“You stupid fucking animal,” Luca says in exasperation. “I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m trying to change your bastard bed. See?” He holds the fork out towards the goat. She lowers her head and scrapes at the straw with her foot. The smell of goat is overpowering.
“Look, get out of the fucking way, will you? Get in the corner and eat your food and let me get the place cleaned up.” He gestures to a limp clump of leaves tossed in the corner. “I’ve got to get this done, all right. Stop fucking about and let me get on with it. Get in the bastard corner, you freak.”
The goat jumps forward and tosses her head. The kids cower at their mother’s ankles. One ducks its head beneath her stomach and takes a long, pointed nipple into its little mouth. The other jumps on the spot, straight up and straight back down again like a burst popcorn kernel. Willow wonders how the goat feels to touch, if its hair will be soft or coarse, and how warm the skin would be beneath.
“Jesus Christ,” says Luca wearily. He leans the fork against the wall and pushes the gate open.
The goat squares her shoulders. Her head goes down. There’s a firm little thump. Then Luca is leaning against the wall and gasping for breath, and the goat is back in her pen with a satisfied look on her face.
“You fucking bitch,” Luca wheezes. “You utter fucking bitch.” He grabs the pitchfork and shakes it towards her. “I ought to stab you though the fucking belly with this fork.”
The goat looks at him smugly and rotates her jaw.
“For God’s sake, will you please… let me… fucking… clean!” Luca lunges forward again, and the goat bleats in alarm. The pitchfork gleams bright and menacing. Willow imagines the sound it will make as it stabs into the goat’s belly, the thick wet thud and the slow sucking squelch as he pulls it out again, and the high scream of the babies as they see their mother fall.
She wants to call out to him. She wants to shriek, No! Don’t! Don’t hurt her! She’s trying to protect her babies! She charges into the stable and makes a wild grab for the pitchfork.
Without hesitating, Luca turns on her, his fist raised. Waiting for his blow to connect, knowing there’s nothing she can do to stop it, she thinks of the phrase a mask of rage, and wonders if the intent, focused, desperate look he wears is truly a mask, or his real face, suddenly exposed. She looks at him, his pretty-boy features destroyed by anger, and thinks, Shit. And I really thought I might like you. I’m such an idiot.
And the next moment, the rage is replaced by a wide, cocky grin.
“Oh come on, you didn’t think I was going to hit you, did I? Don’t be such a loser. I don’t hit girls.” He shakes the pitchfork towards the goat. “I might still stab that bastard thing though. She’s a fucking psycho. I think all goats must be.”
Willow’s pretty sure the goat isn’t the potential psycho here. She holds her hand out for the pitchfork.
“Don’t bother asking or nothing,” Luca says, but passes it to her willingly enough. “Am I not worth talking to or something?”
She ought to find a way to explain, but she quite likes his belief that her silence is somehow under her control, so she shrugs dismissively, as if he’s not worth her words. The goat and her kids huddle in one corner of the enclosure, watching her with bright, knowing eyes.
It’s all right, she thinks, and opens the chicken wire gate.
“If you go in there she’ll have you,” Luca warns.
I’m not going to hurt you, Willow thinks. She forces herself to look away from the goats, watching them only from the corners of her eyes. See? You’re fine. I’m not with him. I’m not even like him. We can work this out. Why don’t you come out here and wait while we clean up?
And, as Luca watches incredulously, the goat shakes her head, looks around her, then walks out of the enclosure, closely followed by the two little kids.
So there, thinks Willow, with a hint of smugness.
“It’s cos she knows I could kill her if I wanted,” Luca says. “They get, like, grudges against people they know are stronger than they are.”
It’s crowded in the little area between the enclosure and the stable door. Willow can feel the warmth radiating from the goat’s body. She isn’t sure if she likes this or not. Maybe the goats feel the same, because one of kids lets out a mighty bleat, popcorns straight up in the air, hooks its front legs over the top of the stable door, scrabbles wildly, and disappears into the farmyard.
“Perfect.” Luca shakes his head. “That’s why you’re supposed to keep them in the… Oh, no, don’t you go as well!” Another leap, and the second kid follows the first over the top of the door. The mother goat looks mockingly over at Luca, stands up on her hind legs, drapes herself over the door and leaves them too.
“Well, that’s brilliant,” says Luca. “Good work there. Thanks for your help.”
Yeah, that was totally my fault, Willow thinks. You were doing fine without me. It’s not like you couldn’t get in to clean them because they thought you were going to stab them with the pitchfork or anything. Bereft of sarcasm, she settles for going into the enclosure and jabbing at the straw with the pitchfork.
“Oh, come here.” Luca takes the pitchfork from her. “We’ve got to rake it all out and put it in the barrow outside and take it to the muckheap, and then put down new straw.” He sighs. “And then get the fucking goats back in.”
We don’t have to do anything, Willow thinks. That’s your job. Nonetheless, she goes out to the yard for the wheelbarrow, surprised by how hard it is to steer. As she jams it into the doorway, she wonders how Luca was ever going to get it into the stable without letting the goats out.
“You’re supposed to pull the gate right round and pen them in the corner,” Luca says, demonstrating. “I think it’s a bit cruel to be honest. You’re doing some of this too, by the way. There’ll be a spade or something in the shed next door.”
Willow folds her arms and looks at him.
“You let the bastard things out,” he says. “So you can help get them back in and all. And we can’t get them in until we’ve cleaned them out. So you’re helping. All right? Don’t even bother arguing cos you ain’t going nowhere until we’re done.”
The knowledge that she could ignore him and walk away from the whole mess makes her feel more warmly towards joining in. In the tool shed next door, she helps herself to a shovel. One of the kids appears briefly in the door and stares at her, skittering away when it sees her looking. Outside, she finds it balancing on a bale of straw with its head held high. You’re the King of the Castle, she thinks, and reaches out to pet its head. It lets her tickle briefly at the bony patch of hair between its tiny nubby horns.
Cleaning out the shed takes a long time because Luca is as squeamish about the dirty straw as she is, holding the pitchfork at arm’s length and shuddering in disgust when a few brown-black pebbles tumble against his hand. A true-bred farm boy would either touch the goat shit without flinching, or have a pair of gloves tucked in his back pocket. He’s an outsider, like her.
“Fucking disgusting creatures,” Luca says as he wheels the barrow inexpertly into the yard. “Can’t believe the amount they shit. Ought to send them all for slaughter. Katherine says the herd’s getting too big.” Nonetheless he spreads the straw with care, testing it for softness with one hand and adding an extra layer, and lays down a heap of cabbage leaves like an offering. Willow thinks about the look on his face as he turned on her, the heft and lift of his fist.
“Right,” Luca says, leaning casually on the pitchfork. It slips against the concrete and he staggers a little. “How are we supposed to catch the little fuckers?”
In the yard, the kids are playing with an upturned bucket, taking it in turns to push each other off. The mama goat stands watchfully by, chewing a mouthful of bramble leaves.
“If we get the babies, d’you reckon she’ll follow?” Luca grabs for the kid on the bucket. It skips out of his reach, tossing its head as it bounces joyfully away.
“Little shit,” s
ays Luca. “We’ve got no chance.”
Of course we’ve got a chance, Willow thinks scornfully. If goats were that hard to catch, how would they ever have been domesticated in the first place? Two humans can catch three goats easily.
Except that every time they get close to one of the kids, it slithers out between their knees, or bounces through an impossibly small gap, or leaps in an unexpected direction, or – when Luca finally grabs a triumphant handful of flesh and hair – lets out such an impassioned wail of despair that he lets it go again. The mama goat watches, but does nothing to either help or hinder. Perhaps she’s enjoying the show.
“I can’t believe you fucking let them out,” Luca pants, gasping for breath. He’s just chased both kids three times around the yard, trying to panic them into returning to their stable. “What were you thinking?”
Willow is so angry with this characterisation that for a glorious, treacherous minute, she thinks she might manage to say something in reply. Her mouth opens, she takes a deep breath, the words hover on her tongue.
At least I fixed it so we could clean them out.
And the disappointment when she can’t speak is so huge that she feels tears prickle at the corners of her eyes.
“God’s sake, I’m kidding! Don’t be so sensitive. We’ll get them back in. No one’s going to shout at you or nothing. Katherine’ll be fine, she always is. I let the geese into the lane once. She wasn’t too mad about that either.”
What’s the connection between Luca and Katherine? Katherine belongs here and Luca doesn’t, so she can’t be his mum. Is she his aunt, maybe? And if he is, why does he call her by her first name? The mama goat has finished eating bramble and moved on to the single dandelion that pokes out, thin and spindly, from the rich mucky loam around the base of the hen house. One of the hens stretches its long neck to peck at the stalk, but the goat turns her head and the hen backs away again.
“Tell you what. If you get them in by yourself, I’ll give you a fiver.” He looks her up and down. “And if you can’t, you’ve got to give me a flash of your tits.”
The way he’s looking at her makes her tingle. She’s not sure if it’s excitement or rage. How dare he? But then again…
The kids are prancing around together, bleating and butting heads, but when they see her coming, they scatter in alarm. She hesitates, then chooses her target. The little goat runs and runs, but she has a plan, and she’s pretty sure plans beat agility in the end.
Instead of chasing it around the yard, she puts her arms out and herds it towards the wall. The goat leaps and dashes left and right, but she persists until she has it penned in a corner. Then she grabs, slipping one hand under its chest and one around its warm little middle. The goat gives a piteous bleat and she has to force herself not to let it go.
“Mate!” Luca frowns. “Be a bit gentle, will you?”
She holds the goat against her, feeling its heart beating against her hand. She’s not sure if it’s frightened, or if this is how it always is. The mama goat watches her with a meaningful expression.
Right, then. I’ve got what you want. Now you’re going to do what I want. Moving slowly, the mama goat right at her heels, Willow carries the kid into the stable and lays it reverently on the clean straw. The second kid bounds in behind its mother, and ducks beneath her belly for a celebratory suckle. Luca slams the gate shut. The mama goat sniffs briefly at the straw, then dips her head to the cabbage leaves.
“Well done.” Luca sounds as if he really means it. “I mean, it was your fault they were out in the first place and that, but still. And I was looking forward to you flashing me and all. Hey, you’re covered in hair.” He reaches out and brushes at her shoulder in a rough, brotherly fashion. She tries not to flinch at the unexpected contact.
“Fucking chill out, will you?” His voice is so gentle that it takes her a moment to hear the harshness of the words. “Don’t be such a pleb. I’m not trying to, fucking, grope you or nothing… You’ve got goat hair on you, that’s all.”
Her breath is suddenly short. She’s not sure if she likes him touching her or not. Can he see that he’s making her uncomfortable? Is that why he’s doing it?
“I mean, it’s not like you haven’t got nice tits or nothing. Cos you have.”
The tender crease of her elbow stings where she sawed at it earlier. Has it started bleeding again? If it has, she hopes the blood won’t soak through her sleeve.
“Anyway.” His fingers have come to rest above her collarbone. Is he going to touch her breast? And if he did, would she like it?
“Can I ask you something?” His face is very serious, as if he’s trying to solve a complex problem in his head. She nods.
“This not talking thing… when you go to McDonald’s, how do you place an order?”
Her cheeks burn.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Oh, come on.” Luca touches one finger to her cheek. “Don’t be like that. I was only messing about.”
She’s not crying. Why would she be crying? He’s nothing to her, just some boy. It’s time for her to go home anyway.
“Look, I’m sorry, all right? I was only messing with you, I wasn’t being serious. You’ve got to learn to take a joke.”
I don’t have to do anything you say, she thinks, and turns away.
“I know I’m a bit of a knobhead sometimes. Don’t go off in a huff with me, Willow. Please.”
It’s the word please that makes her hesitate, the way he sounds as if he really is sorry, as if he really does know he’s been a bit (or more than a bit) of a knobhead. And as she hesitates, Katherine appears, striding across the yard in thick green wellies coated with streaks of mud, and they can both relax because now there’s someone else here who will take charge and determine what happens next.
“Luca, are you done with mucking out? Hello, Willow, nice to see you. Come and get cleaned up, the pair of you. Lunch on the table in ten minutes.”
So she’s going to see inside the farmhouse after all, without even having to knock on the door. She follows Luca in through the little porch and into a dark, welcoming room where a single chair sits by a huge enamel stove, several cats lie stretched out on the rug, and a thin Grandfather clock ticks sedately in the corner. The warmth of the stove is instantly seductive, a soft invitation to laziness. If she was here on her own, Willow would be lying down among the cats, letting her belly grow warm and toasty in the heat.
“Shoes off,” says Katherine. Willow sees the strands of straw she’s already left on the floor and cringes, but Katherine doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s it. Now you can get washed up. Bathroom’s upstairs on the left if you want it. Or you can wash in the kitchen.”
The window of the bathroom is set so low in the wall that the frame is level with the floor. Willow washes her hands at the basin, astounded by the grime that comes off in the suds, and wonders if all the upstairs windows are the same. Maybe it’s a sign that it used to be a barn. Does every house around here have this slight air of improvisation, of having been repurposed from something else? Nevertheless, this house is welcoming in a way that Joe’s house, no matter how clean and how full of food, somehow lacks. She can feel the life pulsing in the walls. Coming down from the bathroom, she pauses by the stove to stroke the cats, and to listen in on Luca and Katherine talking in the kitchen.
“She is really strange,” says Luca, with some feeling, and Willow feels her shoulders clench up tight. “Does she talk, like, fucking, ever?”
“Language.”
“But is there something wrong with her?”
Katherine just laughs.
“I mean, obviously there’s something wrong, cos she doesn’t ever talk, but—”
“I’m sure she’s got her reasons,” says Katherine. “She’ll tell you if she wants you to know.”
“So you do know, then? Why she doesn’t talk?”
“And do you know what? She doesn’t know a damn thing about you either.” Willow can’t see into the kitchen,
but she imagines that Katherine might have reached out to ruffle Luca’s hair. “Check your sleeves for goat shit, okay? Oh, hello, Willow. No, it’s all right, don’t worry about taking stuff through, this is the last of it.”
Katherine picks up a slab of wood where a fat loaf of bread rests, and carries it away. At the sink, Luca has his sleeves rolled above his elbows and is soaping his arms as carefully as if he’s about to operate. When he sees Willow, he rolls them down hastily.
“Otherwise you end up with goat shit in your dinner,” he says, pulling his cuffs over his hands as if thoroughly washing is somehow shameful. “Or chicken shit. Or goose shit. Or pig shit. Farming is basically just every type of shit you can imagine.”
She’s already washed upstairs, but now she feels as if she needs to do it again. There’s a distinct tideline at her wrists. Luca passes her the bar of soap, hovers critically as she uses it, then passes her the towel. I can do this myself, she thinks, but lets him supervise anyway, so he can re-establish his expertise at farm living. The cats raise their heads to watch as they walk back through the entrance room and into a cosy dining room with a low ceiling, deep-set windows, cupboards built into the fireplace alcoves, and a huge table that fills half the floor space.
Lunch is fresh bread, wedges cut from a huge ham, a bowl of tomatoes, a yellowy brick of butter, a bowl of salad, a jar of pickled onions floating in their vinegar bath like miniature aliens, a jug of iced water, and a huge teapot. There are crumbs on the tablecloth and a pile of papers in the window. The rag rug by the fireplace has a dusting of cat hair, and something smooth and slinky coils and purrs around her feet. It’s the most relaxed Willow has felt in weeks. She tries not to eat too greedily, forcing herself to slow down and take small bites.
“Those new little kids are coming on nicely.” The sight of Katherine pouring tea from the pot reminds Willow of her grandmother. “They can go out later.”
“Okay.”
The Slaughter Man Page 11
