by Ally Kennen
I kneel and put the blade on the cold flesh. I shudder. Come on, I tell myself, you have to do it. I shut my eyes and begin to saw. I am trembling and feel sick. I’ll never be able to eat bacon again. As I saw, a metallic smell fills the shed and I have to turn away for a minute.
I once asked a butcher to cut up a pig for me. He said it would cost me ninety pounds. Now I know why. The flesh breaks quite easily, the legs have just about thawed, but then I get to bone and it feels like I am hacking away for hours, getting nowhere, covering myself with blood and fat and God knows what and feeling sicker and sicker every minute. I have an idea. I’ll cut the pig where the bones join each other. Then I’ll only have to saw through gristle and ligaments rather than bone. But it will mean starting all over again. I roll the pig over and feel around its shoulder. I resume work. I am getting hot and when I wipe the sweat from my face, my hands are sticky.
Then I see a flicker of light out of the corner of my eye.
Someone is coming over the lawn, torch light bouncing off their feet. They’ll be here in a few seconds. Can I hide what I am doing? I taste blood as I bite my lip. I have to do something. I pull myself to my feet and drop the saw. I open the door of the shed and close it carefully behind me. A white glare shines directly in my face.
“What are you doing in there?”
A silhouetted figure stands behind the torch.
“Stephen.” Carol’s voice wobbles. “You’re all covered in blood.”
T w o
Let me tell you something about Carol. Just so you know what I’m up against. She’s what my gran would call a shit-stirrer. When I arrived, three years ago, Carol got me into trouble in the first ten minutes. Jimmy was carrying my stuff up to my room and Verity was standing around chatting to me about schools and bedrooms and food. Robert came and had a stare but soon vanished when he saw there was nothing particularly astonishing about me. Verity went to answer the phone and only Carol remained, sitting at the head of the kitchen table and following my every move. She made a loud clicking noise with her teeth. She seemed to be thinking very hard. Then she fished something out of her pocket.
“Look at this,” she said. “Do you think it’s a forgery?” She passed over a twenty-pound note with a large pink ink stain just above the Queen’s head.
I took it and held it up to the light. “Nah, look. It’s got a watermark and the metal strip.” I tried to give it back to her but she stood up.
“I think I’ve got one of those pens in my room,” she said. “So you can tell if it’s a forgery. Hang on a minute will you?” And she was gone.
So I sat examining the note and feeling pleased that the family was turning out to be so friendly.
Verity bustled in, talking about food or something, and stopped dead. I don’t know why I did it, but I scrunched the note up in my fist. For some reason I didn’t want her to see me holding it.
But I was too slow.
“That’s funny,” said Verity slowly. “I’ve got a note with a mark on it like that in my purse.” I followed her gaze to a handbag lying on the kitchen counter.
“It’s not mine,” I said quickly and let the note fall to the table. “Your daughter gave it to me.” I couldn’t remember her name at the time.
“Really,” said Verity. It wasn’t a question. She checked in her purse and sure enough the note was missing.
“She thought it was a forgery,” I said. “She’s just gone to get a special pen.”
Verity looked at me very carefully. She looked disappointed. Eventually she spoke.
“Carol’s just gone out. She won’t be back till later,” she said. She took the note from the table and folded it in her purse.
I had heard the front door go of course, but I never thought it was Carol.
“Bitch,” I said out loud. She had fixed me up. Framed me, all within ten minutes of my being here.
“Sorry?” said Verity.
“Nothing,” I said and closed my eyes. I gave up. What was the point? Verity had already cast me as a thief. And who could blame her?
I’ve been a thief all my life.
That was the first ten minutes I spent with the Reynolds family. Now I stand in the darkness, looking at Carol’s small outline and know I am sunk.
“I knew it would be you.” She sounds scared but curious. She looks beyond me at the shed. “What’s going on?”
My mind races to find an explanation.
“I found a massive spider crawling over my pillow,” I say. Carol hates spiders. “So I brought it out here. I caught my arm on a nail.”
“You’re lying,” she says. I can tell she’s dying to go and look in the shed but is freaked out by the blood.
“Big spider,” I say. “With hairy legs.”
Carol lets out a half laugh. “You’ve been cutting yourself,” she says. “I thought only girls did that.” She pushes past me. “You’d better not have been using one of our kitchen knives. I don’t want AIDS.”
“Don’t,” I say desperately. “There’s a surprise in there.”
“I like surprises.” Carol marches ahead.
I have no choice but to rush forward and block the doorway. “Do me a favour, Carol, and go back to bed.”
“Yeah right.” She tries to shove me away, digging her fists into my stomach. But I am much bigger so she doesn’t get anywhere.
“If you don’t let me in, I’ll go and get Mum and Dad.”
She’s getting angry. Her voice has gone squeaky and she’s giving me nasty little jabs with her knuckles. She pulls away from me and runs round to the side of the shed. Before I can stop her she’s shining her torch through the window. I freeze, expecting a barrage of questions. Instead there is silence.
Then I hear a whimper. The torch snaps off and she is running back to the house.
“Mum, Mummy.” Her voice gets louder as she reaches the door. “Oh HELP.” Her voice breaks into a scream. “Murder.”
I roll my eyes and enjoy a few moments of cool darkness. There is no way I can hide the pig now. I feel the breeze playing on my cheek and listen to the muffled noises coming from the house. One by one, the lights switch on. I wonder if this will mark the end of my stay with the Reynolds family. In a few hours I might be on the street. But won’t they get done by Social Services if they kick me out? It is only a dead pig after all. It isn’t as if I have committed a crime or hurt anyone. I haven’t even stolen the pig. A weak feeling climbs up my legs, like I’ve had too much to drink, and I have to sit down. The wet grass soaks through my trousers. I put my head in my hands and wait for the storm to break. It’s no fun being me sometimes.
I hear voices.
“I’m going to call the police.”
That’s Verity. She sounds terrified.
“Carol was half asleep. There’s bound to be a simple explanation.”
Good old Jimmy. He really hopes I’m not as bad as he thinks. The porch lights go on and the garden is flooded in light and shadow. Jimmy looks out into the garden.
“Stephen,” he calls. “Are you out there?” He sounds nervous.
“Yep,” I say. I make myself stand. Jimmy is going to think everything is weird enough without me having some kind of breakdown.
He pads out over the grass. “I’m just coming over to have a chat with you, Stephen. Nothing to worry about. Carol’s got her knickers in a twist about something.”
“Fine,” I say. And I step into the light.
Jimmy gasps. “What’s that on your face?”
“Skin?” I volunteer, aware that I am smeared with pig.
Jimmy steps right up to me. “So what’s all this about?”
I shrug. I mean, what would you say if you were me? I haven’t thought of an explanation as to why I am trying to cut up a whole dead pig in the middle of the night with a hacksaw. What can I say? “Oh, I wanted to se
e how they were made?” Or, “I just found it here,” or “It’s my mate’s.” None of these will do. For the moment, I decide to remain silent. I will think of something. I usually do. By now Jimmy has pushed the door of the shed open and is shining his torch inside.
I hear a gasp.
I nod to myself. I too would be fairly surprised.
“Stephen?”
He’s sounding a little too dramatic. I stand next to him and he moves away like he’s scared of me. In the dim light I can see the alarm in his face as he shines the torch on the finger-marked hacksaw and the pale-pink pig flesh lying in the tarp on the floor.
He shines the torch right in my face and at my hands.
I am silent.
He leans back against the wall, breathing like he’s just run up and down the stairs.
“It’s not that bad,” I venture.
Jimmy walks heavily to the door and takes a deep breath. “I’m going back to the house now. I want you to stay here. Don’t follow me.” He makes as if to go, then he turns.
“Who was she?”
I shrug.
“Just a pig.”
I sense his shock.
He backs warily out of the shed. The tarp is covering most of the pig. All that can be seen is the long, naked back. I have an urge to laugh and I believe I let out a chuckle. As you know, I am indeed planning a murder, but not yet, not yet.
“No Jimmy, wait. It really is a pig.”
But he is haring across the lawn. “Verity, keep the kids indoors and call the police.”
I go after him. I don’t want the police mixed up in this. I like to keep a low profile these days. Once the rozzers have an eye on you, you can’t do anything. No, it is far better to remain unobtrusive, unknown. Out here the local police don’t know who I am. I don’t want that to change.
“Jimmy, I haven’t killed anyone. It’s a pig I got from the butcher.”
Jimmy stops dead and slowly turns.
“What?” He looks at me for a long time. The door swings open and Verity stands there.
“A dead pig, that’s all?” she asks.
“Yep,” I say, cool as anything. “A one-hundred-pound porker. I got it in Bexton this afternoon.”
Verity pushes past me and hurries to the shed.
“For God’s sake, Jimmy,” I hear her mutter.
I don’t think Jimmy wants to leave me alone with his wife but he is desperate to check out the shed again.
“Chill out,” I say. “What do you think I am anyway?”
I hear the faint rustle of plastic.
“Pig,” shouts Verity from the shed and Jimmy runs to join her.
The light of their torches flickers through the shed window. Back in the house, two little faces press up against the glass of the front door. When they see me, they disappear. I feel bad then. I don’t want to scare anybody. Well, not Robert anyway. I don’t like to imagine what he must be thinking.
I sit on the garden swing and rock myself back and forth on my toes.
They’re in there for ages.
Eventually they come out. I imagine that even in the darkness, I can see a look of shame on Jimmy’s face.
“I’m not a murderer, Jimmy,” I say quietly.
“What was I supposed to think?” he says raising his hands helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
But Verity is still in for the attack.
“Well?” she says. “What were you intending to do with it?”
I stand with as much dignity as I can.
“It’s for my dad,” I say. “He’s starving.”
T h r e e
I deliver the pig the following night. Jimmy even helps me load it into the boot of my car. He also gives me a bag of flour, three apples and two pints of milk. I will throw these away when I get the chance.
“Sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asks. He looks worried. There’s nothing about this in his foster parents’ handbook. I can see him mentally running through his options. Ought he to forbid me to go, or call my social worker?
I pull out of the drive and on to the road. As I change gears I laugh.
As if I would feed my starving father a dead pig!
It takes me about fifteen minutes to reach Gruton Reservoir. It’s quite a big place. There’s a path which takes you all the way round. I walked all six miles of it once. Not much there really, just a small fishing hut with an empty vending machine and a loo, some rowing boats pulled on the bank for the fishermen. There’s always a few funny-looking geese bobbing around on the water and wherever you look there are munching sheep. Gruton Reservoir is surrounded by fields and trees so it’s pretty quiet. Years ago I went swimming here with some mates. It was freezing so I wasn’t in very long. And I definitely don’t fancy swimming in it now. The dam is cool. You can walk right over it. One side is water and the other is a massive drop down to a valley. You’d definitely die if you jumped off.
I pass the public car park and pull in at a lay-by a few miles further on. It’s quite dark by now and there’s nobody about. The pig is in halves. Jimmy helped me to cut it right down the middle. He said there wasn’t much point in cutting the legs off now. Each half is in a bin liner inside a blue plastic sack; the sort Jimmy gets his wood delivered in. I heave a sack on to each shoulder and stagger to the gate. The pig is cold and slippery and some kind of fluid seeps out of the plastic and runs down my back. Halfway down the field I collapse. My shoulders ache and I’ve cut my finger. The stars are out. I sit in the wet grass sucking the blood from my finger. I’m alone with the wind and the dead pig. I let my mind go blank. I feel still and peaceful. If it was dry I could almost go to sleep. I shut my eyes and listen to the night. I hear the wind in the trees and a car on the road. I can hear some sort of bird screeching. Then I go cold.
I can hear him roaring in the distance.
There are no houses round here. But I’m still worried that someone might hear him. I hope he’s roaring because he’s smelled me, and not because he does it every night.
I drag the sacks down the slippery field. They slide over the ground and flatten trails in the grass. At the fence I heave one sack into my arms and try and throw it over. But it falls short of the fence and I have to shift so it doesn’t land on me. The fence is six feet high and its metal links are too small for me to gain a decent foothold. But I scramble up, with a sack balanced on my shoulder. The pig smells really strong. It is not just blood, but also a musty smell, like rotting car seats. The sack catches on the wire at the top and rips and the meat tumbles out and falls to the ground. At least it is the other side of the fence. I drop to the ground and skin the flesh from my palms. More blood. I suck at my hand.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I didn’t feed him. Of course, it is likely he would starve to death. But I read once that he could possibly go without food for six months as long as he had enough water. The body would go into a kind of hibernation, then a deep coma. I read on the Internet that there were records of an individual surviving for a year without food, but that this was very rare. I imagine my boy, sinking deeper into the mud, growing thin and weak. And one day, years later, someone might find his bones. But would he make a noise as he was starving? Would he get some kind of massive death energy and break out of his cage?
I picture a field of dead sheep and a dark shadow moving towards an isolated cottage. I imagine a baby crying.
He knows not to roar when it’s light. At least, I hope he does. One morning I crept up on him. He must have heard me coming and slipped from his ledge into the water because when I looked down through the bars, all I could see were ripples on the surface and a damp smear on the concrete where he had been basking in the sun. So maybe he’s scared of people. I wish.
I imprisoned him at the side of the reservoir four years ago.
I like walking over paths, not along th
em. I like to crawl through fences and climb trees and take shortcuts through people’s gardens. When I was a kid, me and Selby, my brother, used to go to the high street at night. There’s a fire escape next to the old Telecom building, and if you climb the fence, you can get up there. At the top it’s a short jump to the roof of the shopping mall, and from there we got to most of the roofs all along the high street. We’d sit up there, smoking and watching people. It was tempting to gob on people but we knew if we got caught we’d not be able to go up there again. It was our secret. Mine and Selby’s.
So, anyway, I’d wandered off the path, tracking a fox. (I was a bit of a sad case back then.) I followed it through some trees and long grass and it went right through this thorny hedge and so did I. We came out into a clearing between a bank of brambles and some trees and there was this funny building, half buried in the bank. There was a sign saying “DANGER – KEEP OUT”. Water gushed out of a hole in the front and ran down a channel into the reservoir. I forgot about the fox and went to investigate.
It was a kind of cage concreted into the bank, about fifteen feet long, and rising about eight feet above the ground. It was all overgrown with brambles. The roof and sides were made of rusting metal bars and there was a hatch in the roof which was padlocked shut. A low concrete wall, covered in green moss, ran round the base. I looked down through the bars and saw that below ground level, the cage was full of water. It looked deep. I couldn’t see the bottom. Ledges of concrete stepped down into the water and a rusted pump mechanism hung, half submerged. Water dribbled in from a plastic pipe which stuck out of the greenery growing in the back wall.
