Meat

by Joseph D'lacey

  ‘Forgive me,’ he began finally. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you…’

  ‘It’s a lot to take in,’ Collins said. ‘For anyone. Especially true for you, I would imagine.’

  The man took a step towards the door and then stopped.

  ‘Do you know me?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Not really. But I think I’ve seen you. You run, don’t you?’

  The man nodded once.

  ‘You look very…fit. A little thin perhaps.’

  The whites of the stranger’s eyes flashed and were serene again.

  ‘I’m so sick of hearing the word ‘thin’,’ he said. ‘Can you really help me? I’ve done all I can on my own. Now the Welfare is involved and I don’t know what’s going to happen.’

  Collins rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

  ‘I can help you but I can’t stop the town’s wheels from turning. If they’re onto you, you have little choice but to do what they want you to do. You have family?’

  ‘A wife. Two children. It’s…difficult…at home right now.’

  ‘I see. May I ask you what it is you do for a living?’

  The man winced at the question and lowered his head.

  ‘I could never say it. Not to you, of all people. Not here in this place.’

  ‘Look, it’s alright. I think I know what you do. Because of that, because you want to be different, you’re more welcome here than most. Someone like you…changing…well, that would be –’

  ‘I’ve already changed, Mr. Collins. I’m not the same person I was. You have…no…idea.’

  Collins nodded, his eyes closed.

  ‘You may think not but I couldn’t be doing this if I didn’t understand what people are going through. One has to have understanding first. I know you know what I’m talking about because you have that understanding. You’ve done your best to change and now you’ve come for the final piece that will help you to do it. I can help you. And I will. Do the exercises I’ve taught you and soon enough you’ll see.’

  ‘I don’t want rituals. No more religion.’

  ‘This is no religion. There is no dogma. There are no lies. Try it. If it doesn’t work you can forget we ever met.’

  ‘I don’t see how that will help me.’

  ‘No, of course not. So go and find out for yourself. If you need further guidance, come and attend again. I doubt you’ll need to, though. A man like you should take to it immediately. You’ll feel it. I know you will. And once I’ve helped you, perhaps you’ll come back and help me.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll do that. If I’ve still got a family. If I’m still alive.’

  John Collins put out his hand. The man hesitated and then put out his own. They shook and Collins felt rather than saw the incompleteness of grip from the man’s hand. He didn’t see it because he’d noticed the faintest glimmer of light in the gaunt man’s eyes.

  The rising smoke and splattering of scalding fat caused mingled washes of hunger and revulsion. She turned the meat in the pan with heavy wooden tongs and pressed down on the slab of half-seared flesh to cook it faster. The force kept her hand still. No longer was it merely the pains in her stomach that caused Parson Mary Simonson concern.

  Each morning she awoke to the nibbling in her stomach. That sensation of being devoured from the inside woke her throughout the night and acted as her alarm call come the dawn. Each new day was accompanied by nausea and dizziness the moment she swung her feet from the low, slim cot she slept in. It wasn’t the grip of some week-long sickness that was doing the rounds; this early morning vertigo had been with her for months.

  Breakfast was getting harder and harder to eat, but, as a Parson, she was required to eat three meals a day and each of them had to contain the flesh of the Chosen. For Parsons the eating of the flesh of the Chosen was a sacrament. To ordinary townsfolk, meat was simply a way to avoid starvation. The thing she required to heal her stomach was tripe but she found it too much of a struggle to chew and swallow first thing in the morning. Instead she had taken to frying a small chop or grilling some thin smoked cuts and accompanying them with a glass of milk.

  It was in doing the cooking that she first discovered the new problem. She was unable to hold a pan or spatula steady. If she brought every ounce of her will to bear on her betraying hands, it seemed to control the vibration to a minor tremor but stop it completely she could not. In a matter of days, the trembling had spread to other parts of her body and now, waking this morning bilious and unbalanced, the very room was shuddering.

  It took a few seconds to work out that it was her head trembling and not her surroundings. This was a sickening turn for the worse. No one ever talked about it in the Welfare offices or the Central Cathedral but the Shakes was very common among the Parsons of the Welfare. She’d seen many of them take to their beds with it and never stand up again. The Grand Bishop of the Welfare sometimes mentioned the ‘burdens’ that Parsons were duty bound to carry and among them, she took that to mean the many illnesses that Parsons suffered from and the brevity of their careers. Few in the town lived past the age of fifty but for Parsons it was more like forty-five.

  Parson Mary Simonson believed that it was the demands of the job that made Parsons prone to illness. Preaching the Book of Giving, short though it was, and maintaining moral standards among the townsfolk was increasingly difficult. There was more violence and aggression in the town every day, so the peacekeeping function of the Welfare became increasingly necessary. Every week now, she was compelled to use force to subdue townsfolk that had lost control and become unmanageable. In the past it had been possible to guide such offenders back into the fold. Nowadays, it was far more common that their status would be revoked and they would be driven out to the Magnus mansion before travelling on to the plant.

  The Grand Bishop also mentioned, usually in the same speech as the one refering to ‘burdens’, that there were many blessings to weigh against the sufferings in a Parson’s life. This too was true.

  A Parson never went hungry. Provision of the flesh of the Chosen was paid for by the town’s taxes. Parsons were noticed wherever they went and they had more power than any of the other townsfolk. They were more respected, for example, than the workers at the MMP plant and they were more educated. They had knowledge of medicine, law, faith – of course – and were imbued with divine powers. People feared them. It was good to be feared, for Abyrne was a dangerous place.

  The fillet was cooked right through and burned dark brown on the outside. An accruing of fat on the inside of the pan ensured its charred crust was crisp with saltiness. She laid the still sizzling meat on a plate, said a brief prayer, and cut into it. It was, as always, highest quality produce hung for an appropriate number of days before being butchered for cuts. Most townsfolk got their meat in a hurry, causing the flavour to be less mature, but here again Parsons took the privilege and got the best. In the past she’d only ever eaten her meat rare but since her illness began the desire to cook it through, and then to char it, had increased. Now she ate hard, blackened meat. It was still a struggle, though.

  As she forked a piece into her mouth, the knife in her right hand juddered against the plate. She laid the knife down and was glad of the silence. As she chewed, she considered her course of action regarding Richard Shanti.

  He was a man with a spotless record of work for MMP. His reputation for speed and efficiency was rumoured far beyond the factory floor. Townsfolk often blessed him as they blessed their meat, though she doubted he was aware of the fact. Shanti was so quiet and withdrawn she didn’t believe he was aware of very much that went on outside his own head. She didn’t like people like that. Too self-contained, too independent. Townsfolk should be accessible and predictable. They should be trustworthy. Richard Shanti did not strike her as possessing any of those qualities. He was an unknown. Unknowns were a threat to everyone.

  But if she investigated him and was wrong to do so, or if it turned out the records in the archive were incorrect in s
ome way – it wouldn’t have been the first time – she could end up showing not only herself but also the whole of the Welfare in a very poor light. Did it matter that his name might not be Richard Shanti? He was an asset to the town. Did anyone need to know his true lineage?

  She could easily drop the whole issue. She was sickening and the extra pressure would not help her. Did she need that? Was it really worth it or should she save her energy for maintaining high standards in her day-to-day labours? She couldn’t make up her mind. Perhaps there was a quiet way of doing it, merely spending more time checking records and staying away from Shanti’s family. They had two beautiful little girls with impeccable manners and just a hint of mischievousness. It would be a shame to shake up the family over speculations. No, she would wait. There was more she could do without mentioning anything to anyone. It just meant she would have to spend more time in the inch-thick dust of the records office. The idea almost appealed. She would be out of the way for a while, away from the harsh streets of Abyrne and its degenerating inhabitants.

  Halfway through her steak a piece lodged deep in her throat – so far down it was almost in her stomach. She swallowed again, trying to produce saliva but the lump was fixed. She could breathe all right, there was no danger that she would choke, but this blockage was painful and seemed impossible to shift.

  She reached for her glass of milk and brought the sweet liquid, its surface trembling, to her lips. She took a long, large gulp and waited for it to wash away the bolus of half-chewed meat. The milk slid easily down to the lump and stopped. It backed up into her mouth. She dived for the sink but didn’t reach it.

  She would fulfil her religious duty and eat three meals of Chosen flesh that day, as always, but she wasn’t confident any of them would stay down.

  Maya had no reason to feel guilty.

  Getting a message to the factory had been the worst part. She’d felt bad about that for days. Well, for hours perhaps. Before and after she’d done it, at least. But what choice did she have? She’d asked herself the same question time upon time and ignored the answer just as often. None of it was a foregone conclusion. She wasn’t setting out for betrayal. She was responding to necessity. She was managing a difficult situation – one that her husband was refusing to address.

  He’d brought home meat on the night of the Parson’s visit and it had been good meat. The best meat there was. There had been none since. Not the kilos he’d promised, not the backpack full of cuts and joints and chops and mince that they deserved, that he, as the man of the house, was duty-bound to provide. He’d weakened and reneged, become a victim of his pathetic obsessions once again.

  What he’d said to the Parson had worried her too. He hadn’t properly answered her about it afterwards. She had no knowledge of his connection to the first families or of his alleged understanding of the old customs. Whatever he’d said to Parson Mary Simonson had done the trick temporarily, but what if she decided to take things further? Maya wasn’t going to let it go that far. She was a mother and she had duties she would not ignore, even if her husband ignored his. Dear Father, she thought, losing the children was what was at stake here; the end of their family and everything they had worked together to build. How could Richard care so little?

  There was worse; if they were found to be wilfully negligent of the twins, and that seemed a provable point with the right evidence, they both stood to be tried and have their status as townsfolk revoked. There was no way back from a judgement like that.

  So. No. There was no reason for guilt.

  There was instead a reason to be happy, a reason to be hopeful about the future instead of terrified of it. On the counter in front of her, wrapped neatly in white paper, were packs of steak, links of sausage, and two huge joints that she could roast and then make soups and casseroles from. It was a large stack of parcels, mysterious gifts addressed to no one in particular.

  They were all hers now.

  She’d almost forgotten about the furtive, insistent movements behind her until her head banged gently on one of the cupboard doors. The movement stopped and she turned her head towards the stairs, listening. Was there a small footstep? She strained her ears into the early evening silence. There was nothing to hear. The movement began again. Soon she would cook the dinner.

  Her mouth watered at the thought of it.

  Whittaker, wisps of snowy hair sprouting from his ears and nose, looked very unhappy.

  ‘What is it this time?’

  His voice was wheezy, air passing over tuneless strings. Rawlins sneezed three times in a row.

  ‘Same as before. Births. And deaths.’

  ‘Something a little more recent, I hope,’ said Whittaker, trying for a smile and missing. ‘It took days for the dust to settle after your last visit.’

  The Parson appraised him for a few moments. Whittaker stroked a tuft of his moustache and attempted to maintain the smile that wasn’t quite on his face.

  ‘Tell me, Whittaker, did you eat well last night?’

  ‘Oh yes, very well indeed.’

  ‘Might I enquire what you had?’

  ‘Steak, Parson. The very best and tenderest steak.’

  ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘I’m fifty-one.’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘Fifty-one years old. That’s a rare age indeed.’

  Believing he was being complimented, Whittaker’s smile burst out from its hiding place. Long teeth, the colour of ancient ivory, leaned drunken.

  ‘I put it to you, Whittaker, that were it not for your employment within the Welfare, you would have been dead long ago. I expect you to assist me in any way you can and be grateful that dust is the greatest of your torments. Otherwise, I may be persuaded that you are, in fact, too old to perform your duties here and I will recommend your immediate and unpaid dismissal.’

  It was as though Whittaker and Rawlins had both woken from a deep slumber of many years’ duration and had begun to see their surroundings for the first time. She smiled to see them trying to find something useful to do.

  ‘Now, I shall be at the far end of the archives, the very dustiest part. Listen for my call, as I may need your help. Otherwise, be sure to send Rawlins down with a glass of milk from time to time.’

  She went carefully, liking the dust no more than them. She lifted her hems and stepped over and onto the carpet of dead particles leaving the footprint of her heavy Welfare boots. Still the motes rose up in her passing and twisted like spirits in the air behind her.

  It was the oldest records she wanted. Records from when the Welfare began. Records from the creation onwards. Most of the townsfolk believed the town had been created by God. A pure settlement commanded from the poisonous wasteland. Parson Mary Simonson was among them. As a Parson, it was her duty to instil in people the importance of the words in the Book of Giving and, though there were Parsons whose faith wasn’t always apparent, she took this gospel for truth.

  ‘In the beginning there was the promise and the promise was God. God filled the void with His presence. He commanded fire and fire arose in the void. From the fire He commanded the wasteland and the wasteland was so. But the wasteland was without life. From the wasteland God commanded the Town and he named it Abyrne. But the town was silent and empty and so God commanded the townsfolk that they might fill Abyrne with life and that they might dwell in the town forever. But the townsfolk hungered and their hunger filled God’s heart with great sorrow. He commanded the Chosen that the townsfolk might never be hungry again. He commanded the grain fields that the Chosen might always be fatted. And thus was the town and all that is in it created and ever shall it be so.’

  Simple words for God’s simple townsfolk. She loved the words and knew the whole Book of Giving by heart. Even so, she still read from it as though the act of reading strengthened the message. Here in the office of records, she was accessing a time only a few generations before, when the first families of the townsfolk were brought into existence. They arrived
with all their skills and tools and technology and began to live in the town in the way God required. They had the Book of Giving and they had their faith and that was all they needed. Very little had changed in the town since then.

  She wanted to find the first Shantis and see what she could learn about them. Maybe there was a clue in previous generations to the enigma that was Richard Shanti. If not, she would search more recent records to see who else had been born around the same time. There was a good chance that Richard Shanti was who he said he was. Equally, he might be lying.

  She was going to find out which, one way or another.

  Eight

  Maya stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened. The twins often played quietly together but the smell of food wafting up the stairs to their bedroom usually brought them down. She’d been cooking for half an hour and dinner was almost ready but there was no sign of the girls.

  Their bedroom door was closed. They usually left it that way when they were playing and then begged her to leave it open at lights-out time. Maya could hear their small voices, a note of excitement in their whispers. But why were they whispering? And why did the door now seem closed so purposefully? She was probably imagining it but it felt like there was an invisible ‘keep out’ sign nailed to it.

  Instead of calling them down to wash their hands before dinner, she began to climb the stairs. She trod to the outer edges of each step where there was less movement in the wood and therefore less noise. Reaching the landing, the stairs doubled back on themselves and continued upward. Maya was especially stealthy over the last few steps.

  The voices of her daughters were louder now but still not distinct. She thought she heard the theatrical smacking of lips and the ‘mmms’ of someone enjoying cake. So, that was it. A dolly’s tea party. No wonder they were so engrossed. She’d played the game herself as a child and remembered how utterly diverting it had been. Plump guests, furry guests, shiny guests, wooden guests, each eating and drinking their fill, each complimenting the hostess.