The Butchers' Blessing

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

  At the end, he turned left and left again. He cocked his leg and mounted the wonky stile. He hadn’t taken the cut-through in a while, but today felt just the occasion for it. He jumped another fence, then ducked another, ignoring the barbed-wire knots and the furious signs. KEEP OUT! TRESPASSERS BEWARE! In the next field along, some cattle were drinking water from a rusty bathtub. The sun was at its highest point. Davey licked his dry lips. He thought of Jesus supping vinegar on a stick.

  He had read just yesterday that another case of BSE had been confirmed down in Tipperary. According to the scientists, the disease affected the protein plaques in the cattle’s brains. Apparently the first symptom was a dodgy walk, the animals stumbling around like drunkards from a pub, before they grew aggressive and turned violent on their owners.

  Davey considered the owners themselves now, all of them dodgy, all of them plotting different moneymaking scams. He thought of karma and what a bugger it could be—as far as he was concerned they deserved everything they got. He stopped for a moment to take in the view, using one hand to save his eyes from the gorgeous cruelty of the sun. From here he could see for miles, right to where the drumlins began their ascent, working their way up in rugged increments to the sky. Below, the grass lay skewed to the side like a lad’s hair that had been slept on awkwardly overnight. Davey thought of insomnia; of tossing and turning until dawn thinking thoughts he knew he wasn’t supposed to think.

  Thinking what it meant to be a deviator; what it meant to be suppressed.

  But then Davey blinked a little harder and realised exactly where he was standing—O’Connell’s pub wasn’t very far away. So there was a much better idea to be getting on with (or at least, the only idea he could manage for now). He resumed his walk down through the woods, the tree trunks as close and warm as bodies, past the dilapidated cold store that hadn’t been used in years. Although, when Davey glanced at the gap underneath the door, he could have sworn the lights inside had been left on.

  He supposed he had assumed the pub would be a bit subdued, given the climate of uncertainty that had started to creep in; the doubts around the farmers and their “untouchable” boom. But in reality, O’Connell’s was lepping—no sign of anxiety; no trace of disease or violent cows—unless, of course, the buzz was just a cover-up to take their poor minds off.

  And sure, wasn’t that why Davey had come—to take his mind off, too?

  He had frequented O’Connell’s only a handful of times before, but from the doorway he could remember the features precisely: the tricolour hung on high, the crumbling dartboard, the plinth with the ancient hurl painted in the county colours which they kissed on match days to bring the local team good luck. Davey noticed the paint flaking away in parts. He thought of lips against the grain.

  He thought of Con, but Jesus, he couldn’t risk his trousers spiking now.

  He made his way to the bar, wading through the air that was fugged with smoke and sweat, taking care not to meet a single bloodshot eye. He pictured his classmates gearing up for their own celebrations—he knew the plan was to see off a few cans tonight, watch the Germany–Italy match, then on Saturday head out to the boglands for an epic end-of-exam rave.

  They had managed to acquire a decent boombox and a haul of ecstasy. They would stumble around with haywire brains just like the cows, only for the lads it would be pure bliss.

  “Well, here’s a surprise.”

  When Faela Quin popped up from beneath the counter, Davey started. Her hair was a little longer than when he saw her last; her face, all things considered, a little less filled with rage.

  “No need to look quite so petrified,” she assured. “Didn’t I tell you about my summer job? Jesus, Davey, why are you still wearing that?”

  He looked down at his uniform. “We have to. For the exams.”

  “They’re still going?”

  “Last one today.”

  “And what, a pint on your Toblerone to celebrate? Ring a fucking ding!” Even as her laughter began, Faela must have sensed the nerve she had touched. Davey ripped off his jumper while she compensated. “You’re a rare breed, Davey McCready, do you know that?” She smiled. “A rare bloody breed.”

  He tried to take it as a compliment; tried to mumble something between a thank-you and an apology when she stood him a pint—God knows, after everything, he didn’t deserve her kindness. But she waved his words away and moved on to the next customer. He noticed her fingernails weren’t Tippexed any more.

  He settled into a stool by the bar and started on his stout, big gulps to satisfy his thirst. His head began to lighten, the booze pushing away months of figures and facts and finickity acronyms learned by rote. He watched as more men began to arrive fresh from the fields. Davey checked for his father—he said he hadn’t stepped foot in a pub for years, but Davey didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. He wondered if he ever really had.

  Davey felt his head grow even lighter. He passed an hour with a bag of barbecue crisps. He thought of Prometheus; of Theseus and the Minotaur and a maze that had been built to keep a wretched beast at bay.

  He thought of an eagle eating a contaminated liver and contracting BSE.

  He thought of calling it mad part man part bull disease.

  He watched Faela flit through the room with towers of empties. He watched a stranger enter the pub with curious eyes. When the lad didn’t find what he was looking for, he took a low stool in the corner. It was only then that Davey noticed the camera round his neck.

  The more the place filled up, the more Davey found himself catching threads of the punters’ conversations, all of them discussing the recent arrival of the BSE. Last time the disease had flared up in England, the scientists had discovered it was caused by MBM—meat and bone meal—a kind of cheap animal feed that was made from the nasty, boiled-down scraps of cattle carcasses. Davey rolled his eyes at the idea. Had they really needed fancy scientists to tell them that turning a cow into a cannibal sent it fucking nuts? He thought of Prince Thyestes eating a stew made from his children’s boiled-down flesh. Had he really not been able to tell the difference?

  But since that discovery, the MBM had been completely banned in Ireland, so now they needed the scientists back to tell them how the BSE had suddenly reappeared over here. Could there be another source? Could the disease have evolved like one of those super-viruses? Could they be certain the Irish food chain was safe? Whatever the answer, government inspectors had started doing spot checks on herds across the country. Meanwhile, an arrest had been made on the border a few days ago. A group of eejits had been caught smuggling infected cattle from the North. If they weren’t careful, they would end up on their arses no different from the Brits after all!

  Plenty of the punters, though, remained perfectly calm. Never mind a couple of freak cases, Irish beef was clean—hadn’t they seen the ads in the paper saying as much? And no matter what happened, the Bull would be sure to protect the industry. Oh yes, if there was one man who could look after them now, it was him. Davey rolled his eyes even more vigorously at this—talk about a Messiah fucking complex! He gave a little laugh, his humour lubricated by the cream of his second pint. Even if he had already decided he probably wouldn’t be having a third. His body was craving a shower. His belly was craving a bit of dinner. His mother would be craving an update of how he had got on with the last exam. As it happened, she had been acting sort of funny this week, asking a load of strange questions.

  Do you know, love, if there’s a direct bus you can take from here to County Cavan?

  Did you ever hear of anyone hitchhiking around these parts?

  As soon as he stood up, though, Davey heard a voice next to his that was the strangest thing of all.

  “Two bottles of whiskey, please, to take away.”

  Davey stiffened, still facing the bar. He held his breath; counted the rows of brown-glass bottles that hadn’t been touched in years. His body was suddenly craving something else.

  “Well well well,
” the voice went on. “How are we—”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the very same thing. Hot date, is it? You obviously dressed up for the occasion.”

  But that was all it took for Davey’s stiffness to vanish. He turned so that they were face to face. Davey stared at the grin on Con’s lips and noticed the stubble on his chin that hadn’t been there before.

  The Butcher explained that there had been a change of plan. One of the believers on their route was after failing a BSE inspection, which meant he’d had to sign his whole herd over for the cull. In his despair, he had hung himself from a beam in his barn. The following morning, his wife had found him. The following morning, the Butchers had found her and turned back the way they’d come.

  And Davey was listening—of course he was—he couldn’t take his eyes or ears anywhere else, but when he made to reply, Con was looking away. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, what is he doing here?”

  For some reason, Davey assumed he was talking about his father—that Fionn had finally shown up, just as Davey knew he would. He thought of the byre the other night when the old man had called his name and they had had to stop what they were doing and run. But when he followed Con’s glare, he saw he meant the man with the camera. “You know him?” The flicker of jealousy was almost swallowed, but not quite.

  “Our stalker? Wait till you hear—he says he wants to capture us as we truly are. As if we need another bloody version of us doing the rounds.”

  Davey tried another laugh, though he had suddenly noticed quite how close Con’s body was.

  “We told him to feck off, but he got a bit pushy. Typical Dub, thinking he can tell the culchies what to do.”

  When a fresh group of men swarmed up to the bar, they were pushed even nearer, Con’s leg grazing against his.

  “Thinking we’re something exotic. Something primitive. What an arse! Although I will admit he’s a bit of a ride, don’t you—”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t find it anywh—” Faela’s arrival cut through Con’s words and then she cut through her own as well. She placed the bottles, very carefully, on the counter. Both were wrapped in a brown paper bag for the purpose of discretion. She looked at Davey with a bit of a squint. He felt his heart lurch up from his chest all the way to his throat.

  To capture us as we truly are.

  But soon Faela’s face resolved into that same kindness Davey didn’t quite deserve or understand. “Enjoy your evening,” she said, and nothing more. Davey watched her go, wondering what she had seen—what there even was to see.

  While Con had other questions. “Shall we get out of here?” He wedged the parcels into his pockets. “Your man’s just clocked me, and . . . I’ve been to your home, so I suppose it’s my turn to show you ours.” He placed a couple of coins on the bar for a tip.

  Davey felt his heart retreat back down his neck, though it was still beating something furious. He picked up his school jumper, then changed his mind. He left it draped across the wooden stool.

  “About bloody time!”

  The camp was only around a ten-minute walk—their feet moved in sync; they didn’t say a word—though something about it felt a bit like stepping into another world. Davey smelled the bonfire long before he saw it, the same smoky tang as his tongue from the barbecue crisps. Con hesitated, just for a moment, then showed him in.

  Dusk was falling, but still Davey could make out the carts hitched side by side at the edge of the clearing; the makeshift tents that seemed nothing more than off-white sheets draped like a children’s game of a fort; the horses tethered to the trunks of trees, chewing gobfuls of hay from a low and golden pile, their coats so glossy they looked as if they were soaking wet.

  “I thought we’d die of thirst.” On a stump to the right, one of the Butchers sat with a knife and a stone in either hand.

  Con ignored him. “This is Davey.” He took the whiskey from his pockets, but he didn’t hand it over just yet.

  “Ah, so you’re the one to blame for him taking so bloody long?”

  Davey looked the man in the face, trying to remember him from the house last week; trying not to glance down at the sharpened blade. “If you were so desperate, you should have just come to the pub yourself.”

  The chorus of laughs and whoops arrived from all directions as the outlines of the other men emerged. Davey hadn’t meant to be rude. The Butcher clearly disagreed. “As if we’d be welcome. Everyone’s all smiles when things are going well, but as soon as they start to turn—”

  “Don’t mind Mik—he’s a grumpy git.” For some reason Davey could remember that the man talking now was called Cúch. “Anyway, the grub is much better here.” He smiled. “Take a seat, lads, and I’ll bring you both a plate.”

  Cúch was right—the grub was much better, a stew earthy with sticks of herbs Davey snapped like little bones with his teeth. Even though he was famished, he tried to go slowly; to use the eating as an excuse to just watch and listen and take it all in. The camp was relaxed, but busy too—each of the men focused on completing their respective tasks—scraping out pots or buffing up boots; rinsing off dishes or pegging shirts on a line. There was something almost domestic to the whole arrangement; something, Davey thought, almost feminine.

  “You’re Lena’s boy?” After a while, the older man—was it Sol?—approached with a grin, his hand held out to relieve them of their clean plates.

  Davey hesitated. “My mother’s called Eileen, but—”

  “Of course, my mistake. Lovely woman. I remember when she was only a girl.”

  “Wait, you knew her back—”

  “Are you OK to take it neat?” Con cut in, offering the bottle and placing his hand on Davey’s thigh to ask the question. Davey looked at it; felt a rush of heat to that single point—the flames of the bonfire and so much more. When he looked up, though, Sol was already ambling away. None of the other men were paying attention. The horses had lost interest in their hay. Davey took the bottle and placed it between his lips and felt his insides burning too.

  Soon the daylight had been diluted. A couple more men drifted over to sit and pass the whiskey round. Davey noticed that when they received it, they didn’t bother to wipe the rim. There was a low swell of chatter, banter bobbing back and forth across the camp. Mik seemed more relaxed now that he had taken a drink. Davey thought of his father, then he didn’t again.

  And Davey also thought how the whole thing just wasn’t really what he had been expecting; that somewhere along the way he must have envisaged them all sitting around swapping folk tales and ancient songs. Instead, one lad lay on his back with a copy of yesterday’s Anglo-Celt, filling in the crossword. “Three down. A haphazard rhyme. Six and seven letters.”

  Meanwhile two other men—like all the men who ever lived—were engaged in a deep debate over directions and routes; the best way one might get from Ballintober to Ballina.

  “What about the new modern stretch by Castlebar?”

  “Ah yes, another lovely European-funded road.”

  Davey thought of his mother and her recent questions.

  . . . a direct bus you can take from here to County Cavan?

  . . . anyone hitchhiking around these parts?

  He wondered if it was something to do with her haphazard dreams.

  Helter-skelter.

  He wondered if the lad had managed to figure out the crossword clue.

  “Right, before we turn in . . .” It was the oldest amongst them, though, who did finally inject a bit of ceremony into the evening. As Sol spoke, the debate petered out, though a consensus still hadn’t been agreed upon. “I’d like to propose a toast. To Paddy Dwyer.”

  Davey felt confused, then he felt something else. Con’s breath was hot on his neck. “The guy we were supposed to visit today,” he whispered. “The one who hung himself in his barn.”

  Since they hadn’t been using cups, most of the men just raised their fists in acknowledgement.

  “The lo
ss of a believer,” one agreed, “is always a tragedy.”

  But Sol was quick to correct. “It’s a tragedy for any man. And for his wife to find him like that? God knows my missis would be beyond cure.” His face dug deep with empathy, all the higgledy lines like an ancient map full of well-trodden routes. “Here’s to the Farmer’s Widow, that we may honour her grief. Right, lads, we’ve an early start. And Davey?” Here the pain gave way to a gentle nod. “It’s been a pleasure. You’re very welcome here any time you like.”

  Again, they walked in silence. Davey could feel the whiskey in his forehead. He didn’t want to go home. He wanted to know what a word like “home” meant to men who slept under makeshift tents.

  Of all the things, he spoke of the old man. “Sol said he remembers my mum.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Con replied. “He’s been at this almost fifty years—he remembers everyone. Apparently his wife made him promise to stop when they had kids, but it turned out they weren’t able. Then he offered to retire when he was sixty—his health hasn’t been great—but by then she could see how much he loved it; how much he wanted to keep going. So in the end she agreed—said a promise was a promise was a promise—and now he calls her ‘Mrs. P’ for short.” Con stopped. “Which reminds me—I’ll have to think of a cute nickname for you.”

  Davey felt a fresh rush of heat to his face. He racked his brains for a coy suggestion. Then he realised they had made it back to the main road, and he wasn’t coy at all. “When will I see you again?”

  Con cast his eyes across the fields. A flock of shorn sheep were trying out their new skin. His own hair fell over his ears in pale yellow curls. “The change in route has cocked things up,” he said. “And if some farms really are contaminated, we’re going to have to reassess.” When he looked back, though, he must have seen Davey’s expression. “I suppose I could . . . Will you be in O’Connell’s on Saturday night?”