The Butchers' Blessing

by The Butcher's Blessing (retail) (epub)

  “And how long have you been a member?” he heard Eileen asking next. She was sitting opposite Sol, his wrinkled face lit up by her attention. “Not that you look, of course, a day over twenty-one.” The old man threw back his head, the pleats of his neck stretched tight, young again. “And you must call to the same families every year, but what about when they move house? Or when the children leave home? Or—”

  “Eileen, leave off with the inquisition and pour our guest a drop of hot!” Fionn barked the order to try to save her—he could tell the barrage of questions was a cover for her exhaustion setting in. But in fairness, by now they were all a little weary—nicely, like, from the success of the afternoon. The men had started to disperse, some nipping outside to stretch their legs or have a bit of tobacco. Blackfoot weaved between their legs, ferreting out any fallen crumbs.

  Eventually, Cúch announced that they would do one last sweep of the place to ensure they hadn’t forgotten anything, then they would get out of Fionn’s hair.

  “Ah, you’re not in my—”

  “Fionn, why don’t you go out and give Cúch a hand?”

  Fionn looked at his wife. Her eyes were as green and sweet as freshly cut grass. “You don’t mind, do you?” she said. “Only Sol here is in the middle of telling me a wonderful story.”

  The two men walked outside and while Cúch checked the carts, Fionn told him he would check the byre to make sure nothing had been left behind. He wondered, just for a second, how he would look in a pair of overalls. He wondered if he might start doing his laces in triple knots.

  The dusk was a mild and purple thing spread soft like a blanket over the yard. Fionn had moved Eileen’s Fiesta further out of the way. It was good to run the engine every so often to stop the battery from dying altogether. The fields beyond lay motionless, the trees poised with their arms raised to the sky. Fionn sighed into the view. He felt more relaxed in himself than he had in a long long while.

  He was approaching the byre when he first heard the noise. It sounded as if somebody was crying. “Davey, is that you?” He could have sworn he saw a movement by the back door; a sound a bit like footsteps sprinting out. But when he flicked on the light everything was still again—the rakes, the hoes, the meal sacks lined up along the side—and in the middle, the black water marks tinged with pink.

  Fionn looked up and tried to picture it. The joist was far above him—he hadn’t a notion how they would have got the animal up there. He thought he could see a white chafe in the wood where the chains must have looped around. And suddenly Fionn thought of that coil of rope hanging from the tree in the yard and remembered what his father used to tie there. Dead crows—black eyes, black feathers, black beaks—dangling upside down. It was an old trick to scare the other crows away; to warn them what would happen otherwise. Fionn turned off the light. He wondered how much all traditions had to do, really, with fear.

  Before they set off, Fionn made a point of shaking each of the Butchers’ hands in turn. He somehow knew he wouldn’t wash his own hand tonight; somehow knew it would bring him luck. Eileen joined him on the front step, waving goodbye until the carts had receded from view; then she did something Fionn couldn’t remember her doing in months or maybe, he conceded, years.

  After the kiss, he opened his eyes. The wind had blown a wetness into hers. “You are a good man, Fionn McCready,” she said. “A good good man.”

  He opened his mouth to say something back, like I’m so sorry or I will make you better or You are my wonderful story, but the only sound was the horses’ hooves, the clop as steady and sure as a human heart.

  •

  Within a couple of nights, the good luck had already started kicking in. Fergus Hynes was on the phone about a last-minute job; a generous envelope. Fionn did the dishes after dinner and made Eileen a hot chocolate to take with her to bed. He smiled. He was feeling more than a little indulgent.

  But when he arrived at the O’Connell’s car park and transferred into Fergus’s passenger seat, he had a different sort of feeling. “How’s she cutting?” His greeting earned him no reply—not so much as a nod of the head. The engine revved throatily before he had even done his safety belt.

  They drove in silence. The moon was so full and low it looked as if it might fall out of the sky. “Are we talking livestock or steaks this evening?” They weren’t, of course, talking at all. But Fionn decided he could at least ease the strange atmosphere by focusing on the night’s proceedings. “Did Mossy and Briain go on ahead or are they following after? Who’s in charge of the stamps, or—”

  “Would you ever shut your fucking face?”

  And suddenly Fionn went cold, very cold, because he realised that, clearly, Fergus Hynes knew everything. About the Butchers. About their visit and the overwhelming joy Fionn had derived from the whole affair. He had counted the cuts they managed to fit in the overflow freezer—Jesus, there was more than they would possibly get through—but for some reason Fionn wanted to wait for a special occasion to try the first, like a wedding anniversary or a clinic appointment finally booked in. And he had convinced himself he’d been fierce discreet with the whole arrangement, but God knows nothing around here ever stayed a secret. Fionn thought of Davey. Had the boy let something slip? And if so, had it been an accident or out of that same old spite Fionn couldn’t seem to shift? Either way, Fergus Hynes had found out, and now he was taking Fionn to no man’s land to teach him a lesson; to remind him about loyalty and priorities and the proper order of things. Glorified knackers. Wasn’t that what he had called the Butchers? Still stuck in the past. Whereas the Bull and his cronies were all about “Modern Ireland” and progress and the Celtic Beef Boom—they couldn’t be seen fraternising with the likes of them.

  Fionn tried his best to breathe as they drove higher and higher, up where nobody would ever find him. The borderlands had always been a place to take items you wanted to dispose of—burned-out cars and old bits of fly-tipped junk. He had seen broken fridges, the spiral coils of their backs exposed; battered toys and teddy bears, their stuffing ripped out and blown into some nearby twigs to be mistaken for a sheep snag of wool. And then, during the peak of the Troubles, they said far more sinister things had been dumped up here—men murdered and fed into the borderland bogs, their bodies swallowed by the viscous muck. “The Disappeared.”

  The proper order of things.

  “Ach, Fionn, I’m sorry.” When Fergus spoke, Fionn swallowed his thoughts. “Things are starting . . . It’s all getting a bit out of control.” Fergus wrenched the clutch and changed to a higher gear. “Tonight might be a bit of a dodgy one.”

  Fionn knew he should probably feel some kind of anxiety at this, but he felt only a rush of relief. His secret was safe. The Butchers’ luck remained untouched.

  “You should probably open that.”

  Next Fergus raised his eyebrows high and cocked his head towards the glove compartment. Fionn also knew, somehow, what he would find inside; knew that, even in the darkness, the gun would be small and black like a child’s battered toy. Very slowly, he clicked the latch.

  As he held it in his hands, Fionn thought of his daddy’s friend Big Billy Tierney; of a bullet through his face on a cattle run long ago.

  When they arrived, the other side were already waiting. Fergus parked up close and they all leapt out in unison. With the metal tucked into his waist, Fionn’s trousers stretched tight across his gut. He realised he was desperate for a piss. Even outside, the air was mostly silence, which of course should have let him know the situation straight away, but when he reached the open doors of the trailer he was still surprised by what he found inside.

  The bodies had been flung, one on top of the other, in an awkward black-and-white heap. A splay of broken limbs. A whole pile of unwanted junk, fly-tipped and never to be seen again. Fionn tried to trace the outlines, the flanks and the haunches, until he could just about trace one of the heads. There was a hole in the middle where the animal’s brains had splurted out.
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  “We need to hurry.” The main lad had an accent that was thick Armagh. “Them Matador pricks are on patrol tonight.” He bounded up and started hooshing the first body forwards. “If you lads grab the front legs, I’ll take the rear.”

  Fionn saw the animals were only young. He saw where one of the hooves had tangled with another. It looked like a pair of lovers linking arms. “How much do they even weigh?” Of all the questions, Fionn didn’t know why he chose to ask this one, when what he really wanted to know was where the calves had come from and why the calves had been shot and if the calves had tested positive for BSE?

  Fergus answered them all at once. “We didn’t have time to make proper arrangements.”

  “Ah, Fergus, you can’t be serious.”

  But Fergus Hynes was very serious as he nestled his shoulder under the dead calf’s flank like a pallbearer at a funeral. “Didn’t you hear the lad? We need to hurry.”

  Would you ever shut your fucking face?

  So Fionn shut his face and crouched his back, bracing himself for the force of the impact. He staggered, trying to guide the young animal into place. He could have sworn the hide was still warm. And he could have sworn the glare was just the fat moon again, lending a bit of extra light to their terrible task, but then he saw the flashes of red and blue which sent Fergus bolting and the calf tumbling and its leg clocking Fionn in the back of the skull. He tried to get up, but found that he couldn’t, so instead he just lay down in the muck with his head spinning, his eyes watering, his lips whispering to Eileen that everything would be OK—he had done the maths and it was only one more job to go until the kitty was full and ready. Maybe they could book a hotel in Dublin—make a proper weekend of it, like?—and never mind the Garda cars approaching with their sirens screeching like banshees or that full moon in the sky above like a white mark on a black scan of a brain that says it’s come back it’s come back it’s come back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Davey

  County Monaghan, June 1996

  “One hour to go, lads. One hour to go.”

  Davey glanced up at the invigilator, Mr. Twomey, but already the old man had turned the other way, indifferent entirely to the significance of his words.

  One hour to go.

  Of this exam.

  Of all the exams.

  One hour to go of this whole portion of your life.

  Davey jiggered in his seat, flicked his pen, bounced his knee, every bit of him an awkward metronome sounding a different beat. From the desk in front, Mickey Flavin turned and glared at him to stop his fidgeting. From above the stage, Jesus watched down, splayed upon the cross.

  But Davey couldn’t help it, because apart from the fact of this being the very last paper, there was another reason his nerves were firmly on the glitch. Ever since last week he had been consumed with shame (or at least, something he was pretty sure was shame). Ever since, that is, they paid their visit.

  He swallowed. Ever since the Butchers.

  Davey reached for his top button and relieved his throat. The hall was hot, beastly so, summer having managed as ever to coordinate her finest weather with the examination period. Though by now, most of the other lads were free to enjoy the sunshine, having raced through their core subjects and generic “Business Organisation” options. It was only Davey and three reluctant Classicists left scribbling the final paper, the rest of the desks stacked high and empty all around.

  One hour to go.

  To Dublin.

  One hour to go away from here.

  Davey looked at his script. It appeared he was answering a question on Prometheus Bound, his favourite of the ancient plays. It was the one where your man Prometheus got chained to a rock so that an eagle could visit him daily and gnaw out his liver. Mr. Fitz’s preferred translation hadn’t gone lightly on the gore: the spew and coil of entrails; the guttural roar of a man racked out of his mind with pain. Especially since, every night, the wound would heal again, the organ somehow replenishing itself, so that the next day the savaging could be inflicted from the top. And all because Prometheus had refused to conform to the Tyrants’ rule. A deviator. A voice that needed to be suppressed.

  Davey swallowed again and wiped the moisture from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The sweat was enough to set his agitation off anew.

  Because there had been sweat the other night, too—sweat and bodies and things he still couldn’t quite translate into words. Just a name on his lips, a single syllable he let fill his mouth.

  Con.

  He wanted to make it the first line of a poem.

  But no—he had to keep going. Keep writing. Keep listing all the “crimes” Prometheus had committed. The most famous, of course, was that he had introduced the humans to fire. But he had also taught them how to yoke and harness their animals; how to trap and tame them for good use. So now it was the irony of ironies that Prometheus had been tethered to a rock, reduced to nothing more than a beast himself.

  Davey pictured him there with his arms stretched out, splayed.

  But the image of the rock was a bit like the low stone wall where Davey had been sitting the other night, the one where he could still hear the chatter from inside the house—the Butchers and his mother and her endless pots of tea. He had been holding his notebook open to the sky as if some of it might just fall in, fully formed, when the question had arrived. “How long ago was her chemo?” Davey jolted at the voice, but also by what it seemed to intuit.

  He had already noticed the face in the kitchen, similar to his in age and framed with a mop of golden curls. Even out in the shadows, Davey could tell the Butcher’s overalls were a bit tight around the shoulders. “My old lad had it. Pancreatic to begin, then it spread until he was riddled.” The stranger began to approach. “Not that, between you and me, it was any great loss.” When he sat, he chose a spot on the wall a little closer to Davey than it might have been—his position almost as bold, almost as candid, as his words.

  Davey had glanced down at his notebook; had noticed the stranger doing the same. He had shoved it into his pocket and looked up.

  “Con.” The eyes were there waiting.

  “Davey.” His vowels were croaked.

  A hand took his, holding too tight and too long. “Pleasure.”

  The way the buzz had raced through him, it was as if his body already knew; as if it could already sense what was about to occur; as if—

  Mr. Twomey gave a roar. Davey reared his head in terror as if he had finally been caught outright. He was just in time to see the sneeze follow through. The teacher fumbled a handkerchief to his nose, the germs floating up and away, joining the dust clouds captured by the windows’ light.

  Above, Jesus looked more agonised than ever.

  “Are you still in school?” Con had asked next.

  “Final year.”

  “What subjects?”

  Davey had rattled the list from bottom to top.

  “Classical Studies, eh? Who knew they taught it round here?”

  Davey thought of Mr. Fitz and the other teachers. “Most of them don’t approve.”

  “Ah sure, they never approve.”

  For some reason, this caused a little pause.

  “And what’s next? With all that Latin you could become a priest.”

  Davey half smiled. “College. Dublin, hopefully.”

  “You don’t sound very convinced.”

  Davey had paused again and looked at Con, though it was hard to make out much in the darkness. And maybe that was why he had suddenly felt inclined to explain; to lay it bare for this half-hidden stranger. “I’m not,” he sighed. “Convinced, I mean. I’m winging it entirely.”

  “Sure, Davey, aren’t we all?”

  “Twenty minutes, lads,” Mr. Twomey heckled. “Last-chance saloon stuff, here.”

  Davey squinted down at the page. He was on to the final question—not literature this time but architecture. List the differences between Doric and Corinthian columns.
The trick, always, was to start from the base and work your way up to the scrolls at the top.

  Con, though, had had other opinions. “Well, I think you’re fierce brave.”

  “What?”

  “It takes a lot, like, to follow your dreams. Especially when everyone expects you to be one thing and not the other.”

  “You mean like you?” Davey didn’t like to presume, but for some reason he felt he had a measure of the stranger.

  It was the first time Con had been the one to falter. Davey wished he could see his blush. “Yeah, a bit like me. Of course, I’m cuter, though you’re not too bad yourself.”

  If the line itself hadn’t thrown him, the touch on Davey’s leg would have been more than enough. Because even in the blackness, the rise in his trousers was instant. And now he felt it again here in the hall—the ache that kept cropping up these last few days. He flushed with embarrassment, forced one hand over his crotch, still trying to write with the other.

  The architrave.

  The triglyph.

  The metope.

  “Right, lads—pens down.”

  Davey dropped his Bic to the desk. Mr. Twomey snatched his paper and added it to the pile. Davey looked up at the cross and breathed his last.

  It was done.

  Out in the playground, his classmates were already drenched head to toe from the pelt of celebratory water bombs, the playground littered with the neon skins of burst balloons. Davey kept his own head down and beelined for the gate. His eyes flicked up to check, purely on instinct, but of course he knew nobody would be waiting there to celebrate with him.

  He had always walked the two miles home from school, except on the very last day of the academic year when his mother would come and collect him in her beloved blue Fiesta. She would wear sunglasses and a scarf tied over her head—Davey knew she must have seen the image in a film somewhere before; knew she was trying to make their life, just for a moment, as beautiful as that. It was a tradition as gorgeous as it was, he supposed, suffused with a kind of longing. He passed through the empty gates now and hurried down the road.