And as well as an eejit, Davey knew he was a traitor—his poor mother still recovering while her own son plotted to abandon her—the same son who had failed her before while her drunken husband did his worst. Davey hunched his thin shoulders; shame always made him smaller. From his right, he heard a noise in the undergrowth. It might have been a fox or a badger; the land hid all sorts in her skirts.
He heard his mother’s voice from earlier.
The Butchers have been on my mind quite a lot recently.
I have the strangest urge to see them one last time.
Only when he reached the top of the hill did Davey pay attention to the new idea that was beginning to form. He placed his hands on his hips to catch his breath and squinted in the direction he thought was north. Somewhere in the distance, the Republic ended and the United Kingdom began—an invisible line they all believed was worth fighting for.
And what—or who—was worth it for him?
Even as the idea grew legs, Davey tried to tackle it down—the logistics alone would be a nightmare. The rumours said the group passed this way in June, but when exactly? And how would he possibly contact them? But Davey reminded himself about focus; about his vow to start making his notions actually come true. It would be nice to do something special for his mother before he disappeared. It was the least he could do.
He sucked the night air into his chest and held it there. He felt the sentence reform itself.
It would be nice to do something special for his mother before she disappeared.
He glanced towards the borderlands one last time and began his descent.
INTERLUDE
New York, January 2018
Five days after the launch, he has no choice but to return to the museum. He has never known the meaning of “separation anxiety” before. He thinks of long-distance lovers, pining. He thinks of widows left behind after their husbands’ deaths.
All day long the snow has been relentless, muffling Manhattan an eerie white, but finally it seems to have coughed and spluttered to an end. He knots his scarf a little higher up his neck and skids down the side of Central Park, past the solid, shining mass of the lake.
The exhibition posters are visible from the end of the block. The marketing department decided to go with the pouting shot of the IRA boys. And then the title below in bold:
RONAN MONKS: BORDERLINE IRISH
He knows there is every sort of pun intended.
But he also knows that he cannot complain since, thanks to the Brexit talks and the anniversary of the Good Friday Agreement, the Irish border is suddenly back “in vogue.” Which means his early work is suddenly in demand, giving him just enough leverage to insist on the inclusion of an unknown photograph—not quite border-related, though it wasn’t taken a million miles away either.
Behind the ticket desk, the two turtle-necks don’t even bother to glance up from the snow-glow of their Apple screens. Ronan tries to remember seeing them at the launch. There was a half-decent crowd, he supposes. As usual, he spent most of the evening drowning his nerves in drink while other people discussed his images—the diesel smugglers from South Armagh; the Murray house that straddles both sides of the border.
I heard they have one postman from the North and one from the South.
I find it quite the poignant metaphor.
But amidst all the pretentious posturing, he didn’t catch a single peep about The Butcher. Of course, part of him was relieved—too many questions could have led somewhere he didn’t want to go. Another part, though, couldn’t deny its disappointment—even just a word or two of praise:
The light in those eyes barely makes him look dead at all.
Mr. Monks, you have a way with the morbid that’s incredibly striking, you know?
What he does know is that he can’t stop thinking about him—twenty-two years they have lived together—so this afternoon he has braved the great, bollock-shrivelling outdoors to drop by for a brief reunion.
When he finds the girl, she is sitting cross-legged on the museum floor, gazing up at the photograph. Instantly, Ronan’s heart begins to hurtle. He isn’t sure if it is anxiety or delight or both. He tries to scrutinise her from behind. She is much younger than him, with hair that would probably be described as mousy, though even sitting down it is clear she is tall and broad like a very different animal.
He takes a step closer. She pays no notice. He traces a line from her eyes to the abandoned cold store and back, trying to see what it is she sees. Until eventually he dares: “Staggering, isn’t it?”
She doesn’t turn. “I can’t get over it.”
“Personally, I think,” he dares himself a little further, “it might be Monks’s finest work.”
When she does turn, the first thing he notices is that her irises are a shocking shade of green. They are also, he sees, a little shocked. “Ronan? Is that you?”
This time his heart races so fast it hurts. His cover has been blown—she will think him such a wanker! It has been the same all his life, giving off the impression of arrogance when, secretly, he is as insecure as they come.
The stranger, though, doesn’t seem to mind. She bundles herself upright. “I didn’t realise you would be here.” Next he notices her accent and wonders if she is visiting or if she is an expat—an exile? an immigrant?—just like him. “It’s my last night in New York and I heard about the show, so I . . .” She stands and smooths her trousers. “Ronan Monks. I can’t actually believe it.” She comes closer until he can see her freckles, great scatters of them across her cheeks, which seem strange for this time of year. He was right, she is tall—almost the same height as him. Her hair is in need of a brush. But the more of her he takes in, the more he begins to feel it, the tug of recognition. Or at least, the sense that he has definitely seen this face somewhere before. Other galleries? Other admirers of his work? There have been almost twenty hazy years of them. Maybe back in Dublin or over in London? Or even Berlin, Paris, Tel Aviv?
“Coffee?” she says.
He is a little taken aback—they don’t usually move as swiftly as this.
“I’d love to ask you a few questions.” She turns to the photograph. “About this, I mean. I can’t believe . . . this changes everything.”
And there is something about the way she says it that makes him, just for a moment, hesitate; something telling him that, just maybe, this isn’t quite as good as it seems.
His ego tells him otherwise: What’s your problem? She likes the photograph.
While another part insists: You definitely know that face.
“I know a decent diner down on Sixth?”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The lobe is pierced, but it is empty. It could even just be another freckle.
“Let’s go.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Úna
County Cavan, April 1996
Finally it was spring, which meant a new smell in the air—the sour tang of silage and the sweetness of bracken. It meant splays of early foxgloves along the roadsides and beads of sweat along hairlines after they had done their usual walk to Mrs. P’s. And once they arrived, it seemed spring also meant better-than-biscuits, because Mrs. P welcomed them with bowls of homemade pudding, the syrup scalding fat blisters on their tongues. Úna sometimes wondered what Mrs. P’s loneliness did to her arrangements of flour and eggs—a secret ingredient that turned the texture extra close.
As Úna ate, she half listened to the women launching into their usual catch-up. Most of their chat was still to do with the BSE drama that was unfolding over in England. Just as the experts had predicted, more human lives had started to be claimed by the disease. Only yesterday it was announced that a fifteen-year-old girl from Manchester had passed away.
“The doctors say it was from eating hamburgers,” Mrs. P reported, bowing her head. “Isn’t it a shocking thing? Thanks be to goodness we’re safe and sound over here.”
Úna’s mam bowed her head in agreement, though in truth s
he didn’t look particularly shocked—her eyes were too bright, her whole face tinged with the glow Úna kept noticing recently. It might have been the weather that was responsible—the bit of sunshine finally melting whatever glacier of sadness had hardened inside her—but Úna could have sworn there was something else behind her mam’s newly brightened mood.
As it happened, Úna had a “something else” of her own that had been making her glow recently, because as of Tuesday night her task was finally, bloodily complete. It had been tomato with mustard that did the trick, which meant that when Úna eventually came across the mouse its fur was smeared so yellow it looked more like a freshly hatched chick.
She had taken it out to the back garden with the knife and the seven Lego men; had found a paving slab behind the shed where she could tape them firmly down. She had checked the moon in the evening sky, turned the blade three times towards her heart, and then—at last—she had begun.
Once she had the rodent bled and skinned (for this she used a razor blade from her dad’s shelf in the bathroom cabinet), she hung it by its feet from a rusty nail. She cleaned the mess with kitchen roll; took the men apart to wipe between their plastic cracks. When she was finished, Úna closed her eyes and thought of the Farmer’s Widow and her awful grief. She thought of her father and how proud he would be when she told him what she had achieved. And then for some reason, Úna thought of the English and their dying animals; of the plague of death that was slowly spreading across their fields.
She had gone inside and scrubbed the mouse guts from beneath her nails.
Despite the temptation, though—despite the buzz of triumph that charged the following days—still Úna hadn’t said anything to her mam. One kill was well and good, but it was hardly sufficient evidence to prove she was fully qualified Butcher material just yet. She would have to bide her time and try for another slaughter—maybe something bigger (she thought again of the garden fox)—then when her father came back in June she could announce her intention to join the group.
Úna took another bite of her pudding. The syrup had cooled thick and sticky as glue. She wondered if she could take some home to use as bait.
•
“So who can tell me who this here is?”
The following Monday, they were sat in Civics class playing the usual game of “name the eejit in the photograph.” Mrs. Donoghue held up a picture of Gerry Adams, the beardy leader of the IRA. Most of the arms in the room went dashing up, including Úna’s, though hers wasn’t selected. She told herself that maybe next time it would be. She tried to make herself believe the lie.
“And what about this?” For the second photograph, the crop of arms thinned right out. Apparently the president (Really? But she’s a woman?) was far less common amongst the classroom’s repertoire.
“And finally, this lad here?” The third portrait, though, had the entire place reaching for the sky, stretching stretching like the bigger they made themselves the more intelligent they might appear.
The teacher took her time, savouring her power. “Siobhán?”
The arms collapsed, slapping down with the injustice.
“That’s the Bull, Miss.” Siobhán Maguire’s voice struck its usual sing-song tone. “My da—”
“Ah yes, the Bull, very good. But Siobhán, can you tell us his real name, please?”
Úna spotted the hesitation, the blush, while the arms spotted a final chance; a sliver of hope that all might not yet be lost.
Me me me!
Car McGrath was the selection—“Eoin Goldsmith, Miss”—the teacher unable to resist the novelty of the class messer having a clue about anything for once. “And tell me, Car, what does Mr. Goldsmith do?”
“He’s the country’s leading beef baron, Miss. Especially at the moment, like—thanks to him, my da says we’re going to break away from the Brits and be minted!”
The entire place was nodding now, lips muttering various versions of the same boom-time tale. Their fathers were feeling flush—Máire Casey had already shown off the new Skechers shoes she had been bought for Easter; Siobhán Maguire said she had been promised a pony. So now Mrs. Donoghue saw her chance: “Well, you know, the Bull wasn’t always a wealthy man. In fact, he grew up on a small farm like many of ye. But he worked very hard and made a few bob and after that his empire grew and grew. So remember, boys and girls, if there is something you want, you just have to put in the graft. If there’s something you believe in, don’t let anybody—”
The bell rang out, as it always did, at the worst possible moment. The chair legs screeched away, a herd of savages back into the wild. Still, as she packed her things, Úna clung to the weight of the words. It was as if they had been uttered for her and her alone.
She wondered if her father had ever met the Bull on his travels.
She wondered if a pony could contract BSE as well.
“Thanks, Miss.”
And she was wondering still when she stepped into the corridor and found herself grabbed and shoved against the wall. Next, something was forced into her face; something round and wet, squelching into her skin. Úna struggled to break free, but the strong hands held her firm, and only then could she smell it. Her panic overflowed. It was the worst possible thing.
It was meat.
“Yeehaw!”
The unseen hand pushed the burger a bit harder as salty liquid dripped off Úna’s chin, her breath building up and up and up with no escape. She thought she might pass out; she thought of that poor girl in Manchester who had passed away.
Isn’t it a shocking thing?
Thanks be to goodness we’re safe and sound over here.
She heard the scream before she realised it was coming from her. Instantly she stopped, mortified. But at least it had been enough to finally get them off. She wiped the juices from her eyes and saw the group arranged in a semicircle, cracking up like she had just said the funniest thing in the world. Car McGrath was in the centre, the Big Mac mangled in his palm, but still he held it out in her direction.
Úna’s stomach cartwheeled afresh. She looked at Car, his fair hair, his wide sneer. She knew he had been held back a year in school so he was bigger and older than the rest. She knew what he was going to say even before he did.
“Eat it.”
She tried to back away, but she was cornered.
“Take a bite, cowgirl.” Car thrust the burger towards her again and her gorge rose. “It’s lovely and fresh.”
Úna gagged.
“I said eat it, freak!” This time Car’s temper burst ferocious, a spray of spit for added punctuation. “You know you’re tempted.” Then his voice turned wheedling. “You know you’re curious. You know you’re sick of being the only one in the entire school who can’t—”
Úna’s vomit poured up and out of her in a perfect yellow arc. Car jolted back, but not before the splatter found him, sopping the tips of his Kappa runners. The laughter turned to cries of disgust.
“I bet it’s poisonous!”
“Car, you’re cursed!”
“You’ll never be clean again!”
Úna wiped her mouth on her sleeve, staring at the mess on the floor—her insides out for all to see. She was so hot she couldn’t move; couldn’t even bring herself to look up. Which meant she didn’t meet Car’s eyes as he uttered his final pronouncement and made the sign of the cross. “I told you she’s fucking diseased.”
Úna felt her own eyes wet with something that wasn’t grease.
On the walk home that afternoon, she dissected her shame, picking it apart like a crow going at a piece of roadkill. All around her the fields were empty—no farmers, no animals, only the occasional row of hay bales wrapped in black plastic so they looked like giant marshmallows, charred. Next week, though, it would be Bealtaine—the first day of May—which meant the cows would finally be put out to pasture again. Úna wondered if the animals realised; if they were counting down the days. She wondered if they went a bit mad just from being cooped up.
She suddenly caught the smell of vomit on her jumper. She realised, with a small smile, what she really needed was a bath.
By the time she had made it home, she felt calmer again. Car McGrath—of all the eejits. And him just cocky after getting the only question right in his life.
Thanks to him, my da says we’re going to break away from the Brits and be minted!
So remember, boys and girls, if there is something you want, you just have to put in the graft. If there’s something you believe in, don’t let anybody—
The voices were so fresh in her head, the voices in the kitchen took a bit longer to register. When she entered, they stood up. Her mam wore a purple T-shirt and a fresh dose of her newfound glow. But it wasn’t her that Úna noticed most, it was the manshape waiting next to her, his skinny hand held eager out.
“This is Ronan,” her mam began. “He’s a friend I made a few weeks ago so I decided to invite him round for some tea.”
Úna glanced at the mugs, not knowing what they proved.
All she needed was her faith and her family and her dedication to the cause.
“Pleased to meet you.” When the stranger spoke, his voice was strange indeed; his vowels flat and low. “I’ve heard all about you. Your mother—”
“He’s from Dublin,” her mam cut in, reading her mind. “He’s a photographer. Isn’t that fun? I’ve been making a few suggestions to try and help him with his project.”
It was only then that Úna saw the device sitting bulky on the table, the black leather strap hanging careless off the edge. The stranger wore jeans and a chequered shirt. He was very tall, like the men in the pictures from Civics class.
“I was just explaining,” he spoke next, “that I was up photographing some IRA boys yesterday and they were telling me how they used to organise cock fights along the border. It’s funny—they said they would start in the South until the Gardaí came along, then they would move north until the RUC showed up. And if there were both, the men had a raft in the middle of the river and they moved the cockerels on to that so they couldn’t—”
The Butchers' Blessing Page 7