by Sam Millar
“There is no fool like an old fool, Mister Goodman. I should never have assumed anything on face value. No doubt, I read the signs wrong and have been punished for not doing my homework on such an important matter. I thank you for your honesty. Other men would simply have lied to keep in with me. More my loss now.” Shank slowly removed the gloves, placing them on a nail above his head.
“Mister Shank. I do have … feelings, but they …” Paul could feel his face burn. He hated it when his face betrayed him. “Well … they are for … Geordie …”
Shank appeared dumbfounded while he ran a hand over the smooth surface of his baldy head. “Geordie? Geordie, Mister Goodman …? But she is … she is broken, not whole, and I doubt she would be shaped correctly to carry a baby, or make a man happy in bed.”
Paul’s skin seemed on fire. He didn’t think such words were appropriate. Shank gave the impression of discussing one of the cows out in the sheds, not a human being, certainly not his daughter.
“I didn’t say I wanted to marry Geordie, Mister Shank, just that I have … feelings for her. I doubt if she even likes me, barely tolerates me, if I’m to be honest.”
“Likes you? She would love you to death, Mister Shank! Love you to death … God, how she would love you! I never … I mean … Geordie? Well, isn’t that a development? Geordie, Geordie, Geordie …” Shank continued saying her name, a mantra for all to hear. “I never thought the day would come when someone would have feelings for Geordie. Tell me it’s not pity, Mister Goodman. No! Don’t! It’s none of my damn business!” Shank’s dark eyes sparkled mischievously, gleaming like the blue-black sheen of a blackbird’s wing.
“That doesn’t mean that –”
“We shall meet again, soon Mister Goodman. Very soon. There is a lot to be considered …” Shank’s face was beaming. It had the look of someone who had just unearthed an undiscovered Gospel.
Paul closed the door behind him, relieved, as if he had physically fought Shank and survived. He was damp with sweat.
“A cripple? You sick bastard, Goodman,” whispered Violet who had deliberately turned off the light in her tiny office, camouflaging herself with the darkness, listening to the private conversation between Shank and Paul.
Paul remained silent, his startled eyes diverted to her head whose details appeared physically impossible, to the neck struggling, attempting to depart from its anchor stationed in the harbour of her shoulders.
“A fucking cripple?” whispered Violet, raising herself slowly from the chair, inching towards him. “You would choose a cripple over me? You’re only a pathetic bastard. You find her fascinating. Don’t you, you fucking pervert?” she accused “You couldn’t handle me. Eh, Goodman? Scared of a real woman, aren’t you?” She flicked on a switch, exposing the hatred in her eyes. They appeared damp. “You’ll have no peace now, Goodman. Not from me. Camp with the enemy, die with the fuckers …”
Paul left the office quickly, squeezing alongside the motionless figure of Violet blocking the doorway, fearful of accidentally touching her as he moved.
The eerily quietness collapsed as he entered the Great Hall of Slaughtering and he welcomed its noise, its screams and curses. Anything was better than the quietness. Anything was better than the hatred sizzling on Violet’s face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A DARKNESS OF MINDS SEARCHING FOR LIGHT
“The sexual embrace can only be compared with music and with prayer.”
Marcus Aurelius
“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”
Carl Gustav Jung
“YOU HAVEN’T EVEN lost a finger, in all this time? Miracles will never cease, Goodman,” said the biting voice of Geordie.
Paul glanced up from the carving table. “I don’t intend to. So if I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“You’ll never be me, so don’t hold your breath, Goodman,” she replied, moving clumsily towards the stairs, in the direction of Shank’s office.
“Must have a soft spot for you, Paul,” sniggered Raymond who was working feverishly on a piece of reluctant meat. “Normally, not a soul gets a word from that little devil in metal – except when she’s screaming commands.”
Over the weeks, Paul had gathered enough information on Violet to keep well away from her. Thankfully, contacts were rare, except for the occasional interrupted lunch-breaks when she happened to accidentally bump into him in the sheds. Paul quickly rectified that by eating in the canteen along with the rest of the workers, much to Violet’s chagrin. Geordie, on the other hand, was still something of an enigma. He hated to admit it, but lately she had become more prominent in his thoughts, especially at night, wondering how she must look, naked and twisted, mangled between flesh and metal. He wondered if her flesh was as cold as the metal laid siege to her, wishing it had been her who had come, interrupting his lunch-breaks in the sheds. He wondered if Shank had said anything to her? Had Violet?
“Keep away from the lot of them, mate,” advised Raymond, reiterating what Stevie Foster had initially said. “That entire family is bad news. Very bad news …”
Yet Geordie remained an itch, gnawing softly, making its presence felt, subtly. Sooner or later, he knew, he would want to scratch it.
“Has Geordie ever been out with anyone? I never see her socialising,” inquired Paul, wiping the sweat from his skin, unknowingly smudging his entire face with blood from his wet hands.
“Geordie? Socialising?” A look of puzzlement appeared on Raymond’s face. “You’re not serious? Who in their right mind would go out with her? Haven’t you seen the shape of her?”
“Has she?” persisted Paul, glancing in the direction of Shank’s office.
“I couldn’t honestly tell you. Why? Feeling kinky?” laughed Raymond, shuddering, mocking a shiver. “You’d have to be, mate. Don’t fancy the thought of that, not one wee bit. Her buck-naked, with big pieces of metal sticking out of her legs – or worse – her lopsided arse!”
Paul grinned half-heartedly, hating himself for its cowardice.
Spotting Geordie making her way back down the stairs in their direction, Paul and Raymond quickly recommenced hacking at the miniature pyramids of meat.
“You’ve become quite a chatterbox since I paired you up with Goodman, Raymond. Do you want me to move you to the tail brigade?”
The tail brigade was the nastiest job in the abattoir where workers were forced to strip the hair and shit from cows’ tails, by hand, leaving the tails gleaming for exporting to foreign lands.
“No, Geordie. I was just –”
“You were just bullshitting, as usual. Watch yourself. I won’t give you as econd warning,” said Geordie, staring into Raymond’s eyes until his eyes looked away. “Goodman? Shank says I’ve to take you with me. We’ve to pick up some equipment from his house. Let’s go.”
Once again, contradictory feelings of reluctance and cold excitement ran through Paul as he placed his carving knife on the table, avoiding Raymond’s grinning rather-you-than-me face.
Three minutes later, Paul and Geordie emerged at the back of the slaughterhouse, navigating their way through the mountains of bloodstained wooden pallets infested with flies feasting on the dried-out liquid.
“Hope you can drive Old Johnson,” said Geordie, throwing the keys in Paul’s direction.
Old Johnson was an enormous army truck that had succeeded in remaining unscathed during the height of the Second World War, only to be mercilessly battered by the drivers employed by Shank. A bullet to its gearbox would have put the old metal beast out of its misery. Instead, it was forced to perform the impossible on a regular basis: hauling tons of meat to the docks and picking up cheap labour on the return journey.
“I … I can’t drive … never tried,” said Paul, embarrassed. Then, as if to redeem himself, quickly added, “No need for it really. Never needed to travel outside of town …”
Geordie
shook her head. “Why does that not surprise me? A bunch of wasters, the lot of you. Throw me the keys.”
A few minutes later, Geordie brought the old truck onto the motorway, cursing the snaky sequence of cars and trucks ahead.
“This is no use …” she muttered, turning the steering wheel roughly to the right. “I know a shortcut,” she said, smiling. The factory-made smirk on her face resembled that of both Shank and Violet.
They drove where the back roads diverged, stretching over miles of ruptured ground until it was too narrow to hold the lorry’s width, eventually halting at an old disused bridge, its wooden structure dilapidated beyond repair.
Paul shook his head. “You’re not serious, are you? There’s no way you can take the truck across that piece of –”
The truck lurched forward, stopping inches from the bridge’s gaping acceptance.
“Serious? You don’t know the half of it.” Geordie touched the accelerator, slightly, teasingly, and the wooded enforcement moaned under the tremendous weight of the truck’s nose.
Paul felt his stomach shift.
The truck moved slowly but steadily despite the protestation of noises coming from the bridge’s creaking underbelly.
With his eyelids tightly shut, Paul breathed slowly through his nose, feeling his fingernails dig deep into his palms. He felt dizzy listening to the gurgle of enforced water, directly beneath.
Without warning, Geordie stopped the truck halfway across the bridge and eased herself awkwardly from the driving seat.
“What are you doing?” asked Paul, alarmed. “We shouldn’t even be on the bridge. It wasn’t built to take the weight of trucks – cars, perhaps; not trucks.”
“Did I ask for your expert opinion?” She popped open the door, slid down onto the bridge, and sat on the edge of the wooden structure, her legs dangling puppet-like over the rushing water.
“Why’ve you done this? Trying to kill us?” whispered Paul, fearful that his words could cause the truck to overspill into the river below.
“Can you smell the river?” she shouted, her voice competing with the force of rushing water. “It smells like shit, doesn’t it? Smells just like the abattoir. Smells just like you, Goodman.”
Paul couldn’t read her expression through the glass. Cautiously, he eased himself over to the driver’s side and poked his head out the window. “What are you trying to prove, Geordie? That you don’t fear death? Okay. You’ve proven yourself. Now, can we get off this matchstick structure before we both plummet to our deaths?”
“The truck isn’t moving until you get out of it and stand or sit on the bridge. That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.” Geordie stared up at him.
Paul hesitated, and she glanced away, staring at the water’s direction.
“Fuck sake …” he mumbled, gingerly edging out of the truck, cautiously placing his feet on the bridge. “Satisfied? Now, can we get off this monstrosity before we end up taking an evening bath?”
Geordie stood and walked towards him.
Despite the noise from the river, Paul could clearly hear the metal surrounding her legs rub against her jeans.
“I hear you’ve been doing a lot of snooping, asking questions about me?”
Paul felt himself grimacing. He tried to undo his face but she’d seen it. “No … not really …”
“What do you want to hear?” Her mouth was a knife-edge, ready for ambush.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Are you sure?” Her eyes became as thin and sharp as needles.
“Yes … I’m sure …” Was the bridge moving slightly under his feet? Vibrating? He wanted to get off. Badly.
The water surged, turning white on the boulders beneath them, spraying their faces and clothes. Paul tried to ignore its sound, its terrible power unnerving him. He had never liked swimming, and still had nightmares of almost drowning in the pool of blood.
Geordie walked to the end of Old Johnson. Paul thought he saw her move, craftily, to the side, disappearing. What if she intended to throw him off, pretend it was an accident? Knock him over with the truck? They would all believe her. Wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t have any other choice, really.
The loud blast from the truck’s horn made him jump.
“What’s keeping you, Goodman? We haven’t all bloody night!” shouted Geordie, perched behind the steering wheel, her face expressionless.
The forty-minute journey took forever. No words were uttered, although a couple of times Paul felt his tongue moving, ready for the million questions he wanted to ask. Self-discipline saved him from muttering anything, and he was grateful when the house came into view, stationed beside a large field and flanked by a cathedral of skeletal trees.
It was exactly how he had envisioned it: enormous and intimidating – just like the abattoir. It looked as if the same architect had performed the identical layout of structure and brick, giving it a monstrously inadequate to-live-in-look, simply a place for shelter and holding, much like the animal pens. Beyond the house, heading west, was a dirt lane going all the way through the property, like a great black hungry snake.
The truck idled as darkness swallowed up the house, and finally the field itself.
“We haven’t come here to gawk, Goodman,” said Geordie, awkwardly walking on. “Bring that old trolley from the back of the truck. Shank has a load of new knives he wants brought back.”
Paul followed her to the back of the house. An enormous shed sheltered families of cardboard boxes, each numbered, each labelled with its contents and destination.
“You’ll find two larger boxes at the back. One will be marked knives; the other should have a seven scrawled on it. Fish them out and put them on the trolley. Think you can manage that on your own?” she asked, walking in the direction of the house, not waiting for his answer.
Over the garden, a filthy village of clouds hung low beneath the former grey ceiling of sky, transforming it to the colour of darkened rust. It was dull, soulless weather painted entirely in grey mixing with the limitless expanse of light oozing from the land.
Thirty minutes later, Paul glanced in the direction of the house, following the dirt line on the side of the road the entire time, fearful it was his only direction out of this strange and eerie place.
What was keeping her? Did she think he had nothing better to do than wait for her, like a slave waiting for the master’s word?
“Here, Goodman. Don’t say I never gave you anything.” Geordie appeared out of nowhere, startling him. To his surprise, she handed him a beer.
“What’s this for?” he asked, puzzled and suspicious. Was this some sort of peace offering, for all that nonsense on the bridge?
“If you don’t want it, throw it on the ground,” she replied, angrily, looking at him with such ire it pierced his eyes like an unrestrained knitting needle ready to pop them out. “Why can’t you simply control that mouth of yours? Question after question. That’s your problem, Goodman. Too many questions. Far too many for your own good …”
Reluctantly, Paul placed the beer to his lips, tasting only wetness.
“It’s not poisoned, or spiked – if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not that hard up.” She laughed, but it was unconvincing; a trained sound released by the brain’s command, not by nature. The sound disintegrated into a bark.
Paul took a more courageous gulp. A few seconds later, the bottle was empty.
“Was that meant to impress me, Goodman? Watch this.” Without hands, Geordie picked a full bottle of beer up with her teeth, throwing her head back quickly. Four seconds later, the beer was gone.
Placing the empty bottle on the ground, she wiped the remnants of the beer from her lips, missing a sliver attached to her chin.
Paul felt the urge to reach over and touch the wetness, wipe it from her face. Instead, he simply said, “Okay. I’m the one impressed. Shouldn’t we be getting back?”
She ignored his question and handed him another beer. “Plenty of time. Relax. I�
�m not Violet. I won’t bite. Promise.”
He accepted the beer, swallowing half the contents before removing the bottle from his lips. “I shouldn’t really be drinking. Could easily be minus a finger back at the abattoir.” He meant it to be funny, but she ignored his words.
“Violet says you’ve been sniffing near her. Do you fancy her?” She had her mouth covered by the bottle making it difficult for him to discern if she had a smile with the words.
“Violet? You’ve got to be …” He held the word kidding in his mouth. So, that’s Violet’s plan, eh? Putting the mix in? “I don’t fancy any person in that place.” He sounded defensive. “Don’t have much time for a relationship. I practice my snooker every chance I get. I don’t know why Violet would think I’m sniffing any fucking where near her.”
“Wow. Is that a temper, Goodman? Didn’t think you had one in you.”
“I just don’t like Violet saying things about me that aren’t true.”
“She’s never being backwards in going forward, our Violet.”
“That’s an understatement,” said Paul.
Wind was gathering pace. It had a strange sounding to it.
“So, how much did she tell you about me?” asked Geordie.
“What makes you think she told me anything about you?”
“I know you discussed me with Shank – though it wasn’t Shank who told me.”
Paul was unprepared for the sudden direction of the conversation. It had all been a carefully planned trap, pretending to pick up supplies at the house. Someone in the abattoir had told her all about the questions – his questions. Nosey Balls. Nosey. Nosey. Nosey. This was why she had him here at this location, her home; this was why she was feeding him beer, loosening his tongue. Evidence. Enough rope and he’d be out of a job, out on his arse.
“Anything I said to Shank was my business.” He felt angry having to defend himself, but a cold reality alerted him to be very careful. Extremely careful.
