The Butcher's Daughter

by Jane E James

  Waving enthusiastically, I prompt Darkly to wave too, and she responds energetically.

  ‘We are the perfect wife and daughter, aren’t we?’ I chuckle, delighted by how innocent we must appear, yet another part of me suspects that my laughter borders on the manic.

  ‘Perfic,’ Darkly agrees, trying out the new word for the first time and finding it funny.

  We are still laughing when Daniel rips the charm necklace from the steering wheel and tosses it into the long grass. Getting back into the truck, he slams the door shut and speeds away, kicking up a cloud of vengeful dust behind him.

  As soon as he is gone, I feel my face settling into a scowl. Luckily, Darkly does not notice. She goes on waving.

  ‘That’s it. Wave goodbye to your father, Darkly,’ I tell her ominously.

  Swirls of black smoke spur me into action. Once again, I have been sitting at the kitchen table staring into space, unaware of what is going on around me. When I finally realise the toast is burning, I rescue it from the toaster and singe my fingers in the process.

  ‘Damn it,’ I exclaim, annoyed with myself for having drifted away. I have a child and one on the way, I remind myself, I need to start acting responsibly. That’s partly why I stopped taking my medication again. They can’t be good for me, let alone the baby.

  At this point, my eyes swing to Darkly, who is sitting in her booster seat at the opposite end of the table. I remember leaving her munching on cereal; using her chubby little fingers to scoop out the honeyed loops from the milk. But, looking at her now, I see that her expression has changed to one of anger, and something else that I can’t quite put a name to. Not yet anyway.

  I think she is about to cry angry tears but she surprises me by swiping the plastic bowl of cereal to the floor, milk splattering everywhere. Like blood from a deep cut.

  Drip. Splat. Drip.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I implore.

  ‘No like. Want sausages,’ she demands, petulantly pointing to the fridge.

  ‘You can’t have sausages for breakfast, sweetheart,’ I tell her. ‘Mama will do you some nice new toast.’

  ‘Want sausages.’ Darkly confronts me as another adult might.

  Noticing at last that there is an icy blueness to Darkly’s eyes that wasn’t there before, I feel a dreadful sense of foreboding. Every day, I have been hoping to see a hint of darkness creep into her eyes, which would make her more like me, or even a flash of green, inherited from Merry, but I realise, with a sickening dread, that this is never going to happen. I have seen enough pairs of Little Downey eyes not to know them for what they are.

  I fly into action when Darkly screams. Banging her fists on the table, and flinging her head about, her eyes never leave my face as she watches me take out a packet of sausages from the fridge. Under pressure to speed up, I take out a frying pan and move towards the hob, but this only makes her cry louder. By now, her face is red and ugly, with angry tears spilling down her cheeks. I have never seen her like this before. In this moment, she reminds me of my mother-in-law.

  ‘What’s wrong? I thought you wanted sausages.’

  As soon as I am close enough, her chubby little fists grab for the sausages. This urge for meat terrifies me. Knowing that this is no ordinary tantrum, I obediently hand over the uncooked sausages and watch, sickened, as my little girl ravenously sinks her teeth into the raw flesh, ripping through the packaging in her haste to get at it. I cannot bear to see the look of pure pleasure that passes over her face when she swallows her first mouthful.

  Chapter 67

  Dr Moses once assured me that the desire to get one’s own back on those who hurt us is a natural emotion. He was referring to how I felt about my mother and father, and my abandonment issues, but nothing about the way I feel now could ever be described as natural. I want to lash out at every person in Little Downey for what they have done to Darkly.

  She might not be my biological daughter, but she is mine in every way that matters. I would do anything for her. The desire for revenge is taking me over, filling me with a cold and ruthless determination that I didn’t know I was capable of. Now that my old memories have also come flooding back, I remember promising myself that I would one day take my revenge for what the villagers did to my parents. That time is now. The slaughterhouse and Bob Black might be where my story began but I decide how it ends.

  As soon as the van pulls up outside, I am out of the house with a seductive smile painted on my face, ready to greet Bob Black. He is in as much of a hurry as I am, I can tell, because in our rush, our bodies almost collide on the porch. I make sure this is where he stays. If I have anything to do with it, he will never step foot inside my father’s house again. I cannot believe how easy he is making everything for me. He does not suspect me at all. The clues are there but he chooses not to see them. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  ‘I came as soon as I could, Natalie,’ he says breathlessly. ‘Where’s the tramp?’

  ‘He ran in there.’ I point towards the whitewashed building. ‘I caught him looking at me through the window,’ I add, feigning a timidity that I do not feel.

  This admission immediately gets his attention. It takes a voyeur to know one, I suppose. I watch him standing there, red-faced, and sweaty, with his hands on his hips, hands that have mercilessly slaughtered many living things, including my own father, looking at me the way he has always looked at me—since I was a little girl. He used to look at my mother the same way, I remember. Like a piece of meat. A habit of his that got my father’s back up.

  Having deliberately changed into cut-off shorts and a tight T-shirt, his eyes unapologetically roam my body. Boldly, I stare back, saying nothing, which he seems to take as an invitation to keep on gawping. This is fine with me, for now, I decide. Let him look. I almost laugh when his glasses fog up and slip further down his sweltering nose.

  ‘Did you manage to get hold of Daniel?’ Bob drags his eyes away from my crotch to glance over at what used to be my father’s workshop; not a trace of remorse evident on his face.

  ‘He’s not answering his mobile.’ I shrug. ‘I’m guessing he’s out on a delivery.’

  ‘You stay inside and lock the door,’ Bob insists. ‘If there is anybody about still. They won’t get past me.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I gush. Then, with a hint of sarcasm that I cannot keep from my voice— ‘I hope you brought your gun.’

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I picture this horrible little man aiming a bolt gun at my father’s head. How I manage to keep on smiling, I do not know, but the horror of that night must show on my face, because he is frowning at me, as if he suspects me of something. Acting quickly, Merry would be proud of me, I stretch provocatively and push my thumbs into the belt loops of my shorts, tugging them further down and exposing more flesh. I am no longer a girl, I realise. I am a woman who can use her body to get what she wants. I have had sex and experienced desire for a man, so I know how to do this. When I see what impact this has on him, I know he is putty in my hands.

  ‘Don’t need no gun to scare off a tramp,’ he boasts, puffing out his own chest.

  The inside of my father’s old workshop has had a fresh coat of paint and the ever-present stink of rotting meat has disappeared; gone forever, I hope. Sunlight leaks in through the new glass windows to light up the building but this deception does not fool me. For me, this will always be a dark savage place—the home of my childhood nightmares. Even now, relics of the past remain. Meat hooks sway above my head, clanging ominously like church bells and the butcher’s block and the cutting tools are still here, although I notice straight away that one piece is missing from the set. Who could have taken it?

  Bob doesn’t hear me come in. He’s too busy congratulating himself on spotting the dust scrapes on the floor where the butcher’s block has been moved.

  ‘So that’s where you’ve been hiding.’ He harrumphs, staring at the secret trap door.

  He has no idea I am standing behind
him. I watch him tug a packet of Silk Cut out of his pocket and stick a crumpled cigarette into his mouth. Lighting it, he takes a long drawn-out drag, relishing the hit of tobacco. I have never smoked but I know what it is like to battle with addiction and I envy him his relief. He puffs a few smoke rings in the air before deciding to tackle the heavy trap door. The creak of it being lifted sends a chill up my spine.

  Don’t expect too much, Natalie. The years haven’t been kind to her.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ I enquire innocently.

  Dropping the trap door, Bob Black swings around to face me, a look of panic in his eyes.

  ‘Jesus. You gave me a scare. I thought I told you to stay indoors. It’s not safe for you to be out here. Not with a lunatic about.’ As if realising what he has said, he grimaces and runs a hand through his dishevelled hair. ‘No offence, Natalie,’ he apologises awkwardly.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he meant it.

  ‘None taken.’ I shrug.

  ‘It wasn’t a dig at you,’ he assures me, turning his back on me once again, to concentrate on who or what might be down in the cellar. ‘I mean, you’re one of us.’

  He lifts open the trap door again, and I advance on him, slowly. There is no hurry. I have waited a long time for this moment. Images of my father going down on the first resounding crack of the bolt gun and Darkly gnawing on raw meat flood my mind. Strangely, I feel the same excitement building in me that I sensed in the villagers on the night they butchered my father.

  ‘Aren’t I just,’ I mumble, bringing out the missing butcher’s saw from behind my back.

  The House By The Sea

  Daniel

  The kitchen is in darkness. The lack of any welcome and absence of cooking smells puts Daniel in an even worse mood than he was in before. When he switches on the light, to reveal a messy kitchen, an angry scowl spreads across his face.

  ‘Natalie?’ he calls menacingly.

  When his foot knocks against something on the floor, he bends down to investigate a plastic cereal bowl, which smells of sour milk, before hurling it across the room.

  ‘Natalie?’ he shouts, his frustration building.

  Altogether, it’s been a long day. He’s hot, thirsty, tired, and hungry; in exactly that order. And to top it off, Natalie decides to do a runner. Today of all days. Shrugging, he walks over to the fridge and opens it. Taking out a carton of orange juice, he drinks straight from it, not bothering with a glass. Once he’s slaked his thirst, his mind turns to food. Peering into the fridge, he grabs the remaining half of a pork pie and shoves it in his mouth. It won’t satisfy his hunger for long, but it will do for now. He’s about to shut the fridge door and go in search of Natalie when he spots something odd.

  On the lower shelf of the fridge there is a large tongue resting on a folded-up piece of kitchen towel which has turned pink from absorbing blood. At first, he thinks it must be a pig’s tongue, but wonders where Natalie could have got hold of one. She certainly hasn’t asked him to bring one home. Taking it out of the fridge, he balances it on one hand, clearly puzzled by it. On closer inspection, he decides it is too small to have come from any pig. Besides, most pig tongues are covered in grey fat. This one is made up almost entirely of lean meat and is bright pink in comparison.

  When the strong smell of tobacco reaches his nostrils, he drops the tongue on the floor and spits out his last mouthful of pork pie.

  ‘Natalie!’ he screams, heading for the stairs.

  Having checked all the upstairs rooms for signs of Natalie and finding none, Daniel comes hurtling back down the stairs again, this time too fast for his own legs to keep up. When he catches sight of a woman in a red dress with wild hair and bloodied limbs disappearing into the kitchen, he loses his balance and concentration.

  ‘What the fuck.’

  Daniel trips and tumbles down the last few steps. On landing, his head meets up with the stone floor. The last thing he sees before passing out is a woman’s face bending over him, her long black hair dangling down to tickle his face.

  The House By The Sea

  Natalie

  Like a good wife, I dutifully tidy the kitchen, returning it to its usual order. The look on Daniel’s face when he saw the tongue was priceless. If only he could have seen himself. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard. Yet, knowing how dangerous my husband can be, I keep one eye on him through the doorway, where he is sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, a streak of crimson dripping from his forehead onto the floor.

  Drip. Splat. Drip.

  He shows no sign of recovery yet. No matter. I can wait. Picking up Bob Black’s tongue from the kitchen floor, I look at it, all shrivelled up in my fingers and count my blessings. It will never come out to poke lustfully at any other young girl.

  Returning to the hallway, I bend down and balance the tongue on Daniel’s chest, terrified he will regain consciousness and catch me. If that should happen, there is no telling what he might do. He is much stronger than I am, at least physically. I would be lucky if I survived this night at all. The best I could hope for would be a permanent return to Thornhaugh.

  Even with one leg awkwardly tucked up under him, he looks peaceful lying there. When his cold blue eyes are not visible, like now, his blond hair and youthful features lend him an air of innocence. It’s a shame he couldn’t have been a better man. Better father. Better husband. Had he have been any of those things, I could have forgiven him a lot.

  Placing a silent kiss on his forehead, right on top of his wound, I taste his blood for the first time and leave it there on my lip as a gruesome reminder of our fake marriage and all the lies that have been spun. Knowing he hates his fringe getting in his eyes, I even stroke away a few strands of hair, so it won’t bother him.

  ‘When you wake up, you know where to find me,’ I whisper in his ear.

  The House By The Sea

  Daniel

  The shadowy figure moves away, leaving Daniel unsure as to whether he wants it to return or not. Vaguely, he remembers someone caressing his forehead and whispering in his ear. As yet, he doesn’t remember what happened or why he is lying at the bottom of the stairs. Did he fall? Pass out? All he knows is, his head hurts like fuck. When he reaches up to touch it and his hand comes away covered in blood, he sits up in shock. But that makes everything worse. Feeling as if he might pass out again, Daniel is about to flop back down on the floor when he sees the bloody tongue resting in his lap.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he shrieks, flipping the tongue off him and scrambling to his feet.

  Staggering from the hallway into the kitchen, he remains dazed and confused, but bits of what happened quickly come back to him. Coming home. Natalie missing. The fridge. The human tongue. A smoker’s tongue, he corrects himself. Who does he know that smokes?

  ‘Natalie, where are you?’ he calls desperately.

  This time, when he flicks the light switch, the lights in the kitchen do not come on. So, he lurches back into the hall and tries the lights in here. The same happens. Nothing works. Guessing that the electricity supply has deliberately been disconnected, he groans aloud and stumbles towards the door. Once he is outside in the fresh air, he feels a little better; less nauseous. When he sees the woman in the red dress running through a pathway of lit candles towards the whitewashed building, he lashes out at the air around him.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he yells in disbelief.

  When he sees a light come on in the building, instinct tells him to follow.

  When you wake up, you know where to find me.

  The first thing Daniel sees when he swings open the door to the whitewashed building is a large rat sitting on the butcher’s block. It appears to be nibbling on something and doesn’t show any fear of him, not even when it turns its small black eyes in his direction. Knowing this to be an unnatural reaction, Daniel shudders. Grabbing a cleaver from the other end of the butcher’s block, he creeps up on the rat and, taking it by surprise, whacks it, sends it flyi
ng across the room. He hears the rat falling to the floor, followed by an angry hiss and the scurrying of clawed feet as it runs for cover. For one terrifying moment, Daniel thinks it is going to come back and attack him, but thankfully it does not.

  As his eyes adapt to the dimly lit room, he feels safer in his surroundings. But then he reminds himself that he is not alone. He saw her come in here. Where can she be hiding? Surely not down in the cellar? She’d have to be crazy to do something like that. But then again, he mustn’t forget that she is and always has been crazy.

  Swatting away flies, the place is full of them, he sees the telltale scrapes on the floor where the butcher’s block has been moved. He knows that the trap door has recently been opened because it is clear of cobwebs and dust. Not so the butcher’s block, which is covered in some sort of sticky substance. Deciding that this must be what the rat was feasting on, Daniel scoops some out with his finger, noticing that it has sharp bits in it that prick his skin. Grabbing the oil lantern from the windowsill, he holds it over the butcher’s block and stumbles backwards when he realises he is looking at a mass of splintered bone, fragments of ventricle and cerebral fluid; the kind found in the human brain.

  Before Daniel can open his mouth to scream, something drips onto his face. Blinking madly, he glances up to see a thick coil of red, green and purple tubular intestines, dangling from a meat hook above his head. The stench is horrendous. The blood and liquid seeping onto his face even more so.

  In Daniel’s haste to flee, he accidentally knocks the lantern against the meat hook, and the intestines drop down to coil around his shoulders.