The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller
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‘I don’t know. We’ve got enough problems as it is, without adding a bloody dog to them.’
‘I’ll make sure Mikey gets up in the morning,’ Mum offered.
Mum elevated herself to hero status. ‘See. Mum will help.’
‘She’s got enough to do.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Mum said.
He banged his cup down on the table. ‘Bugger it. Keep the damn thing. But, the first sign of trouble, and that dog’s out of here, do you understand?’
For the first and last time in my life, I wanted to run up to him and throw my arms around him. But, I simply nodded. All my love for him had long since turned to ice.
He stood up and left for work. ‘And make sure you keep the bloody thing out of my way.’
‘Okay.’
And so, Oxo was welcomed into the family. That broken, messed up family. If you were wondering how he got his name, I used to love Oxo cubes. Mum would sometimes let me have one when she was making gravy. Oxo used to lick my fingers for all he was worth. Sometimes, because he was my best friend, I’d pinch one, and share it with him. Along with my secrets, and just about anything it was possible for a boy to share with a dog.
Chapter Eleven
I fell asleep and woke up at just past eleven. Oxo was asleep, his backside a foot from my face. I didn’t want to think about what he might have treated my nose to in my sleep. I clambered off the bed and went to the bedroom window. Rain lashed down, bouncing off the street. Even though it felt bad to even think it, I wished Billy the Bully would stagger into the road on his way home, and get hit by a truck. Splat! Me, Mum, and Oxo left in peace to get on with our lives. No more bruises, broken noses, fucked up weekends.
I looked along the street, waiting for him to stagger around the corner, and weave his way towards the house. Do his usual trick of falling over a dustbin and making enough racket to wake up the whole street. I’d once seen him squaring up to an overhanging bush in a nearby garden. God alone knew what he thought it was. An alien, perhaps?
Oxo rolled onto his back. An invitation for me to rub his tummy. I stroked him for a while. His belly was like a little hot water bottle. The minutes dripped by, like sand in an egg timer when you’re starving hungry.
The chain flushed downstairs. I heard my mother sweeping up the ashes in the grate, every sound amplified in the silence. Because the stairs ran from the front room up to the landing, you could even hear her picking up the cups and plates, and carrying them through to the kitchen.
Oxo whined. A sign Dad was on his way. He rolled off his back and jumped onto the floor, claws ticking on the bare wooden boards.
Maybe he won’t start on her tonight, I thought, hanging onto hope for all I was worth. He might go straight to bed, or pass out on the sofa. My reasoning was based on the fact he’d already beaten the crap out of her last night. Surely, he wouldn’t strike twice in one week.
I watched him stagger up the road. He had his arm around his mate, Tony Higgins. Big Tone, Dad called him. Big Wanker, more like. He owned the local chip shop. Ate most of the chips as well, judging by the size of him. The only advantage of knowing Higgins was he would sometimes let me and my mates have a free bag of chips, on account of he was mates with good old Billy the Bully.
I opened my window an inch to see if I could figure out his mood before he got through the front door. Not that it would make a scrap of difference. I mean, what was I going to do? Make preparations? Warn my mum? Get a kitchen knife and stab the bastard through the heart the minute he walked through the front door?
Big Tone untangled himself from my dad and danced with a lamppost a few doors away. His bald head gleamed in the yellow light.
‘C’mon, Tone, less get in. I got a cold one with my name on it in the fridge.’
Higgins stopped prancing about in front of the lamppost. He wiped rain off the top of his head with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. ‘We don’t want a “cold one” on a night like this, Billy-boy, we want a hot one.’
‘Like that bird behind the bar?’
Higgins laughed. ‘Now you’re talking.’
‘I know I am. She takes it up the arse.’
Higgins looked impressed with this piece of information. and then frowned. ‘How’d you know?’
My dad tried to tap the side of his nose, missed, and poked himself in the eye. ‘Fuck.’
Higgins left his date with the lamppost and went to console Billy the Bully who was acting like he’d been shot in the face. He flailed a hand at an imaginary assailant.
‘Come on, Billy. Let’s go crack open a bottle.’
They took a good ten minutes to reach the front door. By that time, Billy the Bully kept asking who had punched him in the eye.
‘No one’s hit you, Billy.’
‘Why’s my eye throbbing like a bastard?’ He banged on the door with his fist, again and again, until my mother opened it, and let them in.
‘Bout fucking time,’ Billy the Bully said. ‘Where you been?’
‘Clearing up.’
‘Good. Cos it’s party time.’
I shut my window and looked at Oxo. ‘At least he’s got Higgins with him. I don’t reckon he’ll start anything with him here.’
Oxo scratched his ear. He looked sad, almost as if he was aware something bad would happen. I heard voices downstairs. Loud. Slurred. Then music. My old man, the world’s worst DJ, sabotaging his record collection by scratching the needle across the vinyl. The Beatles. Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. I hated that damn record. It was all he would ever play when he was pissed. There was someone called Billy on the record. Billy Shears. Dad always thought they were singing about him, the fucking moron.
I heard my mum go to bed about half an hour after Billy the Bully and Higgins came in. So far so good. At least he hadn’t been nasty to her. Oxo was lying by the door, nose plugged into the small gap beneath, which was odd because he usually settled on the bed.
‘You don’t need to go out, do you?’
Oxo ignored me.
‘I ain’t taking you into the garden while they’re still down there.’ I sat on the edge of my bed. ‘Come on boy, let’s go to sleep. I don’t reckon he’s—’
The words froze in my throat as something smashed downstairs. The music screeched to a stop halfway through Fixing a Hole.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid, Billy. You’re not thinking straight.’ Big Tone, sounding more like Pipsqueak Tone, as his voice rose several octaves.
‘I ain’t being stupid. Don’t fucking tell me what I am or I ain’t.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Don’t you dare sit there drinking my whiskey telling me shit, Tone. You’re supposed to be a mate.’
‘I ain’t telling you shit, Billy. I wasn’t looking at her.’
‘I seen you with my own fucking eyes. You were looking. And she was looking at you.’
‘I wouldn’t look at your missus. Not like that.’
A long silence, followed by, ‘Get out of my house.’
‘But, I ain’t—’
‘You want me to smash your face through that telly?’
Big Tone didn’t. ‘All right, all right, I’m going, but I wasn’t looking at her. I swear on Daisy’s life.’
I didn’t have a clue who Daisy was. Higgins wasn’t married. Maybe it was that mangy old black and white moggy who always slept on the window ledge in the chippy. Footsteps retreated into the hall, then the front door opened and banged shut. I peered out my window, and watched Tony Higgins lumbering up the road, looking a lot soberer than when he’d arrived.
I prayed that Billy the Bully would fall into a drunken stupor and leave my mother alone.
My prayers went unanswered. I heard him babbling on about something downstairs. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, but it sounded threatening and menacing. Something crashed. It sounded like the dining table had been tipped over. Then, he clomped up the stairs, boots echoing on the bare boards.
Oxo sat
by the door, alert, head tipped to one side. I tried not to panic. I wanted to run into Mum’s room and stand in Billy the Bully’s way. Save her. Just like Superman.
‘I know what you’re up to.’ His voice was low. Almost a growl.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘You think I’m stupid?’
‘No. Don’t be ridicu—’
‘Are you fucking him?’
‘Who?’
‘You know fucking well who. Tony Baloney Higgins.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I saw the way you looked at him.’
‘For God’s sake, Billy, why would I look at him?’
‘Don’t get smart with me, you cheating bitch.’
‘I’m not—’
‘When did we last do it?’
A lengthy silence. I picked up my pillow and hugged it. Oxo whined. Thunder rolled across the sky; God moving his furniture as my mum called it. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest it felt as if it would bounce right up into my mouth.
‘Admit it. You’ve got the hots for him.’
‘Now you’re being stupid.’
Another slight pause, and then all hell broke loose. I heard my mother scream. Several thumps and crashes. More screams. I threw myself on the bed and covered my head with the pillow. ‘Please, God, make him go away. Make him leave my mum alone. I’ll do anything. I’ll be good. I’ll never throw eggs at anyone’s window again. I’ll take Oxo for a walk every night, instead of letting him loose. I’ll brush him every day. I’ll help with the washing up. I’ll clean my teeth every morning after breakfast, and wash my hands before dinner, instead of just pretending to. I’ll never mess about in class again. Do all my homework. Never lie again. Not even when I’m in trouble. Please, God, just make him stop beating my mum up.’
A miracle. The noise stopped. Perhaps God was listening after all. I thought about pushing my luck and asking Him to give my dad a heart attack while He was about it. I took the pillow off my head and sat up. Oxo remained by the door, alert.
My thin sliver of hope was shattered. I heard the sound of shuffling feet, and then my dad spoke, his voice unsure, ‘Sarah?’
No answer.
‘Get up.’
Oxo whined, snorkelling air through the gap beneath the door.
‘Leave me alone.’ My mother’s voice. All slurry. Something heavy was dragged across the floor. My dad was grunting. Their bedroom door banged against the wall.
‘Please, Billy, my head’s all—’
A loud thud silenced her. I squeezed my eyes shut, and tried not to think about what had made that awful, hollow noise, but my imagination, as always, filled in the blanks. Treated me to an image of my mum’s head being slammed against the wall.
‘You can go and live with him, you fucking whore.’
Oxo barked and scratched at the door.
Do something.
I walked to the door, legs shaking, heart racing. But what could I do?
Oxo scrabbled at the door. I stood behind him, my mind in a thousand places at once. Shit, shit, shit. Maybe I ought to open the bedroom window and shimmy down the drainpipe. Run up the road to Mum’s friend, Rachel, and get her to call the cops.
I stood rooted to the spot as Billy the Bully threw my mother down the stairs. Thump, thump, thump. All the way down the wooden hill as she used to call it. My beautiful, kind mum, tossed down the stairs like a rag doll.
Oxo howled. I’d never seen him react like this before. Not in all the time since me and Tommy had rescued him from Finley’s Farm.
‘Shut up, boy. Be quiet.’ I tried to shout and whisper at the same time.
He stopped howling, but stood in front of the door, hackles up. I could hear my dad thumping about in his bedroom. Then, the creak of bedsprings followed by silence. I decided to give it ten minutes and then see what I could do to help Mum. Perhaps make her up a bed on the sofa.
At least he hasn’t thrown her down the steps outside, I thought. At least she’s dry in here.
It’s funny what we cling to when we’re desperate.
Chapter Twelve
I don’t know how long I waited before I plucked up the courage to open my bedroom door; it might have been ten minutes, it might have been half an hour. By then, Oxo was quiet and still.
Mum was lying at the bottom of the stairs, still as a shop dummy. Her head was at a weird angle as if looking at something behind her. One of her legs was twisted. I didn’t need a doctor to tell me it was broken. I’d seen a kid fall out of a tree once, and his leg had been all messed up like that.
Oxo bounded down the stairs, and stood over her, sniffing her face. By the time I reached her, I knew something was seriously wrong. Her mouth hung open, limp and detached.
‘Mum?’
She didn’t respond. One of her earrings was lying on the stairs. A small gold stud. I picked it up and closed my hand around it. I knelt down and touched her hand. Cold as ice. Her lips had turned blue. My stomach flipped over. I squeezed her hand. ‘Mum?’
Oxo stopped sniffing her and walked to the front door. He sat on the mat, looking up at the letter box.
‘You’re not going out now.’
He made a noise, somewhere between a whine and a bark.
‘Mum? Wake up.’
I’ve no idea how long I knelt beside her, holding her hand, and trying to get her to answer me, before I realised she was dead. It came in a series of clues. The way she lay. The angle of her head. The slight parting of her lips. One eye not quite closed. Her leg at that crazy angle. Cold clammy hand.
It’s hard to describe the feeling erupting inside me when I realised she was dead. It started in the pit of my stomach, and rose into my throat, like a waterfall running backwards. I let go of her hand as if it had given me an electric shock. I saw Oxo scrabbling at the front door.
My mummy’s dead. This can’t be happening. She can’t be dead.
Dead. Like the fish on Grudgington’s slab. Sightless eyes staring straight ahead. Dead. Like the rabbits hanging outside the butcher’s shop. Flies buzzing around them, waiting to lay their disgusting eggs.
My mummy’s dead. Over and over in my head.
I felt as if I was four years old again, waiting in the playground one afternoon for her to pick me up. Only she was late. The other parents had picked up their kids ages ago. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. Why wasn’t she here? She always picked me up, even in the rain and the snow. With that great big smile, the one that made me imagine rainbows. And then she arrived. Like magic. Out of breath and apologising. She’d stopped to help an old man who’d fallen over in the street. The teacher telling her not to worry.
Where was that teacher now? I needed her to tell me not to worry. My mum would be back from the dead any minute now to give me a cuddle and take me away from this terrible place. Another country, perhaps. Somewhere they appreciated rainbow smiles. Somewhere my dad would never find us. Never be able to use his fists on her ever again.
A sudden thought. One linked right up to my mummy’s dead. Even more chilling. My daddy’s a murderer. He’ll go to jail for the rest of his life. I imagined him standing in a prison cell, holding onto the bars with his big murderer’s hands. The hands which had pummelled my mummy’s face too many times to keep a count. I wished with all my heart they still hanged people. If anyone deserved to get his neck put in a noose, it was him.
My only real idea of hanging came from the Westerns I sometimes watched on telly. John Wayne riding into town on his horse, shotgun spinning in his hand, sheriff’s badge glinting in the sun, ready to round up the baddies. How I wished I was John Wayne. Fearless. Fire in my belly. But, I was just stupid Michael Tate. Mikey, to his dead mummy. Her little love-bug. Her toasted soldier.
Her gutless wonder, more like. Too chicken to shout out when he beat the shit out of her. Too chicken to go onto the landing and stop him throwing her down the stairs. Another thought: Who was going to take care of me? I couldn’t sta
y here on my own. I had no money for starters. Apart from my paper round money, which I needed to buy Oxo’s food wi—
My heart stopped. Oxo. What was going to happen to him? There was no way on Earth I was going to let him get carted off to Battersea Dogs’ Home. I’d rather die.
Instant relief. Aunt Jean would take care of me and Oxo. I didn’t get on too well with my cousin, David. My mum called him a spoiled brat. Not to mention his two sisters, Katie and Christine. Probably because we didn’t have as much money as them, or because we lived in a smaller house.
My mummy’s dead.
I snatched one last look at my poor, battered mum. Her face looked like wax. I would always remember her this way. I stood up and wrenched open the front door. I don’t remember if I closed it behind me. Me and Oxo bolted along the road to Rachel’s house. I burst through the front gate and hammered on her door as hard as I could.
Rachel answered as my fists turned to pulp. ‘Mikey? What is it? What the hell’s happened?’
‘My dad.’
‘What about him?’
‘My dad did it.’
‘Did what?’ She pulled me inside the house. Oxo scooted in between my legs. ‘What did your dad do.’
And then something weird happened. I forgot why I was there. Rain dripped down the back of my pyjama top, cold and slippery, like little wet slugs.
‘Mikey?’
I started to cry.
A man’s voice. For one mad moment, I thought it was my dad, but it was Rachel’s husband. He looked half asleep. ‘Whassamatter?’
Rachel crouched down so as she was at eye-level. ‘Mikey? Come on, what’s happened?’
‘Billy Tate been getting handy with his fists a—’
‘Shut up, Don. Make the lad a cup of sweet tea.’ And then to me, ‘What’s happened, lad?’
‘My mummy’s dead.’ It felt as if someone else had spoken the words. Taken over my mouth.
Something seemed to squeeze Rachel’s face. ‘You sure she’s not just hurt?’
‘Dad threw her down the stairs. She’s not breathing.’