The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

  ‘Gertrude!’ Came the muffled shout from Goldin. As he was released, white powder blotched his face. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘Why don’t we go upstairs?’ She set him back on the floor. Goldin looked at William, silently begging for permission to indulge in such a sumptuous treat.

  ‘You can handle yourself, can’t you lad?’ The little man was already leaving.

  ‘I’ll be alright.’ He waved Goldin off confidently, then turned to the two cultists, who were already looking distinctly less impressed than they had been when he first arrived. ‘Afternoon, gentlemen.’

  He indicated to the vacant seat at their table. ‘May I sit here? I have a little business proposition for you.’

  The one who had cracked his knuckles nodded slowly.

  ‘William, William!’ Goldin shouted from the top of the staircase. Somehow, in the time it had taken to walk from the table to the upstairs balcony, he had found a bottle of sherry and waved it to get William’s attention. ‘Look at this!’

  He lifted the frilly dress of the portly whore beside him, exposing two vast and pasty buttocks that looked remarkably like sacks of grain. In the centre of the left hand cheek, comparatively small given the size of the canvas it had been singed onto, was Goldin’s name and the crude drawing of a smiling face.

  ‘What do you think of that then?’ The little man beamed triumphantly over the clientele.

  William’s expression was more akin to a grimace than any kind of smile. While he was impressed with his companion’s enthusiasm, he was equally aware that the cultists were not. He watched with pursed lips as Goldin slapped the whore’s rump and proceeded to chase her giggling into one of the many bed chambers. Laughter faded and the cultist’s corner seemed to draw particularly quiet. William turned hesitantly to the men he would have as sponsor.

  ‘So, about the competition…’

  1673

  Vesta watched her father paint; saw his brush quiver, noticed flecks of wrong-colour spattering the bucolic scene. It was, in part, down to his missing fingers, but was also influenced by his building dependence. Alcohol had become a necessity. It wasn’t a daily tipple, it wasn’t even a want. The broken old man needed the acrid liquid to function.

  The current canvas was his last. There had been three, but one had been skewered with a fist, and the other had been tossed out the window. The latter had narrowly missed an old man before shattering on the cobbles. In Vesta’s occasional dark moments, she wished that the old man had been struck and possibly killed. Her father would have been taken away to a prison or work camp, and the majority of her problems would have been solved. Instead, she was trapped here, her father dependant on her, and she on her brother. She wasn’t sure it was possible to live in a waking hell, but it certainly felt like a damning purgatory.

  Her father was struggling with a particularly awkward spear of evergreen foliage, weighed with glistening snow. He was trying his best to ignore the devastation his trembling hands were wreaking to the surrounding foliage, but the irritation was swelling in him. A few attempts prior, Vesta had considered the landscape rather good, but it wasn’t perfect; her father had pressed on, making the thing ever worse with his efforts.

  As he glanced about, making sure she wasn’t observing his failure from across the room, Vesta looked down at her book. She had been trying to read it all day in an effort to saturate her mind in history – to forget the world and lose herself in the woes of others for just a little while. But the words on the page failed to grab her. Father’s ineptitude was as distracting as it was frustrating. Though she made a concerted effort to read, she might have gone over the same sentence ten times. There was little point in it.

  She pushed herself up from the little table, rocking it on its mismatched legs. Her feet were bare against the coarse boards and barely made a sound as she crossed the room that served as their kitchen, scullery, dining room, lounge, study, and bathroom. The latter service was at least concealed behind a set of faded screens. In the opposite corner, a large pail of well water was hidden under a console table, while a more manageable jug rested on the badly varnished top.

  Back in Vitale, one of the Janes would have brought her fruit cordials and tea. Now, her brother would draw the first bucket of water in the morning to wash before work, and she would haul the rest as was required throughout the day. Father never touched it, opting – from what she could tell – to subsist entirely on spirits.

  Careful not to waste a drop, she poured a measure into an earthenware mug. The thought of dashing the contents into her father’s face provided a little quiet levity, of course she would never do it. As she set the jug back on the table she found herself wishing, not for the first time, that tonight would be the last she would have to put him to bed. Surely the tremors would worsen soon. If only they would just take him.

  She swallowed that dark hope with a mouthful of cool water, and paced to the window. Her brother would be home soon and she liked to watch for him.

  Their two rooms were situated in perhaps the tallest building she had ever entered; the street was some five floors below her. It would have been quite impressive had the “affordable housing” been anything but a towering brick and soot slum of desperation, crime, and violence.

  Two years would be adequate penance. Two years and she would be allowed to leave. It was a comforting thought, though she doubted she would abandon her father even then.

  For a few minutes she watched the small comings and goings in the muddied streets far below. Unlike the more civilised parts of town, when the collection of faeces was reserved for the dead of night, the soil cart often came through at noon. One such eye-and-nostril sore was parked directly below. She opened the window, thankfully high enough to avoid the worst of the stench, and peered over the sill.

  Two strapping lads were hauling human waste in great casks from the moat that collected around the building. A benefit of living on the top floor, she supposed; one hadn’t to worry about defecation from above while attending to one’s own business. Halfway down the building a window opened and a rump was set on the sill. Some people saved their waste in urns to toss down at the soil collectors for a cheap laugh. Others – like this gentleman – preferred to do the job right.

  Vesta chuckled at the disgusted cries from the soil men as they were spattered with wet and warm waste. It was cruel to laugh, but it was one of the only things that made her feel like she hadn’t the worst lot. There was nothing better for one’s self esteem than dampening someone else’s.

  Across the street, she noticed the familiar figure of her brother, prominent over the malnourished locals. Though he was named after a Gael saint, Aiden couldn’t look more of a Vitulan senator; slim, with short hair, a straight back, and rich olive skin. He would have joined the military if it hadn’t been for the house burning down and might have carried them to an even loftier station.

  It wasn’t worth thinking about now, that avenue was well and truly closed. Once their father lost himself to drink, it was clear Aiden couldn’t leave them. His wages were the only reason they still lived; he paid for the two poor rooms in the slum, and kept them fed, watered, and – in father’s case – plied with alcohol.

  He walked with another man, sharing an intense conversation. That was certainly unusual. She had never seen any work colleagues, and couldn’t possibly expect any of their old friends to come calling considering their vast reduction. The pair walked until they were almost level with the entrance of the building, then ducked into an alleyway. They talked for a few more minutes, then traded two small packages.

  Vesta’s stomach somersaulted. She wasn’t a fool, and knew they could only hold one thing: opiate paste. She shut the window. Bile rose in her throat; not brought on by the stench of faeces, but the realisation that they were no longer above the fetid locals. Their long fall from grace had finally landed them square in the pits of society. She wanted to cry. For the mother and father she used to have. For the brother who
could have lived a good and honourable life. She didn’t like to admit it, but most of all, she mourned their loss of wealth. Life ahead had turned from one of comfort and luxury, to one of hunger and strife.

  She returned to her chair and her book.

  Opening the dusty tome to her previous page, she was confronted by the envelope she had used for a mark. Neatly folded, addressed in the finest script with Vitale postal marks stamped in red ink, was an invitation to Adelaide Bennet’s Finishing School. She had been offered the placement in light of her familial tragedies, and while she had initially ignored the offer, the reality of life should she refuse was becoming painfully apparent.

  She turned the expensive paper over in her fingers, careful not to upset the particular folds. She reconsidered the offer. Her brother would have one less mouth to feed, and maybe once graduated she would be more capable of paying him back in kind. If educated, there was a slim hope she could endure a convenient marriage, which was certainly better than slum life.

  ‘Evening.’ Aiden tramped through the door – Vesta had been daydreaming on school far longer than she realised. His shoulders were sloped, his eyes dull and lacking their usual life; not quite the picture she had convinced herself from a distance. Perhaps her appraisal of him was only a projection of her dour mood.

  He set a full bottle of liquor beside their father, and hesitated. It was the convenient pause she required to hide her letter.

  ‘I haven’t managed to get us anything to eat.’ He sounded guilty, but forced a smile as he met her gaze.

  ‘I’m out tonight; working.’ He sat next to her. ‘I’ll bring extra food in the morning; there’s a nice baker in the market. I might barter something good, we could celebrate with a cinnamon roll… or something like that.’

  He never was a very good liar; even if Vesta hadn’t seen his illicit transaction, she would have known something was wrong anyway – at least, she liked to think she would. She smiled softly, said nothing to the contrary, and squeezed his fingers affectionately.

  ‘I’ve got a new job helping out the soil men near the harbour. I’ll be working through the night from now on.’ His smile faltered and he worried his bottom lip.

  Vesta nodded her head, and wondered if she really had the guts to leave him to bear the burden of their father alone.

  ‘Anyway, I just came up to give father his drink.’ He stood and tussled her hair, adding, ‘sorry; sorry for all of this.’

  After months of consideration, Vesta finally tore up the invitation to the boarding school. She watched each scrap burn in the parlour hearth, glad she had come to terms with their very different life.

  By degrees, their fortunes had improved from the absolutely hellish slum, to a tolerably sinister abode with a veneer of middle class aspiration. Her brother’s drug dealing – and other night time work she didn’t concern herself with – had enabled them to rent a modest terraced house on the fringes of the industrial district.

  Set back two paces from the road, behind a low brick wall and rusted iron railing, the front door opened into a narrow hallway. It allowed access to a small sitting room, a slightly larger kitchen with space for a rectangular table, and – up a narrow staircase – two bedrooms with a modest window over the street. Vesta and Aiden shared the one room, but his nocturnal employment meant they used it on different schedules. The latrine was at the end of a small courtyard and only shared with one other household.

  Though their new home was not exactly what she would call comfortable, she reminded herself that all things could be possible in time. Her place was with her family, and her brother’s work was a necessary evil to keep them from the gutter.

  On reflection, one of the most heartening improvements, had been the adjustment in her father’s mood. There was less pressure on him to paint for their keep, so he made a hobby of it, shrugging off his mistakes and keeping his temper well under control. He was still addicted to the alcohol, but managed it in a more gentlemanly fashion. Most afternoons, he left the house in his good suit to drink in a tavern with new found friends. It didn’t matter that they were also alcoholics of varying degrees of functionality.

  When they moved away from the slum, Vesta packed up her school books for good. In the first weeks, as they were still unable to employ a maid, she had dusted and scrubbed every inch of the house. She’d painted walls, and stained the woodwork, waxed the floors, and even persuaded her brother to hang new paper in the sitting room.

  As time passed, she fell into a routine, and though actively seeking gainful employment, she couldn’t seem to shake the bad influence from her brother. Twice a week she would go to the market to keep their larder full, and if she didn’t come back with at least one item that hadn’t been paid for, she wasn’t happy. Though she didn’t intend to continue stealing bread and buttons from street-traders, it was an excellent training ground for her sleight of hand and distraction techniques. Crime could really pay dividends, a truth her brother had opened her eyes to.

  As the last of the boarding school invitation fizzled away to ash, Vesta withdrew to the kitchen.

  Today, she had managed to steal a bag of sugar from a stall and half a pound of dried fruits from an old lady’s sack. She would bake a cake for the family. Not something she had ever done before, but it couldn’t be too difficult, and she had pilfered a cook book for just this occasion.

  ‘Vesta.’ It was her father. He emerged from his studio-come-bedroom, dressed and ready to go out. ‘I’m going to the Harp and Flute for a few hours. If you’re asleep when I get back, I’ll try to be quiet.’

  ‘Love you, father.’ She was creaming the butter and sugar. ‘Don’t be too late.’

  Though she already knew he wouldn’t be back any time before dark. It would at least give her the opportunity to finish the cake intended for their family meal the following day, provided she hid it well enough from his drunken hunger. In a high cupboard would be best. Before she retired to bed, she would leave out a heel of bread and piece of cheese to sate him.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent baking and reading. Just as the sun started to turn orange in the sky, she pulled the cake from the stove, and set it on the counter to cool. Her brother woke as it went dark, and she hurried into the larder to retrieve the stew prepared the evening before. She would warm it through and serve it with buttered bread.

  As Vesta returned to the kitchen, her brother was looming over the steaming cake.

  ‘It’s hot,’ she warned him deliberately too late. His scalded fingers pulled away sharply and he stuffed them in his mouth to quell the ache. She smiled with superiority. ‘I told you.’

  He shrugged and moved to the other side of the kitchen, then garbled something unintelligible around his fingers.

  ‘What?’ She hefted the pot onto the stove top.

  ‘Is that cake for our visitor?’ he asked again, removing his fingers from his mouth and clamping them under his armpit.

  ‘Visitor?’ Her eyebrows furrowed.

  ‘I thought I told you this morning.’ He returned not-so-subtly to the cake. This time, he was armed with a knife to extract himself a slice that would cool a little quicker. ‘I’ve been doing quite well of late. My boss’s boss is paying a visit before I head out tonight. This cake and a pot of tea should do nicely. Might be better if you save the stew until after he’s gone. We don’t want the place stinking.’

  Vesta fixed him with her best withering look, but he didn’t seem to care, he was entirely wrapped up in the incredibly important task of blowing the curls of steam from his cake slice. She sighed, and hefted the pot back into her arms, this time swaddled in a small towel to keep it from burning her.

  She definitely wouldn’t be putting up with any of this once she got a job. They would all have to pitch in with the house work; she couldn’t be expected to do everything.

  With the stew successfully stored, she collected another pan and sprig of lemon leaves to make a fresh tea to go with the cake.

  There was
a knock at the door.

  ‘Hurry up. Get the tea on.’ Aiden tried to neaten his bed hair then pulled a leaf off the sprig to chew the stench of his breath away. ‘I need to make a good impression.’

  ‘Go and get the door,’ she said dismissively.

  She set the pan on the stove and filled it from a pail of water, then tossed in what remained of the sprig. To think, she used to have a host of servants to make tea, and at least twenty flavours to pick from.

  Her brother moved into the little hallway and opened the front door with a click. He traded a few muffled greetings with his superior, but it was hard for Vesta to make out. She imagined Aiden might be divesting the man of his hat and coat, and hurried a wooden spoon around the pot, trying to brew the tea a little quicker.

  ‘Please, call me Eldridge.’ The visitor’s voice came a little clearer as they neared the kitchen. It had a certain nasal familiarity to it; a shiver ran the full length of Vesta’s spine. Without even turning around, she knew who it was. ‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Aiden.’

  ‘Please, come in.’ Footsteps padded on the rug and the hallway door closed. Vesta kept stirring the tea. Then her brother said exactly what she had hoped he wouldn’t. ‘This is my sister, Vesta.’

  She turned hesitantly and her eyes fell on the face she had last seen when her father lost his fingers.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you.’ The nasal crook approached her with his hand outstretched. Her eyes darted to the kitchen knife her brother had sliced the cake with. It was good, sharp steel; and it would be oh-so-easy to plunge it into his gut. But there was something about the curl at the edge of Eldridge Ruth’s lips and the warmth in his eyes; he didn’t recognise her.

  ‘Likewise.’ She bobbed a little curtsy, forgoing the handshake. ‘I’ve made lemon tea and fruit cake; I do hope it’s to your liking.’