Úna sighed. What was taking her mam so long? She turned to inspect herself in the mirror while she waited; saw the mousy hair that had been passed down from her father and the green eyes that had been passed down from her mam. She sometimes wondered about the bits she couldn’t see—like whether they were her mother’s kidneys or her father’s lungs or maybe one of each. It was the heart she wondered about the most.
But then the doctor had tried to explain how, with some of the diseases, genetics were only part of the story. Because an animal could be born one way and then, over time, it could be changed—it wasn’t just about Nature any more, it was about “Man intervening and altering things.”
“Sorry, love.” There was a clatter on the stair. Her mam was red around the eyes. “Have you got everything?”
Úna took one last look in the mirror, shoved her hair behind her ears, then vanished out the door.
Back before she was a widow, Mrs. P had always welcomed them to her cottage with a smile, hurrying them inside with gossip and plates of homemade treats, still warm. These days they tended to just slip in quietly, then spend an hour nursing milky tea and silences. Truth be told, Úna didn’t know which one made her stomach the more sour.
But this morning there was nothing quiet about the welcome whatsoever. “Come in, come in!” Mrs. P ushered them with hands covered in dark smears, jet black with a glossy sheen. Úna frowned, then thought of treacle or molasses and decided the widow must have finally gone back to her recipe book. Flapjacks were an easy place to start.
The kitchen table was so covered in newspaper you couldn’t even see a sliver of wood, headlines and articles criss-crossing to form a black-and-white tapestry. Úna spotted a picture of the Bull, which took up half a broadsheet front page. These days, he seemed to be the only one still smiling.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess.” Mrs. P, on the other hand, was busy wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. “I’ve been hard at it all morning.”
Úna glanced at the oven, but the light was off. She inhaled. The kitchen smelled strange, but not particularly sweet. So what was it Mrs. P had been “hard at”? Next Úna remembered her revelation from the lake—that she used to be a journalist—so maybe the newspapers had something to do with that?
When Úna found the boots, one of them was shiny and the other one was not. She knew both of them had once belonged to Sol.
“I thought I’d be finished by the time you arrived, but they were absolutely filthy.” Mrs. P picked up a little pot and a hard-bristled brush. “Grá, would you ever be a saint and get things going with the tea?”
Úna’s mam, though, didn’t move, only stared in shock. Around them, the strange smell finally made sense. The shoe polish gave off a sharp and headachy smell like toilet bleach or disinfectant for a wound.
“I could have sworn he had another pair somewhere in a bigger size—did you know that feet shrink with old age?” Mrs. P began to scrub at the tip of the toe. “I might try the attic later on.”
Finally Úna’s mam took a deep breath and replaced her shock with sympathy. “Love, I . . . I don’t think he’ll be needing his boots any more.” She had already warned Úna that grief went through many phases; many forms. “You do remember that Sol . . . I’m so sorry, but Sol is gone.”
On the day of the funeral, it seemed as if Mrs. P was going through her silent phase. She had barely uttered a word; had barely shed a tear as she watched her husband’s body being fed back down into the earth. The Butchers had each placed a hand on the wicker box, guiding it all the way—three men on either side and Úna’s father weeping wetly at the head.
It was only afterwards at the house, scoffing sandwiches and wholemeal scones, that the widow had finally come back to life. She said that heart disease had always been in Sol’s family—he had been complaining about chest pains just this Christmas—but she said that didn’t really explain about the rest. “I mean the holes . . .” She had faltered. “The ones in his feet. I found them when I was doing his final bath.” Her whole body had started to shake. “The water . . . it just poured straight through.” Before she collapsed to the armchair with both hands pressed against her mouth.
Úna’s own mouth had gone slack as she watched the other mourners rush in with soothing words and whiskey nips. She had waited for Mrs. P to sit up and apologise for her muddled head. But apparently what she was saying wasn’t muddled at all, it was true, and no one could offer any explanation—not that afternoon nor in the days and weeks ever since. It was the thing Úna heard her parents arguing about the most, anxious whispers through the bedroom walls.
“Cúch, what happened to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“So go back and find out!”
“We’ve been through this; I can’t.”
“Why do you always have to be so set in your ways?”
“Grá, I told you—if the Gardaí returned the body, there were to be no more questions—that was the deal. Plus, Wyn’s son is a doctor and he said it was definitely a heart attack. The rest . . . We just have to leave it be.”
“Of course I remember.” Back in the cottage kitchen, the noise of the bristles had ceased. “But now that the Butchers need to appoint an eighth, I would like for Sol’s replacement to wear his boots.” Here Mrs. P held the left foot up to inspect her handiwork. Úna thought how strange it was that shoes had tongues. “My husband may be ‘gone,’ as you so delicately put it, but the old rituals have to carry on.”
“And I’m sure they will . . .” And now Úna thought how strange it was to see her mam choosing her words so carefully. “But you don’t need to worry about all that, Aoife. The most important thing for you is to get some rest and just—”
“Just what?” The boot slammed down on the table, full-force. Úna had never heard the old woman raise her voice in her life. She had also never heard her first name—had never even considered the fact of her having one. “Just spend my time baking cakes you don’t even eat? Imagining all the ways they might have torn shreds from my husband’s limbs? No, I would prefer to do something useful, thank you very much.” The bristles resumed their agitated rhythm. “You do remember it is our faith too?”
When she had finally finished her task, Mrs. P went upstairs to scrub the black from her fingernails. Úna’s mam went outside to shove the dirty newspapers in the bin. Úna was left behind to do the tea. As the kettle boiled, she considered all that Mrs. P had just said. Or really, this new woman “Aoife” who polished old boots and shouted at old friends.
All the ways they might have torn shreds from my husband’s limbs . . .
Úna tried to think who “they” could even mean? Tried to think if it could be the same “they” who had bruised her father’s face?
You do remember it is our faith too?
But Mrs. P had said another thing, which Úna didn’t need to try to think about.
Now that the Butchers need to appoint an eighth . . .
She remembered Wyn’s son and wondered if being a doctor made you better with knives and blood? She wondered if a Butcher’s child was statistically more likely to be a boy or a girl?
I would like for Sol’s replacement to wear his boots.
She looked at the pair drying side by side by the radiator. The unknotted laces lay long like four mouse tails. She leaned back and peered through to the hallway; the coast was clear. She took off her shoes and socks, then, one at a time, she stepped her two feet in.
Úna flexed her toes into the empty space until the heat began to rise. It moved up through her bones and past her calves; past her hips and her trouser crotch. By the time it had reached all the way to her chest, where the breasts she so hated had started to sprout, she had answered one of her questions at least. Because if the doctor on the radio was right, then not everything had to be defined by Nature. Not everything was to do with genetics—no, Man could intervene and alter things.
Úna closed her eyes and inhaled, letting the realisat
ion sink fully in.
You could be born one way and then you could be changed.
At dinner that evening, her feet were bare again, but her body felt hotter than ever. On the table sat three steaks—they had eaten from the freezer stash most evenings since her father’s return. What’s the special tonight? More beef, love! At this rate they would run out very soon. Úna wondered if the Butchers had brought back any fresh cuts of meat from their travels or just a body with some inexplicable cuts below the toes.
She had passed the afternoon in the bathroom while her father was out and her mother was in the garden. Úna had stared at herself in the mirror, prodding and poking and racking her brains. Every time she pressed the new flesh on her chest, she watched it bounce right back.
She paused. It wasn’t right at all.
But then she had remembered the other morning when she spied her father changing the bandages on his torso, his left arm up to the sky, the fabric looping round and round like a mummy’s wrap. So Úna had returned to her bedroom and searched her drawer for a pair of tights, then stretched them taut. She saw a ladder from one of the heels climbing up the leg. At first she flinched when she pulled the material flat across her nipples, but the pain only made her pull harder again. She looped slowly and patiently; tied a triple knot at the end and checked the mirror.
She smiled. The first half of her plan was complete.
Now, sitting at the kitchen table, she could feel the itch of the denier chafing her skin. She lowered her eyes, marvelling at the uninterrupted view to her lap. She cut another mouthful of steak, far too big, but she ate it all in one go anyway. The sound of her chewing filled her head. Neither of her parents had spoken a word. Her mother wasn’t usually one for wine, but tonight she kept topping herself up until the bottle was nearly empty. Eventually it was Úna’s father who risked the silence. “I met with some of the others earlier,” he said. “We took your advice—a couple of the younger lads are headed back to the borderlands tomorrow to see if they can find out anything more.”
Úna saw her mother lower her glass. “Oh?”
“I mean, about what they . . . About what happened to Sol. After his heart attack.”
Next Úna saw her mother’s thin face warring—all the things it wanted to say; all the things it wanted to ask or even demand. “Who will go?”
“Con volunteered straight away. Mik said he was happy to keep him company. I just . . . We’re just worried it might be dangerous—”
“They’ll be fine.” Her mam cut in with the assurance, as if she could possibly know. “And anyway, you owe it to Mrs. P. When we saw her earlier . . . Oh, Cúch, she’s in a terrible state. Some answers might at least bring her a bit of peace.” Then she downed her glass in one before she softened, just an inch. “You said you took my advice?”
Úna’s father nodded in reply, trying to see what the question was really asking, while Úna saw that he had barely touched his steak. She prayed her mother hadn’t noticed. But of course, Úna didn’t need prayers any more, because it was time for the second half of her plan to come to pass. She excused herself to the bathroom, then went softly with the stairs. She had stolen the small scissors from the drawer earlier, while her mam was busy in the garden. It reminded her of stealing knives all those months ago for the mouse.
In the bathroom, she looked in the mirror. Her eyelashes were very long. If she had had the time, she might have given them a trim as well. She took the first lock of hair in her fingers and realised the word was a perfect fit. Lock. Because it trapped you into things you might want to escape. She snipped smoothly and straightly like her mam had taught her. The strand fell to the sink in a single coil. She kept going, the blade cold against her scalp, but she knew that meant she was getting everything right at the root. She thought of the back garden and how scraggy it had grown. She thought of her mother out there on her hands and knees trying to see what could be saved.
When Úna was finished, she placed the scissors back in her pocket, lifted her T-shirt, and readjusted the tights. Already they had begun to dig a rut across her chest like a line drawn in red pen. She didn’t bother to step softly down the stairs and her mam didn’t bother to say a thing when she saw her, only waited for her husband to turn and follow her gaze. It took him a moment—and a bit of pain—to manoeuvre himself around. Úna wondered if tights or bandages were better for fixing a body; for intervening and altering things.
“Dad, I’ve made a plan.” When she spoke, she pitched her voice low; felt the stray hairs down her back like a fur. She realised she had never thought to check if the mouse was a female or a male. “Now that Sol is dead, I know you will need to find someone new before you can head back on the road, so I am putting myself forward as a replacement Butcher.” Here she paused and nodded to her mother, both in acknowledgement and apology. “Don’t worry, Mam told me the rules. But as you can see, I have decided to change.” She rolled her shoulders tall and took a final breath. She was ready. “I have decided I don’t need to be a girl anymore.”
When her mother’s tears began, Úna thought of her disappearing under the surface of the lake the other day. When her father stood up, she thought he really was a giant. She smiled at him. Maybe they would let her have a glass of wine to celebrate. Either way, she really was ready.
“Úna, the reason the men and I met up this afternoon was to discuss the future of the group. Between Sol and everything . . . It’s not safe for us out there . . .” He gave a little cough to clear his throat and Úna realised it must have been gristle—that was why he hadn’t touched his dinner—he must have been served a chewier piece of meat. “And now the farmers are saying they can’t use us any more. The government’s bringing in this new monitoring system—some ‘modern’ technology to trace every animal from birth to slaughterhouse . . .” His throat caught again. He coughed his words up. “So we have decided, Úna—trust me, it has been a very difficult decision—but the Butchers have decided to disband.”
By the time her father was finished, the heat from Úna’s body had vanished entirely. He stepped forward and held out his arms, a consolation offering of flesh and warmth and pure regret. But already she had turned away from him, from his words, and started for the front door. She made sure not to look in any mirror as she went sprinting out.
Habit—or was it tradition?—wanted to lead her left towards Mrs. P’s, but Úna broke with all of that and turned right down the road instead. She ran, pumping her arms and legs, and didn’t check behind—she knew her parents wouldn’t be following. What she didn’t know was whether that made her hate them any more or less.
The light was fading but not quite gone, the magpies flitting branch to branch, swallowing late-evening bugs they caught on the wing. The tarmac held the residual warmth of the afternoon’s sunshine. Úna suddenly remembered she wasn’t wearing anything on her feet.
A motorbike zoomed past, too close, so she veered a little nearer to the ditch. A van driver honked his horn and shouted something out his window about her arse. Úna felt the tights chafe a bit deeper; felt her limbs move a bit faster as the whip of the wind kept the worst of the moisture from her eyes.
She saw the turn for the playground and followed it, the path a slightly different texture underfoot. Back in her home-schooling days, her mam had taken her here for “PE” classes once a week. Apart from a dented slide, some monkey bars, and two rusty swings, there wasn’t much to speak of. Úna had loved to turn the swing in a circle, winding the chains tighter and tighter, then let go with her head thrown back and spin.
When she spotted Car McGrath on one of the swings, the first thing she noticed was the state of his hair. It had gone gaudy over the summer, big orange blotches from spraying too much cheap and nasty bleach. The second thing she noticed was his dinner. Úna couldn’t believe McDonald’s was brazen enough to still be selling burgers. She couldn’t believe anyone was stupid enough to still be buying them.
Her pace faltered until it stopped. Her c
hest felt as if it was on fire, especially where the bright red line ran straight through her heart.
It must have been her panting that gave her away. “Freak?” Car’s voice was an explosion through the dusk. “Oh my God, is that really you?”
Úna flicked her eyes around. They were completely alone.
For as long as she could remember, she had hated the “f” word—had yearned for Car and his gang to call her by her real name. This evening, though, she realised that maybe it was better after all. Because freaks could be boys or girls, which meant maybe freaks could decide for themselves.
“Is it a new ritual?” Car continued. “The Baldy Butchers?” He sniggered, pleased with his alliteration, his shoulders shaking, which made the chains above him jangle like coins. But Úna knew that he had it wrong—that, apparently, the Butchers didn’t even exist any more.
A stitch stabbed her side. She needed to sit.
As she approached the other swing, she heard the chains go still. She could sense Car’s eyes tracking her every move. It felt good to take the weight off her blackened feet; to focus on steadying her breath. She shifted the scissors in her pocket so they didn’t jut into her ribs. She noticed the smell. “Can I have a bite?”
Car’s eyes now tracked their way down to the burger in his hand as if trying to remember how it had found its way there. Tentatively, he held it out. His teeth had left little scalloped ridges in the bun.
The first mouthful was so much sweeter than Úna expected, like a spoonful of sugar had been sprinkled over the top of the patty. Her next bite had a bit more ketchup, a sting of pickle, and a plastic flub of cheese. She wondered if she would be able to taste the madness straight away; if it would work its way down to her stomach or go directly to her head. When she had finished, she wiped her hands on her thighs.
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