothed his hair.

  Did you touch her?

  Not like that Father. No.

  Why did you come to me?

  You have the experience and the methods Father said Hinckley.

  I am only here to serve my Lord. No-one else.

  Yes. I understand.

  So.

  So.

  So whatever happens happens between me and our Lord said the Priest.

  He spread his hands on the desk again. Hinckley looked at his nails again. Long and clipped and gleaming like blades.

  Are we not after all each and every one of us only answerable to Him?

  Yes said Hinckley. I suppose so.

  And all you want is the return of your child.

  Of course.

  Then the lame will leap like a deer and the mute tongue shout for joy said the Priest. Water will gush forth in the wilderness and streams will flow in the desert. I shall find your child Mr Hinckley. And I shall find the girl though in what state I can’t say. Whether they are alive or dead is God’s will.

  Hinckley swallowed then cleared his throat.

  Is that the Bible you’re quoting Father?

  The Priest ignored him.

  I’ll need help of course.

  Will you require transport?

  If she has gone on foot then I shall go on foot too said the Priest. The hunter must understand the hunted and follow in their tracks. It’s the most efficient way. God provides. The Poacher will be the best man in town for a job of this nature. You’ll need to fetch him now. You’ll find him in a ditch no doubt. And I’ll need a scent of course.

  Scent?

  Of the child or the girl on a garment. For the dogs.

  Hinckley ran a finger along his jawline. He had not yet

  shaved.

  The girl. She has these rags.

  Clothes?

  No. Like knotted rags. Dirty tatty things they are. She’s never without one. She pretends that they are dolls – adopted like. I’ve caught her whispering to them. Silent whispers of course. Her mouth going but no words coming like.

  The Priest drained the last of his tea.

  A rag will be fine. And something from the child. Anything.

  Margaret could find something. These dogs –

  You should go said the Priest. Get the Poacher. Tell him what you told me.

  What if he won’t come? He’s a selfish bastard.

  Tell him he’ll be exonerated of all outstanding charges. He will be formally pardoned for past misdemeanours rewarded handsomely by the Church and looked upon favourably by our Father. And if he still won’t come tell him I’ll be paying him a visit when he least expects it.

  Yes.

  Go said the Priest. Now.

  Hinckley turned away. The Priest tipped his head back and drained his cup.

  WHEN SHE STIRRED again the fire had died down but the range was glowing.

  The baby was asleep on one of the other chairs. It had woken once but the girl had rocked it back and forth and now it was asleep again; a tiny bundle bathed in an orange glow. Outside a strong wind whistled around the sharp corners of the house.

  And the man was standing there looking at her. A breathing shadow. She could smell him. Sweat and soil and silage.

  She recognised it; it was the smell of the bogs and animal pens. It was the smell of farming. It was the smell of her father; the one before the one who called himself that. His face she could not remember though she still recalled his boots and his breath and the way his big hands gripped her thin arms – and his smell. Definitely t
he smell. The girl realised after all these years that she still remembered the wet dog scent of the fell tops hanging from him. All the liquids of the world stirred together and dried down to the stain of him.

  She closed her eyes again to wish the farmer away – to wish the memory of her father away – but when she had counted to ten he was still there his breathing long and deep and laboured as if he had just come in from the fell.

  There was something wrong with the atmosphere of the room. The air was disturbed. She sensed a movement from him. His arm moving one way and then another. And then she thought she heard him sigh but she wasn’t sure.

  She could smell him as he moved closer through the half-light. She felt coiled and cornered.

  He moved towards her and reached out his hand and his eyes were stone and then his hand was on her sliding beneath her to grab at a breast and then he was massaging it and breathing heavily and the glow of the coals turned the room from dark orange to carmine.

  She felt his thick dry fingers tugging and nipping at her tight skin and her breast hurt and her chest hurt and she didn’t dare draw breath but then suddenly he was drawing back and cursing. His hand rose up in front of his face and he sniffed his fingers and it was at that moment that she felt the spreading wetness of the lactation from her nipple. A milky mess; her own surrogate beastings. It was a miracle. It had to be.

  God providing. God in action.

  I have fed you with milk and not with meat she thought. For hitherto ye were not able to bear it; neither yet now are ye able.

  The man turned and left and stumbled on the stairs.

  She stood and checked on the baby. It was sleeping soundly its eyelids fluttering and its mouth clucking and chomping and working away on an imaginary teat. She uncovered her breast and leaned to it.

  THE FARMER WAS UP before it was light.

  He came and went and then he came again. The baby had soiled itself again so the girl took it out of the dog’s blanket and washed around its crotch and then found her blankets. They had been hung above the range and were warm and brittle to the touch.

  The man came in with coal and logs. It wasn’t raining.

  He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at her. He folded more kindling into the range and worked the stoppers until the wood took.

  He had his back to her and didn’t look at her once.