The Butchers

by Ruth Gilligan

‘So when does college start?’ It wasn’t until Con spoke that Davey remembered all over again what today was really about. The offers wouldn’t arrive until Monday, but already he knew he would be given his first choice.

  ‘September.’ He shifted where he sat. He could feel the hay poking the back of his head. It was like a feather piercing the cotton of a pillowcase only this was all the feathers at once.

  ‘You must be excited.’

  As if to contrast the current vista, Davey replied by describing the photographs he had seen in the university prospectus – the ancient stone buildings; the gargoyles licking up the black fumes of the city’s traffic-teeming heart. ‘I’ll wake every morning without the smell of shite for breakfast or the groans from the cattle getting milked.’ Davey stopped. He hoped he wasn’t being offensive. He noticed, yet again, Con’s neck.

  Next he described the course itself – lectures on Latin and Greek; seminars devoted to Roman literature and thought – and Davey was so grateful to Con for just listening; for allowing his excitement to run away with him for once. ‘Then outside class I’ll need to get a job, but I can see my friends after that. I hear the Dublin bars are deadly.’ Davey paused, then he dared himself a little further. ‘I hear there’s a savage gay scene. Although I suppose compared to a flagon in a field anything is savage, what?’

  He glanced to his right. He had gone too far. He wondered if he was already a little tipsy. A wasp buzzed in greedy for a taste so Davey tried to swat it away.

  ‘Davey, I’m excited for you …’ When Con finally spoke, his tone didn’t really match his words. Davey thought of that shadow of darkness back at the gate. ‘It’s just … Don’t go pinning your hopes too high, OK?’

  Davey frowned. ‘What do you mean? I got the points. They’ll let me in, they just—’

  ‘No no.’ Con did his own kind of swatting. ‘I mean about Dublin. Don’t go thinking it’s some Promised Land. They like to believe they’re much more “modern” down there, but last time I visited I got called a fag and had my nose broken in two places. This is still fucking Ireland we’re talking about.’ To finish, Con made some emphatic hand gesture that knocked the bottle to its side. Straight away he righted it, but not before a pool of golden liquid flooded the grass.

  Eventually Con sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a bit jealous of your plans, that’s all. Everything’s such a mess.’

  Davey stared at the puddle. Very soon there would be ants.

  ‘It’s over, Davey. The Butchers have decided to give up.’

  Davey thought about reaching out his hand in sympathy. He wondered where exactly he would place it.

  ‘I’m going to stay with my brother while I figure things out, but I just … I’m still so angry about what happened.’

  At this, though, Davey’s hand stayed exactly where it was. ‘You mean what happened to Sol?’

  Con nodded.

  ‘You mean … it wasn’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We were told it was a Butchers’ tradition. A mourning ritual to hang a dead man by his feet.’ Davey was certain that this time he had gone too far. He thought how Con was close enough to break his nose in two places.

  He thought how beautiful Con looked when he laughed.

  And the sound alone was enough to confirm what Davey had always suspected. Con tossed his head back and there was more neck than ever. Davey wanted, so much, to place his lips upon that Adam’s apple. Not Eve’s; no, it had never been Eve’s. But when he opened his mouth, something else came out: ‘I keep thinking about this bit in the Iliad. It’s where Achilles cuts two holes in Hector’s heels and threads through two leather belts. Then he ties the belts to his chariot and drags the body around in the dirt.’ Davey paused. He knew he should be asking what the Butchers planned to do next; should be apologising for even half-believing the Bull’s awful lies.

  ‘Why did Achilles do that?’

  ‘Grief,’ Davey said. ‘His cousin Patroclus had died, stabbed in the stomach by Hector. Or, more likely, Achilles and Patroclus had been lovers. So in his heartache, Achilles defiled Hector’s body while his poor family had no choice but to watch.’

  Con shifted around so his head eclipsed the sun.

  Davey shifted so they were the same. ‘Come with me to Dublin.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’ll be OK.’

  ‘I know,’ he said again, as if he had a clue about anything.

  But when they finally kissed, Davey knew he was willing to learn; knew this was the real reason he would always remember today. Their tongues spelled goodbye in each other’s mouths as their hands reached for each other’s belts.

  He was willing now to try everything.

  ___________

  When he finally got home, Davey stared around the mess of the yard as if he barely recognised it. The hose lay flaccid and unfurled. The rusted barrels were orange and full of recent rain. The blue Fiesta was nowhere to be seen – his father must have finally sold it on. Davey could feel a bit of a breeze, though he was sure his blush wouldn’t have faded yet.

  In the kitchen, a raw lump of meat sat on a plate in a pool of pinkish water. Two flies were showing an interest, buzzing away then landing back again. Davey swallowed his guilt, which tasted of apples. The celebration lunch. At least, he supposed, nothing had actually been cooked.

  His limbs were still a bit tender as he took the stairs, certain he was leaving a trail of hay in his wake. He checked his own room and then he checked hers. The bed was made. There were no empty cups on the side only a Bible, the spine completely smooth, the red ribbon flopping out like a tongue.

  In the distance he heard Blackfoot barking. She was an old and noble thing, more part of the farm than Davey himself had ever been.

  On his way back through the kitchen the flies were gone.

  Already the sky had faded a little further, the daylight dragging downwards as if it weighed a ton. Inside the byre it was almost black. The smell was sweet oats and saddle soap. Over in the corner, next to his beloved cow, his father slouched in an anorak and wellie boots. Davey thought of that photographer from O’Connell’s trying to capture things ‘as they truly are’. It would have been a perfect picture.

  He stopped in the doorway, scuffing his final step to make sure that he was heard. He glanced at Glassy, the giant brown birthmarks patterned all across her warm white flank. She didn’t seem to pay his father much attention, but the feeling certainly wasn’t mutual. The old man leaned so hard on the railing Davey wondered if he was drunk.

  ‘How did you fare?’ The words arrived loudly, though the head didn’t turn around.

  Davey took a step forward and felt tiny grains of meal crush to dust beneath his feet. ‘I’m sorry about lunch. I got held up.’

  ‘Never mind, lad. But tell me – are you happy?’

  The question felt so profound it took Davey a moment to realise it was referring to his exam results. ‘I am.’ Then he remembered – Your father suggested we defrost the first of the Butchers’ cuts – so he tried something a bit more generous: ‘I’m really pleased, thank you.’

  He waited, not quite knowing what was supposed to happen next. The cow had started to chew, shunting her jaw in slow mechanical rotations. Eventually, his father pushed himself up and around. One glance told Davey he was more than sober. ‘Davey,’ he coughed. ‘Davey, lad, she’s gone.’

  And for some reason, Davey’s first thought was that his father was referring to one of the girls – a positive test from the BSE inspector, which meant the animal had been led away to the slaughterhouse.

  ‘I was at the shops. She had sent me down to pick up some last-minute bits for the dessert.’ The smell of the place grew stronger, the pens around them strewn with clods of damp hay. Davey felt the little lines across his skin where the golden stalks had scratched. He looked up. The byre roof was close to falling in.

  ‘She had a seizure. By the time I reached the
hospital it was too late. Her brain … the doctors said they did everything they could.’

  Behind Davey’s back, the sun had finally collapsed. In the darkness, the men’s silence made much more sense, though Davey could have stood there for ever and still not known what to say – not in English or Irish; not in Latin or Ancient Greek. Instead, he could only picture Achilles dragging that corpse through the muck, the dust caking black and rancid into the wounds. He knew he would have done the very same to any man, any Butcher, if he thought it might ease the pain.

  Úna

  County Cavan, September 1996

  It was hard to believe this day last year was her very first day of school. Úna could still remember the creases of her white shirt, fresh and stiff from the plastic packet; could still remember the swell of her gut, filled with porridge and delinquent butterflies. Amidst the anxiety, though, there had also been the buzz of possibilities. Of new friends and new beginnings. Of finding someone who would love to hear about her father and her Lego and her plan for the mouse.

  And now?

  Now her hair had grown back just enough to cover the tips of her ears. Úna had combed it down to be sure, grateful for the bit of warmth. Not that her classmates would care about that – they would only care about her weird new look, pointing and staring and calling the usual names.

  Cowgirl got a haircut!

  Úna rubbed the back of her neck. Without her ponytail, it felt exposed.

  The Baldy Butchers.

  Over the summer, she had tried to think about her playground encounter with Car McGrath. She still didn’t fully understand what had happened; what, in that moment, had come over her. When she made it home, she had brushed her teeth for hours, but the strangely sweet burger taste had stayed on her gums for days. She had returned the scissors to the kitchen drawer.

  This morning, though, when her parents weren’t looking, she had gone to the drawer and taken them back out; had hesitated then placed them in the pocket of her uniform. Again, she didn’t fully understand why, but as soon as she did she felt better. She knew part of it was to do with protection – if he did decide to come to school today, there was no doubt Car McGrath would be out for revenge.

  By now, Úna had reached the main door. Stepping inside, the noise was colossal, her classmates gabbing a million miles an hour, swapping summer stories and asking question after hurried question. Like who had gone on the most expensive holiday? Who had heard the village McDonald’s was finally shutting down? Who had listened to that deadly new band called the Spice Girls?

  I’m Scary.

  I’m Sporty.

  I’m Ginger.

  I’m not allowed to listen to ‘bloody Brits’.

  Úna cleaved to the walls as she worked her way along the corridor. The bell would go shortly for assembly then double English where they were starting some new book called A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. As she reached the lockers, Úna found all the young men gathered together and her butterflies braced so hard they smacked into her ribs.

  I’m Baby.

  I’m Posh.

  I’m in trouble now.

  Up close, Úna saw that most of the boys’ limbs had grown lanky over the break, white flashes of ankle and wrist poking out beneath their too-small uniforms. Meanwhile their faces bore flashes of pink where brand-new acne constellations had appeared. One or two bore the beginnings of stubble over their lips. It wasn’t clear which of them spotted her first, but the elbows started nudging and soon all the eyes were aimed in her direction. Car stopped whatever story he’d been telling – something about his big brother and a naggin of vodka. Úna saw his orange tufts had mostly faded. When he glanced over his shoulder, she saw the cut on his neck had mostly healed.

  Their stares met, though Car was yet to actually turn his body around.

  In the silence, Úna remembered the last words he had said to her.

  I thought you wanted …

  Most girls would …

  She still hadn’t figured out how exactly he’d been planning to finish that sentence off. She still hadn’t figured out why he’d thought she was suddenly like most girls.

  What the fuck is that?

  But at least Úna could feel the exact weight of the scissors in her pocket now; could remember the sensation of holding them against Car’s throat. She thought of a Butcher standing over a cow, looking it in the eye and letting it know who was in control. She thought how most girls hadn’t made Car McGrath beg for mercy.

  Úna, please …

  Úna, I’m sorry …

  ‘So the bird in the garage takes one look at my ID.’ When Car finally spoke, it had nothing to do with her. Instead, he had turned his head and resumed his story. ‘And she goes, “But you’re not Francis McGrath.”’ The other boys frowned in confusion, their eyes still trained on Úna, until the punchline commanded their attention. ‘Turns out she was the one who had given him a wank at the GAA club the week before!’

  Úna’s shirt stuck to her back as she walked away. In her pocket, she had been clutching the scissors so hard she had managed to break skin. She stuck her finger in her mouth and tasted metal on her tongue. She knew she wasn’t out of the woods just yet – Car had had the rest of the summer to plot his retribution, so there was a fair chance he was just saving his elaborate plan for later, maybe in front of the whole school during assembly or lunch break out in the yard.

  She imagined a bottle of extra-strength bleach poured over her head until it burned blisters across her scalp.

  She imagined a whole retinue of Big Macs forced down her throat until she choked to death.

  But by the time the bell rang out at the end of the day, there had been no plan, no sign of revenge. In fact, no one had so much as pointed or laughed or called her a single name. Úna couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten her sandwiches without any interruption or had asked to go to the loo without a chorus of ‘yee haws’.

  So finally she understood what had occurred that summer night – finally she understood that the violence had brought her what she’d always wanted. She smiled. She suspected they wouldn’t be bothering her any more. She closed her locker and headed for home. Already her gut felt different from this morning. The butterflies were gone – it seemed she had warned them off too. In their place, a new kind of power had begun to swell.

  ___________

  When she made it back to the house, her father was in the kitchen, the beginnings of dinner splayed out across the counter. The sound of his knife on the chopping board was a pneumatic drill. The new arrangement meant he was in charge of dinner on the days her mother went into town for her job. She read novels on the bus to pass the time – Úna liked when she brought home bits of the various storylines. Úna wondered if she had ever gone back to that book club she had seen advertised in the Anglo-Celt.

  And Úna liked the stories her mam brought home from the various customers in the flower shop – the people who swapped their hard-earned cash for things they could have just grown out of the ground. There were the regulars and the special occasioners; the awkward-eyed who spent the least time and the most money. Her mam said she suspected those bouquets were meant for apologies or sordid affairs.

  Her mam went a little awkward-eyed herself.

  But most of all, Úna liked the energy that was slowly returning to her mother. She had started wearing earrings again; had started finishing some of her meals. Úna liked her father’s energy, too – rushing around the kitchen, doing different things with different utensils, trying to find a new way, a new route to happiness.

  Úna decided to leave him to it. She took the stairs up to her bedroom and closed the door. Glancing around at her own new arrangement, she was pleased – it looked so much more grownup. She had thrown all her Lego in the bin and peeled the faded map of Ireland from the wall. In its place hung a glamorous woman in a black dress smoking a long cigarette.

  Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

  Her mam had brought it home
as a present out of her first pay cheque last month. She had promised they could watch the film together once Úna had turned fifteen. For now, the other walls were blank. The whiteness looked nice, clean, although it also looked kind of empty. Úna would have to figure out soon what she was going to put up there instead.

  ___________

  On Saturday night her parents announced that they were going to a restaurant on a ‘date’. Úna insisted she didn’t need to stay at Mrs P’s – she was more than capable of looking after herself. She was glad when her parents agreed, but after a while she was mostly bored. She blared the radio to fill the silence. The Spice Girls kept asking her to tell them what she really really wanted.

  The following week, Car McGrath and the rest of her classmates were still avoiding her like the plague. The phrase made Úna think about the CJD. Another person over in England had died. Apparently the disease turned them depressed then gave them strange hallucinations. The scientists were nowhere near finding a cure.

  By Friday afternoon, Úna thought she might be having hallucinations of her own, because when she got back from school there was a white envelope on the hall table with her name and address written on the front. She tried to think if she had ever received a piece of post in her life. There had been the birthday cards last month, but they were delivered by hand so they didn’t count. There was a giant thirteen-shaped one from her parents and a smaller pink one from Mrs P. Úna knew, at the rate she was going, there was a fair chance there might never be a third.

  Dear Úna,

  My name is Davey McCready and I believe I am your first cousin. I didn’t even know you existed until a few weeks ago. But then I met your mother at my mother’s funeral and she told me everything. She seemed a lovely woman. She brought along the most beautiful wreath.

  I am writing from Dublin where I just started a Classics degree. Do you know any ancient myths? My favourite is the Minotaur who was part-man part-bull. If you haven’t heard it, let me know and I’ll explain.

  Classical Studies was my favourite subject at school – what’s yours? What do you want to be when you grow up? Have you ever visited Dublin? A friend once told me it’s no Promised Land, but I suspect that he was lying.