The Butcher's Daughter

by Jane E James

  ‘Get them off me,’ he screams, momentarily paralysed with fear.

  Realising no one is coming to help him. Not now. Not ever. He claws madly at the intestines. When his fingernails fill with their soft meaty goo, he retches and brings up a foul-smelling liquid from the pit of his stomach. Angrily kicking his way free of the entrails, he crouches down low, wiser to what is going on. Only when he is certain there is nothing immediately above his head does he dare swing the lantern around the rest of the room.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ He gasps in horror.

  Attached to every meat hook is a human part of some kind or other. A slice of chest, an arm, part of a hand with a gold ring on its wedding finger. Backing further away, until his spine comes into contact with the wall, Daniel senses there is something even more horrible waiting for him in the darkness. Filled with a terrible foreboding, he slowly turns his head and his heart stops when he sees a pair of glassy, bloodshot eyes staring back at him through a pair of cracked spectacles. The look of surprise on the dead man’s face matches his own but Daniel immediately recognises the owner of the decapitated head.

  Bob Black’s head swaying from side to side brings Daniel out in a cold sweat. The metal hook has been driven straight through his face, exiting through the hole that was once his mouth. Only part of the face remains, but both eyes, eerily turned on Daniel, survive.

  ‘Fuck this.’

  Making up his mind to get the hell out of there, while he still can, Daniel is about to make a dash for the door when he hears muffled cries coming from the cellar below. Knowing somebody is down there changes everything.

  It could be Natalie. The soon-to-be mother of his child.

  The flickering flame of the oil lantern goes out when Daniel is only halfway down the ladder. Closing his eyes, he holds his breath. The luck he’s been having, he should have guessed this would happen. The murmurings that led him down here have stopped but he continues down the ladder anyway, certain that somebody is down here. There is no going back, he tells himself, no matter what happens.

  As soon as his feet hit the cellar floor, he fumbles with the oil lantern, panicking when he cannot relight it. That’s when he hears a scraping sliding noise coming from a far corner. He likens it to the sound of a corpse being dragged along the floor. This spurs him on to have another go at the lantern and after discarding several dud matches, which all go out the second they are lit, he finds one that works long enough to get it alight.

  When the glow of the lantern falls on a bare foot, Daniel freezes. But just as quickly, the foot is whipped away again, retreating into the shadows. Daniel’s heart is racing so fast he thinks he might have a heart attack. The thought of dying down here sobers him.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Daniel calls softly, afraid of his own voice.

  There it is again, the same muffled cry he heard earlier. Stumbling forward, he holds the lantern out in front of him in the hope that it will act as a barrier to whatever he meets.

  At last he sees her. Trussed up like an animal—gagged, bound and huddled in the corner, her knees drawn up to her chest. At least she is alive, he consoles himself, fighting back angry tears. Her eyes, so familiar they are heartbreaking to see, roll around in her head as if they cannot take in what they are seeing; but they appeal for help at the same time.

  ‘Mam. Oh my God. Mam.’

  Hurrying towards her, he pulls madly at the ropes, hoping to free her, but they are bound tightly and she flinches whenever he touches her. Clearly, she is in an excruciating amount of pain. He doesn’t want to think about how long she might have been left like this but the smell of stale urine on her clothing indicates she has been down here some time. He rips away the gaffer tape from her mouth, knowing that this will also cause pain.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ he demands as soon as her mouth is free.

  Before she can reply, they hear the creaking hinges of the trap door being lowered and they turn at the same time to see who is there. Just before the trap door closes on them, Daniel catches a glimpse of the woman’s straggly long hair and black eyes. He also gets to see her cold unforgiving face for the first time.

  ‘My God, Natalie. Why?’ he screams.

  The Whitewashed Building

  Natalie

  It is done. They can harm us no more. Not Daniel, who will never again threaten me with his belt, nor his bullying mother who, in the later stages of her confinement, reminded me of the pig who frantically tried to scrabble its way out of the slaughterhouse. As for Bob Black, he had to be dead before I would go anywhere near him.

  Ignoring the muffled cries coming from the cellar, I slide the butcher’s block back over the trap door. It is heavy, and I am feeling weak, exhausted even, but I drum up the strength from somewhere to get the job finished. The banging on the trap door takes me back once again to the night my father was slaughtered like an animal on his own property. If I shut my eyes, I can hear the villagers thumping on the walls of our house, demanding first that my mother be sent out to them, and then years later, my father too.

  I peer curiously at the ground beneath my feet, wondering what is going on down there, but my interest is a passing one, mild at that. Noisily hacking up a mouthful of phlegm, I take great pleasure in spitting it out on the floor, right where I imagine their heads to be. Not a very ladylike gesture, I admit, but it feels fitting for the occasion. If my father were here, I know he would applaud my action.

  ‘Put two rats together and starve them,’ I declare, dusting my hands together in a triumphant gesture, ‘they end up eating each other. That’s Frank’s Law.’

  Little Downey

  Spring is over. Summer is on its way. I hope it will not be a scorcher again, like last year. The yellow time of year has passed. The daffodils, primroses, and dandelions are all gone. I will miss the bleating of the newborn lambs but look forward to the red, white, and blue month of May, which we are now entering. Every day I spot something different in the hedgerow— an early red orchid or white cow parsley. I am not so keen on the bluebells in the woods. They remind me of my mother-in-law’s eyes. I can’t picture those small blue eyes without thinking of the pig in the slaughterhouse scrambling to be free.

  Putting that memory to one side, I cycle down the hill past The Black Bull public house, but I do not look inside its darkened windows to find out if I am being watched. I know that all eyes will be on me. Even the lone fisherman preparing to launch his boat in the bay does a double take when he sees me. Despite feeling anxious about what today will bring, I find the constant clicking of the wheels on the road reassuring. I might be in charge but my mother’s old shopper seems to have a life of its own, as if it knows where it is going.

  The lingering smell of beer coming from the pub makes me think of my father. I can’t help wishing he were here to enjoy a warm frothy bitter. He wouldn’t consider eight o’clock in the morning too early for a pint. I miss him every day, my mother less so. Memories of her are spoiled, tainted forever. Sometimes I think it would have been better for everyone if she really had gone over the cliff edge that day.

  This is my new life, I keep reminding myself. Those who would hurt us are gone and there is nothing to fear anymore. Nobody can touch me now, unless… but that is unlikely to happen as Jed no longer exists in my world. This new world of mine is not exactly what I wanted it to be, but for my family’s sake I must embrace it. There is nowhere else for us to go. Little Downey is us or we are Little Downey—whichever way you look at it, the result is the same. We belong here as much as anybody else, I think defiantly, attacking the pedals with renewed vigour. So far, we have kept our distance from the villagers, but today that changes. I need them to fall under my spell as Jed and Merry once did. As Bob Black did; more fool him. If we are to survive here, we must fit in.

  Perhaps because of this, I begin to see beauty in Little Downey for the first time. I have always loved the surrounding coastal countryside, but until now, the village has only ever symbolised ugliness and evil to
me. Picking up speed, as the road takes another dip, I free-wheel past a row of pretty cottages that nudge their way onto the street, as if they crave attention from passers-by. Painted pastel shades of blue, yellow and pink, they have walled gardens in the same-coloured stone. At this time of the morning, the village is usually silent, but today it is alive with activity; as if it knows change is on its way. There is a twitch at every net curtain as I continue my journey. The sun, high in the sky behind me, acts like a giant hand, propelling me forward, in case I chicken out.

  There is a small huddle of villagers up ahead. Obviously, word of what is about to happen has got around already, which was my intention after all. At first, I fear that they will bar my way but as soon as I ring the bell on my bike, they move aside. Relieved to discover they are no threat to me, my courage soars.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Blackwell. How are you?’ I enquire chirpily, taking the tall woman by surprise. I can guess what she is thinking, the bloody audacity of her.

  ‘Mr Edwards. Lovely morning, isn’t it?’

  I cannot resist tormenting them. It is not as if they do not deserve it. It is worth it, to see them staring at me in open-mouthed amazement. They know my story. They are aware of what I have done but because of who and what I am, they must tolerate me as best they can. If they are to carry on as they have always done, they need me, as they needed my father before me, especially now Daniel is no longer around. Little Downey has always been good at covering up deaths. There was no inquest after my father died, nor was there one when Daniel and his mother disappeared. A tragic accident, I believe they called it.

  ‘You’re looking well, Mrs Gibbs.’ I nod at one of Daniel’s most loyal customers.

  Instantly, she becomes like a statue; afraid of being singled out. She needn’t bother. I have only one thing on my mind. There it is, looking exactly as I imagined it would—

  It is over nine months since I last saw it. During that time, I have meticulously planned and organised its refurbishment, but this is the first time I have ventured into the village to see it for myself. The absence of a butcher’s shop in the village must have driven the villagers crazy, but the wait is over.

  Braking sharply, I come to a stop in the street, feeling unexpectedly tearful and emotional. I have worked so hard and it looks, well… beautiful.

  The green paintwork suits its surroundings and the candy-striped canopy, which makes me think of my father’s favourite boiled sweets, gives it a picture postcard feel. You could argue that it looks more like a florist than a butcher’s shop, but I tell myself this is not a bad thing. The new sign is up; right above the shop door where the old one used to hang. “Frank Powers and Daughter” it says.

  As I tie an apron around my waist, I glance around the shop with pride. Everything sparkles like new—the glass counter, the seaside rock-striped walls and the shutters which let in glimpses of natural sunlight even when they are closed. In one corner, where the rusty old freezer used to stand, there is a sofa, where customers can help themselves to a coffee and a homemade sausage roll. My eyes do not linger on the cuts of meat on display, which bear the familiar “Slaughtered in Little Downey” stamp, but the dried herbs that dangle down from the ceiling to replace those awful meat hooks, do get my approval.

  Timidly, as if fearful of annoying anyone, a man steps out of an internal door marked “Private. Staff only” and jumps in alarm when he sees me. Sam is a small, nervous man, prone to bouts of depression. He doesn’t say much but he is always extremely polite and well mannered. Unassuming, he is calming to be around and more importantly, he is no gossip. Perhaps because of this, I trust him in a way I never expected to.

  ‘Hello, Sam,’ I say shyly.

  ‘Mrs Har…Har..per. Miss Pow…ers.’ Sam has a stutter, which comes and goes, according to his mood. ‘I don’t know what to call you,’ he admits finally, with no trouble at all.

  ‘Natalie will do just fine,’ I tell him, knowing that he will never address me as such. He would see this as taking liberties.

  Peering out of one of the gaps in the shuttered windows, I see a crowd has gathered outside. The way they squawk amongst themselves reminds me of a wake of vultures. Fearing I might lose my nerve, I turn to Sam for reassurance, but he offers none, just stands up a bit taller, which kind of has the same effect. Releasing the wooden louver blind with a nervous ping, I turn the sign on the door to open and take my place behind the counter. There is little I can do about my trembling hands, which show me up as the imposter I am.

  First to enter is the pub landlady, who has the aura of a faded movie star about her. I watch her bosom-barge her way past the other middle-aged ladies, who suck in their breaths in an insulted fashion, but nevertheless fall obediently in line behind her.

  Little Downey eyes, all of them.

  I cannot remember her name, but I do know that she always had a soft spot for my father, so I am hoping she will be kind to me.

  ‘Mrs Owen,’ I squeak, suddenly remembering her surname.

  ‘Natalie.’ She gives nothing away.

  As I wait for her to place an order, I find myself staring at the large gold earrings which jangle against her solid neck. When I see that they also have Sam’s attention, I smile inwardly. This is exactly the sort of thing to put his fragile nerves on edge.

  ‘What will it be?’ Sam barks impatiently, as if we are taking up far too much of his time. His authority takes us all by surprise.

  ‘I’ll have a pound of sausages, please,’ the landlady cowers at Sam’s strict tone but her eyes seek out mine, insistent upon me personally serving her.

  Rising to the challenge, I slip on a pair of gloves and weigh and wrap up the sausages without making too much of a hash of it. But when I eventually hand the packet over, I become aware that everyone’s critical eyes are on me.

  ‘Will that be all?’ I gulp.

  ‘And four slices of that smoked bacon.’ Defiantly, she points to the glass counter.

  She raises an over-plucked eyebrow when I deliberately add an extra rasher of bacon to her order. Knowing that this will get tongues wagging, I ring up the purchase on the till. It is a long time since I helped my father in the shop but I remember everything he taught me.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband and mother-in-law,’ the pub landlady says, her blunt face softening a fraction. ‘Some sort of accident, wasn’t it?’

  I smile as if I am in agreement with her but refuse to be drawn on the subject.

  ‘I have a little something special out back,’ I offer cautiously, carefully choosing my words. ‘If you’re interested, that is.’

  It feels to me as if the whole shop— me, Sam and the landlady included, all share the same meaningful look. When she nods enthusiastically, I slide my eyes in Sam’s direction, hardly daring to believe we could have won them over this easily.

  ‘Sam?’

  Dragging his feet in an unhurried way, as if he doesn’t want to miss anything, Sam disappears into the back room, quietly closing the door behind him.

  ‘You’re your father’s daughter all right, Natalie,’ the pub landlady squeals excitedly, her shopping bag open at the ready. As if she had always been on my side, she nods importantly to those queuing behind her.

  When Sam comes back through with the parcel of meat, I hand it to her without looking at it. Without so much as a thank you, it disappears into her bag. She rummages around in her handbag, for what seems like forever, before eventually taking out her purse.

  ‘Why don’t I put that on your account.’ I wave the purse away.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  I watch her almost blush with pleasure as the purse speedily finds its way back into the crammed handbag. Gesturing to the shopping bag dangling by her side, I cough deliberately, to draw attention to what I am about to say.

  ‘You will find nothing has changed since my father’s day,’ I declare loudly.

  The House By The Sea

  Having been born angry, the baby never stop
s crying. The only time he settles is when I drive the thirteen miles to the next village where the child minder lives. Once there, he is as good as gold. Is it my fault? I ask myself for the hundredth time. I am seriously starting to believe that babies can be born hating their parents. No matter what I try to do with him, like change his nappy or bottle feed him, he fights me at every opportunity. I can’t think why my father ever longed for a boy. They are horrid, I decide.

  Because I have insisted on changing his nappy, he is bawling his head off. I pace the kitchen, doing all the things I am supposed to do, like patting him on the back to bring up wind and removing his Babygro so he is free to kick his legs, but all to no avail.

  Darkly plays with her toys on the floor but sometimes frowns at me, as if she thinks I am deliberately making her little brother cry. In these moments, she is so like Merry, I have to catch my breath. When did the child get to be so grown up? In my mind, she is not yet four, but she appears older; could easily be mistaken for a five-year-old.

  Turning my attention back to my squawking son, I ask myself if he is like this because I couldn’t breastfeed him. There was a good reason for that, but it’s not something I like to think about. Not then. Not now. Darkly was such a good baby. Easy in comparison. Although they are different, they do share similarities—they each have the same strawberry-pink birthmark on their back.

  When the frying pan on the hob bubbles and splatters, I put the baby down in his bouncy chair and he immediately stops crying. I want to call him names, but that would not be nice. He is just a baby, after all. Stepping over Darkly’s toys, I go over to the range and take the frying pan off the heat, keeping one eye on the baby, who is contentedly dribbling on his fingers and staring wide eyed around the room.

  Turning my attention back to the frying pan, just in time as it happens, a blob of burning hot oil splatters out of the pan onto my hand.