The Butcher's Daughter

by Jane E James

  Convinced there is still time to get my father to change his mind about going out there, I try desperately to come up with a different solution. One that won’t involve getting him killed. That hope dies when he presses the gun into my chest.

  ‘It’s me they’re after now. But just in case.’

  ‘Father, no,’ I cry.

  He moves as if to hug me, then changes his mind. I sense an argument going on inside his head. Be brave. Be strong, he’ll be telling himself.

  ‘They won’t do anything to you. I’ve seen to that.’

  ‘You made a deal?’ I gasp.

  ‘That’s why Daniel’s determined on you for a wife. I’d rather you use that gun on yourself than let him get his way. Promise me, you’ll do it.’

  He gives me a harsh shake. His face is a blur. I cannot see for the tears running down my face. Gingerly, I take the gun from him and nod tearfully.

  ‘Promise. Frank’s Law remember?’

  ‘Frank’s Law,’ I repeat obediently.

  Chapter 52

  Somewhere in the house a window breaks and glass shatters into hundreds of jagged pieces on the floor. As I follow the shrunken shoulders of my father towards the front door, I imagine I can feel every splintered shard piercing my skin. The desire to punish myself has never been stronger, all this is my fault, if only I’d stayed away like my father and Dr Moses wanted, but I will not give in to it. I must stay strong for my father’s sake. And Jed’s. The villagers will not think of looking for him in the whitewashed building, but my mother is a different matter. As soon as this is over, I have promised myself I will go and find him. Until then I can only pray that he remains safe.

  The shouts from outside have grown more persistent yet they sound duller to my ears, until I think that I have grown accustomed to their onslaught. How is that even possible? How is any of this possible? I want time to stand still but it races on ahead, like my father, who has managed to get the door open without any trouble. It does not put up a struggle as it did for me earlier. It gives in as easily as my father is doing. I long to make eye contact with him one last time but I can tell, by the stubborn set of his jaw, that he does not want this. Instinctively, I know there will be no final look over his shoulder when he disappears into the crowd. We have said our goodbyes.

  When he steps onto the porch, he is greeted with an unhealthy silence that, I for one, find more terrifying that the jeering. I have promised to close the door on him the second he is gone and I will not break my word but I am determined to first capture this moment, leaving nothing out. Before this terrible night is over, I will have imprinted every guilty face on my mind.

  Through a crack in the door, I see a field of blue irises and crooked smiles looking back at me; interspersed with flashes of decaying yellow teeth. The villagers’ gaunt faces appear sunken with hunger, greed and excitement. There’s that awful word again. Sickeningly, I realise they are relishing what they are about to do. Every single one of them. I do not see a hint of regret, fear or indecisiveness among them.

  Be brave. Be strong. Sit up straight. And no crying. My father remains stoically silent as he walks towards them but I can hear his voice in my head. As if they have but one mind, the villagers shuffle apart, allowing him to move among them.

  Just before closing the door on my father’s departing back, I tell myself, hard-heartedly, that I will remember this night for the rest of my life. What it smelt like. What it tasted like. What it felt like—the chattering of insects going about their everyday lives as if something horrific was not about to happen. The smell of sweat; the look of fear in my father’s eyes; the taste of sea salt; a ghostly mist heading our way, threatening to envelop us in its grasp.

  Resting my cheek against the glass of the living room window, I watch my father being circled by the bloodthirsty mob. Not like vultures, I think ironically, more like an inquisitive herd of cows. Part of me wants to tear my eyes away, close the curtains and collapse in a disbelieving heap on the floor, but this is not what I have been brought up to do.

  My father’s head bobs up and down, as if he is pleading for leniency, but he keeps his back straight and his chin up. He has gone out there with a dignity that I feel seeping into my own bones. Holding my breath, until it hurts, I watch Daniel and Bob Black walk up to my father, exchange words, and then push him to his knees. Oh God, please keep him safe, I pray, knowing full well that God abandoned me the night he took my mother from me.

  Don’t let this happen. Don’t let this happen. The mantra builds inside my head until I cannot stand the sound of my own inner voice. Instead, I draw a protective heart around my father’s silhouette in the misted windowpane, as if that will keep him safe. I am with you. I am here. I swear I will not look away. Not even at the last minute. I love you, Dad.

  I do not scream, not out loud anyway, when Bob Black aims a massive bolt gun at my father’s forehead, and I remain dry eyed when, with a flick of his hand, he tugs my father’s head higher, until they are eye to eye. I know enough of this evil man to understand that he wants my father to know it is his hand that will bring about his death.

  Before he has chance to pull the trigger, Daniel tries to yank something out of my father’s hand, Merry’s charm necklace, but my father will not let go—not even when Daniel punches him full in the face, knocking him sideways onto the grass. I feel nothing but pride, the desire for revenge will come later, when my father claws himself back up and takes his place, as if it was his rightful one, on his knees, both arms behind his back; one hand clinging onto the so-called lucky charm that has never brought us a moment’s good luck. Sticking out his bloodied chin in defiance, my father’s body language lets the crowd know, in no uncertain terms, that they can do their worst, but they will not break him.

  He goes down on the first resounding crack of the bolt gun, it would kill him to know that they brought him down so easily, and everyone pauses, as if unsure of themselves. but a rumble of applauding thunder has them on the move again, clapping and whooping, as if a higher power had vindicated their evil actions. Then, goaded on by Daniel, they aim brutal kicks at my father’s prostrate body which I occasionally glimpse through their thrashing legs. Stopping only when Bob Black falls to his knees on the ground beside my father, it soon becomes clear that he is not issuing a prayer, nor yet checking for a heartbeat—he is jabbing a knife, right up to the hilt, behind his former friend’s ear; ripping through the carotid artery and expertly severing it. He has seen too many beasts recover from the shot of a bolt gun to take any chances with someone as unforgiving as my father.

  Little Downey Beach

  The sun beats mercilessly down on our heads, making us sweaty and irritable, even with each other. The baby, swaddled in my arms, makes me hotter still, but she cries whenever I put her down, so I take her everywhere with me; comforting myself with the knowledge that this is what Merry and my father would have wanted. I cannot think of either of them without experiencing a wave of accompanying hatred for those responsible for what happened to them. Rightly or wrongly, I do not hold my mother accountable for her part in Merry’s death. As far as I am concerned, she is as blameless as the child in my arms.

  It is strange that Darkly should prefer me over her own uncle, but I no longer question things the way I used to. I have, we have—I correct myself, momentarily forgetting that I am part of a “We” now—come a long way in the last few days. I might look the same, but I feel so much older and wiser. I never expected to experience such a sudden and overwhelming maternal love for my half-sister, which seems to overshadow everything else, Jed included. The change in him is more obvious. Almost overnight his jet-black hair turned grey and dark circles appeared under his eyes. The laughter has gone from his mismatched eyes. Whenever our eyes meet up now, all we do is exchange pained meaningful looks.

  Today, the beach feels enormous, stretching as far as my eyes can see. It occurs to me that anyone looking down on us from the cliff would assume we were a young family enjoyin
g a day out in the sunshine. Nothing could be further from the truth. Jed’s shirt is stained with blood, which means his wound is bleeding through the bandages again and I can tell by the way he is wincing that the soreness is also returning. The painkillers he took earlier must have worn off. I know that he will not speak of his own pain, not when his sister suffered the way she did; but with no means of getting him to a hospital, the thought of his wound becoming infected is a constant worry. Even if we did try to make it on foot together, the villagers would never allow me to leave. We are left with only one choice.

  He must go while I remain. At least for now, until we figure things out. Jed insists that I have an obligation to go to the police but as I pointed out, who would believe me and what would happen to Darkly if I did? He cannot take her with him. He may not make it as far as the hospital and I cannot run the risk of having her taken from me. They will say I am too unstable to raise a child. If I get caught, I also run the risk of being sent back to Thornhaugh, where they will try once again to make me forget everything I know. If I whisper so much as a word about what has been happening in Little Downey, I might be forced off the cliff edge myself. I cannot bear the thought of what they would do to my body afterwards.

  Jed at least gets a second chance. Luckily for him, I was able to cleanly dig out the bullet and stitch down a two-inch-flap of torn skin while he was still unconscious. Although extremely painful, he is on the mend, and, barring infection, I expect him to fully recover. We might not speak of it, but we are both aware of how much worse it could have been. We only have to look at the burnt-out gypsy camp to know this.

  Nothing remains of Jed’s former home except for the blackened carcass of the car and caravan and a lingering smell of burnt rubber that I do not think will ever fade. The cave in the background has its enormous mouth open as if preparing to swallow the debris whole.

  ‘This is just a warning. If they catch you…’ I say, gesturing to the blackened shell.

  ‘What about you?’ Jed’s anger, like mine, is never far away, but he is not eaten up by it in the same way that I am. He is still optimistic about the future and believes in justice.

  I shake my head at him, as if I do not matter, and perhaps I don’t, I think, glancing down at the baby, whose eyes are glued to mine. She is all that matters now.

  ‘It’s too soon,’ I say, more decisively than I feel. ‘They are watching me all the time. But, as soon as I can, I’ll come and find you.’

  ‘Then we’ll go to the police together.’

  I gaze at the sand and idly scuff a pebble with the side of my sandal, but Jed sees through my unwillingness to touch on this subject and, cupping my chin with his hand, he tilts my head so that I am forced to look at him. Childishly, I resent him exerting this power over me.

  ‘We’ll get your mother into a proper place where she’ll receive all the help she needs.’

  ‘A mental institution?’ I say scathingly, snapping my head away from his touch.

  ‘She may never live a normal life again, Natalie. You’ve got to accept that.’

  The Whitewashed Building

  Vivian

  It is dusk. The sun is low in the sky, casting a sleepy orange glow over the house by the sea, giving it a warmth that it lacks during the day. The house itself is in darkness, but its adjacent buildings stir with activity. Insects are warming up to provide their usual evening chorus and birds of prey ruffle their feathers in preparation for their first flight of the night.

  At the back of the whitewashed building, there is an old grill buried in the dusty ground, which provides ventilation to the underground cellar. Forgotten about for years, overgrown grass grows through its rusty metal bars, which are a good ten inches apart.

  When a hand unexpectedly shoots up through one of these bars and a ghostly curl of white breath appears, a wary barn owl, caught unawares, screeches in alarm, before taking to the sky. Unlike the laboured breathing that can be heard below ground, the owl’s wings are as silent as a whisper as its creamy underbelly disappears into the night.

  A tantalising glimpse of that setting sun is also visible through the bars on the metal grill, but it does little to alleviate the dark and depressing conditions of the underground cellar. The stooped figure of Vivian, wearing the same red dress that Natalie wore on her date with Daniel, gazes out of the grill to stare longingly at the sky. Her hands are wrapped like the claws of a dying wisteria around the metal bars. The stench is overwhelming. Blood. Stale urine. Human excrement. Death. But all that goes unnoticed by the woman in the cellar, whose yellowing bloodshot eyes are full of hatred. And something else perhaps—a steely determination that lends her super human strength.

  As if to prove this, she slips her right side between the two metal bars of the grill and grimaces, before deliberately dislocating her shoulder in a quick torturous jerking movement, resulting in the sickening snap of bone. Although her eyes glaze over in agony, she is no amateur. Escaping her prison cell is something she has done many times before. As thin as she is, even she cannot pass through the narrow gap yet. Taking in a quick succession of deep breaths, she braces herself, before biting down on her dirt-streaked hand. Then, crying out in pain, she expertly dislocates the other shoulder.

  The pain is indescribable, but she is at last able to slide her emaciated body through the gap in the bars to claw her way out of the cellar, grasping at clumps of soil and grass for leverage. Once on firm ground, she collapses in a dishevelled heap but does not waste time relishing the feel of clean air on her ravaged skin. Instead, she trains her eyes on the house by the sea.

  Pulling herself into a sitting position, she glances down at her arms, which dangle uselessly by her side. Baring what loose, rotten teeth she has left she relocates first her right shoulder, then her left, never making a sound, before passing out.

  The House By The Sea

  Natalie

  The creak of the rocking chair on the porch decking reminds me of old bones. I do not dwell on whether I will make old bones. Why should I live when the others have died? But I do not stop rocking either. The movement is comforting. This must be what it is like for Darkly when I rock her in my arms. Having finally lost the battle to stay awake, she is asleep in the Moses basket at the side of my bed. I want to keep her with me always, but she will not sleep soundly anywhere else. I am missing her warm little body already.

  I desperately miss my father and Merry too, but I cannot think of the latter without being reminded of the birthmark or what happened to her. My God, as long as I live, I will never forget what I saw. They turned her into a slab of meat.

  It dawns on me that I am in the same boat as my mother and father were all those years ago. If I leave here, or if I talk, someone will get hurt. The thought of the villagers taking Darkly from me fills me with dread. I want more than anything to flee this vile, unspeakable place but she keeps me here. If I betray them, as my father did, I will be killed, as he was. If I do nothing, I am safe. I can stay. But I do not know what conditions will be attached to my safety, nor what plans they have for my mother. No doubt I will find out.

  I am not blind to the fact that I started off with the rocking chair turned the other way, facing the direction of the cliff edge, but that it has somehow turned full circle; because I am now staring at the whitewashed building where my mother is kept. But I am not ready to face her yet.

  Instead, I think about the way Jed and I parted earlier today. Although we kissed at the last moment, as if to pretend our argument was forgotten, it was a kiss that lacked passion or conviction. Having said our goodbyes, I watched him set off dejectedly along the coastal path, carrying a holdall packed with some of my father’s clothes, wondering why I didn’t feel sorrow at his going. I still do not understand why I should feel so differently towards him. It’s not as if he is to blame for my father’s death and God knows, Jed has suffered too.

  I suspect my indifference is down to the words he voiced about my mother. I do not share his belief that
a mental institution is the right place for her, but as for his assumption that I still believe her capable of leading a normal life—he has no idea how wrong he is.

  I must have drifted off to sleep in the rocking chair, because when my eyes flicker open, I become aware of two things at once—it is much darker than it was and something is wrong. When I hear the crackly sound of Nina Simone’s ‘I Put A Spell On You’ coming from inside the house, I know I am right.

  Warily, I get to my feet, and approach the house. Because I am barefoot, I tread lightly, without making so much as a creaking noise on the porch decking, but the mesh door gives me away with an unearthly screech. Once inside, I glance around, but nothing appears amiss. The house is exactly as I left it. Except for the music.

  Following the haunting vocals of Nina Simone, I listen to the words of my mother’s favourite song as if I am hearing them for the first time, turning them over in my mind as if they are the key to everything that has happened. Peering into the darkened living room, I see the record turning around on the player, and a cold chill runs down my spine.

  ‘Mother?’ I squeak, having momentarily lost my voice.

  Terrified, in case she should jump out at me, to attack me the same way she did Merry, my eyes dart this way and that, but a quick sweep of the room convinces me she is not hiding in here, so I take a few cautious steps inside. That she was here earlier, I am in no doubt. The record is proof of that. Nobody but my mother would have chosen that song. Marching over to the record player, I rip away its arm, causing the needle to scratch on vinyl. As soon as the music ends, an uneasy silence takes its place. Sighing, because I do not think I could have listened to those words a second longer, it hits me that my fear is as much of a pretender as I am, because the truth is I am no longer afraid of my mother.