Cut to the Bone

by Roz Watkins

  Kirsty shook her head. ‘Anyway, it horrifies me to say it, but those pigs are doing a spectacular job on the lamb. Do you want to see?’

  We stood and followed her from the kitchen, out of the house and across the yard into the pig barn.

  All was much quieter now, with some of the pigs lying down and others licking at the trough.

  I’d been sure they’d leave fragments. That the pigs at the abattoir couldn’t have eaten a person, because more would have been left. That they wouldn’t have chomped their way through the hips, the femurs, the backbone, the skull.

  ‘Wow,’ Fiona said.

  I fished out my camera and took photographs of the trough, the straw, the pigs. The trough was smeared with blood, like the one at the abattoir had been, but there was no bone in it.

  Nothing was left of the person-sized sheep.

  21

  Bex – August 1999

  Bex held the plastic toy cone near the pig’s face. The pig reached forward and touched it with her nose. Bex made a clicking noise, gave the pig a pellet of food, and held the cone target out again.

  ‘Perfect,’ her dad said. ‘You’re a natural.’ He was sitting at the picnic table that overlooked the pig field. It was another warm, shimmery day, the air touched with the smell of a rose that drifted across from the garden. They’d been her mum’s roses. They were neglected now, unpruned and straggly, grass and bindweed growing through their thorny stems. Bex wondered how her mother could have left her beloved roses. But that was a ridiculous thought, given that she’d left her children.

  Bex threw a few pellets down for the pig and stood. Maybe she was a natural. There wasn’t much she was good at. It gave her a warm feeling inside to think she might be a natural pig trainer. And that her dad might be proud of her.

  ‘We can get her doing fetch next,’ he said. ‘It takes a bit of work to build up to that, but she’s well capable of it.’

  Bex left the pen and sat opposite her dad, squinting into the sun. The thought of a pig playing fetch was funny, but she wasn’t sure why. She knew they were clever. And they recognised her too. She was already growing attached to them.

  Bex adjusted the parasol to stop the light dazzling her. Her dad had rigged up an electric motor, so it could take itself up and down. She wondered if he’d have been happier as an engineer. He made his bizarre household robots, and he’d taught himself plumbing and electrics and woodwork. But she supposed he’d never questioned that he’d take over the family farm.

  ‘Why do you train them?’ Bex asked.

  ‘It’s fun and it makes them easier to handle. It’s less stressful for all concerned.’

  ‘Are they as clever as dogs?’

  ‘They’re certainly very trainable. I’m not sure comparing intelligence between different species is helpful.’

  ‘Why not?’ She didn’t want the conversation to end. He felt like a proper dad when they were training the pigs together, and discussing it afterwards. At other times they couldn’t talk. There were silences you could drive a tractor through.

  Her dad looked at her and spoke as if he cared what she thought. ‘Take the “mirror test” that humans are so fond of. An animal passes the test if it recognises itself in a mirror. Do you think that makes an animal intelligent?’

  Bex thought about it. ‘I guess so …’

  ‘But is it not biased towards visual animals? Imagine if there was such a thing as a “smell mirror” that reflected back your own unique aroma. Do you think you’d recognise your smell reflection?’

  Bex laughed. ‘I kind of hope not.’

  ‘So does that make you stupid?’

  She was desperate for him not to think she was stupid. To take her seriously like he did Kirsty. ‘I get your point. We look at it from our perspective all the time, not giving animals much credit for stuff they do better than us.’

  The pig she’d been training had finished the pellets and collapsed into a muddy puddle, settling down as if she was on a spa day, readying herself for a massage.

  ‘We mustn’t anthropomorphise them either,’ her dad said. ‘They’re different from us and they want different things.’

  Bex nodded and picked at a knot in the wood of the bench. There was so much she wanted to ask him. About her past, her mum, the family. But she didn’t want to ruin the mood. She wanted to grab the good time with her dad, and Anna was due any minute. Bex had asked her over, partly because she wanted to find out more about Daniel. She couldn’t ask directly, but she wanted to know about that photograph of her.

  Her dad stood. ‘Anna’s here. I’ll leave you to it.’ He flicked a glance at the pigs, and headed back towards the house.

  And there Anna was. Early, which was typical of her. She flung herself onto the bench opposite Bex. ‘Hiya. You been training them?’

  Bex smiled. She liked Anna. She wasn’t very cool, but neither was Bex. It was good to spend time with someone who didn’t care what she looked like, and didn’t go all pathetic around boys. Bex’s friends at school went all ditzy any time a decent-looking boy approached them. It was too boring.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bex said. ‘Dad’s been showing me. He gets them to follow targets to move them around. Reckons they’re super-quick to train and it’s a better way to do it. Doesn’t scare them, and it’s safer for him too.’ It felt good to be the expert, even just between her and Anna.

  ‘That’s good,’ Anna said. ‘I see them at the abattoir sometimes and it’s awful … They’re terrified.’

  ‘What’s it like having your parents run an abattoir?’ Bex looked at Anna to see if she’d got too personal. They’d only known each other a few weeks, even though they’d hung around together most days.

  Anna said, ‘I think they might want me to take it over when they retire.’

  ‘Not Gary?’

  ‘They think I’m sensible and responsible.’

  ‘You are. Is Gary not?’ Bex pictured Gary walking over the stones of the drowned village and felt a tingle in her stomach. But she wouldn’t be going all stupid about him, she knew that for sure.

  ‘He’s not great with money,’ Anna said. ‘I guess he’ll grow up.’

  Bex wasn’t sure what to say. Was it good that Anna would take over the abattoir? Or bad that she’d have to kill animals for a living, and that Gary was no good with money.

  ‘There’s not much to do for entertainment in Gritton,’ Anna said. ‘Gary and Kirsty placed a few bets for fun, but I think Gary’s still doing it. You have to watch out for Kirsty. Did you realise she deals?’

  Bex felt a stab of confusion. ‘Deals?’

  ‘I know she’s your sister, but you may as well know: she makes a bit of money dealing drugs.’

  Bex blinked into the sun. ‘No! Not Kirsty! Dad would kill her.’

  ‘She’s not scared of your dad. She’s a risk-taker and she enjoys the thrill of it. But anyway, Gary gets led astray, and my parents don’t think it bodes well. They trust me more than him.’

  Bex felt the need to defend her sister, even though Kirsty never defended her. ‘Maybe he leads Kirsty astray.’

  Anna laughed. ‘I don’t think anyone leads Kirsty anywhere.’ There was a hint of admiration in Anna’s voice.

  Bex wanted to change the subject. She was sure Anna must be wrong about Kirsty. ‘Do you want to take over the abattoir?’ she said.

  Anna sighed. ‘It’s a good business, I suppose …’

  ‘You shouldn’t feel you have to run it if you don’t want to.’

  They were getting further from Bex being able to ask about Daniel. It would sound odd if she just shoved it into the conversation now. If she asked whether she should be worried about him.

  But then Anna changed the subject: ‘Are you getting on all right with your dad?’ she asked. ‘It must be strange. When did you last see him before this summer?’

  Bex felt a stab of embarrassment. ‘A couple of years ago. He comes to visit me at my aunt’s. Not that often – but it’s not because he doesn
’t want to see me. It’s just … he can’t leave the animals, and my aunt doesn’t like coming to Gritton. So it’s hard. But we get on fine.’

  ‘It’s not awkward then?’

  Bex hesitated. Pictured her dad showing her how to hold the cone out for the pig, when to click, how to offer the food away from her body so the pig wouldn’t mug her. He wasn’t a great talker but she was sure he cared about her. It had been worth coming to visit. ‘It’s been all right actually,’ she said.

  ‘Why won’t your aunt come to Gritton?’

  ‘I don’t know. She and my dad fell out years ago. She doesn’t like to talk about it and nor does he.’

  Bex looked up to see Kirsty walking across the field from the house, hand in hand with a boy. It was Lucas, Gary’s friend. The nice-boy sidekick to bad-boy Gary. Any of the girls who didn’t fancy Gary had Lucas to gush over. Daniel walked next to them, slightly apart.

  Bex noticed a rabbit hopping across the field. It moved in a weird way.

  ‘I think Lucas might be too wimpy for Kirsty,’ Anna whispered. ‘She’ll eat him alive. Gary likes you, by the way.’

  A flush of adrenaline in Bex’s stomach. ‘He does not.’

  ‘Yep. He does. Do you like him?’

  Bex wasn’t sure of the answer to that. But before she’d had a chance to reply, Kirsty skipped up to their bench and stood in front of them in the sunlight, her golden hair back-lit so it looked like she had a halo. ‘We’re going to have a barbecue,’ she said. ‘In the woods over there, on Bex’s last night in Gritton.’

  Anna smiled up at Kirsty. ‘Brilliant!’

  Lucas put his arm around Kirsty and pulled her to him. ‘Isn’t she fab?’

  Anna nodded. Bex wasn’t sure organising a barbecue warranted this level of adoration but she was happy that everyone was getting along.

  ‘I can sort out the booze,’ Lucas said. ‘Kirsty can sort the—’

  Kirsty shot him daggers and then pointedly looked at Bex.

  ‘What?’ Bex said.

  ‘Nothing,’ Lucas said. ‘Who’s being invited?’

  ‘Just our gang,’ Kirsty said. ‘Me, Lucas, Daniel, Gary, and these two babies here.’

  ‘Hey,’ Anna said. ‘We’re not babies.’

  Now Bex had no chance of asking Anna if Daniel was a weirdo. He was standing right in front of them smiling at her. She gave him an uncertain smile back, thinking about the photograph on his wall.

  It felt humid and thundery as if it was about to rain.

  ‘Definitely not babies,’ Lucas said, and winked at Bex.

  Kirsty untangled herself from Lucas’s arm and gave him an icy look.

  ‘It’s good that Dad’s being okay with you, after what happened,’ Kirsty said to Bex.

  Bex felt like she’d been hit. Where had that come from? She felt hot and cold and sick all at once. Every time she thought Kirsty was being nice, she’d come out with some awful comment and ruin it. Was it because Lucas had flirted with Bex? That hadn’t been her fault. And had he even been flirting? Something brushed against her foot. She looked down and jumped. It was the rabbit. ‘Oh my God! What’s up with it?’ she said.

  ‘Oh no, it’s got mixi,’ Anna said. ‘Poor thing. You can see from its eyes.’

  Kirsty took a step away, but then moved back and leaned in close. ‘Ugh. Look at that.’ Her voice had taken on an odd tone. Almost as if she was enjoying the drama.

  ‘We’ve got to kill it,’ Anna wailed. ‘It’s awful. It’ll be in horrible pain. Poor thing.’

  Bex had never seen a rabbit with myxomatosis before. Its eyes were swollen and covered in growths, and it was clearly blind. Looking at it made her want to cry. ‘Won’t it recover?’ she asked.

  ‘Not when it’s got to that stage.’ Lucas had moved away, un-volunteering from the role of executioner.

  Anna’s voice was shaky. Panicky. ‘We’ve got to kill it. It’s in agony. How can we kill it?’

  ‘Bex, run and get a shovel off Dad,’ Kirsty said.

  Daniel stepped forward. ‘The quicker the better with these.’ And he lifted his booted foot and smashed it down on the creature’s head.

  22

  Meg – Present day

  Wednesday

  I flipped my eyes open, heart pounding, breath coming in sharp bursts. I’d been dreaming I was trapped in a cage. It was so small I could barely move, like the pigs in Frankie’s first drawing. I’d been thrashing around, begging to be let out. Then the dream had morphed into me being bricked into a hole in a wall, unable to sit up or lie straight, like a display I’d seen at the London Dungeon as a child and never been able to forget. All I could hear were the screams of another prisoner.

  I lay and let the relief wash over me. It was morning. None of it was real.

  There was another sound. Also terrifying. Hamlet vomiting on my bedroom floor.

  ‘Oh God!’ I jumped up. ‘Come on, Hamlet. Downstairs.’

  It was too late.

  Hamlet sat washing his face and looking proud of himself, while I used toilet paper and an old sponge to tackle the furball on the wooden floor, and to stop the more liquid part of the contents of Hamlet’s stomach going down between the cracks. I hoped this wasn’t foreshadowing the day to come.

  I checked my phone, and there were no significant developments. I had a feeling that Violet was alive somewhere and in need of our help, despite us finding her blood in the pig troughs and now confirming that the pigs could theoretically have eaten her. I felt I should be racing somewhere to save her, but I didn’t know where. The evidence pointed to her being dead, which put me in a similar category to the psychics. But I was relieved I cared. Talking to Hannah about Gran had clearly helped. I was moving back towards my reassuringly normal level of neurotic workaholism.

  Noises were coming from the kitchen. Dad. Why was I so damn nervous about meeting my own father? My pukey cat and I walked downstairs and into the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the table with a newspaper laid out in front of him. He looked up and smiled. ‘Meg.’ He seemed older than I remembered, the creases deep on his forehead. And his eyes were open too wide, as if he’d recently had a shock and hadn’t yet changed his face back to normal.

  ‘Dad.’ I reached forward and gave him a hug. He smelled of clothes that hadn’t dried properly. ‘Sorry again I was so late. High-risk missing person.’

  He stood up. ‘Don’t be silly. Hamlet welcomed me and I was fine. She even sat on my knee. I gave her some chicken.’

  All cats were female in Dad’s world, even when they shared a name with a tragic Danish prince. I didn’t bother to correct him. Hamlet didn’t care, especially if chicken was involved.

  ‘I’m proud of you working so hard,’ Dad said.

  I couldn’t help smiling. He was proud of me. I was so pathetic.

  ‘Go on. Sit down,’ he said. ‘Let me make you tea.’

  I flopped onto one of the chairs while he pottered around. I’d been influenced by Mum’s negative thinking. He wasn’t that bad any more. He’d softened.

  I moved the paper aside. He’d always been an aggressive paper-reader when I was young – laying it out flat and taking up the whole table or holding it up to his face while Mum tried to talk to him. I’d never have dared shift the thing in those days.

  He put down a mug of tea and sat opposite me.

  ‘Was the spare bed okay?’ I said. ‘Sorry about the book sculptures.’

  ‘It was fine. I’m fine. It’s a nice house.’

  ‘Did you sleep all right?’ I wanted to ask why he was suddenly visiting now. I’d barely heard from him in fifteen years, never met his girlfriend, Pauline. I knew nothing about his life. He didn’t look quite right. I wanted to know if he was unwell, or if anything was wrong. But I couldn’t make myself be that direct. ‘How are things with you?’ I said instead.

  ‘Good, good.’

  That wasn’t giving much away.

  ‘Is Pauline okay?’

  Pauline had been She-who-must-not-be-sp
oken-of for so long in Mum’s house that I could barely get her name past my lips. It felt like Hamlet coughing up the furball.

  ‘Oh. Yes, I think so.’

  What the hell did that mean? He was still with her but didn’t know if she was okay, or he’d split up with her and didn’t even know what country she was in? Had she dumped him for a younger man, as predicted by Mum when they’d first got together? And why was I fine interviewing people who stuck screwdrivers in each other’s throats but couldn’t get out of my dad whether he was still with his girlfriend?

  ‘She didn’t mind you coming down here on your own?’ Why was I incapable of just coming out with it?

  ‘No. Yes. As a matter of fact, we separated.’

  There it was. ‘Oh no! I’m so sorry, Dad. When?’ That would be why he looked anxious and ill.

  ‘A few weeks ago. It’s all fine though. How are things with you?’

  ‘Why did you split?’

  ‘Oh. Ah. You know. Grew apart.’ He shook his head rapidly. ‘Nothing in particular. Nothing you could put your finger on.’

  I frowned. ‘You can talk to me about it, you know.’

  ‘No, no, it’s all fine. Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘If you’re sure, Dad. I can see it’s not been easy for you. Are you okay? You look a bit under the weather.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. It had been coming a while. What’s new with you?’

  It was such a novelty to have him ask me questions that I couldn’t help but go with it. And at least he wouldn’t grill me about whether I’d found a man to have kids with. I had friends who couldn’t set foot in their parents’ houses without having to provide a dissertation (with references) justifying their failure to reproduce. Mum had given up on me and Dad had never been bothered.

  ‘I’m half looking to buy a house,’ I said. ‘I’ve got enough for a deposit with my savings and the money from Gran.’

  ‘How exciting.’ He didn’t look very excited. ‘Have you found anything?’

  ‘There are a few I want to look at. I’ve got no time or ability for DIY, so I should get a newer one, but they’re so bland and soul-less, and half of them are built on actual swamps.’