Meat

by Joseph D'lacey

  ‘Right.’ Bruno ran to each of the three windows and drew the thick dusty drapery closed. ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Come here.’

  Bruno approached and stepped up to Magnus’s chair. Magnus beckoned him closer, gesturing for secrecy. Bruno leaned his ear down to Magnus’s lips and nodded as he took his orders.

  ‘And Bruno,’ whispered Magnus. ‘As quietly as you can, son.’

  Bruno nodded again and left the room without even looking at Collins.

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Only for you, old son. Only for you. Why don’t you finish your tale?’

  Eleven

  His mind could hide his new knowledge but his body couldn’t. It got harder bleeding the Chosen, gutting them, quartering or boning them out. But he could disguise that because he was further along the chain and the killing was done. On the stun, though, it was impossible to disguise his misgivings. It didn’t show in his face or his demeanour or in the things he said to his co-workers but it showed and it was impossible to do anything about it. The familiar shout from Torrance’s steel overlook made Shanti want to disappear.

  ‘Chain speed, please.’

  He kept his voice even.

  ‘One eighteen, sir.’

  Torrance must have thought he’d misheard.

  ‘Say again, please, Ice Pick.’

  ‘One eighteen.’

  In the pause he could hear Torrance thinking. The next yell was aimed at the filers moving the Chosen through the crowd pens.

  ‘You men, keep those cattle moving. Rick’s standing here with no heads to break.’

  One of them yelled back:

  ‘Everything’s moving fine over here, sir. Got a good steady stream.’

  ‘Ice Pick, what’s the problem?’

  ‘No problem, sir.’

  ‘Why aren’t we turning ’em over quicker?’

  ‘I thought we were. I’ll get us back up to one thirty in just a few minutes.’

  Torrance didn’t shout any more, so Shanti hoped he was satisfied. Something in the man’s silence worried him, though. It wasn’t just the low chain speed – that happened to everyone once in a while. An off day was an off day. But Torrance had been looking at him recently. Not looking at him strangely but looking at him more. Noticing him. Watching him. Maybe he already knew something. If he did, Shanti knew his days at MMP were coming to an end.

  He ground his teeth down upon each other. The access panel opened. He didn’t hesitate. By the end of his shift they were working at one twenty-eight. Good enough to keep Torrance off his back, but only just.

  ‘It’s very simple. The old man had plenty of time to think about food and survival as a loner in the Derelict Quarter. He realised that, in theory, cutting a vegetable and eating it was not so different from eating meat. Either way, you ended the life of the thing you wanted to devour. Unlike the meat-eating folk in the town, he could look with new eyes. He was prepared to think about things differently. He wondered if there might be a way for folk to survive without causing harm to any other living thing. He experimented with prayer, meditation, and exercise and came up with a basic system for nourishing the body using only light and breath.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Magnus. ‘You’re telling me that this man ignored everything written in the Book of Giving but that he still prayed? Who the hell to?’

  ‘It’s not the writings in a book that prove or disprove the existence of a higher power. It’s our deep experience of the world that informs us of such things. In this town there are believers and disbelievers that have no interest in the writings of the Book.’

  ‘Do you believe in a higher power?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  Magnus had to think about that.

  ‘It isn’t as obvious as you might think. You’ve come here and spouted so much nonsense that it’s hard to define anything about you. Except that you are highly motivated and a bit of a head case. You say you eat God, and I suppose that means you believe there is one. It hardly appears to signify your respect for such a being however.’

  ‘I apologise for not being clearer. One is sometimes … so overwhelmed by truth that one forgets to speak it. In answer to your question, yes, I believe in a higher power and I respect it beyond all other things. It feeds me, it nourishes me, it … supports me. It shows me a path every single day of my life.’

  ‘The old man, you said he survived on light and air. But you say you live on God. How is that possible? What does it mean?’

  ‘Perhaps you have an image of me munching my way through a fragment of divinity. But it isn’t like that. You see, the first thing you have to do is give yourself completely to God. That act, if genuine, is a sacrifice of great value. You can’t imagine what it means at the moment, Mr. Magnus, but it is within all of us to have that understanding and for each and every one of us to make that very sacrifice. The result is that God gives you everything you will ever need. It’s as plain as that. My daily nourishment involves a routine which is some combination of prayer, calmness of mind and gentle movement of the body, but, unlike the old man, I took it all a step further. I sacrificed myself to the Creator and in return the Creator has given me everything. Absolutely everything.’

  Magnus crushed out another cheroot, his lips downturned in judgement and scepticism.

  ‘He hasn’t given you freedom though, has He?’ said Magnus. ‘He hasn’t delivered you from the hands of your enemy. And He hasn’t saved you from slaughter. You’ll pardon my ignorance if I don’t see your hands overflowing with His gifts.’

  ‘The value of things changes when you live in the care of the Creator. The things you’re talking about have no value to me. The Creator might give them to me or He might not. It doesn’t matter because He has already filled my life up. I am content and rich beyond your imagining.’

  Magnus nodded and stood up. He stretched his massive arms behind his back and audibly cracked a few joints into place before walking over to Collins.

  ‘I’m surprised, you know,’ he said in a matter of fact tone. ‘You’ve really made me think about things differently. I thought you were just some lunatic that had enough energy to fool the stupid people of this town. But you’re a lot more than that, Collins. You’re intelligent. You’re passionate. And you’re dangerous. You’ve taught me a lesson about myself and you have, against all the odds, changed my mind about what I’m going to do with you.’

  He looked at Collins’s face, still so placid and open. The man was listening but he didn’t seem to have taken in that Magnus might be hinting about some kind of leniency, some kind of arrangement. He wasn’t, but it annoyed him that it didn’t seem to matter to Collins one way or the other. The man’s face was lean, serene and bright. Magnus smashed one hammer of a fist straight into it and felt the nose break and flatten beneath his knuckles with minimal damage to himself. The chair sailed over backwards spilling Collins onto the floor and separating him from the old blanket. Magnus expected him to lie there and check himself over before begging not to be hit again.

  Collins’s naked body rippled and tightened as he rolled over backwards with the momentum of the spill. He was on his feet and half crouched ready to defend himself before Magnus had finished inspecting his knuckles.

  It was a short walk from the office of records back to the main cluster of Welfare buildings but the way she felt, it was an effort to return. Why they hadn’t located the archives nearer the rest of the Welfare offices and Central Cathedral she couldn’t understand. She pulled her gowns closer around her, struggling to get warm again after hours of studying records. It was hard to tell now whether she was shivering with cold or because of her sickness. Her stomach kept up its jagged griping; worsened, she felt, by her frustration.

  The records had revealed nothing of any use to the investigation. There had been two hundred births in the town the year that the baby Richard Shanti died. Of those, thirty were stillborn. Twelve mothers died in childbirt
h. Of the surviving children, only eight – a very few – were orphaned by poverty, calamity or neglect. It had been a good year for the population. However, each of the orphans was accounted for in the records and nothing seemed out of place. There was certainly no connection between any of them and the Shanti line.

  Right now Parson Mary Simonson planned to obtain eight warrants, one for each of the orphans, and visit each of them to be certain nothing underhand was going on.

  But first, an audience with the Grand Bishop of the Welfare.

  The steps that led up to Central Cathedral were fifty yards broad at the base, narrowing as they neared the tall entrance. Sixty steps. She waited at the bottom composing herself, gathering breath, and then began the ascent. Her muscles complained, her chest laboured, cold was replaced by a sudden prickly sweat. Three times she stopped. Parsons passed up and down to her left and right. None helped.

  On gaining the cavernous main entrance, she rested again with her back to the ornate stone of the pointed arch rising high above her. The great wooden doors had long ago rotted beyond use and been removed. Now the Cathedral’s entrance yawned like a huge toothless mouth whilst the Parsons scuttled in and out of the darkness beyond.

  She queued outside the Grand Bishop’s chambers with many other Parsons of varying rank. Most of them spent no more than a couple of minutes inside and so the queue moved swiftly. Just before it was her turn to go in, her stomach twisted and tightened around its hub of spikes and she put a fist there to control it. Sweat broke again, not long dried from her trek up the steps.

  The spasm was still in control when the Grand Bishop’s door opened and her name was called from within.

  She hid it as best she could, knelt before him and kissed his hand.

  ‘Mary,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  It was good to see him too, as far as looking went, but the reason she was there made seeing him no good at all.

  ‘And you,’ she managed.

  She raised her head to look at him and saw the man that had inspired her into the Welfare years before.

  ‘You may rise now, Mary.’

  He was looking at her with concern. She must have been kneeling there for longer than she thought. She tried to stand and understood why she hadn’t already – it was a task even to lift her own weight. Seeing her struggle, the Bishop offered her his hand again and this time she took it and used it to haul herself upright. She smiled but she knew he could see past it.

  ‘Why don’t we sit for a while,’ he said.

  ‘What about all the others?’

  ‘They can wait. That’s what the queue’s for.’

  Instead of sitting behind his desk and keeping her on the opposite side, he walked her over to the fireplace where a few sticks were almost burnt out. Still, the warmth was what she needed; it eased the pain off a little to be so comforted. They sat facing each other on straight-backed wooden chairs in which the woven straw seats had been replaced by rough planks.

  ‘I’ve been keeping watch over you in my way,’ he said after they’d been quiet for a few moments. ‘I’m told you’re not yourself these last few weeks.’

  It was months but she didn’t bother to correct him.

  ‘I need…guidance,’ she said.

  ‘Whatever I can give, I give gladly.’

  ‘There’s a…not a problem exactly, but an issue with someone who is a great server of the town. I am not sure how to proceed. If I pursue the issue, there’s a chance I’ll discover an irregularity.’

  ‘How serious an irregularity?’

  ‘Serious enough to revoke status.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘My concern is that the individual in question, judging by his exemplary service to us all, is entirely unaware that the irregularity exists. Even if my concerns turn out to be justified, this individual may have no knowledge that his very existence is…blasphemous. My question is: do I allow this situation to exist and hope that no one else ever discovers it or do I take my investigations further and risk destroying a man who, in his own mind, is entirely without fault?’

  The Grand Bishop’s face didn’t change outwardly but she could see that her question had caused him to access some deeper part of himself. His eyes still made contact with hers but were focussed somewhere else, somewhere far beyond his chambers.

  ‘What does your heart tell you?’

  ‘My heart tells me that if a wrong has been perpetrated, it was by someone other than this individual. If he has no knowledge of what has gone before, then he is as innocent as he believes himself to be.’

  ‘And what does your God tell you?’

  ‘My God tells me that only townsfolk may feast upon the Chosen. Only townsfolk may undertake the husbandry of the Chosen. Regardless of this individual’s impression of himself, my God tells me that if he is not one of us, then his status must be revoked. He must face the truth and all it brings with it.’

  The Grand Bishop nodded very slightly and smiled to himself. Then the elsewhere-focussed stare returned to his face. He remained silent for some time.

  ‘Sometimes the heart and God are in accordance and sometimes they are not.’ He wasn’t looking at her when he said this but she knew what he was referring to. ‘As you know, I have always based my decisions upon what God dictates. Because of that I look back on my life without regret.’ He let his eyes meet hers. Somehow, he suffered his own inner barbs. She thought she could see dampness around his eyes. ‘Without regret, Mary. And I know without question that I am saved. That I go on to glory. Adhering to the will of God makes life so much simpler. It relieves us of complexity. It makes suffering unnecessary.’

  She sat in silence letting his words cover her as they had so many times throughout the years. She knew this was what he would say even though she’d hoped he would say otherwise. It was no different from before. His response in all matters came down to the simple acceptance of God’s law as laid down in the Book of Giving. She found it both disappointing and reassuring to discover that he had not changed. That he would never change.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

  He seemed to become suddenly aware of the long line of Parsons waiting outside his door. He stood and helped her to her feet. She wanted to ask for help in the other matter, the matter of her illness but she knew that his answer would centre around the idea of selfless service at the expense of one’s own Welfare. That was what being a Parson of the Welfare was all about. Maybe he knew she wanted more from him or maybe he just took pity on her. Or could it be that despite the words he said, some part of him would have liked very much the complexity and suffering of acting against God’s will? Whatever was the case, she did not expect what came next.

  ‘I’ll make sure your dutiful rations contain something particularly sacred and nourishing from now on. I’m sure it will make you feel a lot better.’

  She went to kneel and kiss his hand but he stopped her.

  ‘That’s really not necessary, Mary. Go and get some rest now. Start again tomorrow.’

  She smiled and left.

  Torrance watched the group of four workers exiting the dairy while he smoked a cigarette against the back wall of the slaughterhouse.

  Beside him a truck had backed into a loading bay, its engine idling. He could hear the wet sound of vats being emptied into the stainless steel compartments of the wagon and the rumbling thud as hollow units filled with valuable flesh.

  ‘Hey, boys!’

  He held up a packet of smokes as he beckoned them. They changed course and approached.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ he asked when they were close enough. ‘Got something better to do than milk cows?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Harrison. ‘We were just…’

  ‘It’s all right, there’s no need to explain. I get out of here as quick as the next man when my shift’s over. There’s more to life than MMP, am I right?’

  They nodded, relaxed a little.

  ‘Here, smoke with me.’

&nb
sp; Torrance offered the pack around. They hesitated and then all reached out together. He flicked a match and four heads leaned in to draw on the flame.

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  Torrance nodded. Respect was right and proper. They had it for him but not for their previous boss. That too, was right and proper.

  ‘How are things in the dairy now?’

  ‘A lot better without that freak Snipe,’ said Roach. The others looked at him and then at Torrance. Roach realised he’d gone too far and looked down at his feet wishing he didn’t have such a big mouth.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Torrance. ‘Snipe was a freak of the lowest order. Not fit to work here, not fit to be townsfolk. You know what happened to him, right?’

  They shrugged.

  ‘Status revoked,’ said Maidwell.

  ‘That’s correct. And you all understand what that means, don’t you?’

  They nodded but he could tell they were still too young to fully understand. They knew but they didn’t really get it.

  ‘If you’re not townsfolk, you’re meat, boys. It’s as simple as that. Let me show you something.’

  He walked over to the truck in the nearby bay and they followed. They could now see the gas logo on the doors and the nature of the cargo. One by one, vats of intestines were being upended into the wagon’s open sections. Shiny ropes of pale pink, grey, white and blue innards avalanched from each vat. Stomachs, pancreases and gall bladders went with them. The natural twists and turns in the loops of large and small intestine made them look like links of strangely coloured sausage. There was something intimate and sexual about the way the intestines glistened and coiled around each other as they tumbled down.

  ‘That’s the power for the town right there. Those of us lucky to have electricity – this is where it comes from. Snipe, your old boss, is in there somewhere and that’s entirely fitting. He did something unforgivable by God and by Magnus. Now he’s going to give of himself to feed the townsfolk, light their stoves and power our trucks. He’s going to make sure the plant has power to keep processing the Chosen. One way or another we all make that contribution, boys. Best to make it the right way. Know what I mean?’