Meat

by Joseph D'lacey

  Parfitt was as pale as the spent organs slopping into the truck but the others were accepting, if a little grim-faced. They all nodded and said ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well that’s fine.’ Torrance crushed out the cigarette under his boot. ‘And now that you’ve all been working here a few months, I think it’s time you enjoyed a little extra-curricular activity. Be at Dino’s tonight at ten o’clock.’

  Harrison was about to protest but Torrance didn’t give him the chance.

  ‘Don’t be late.’

  It wasn’t what Magnus had expected.

  Collins moved like a cat. Not a startled animal. A very lean, confident and deliberate cat. The claret ran from both of his nostrils but Collins hadn’t even bothered to swipe the back of his hand across his face to see the extent of it. Instead, he breathed, far too slowly for Magnus’s liking, and the occasional blood bubble filled and burst above his upper lip, sending a brief scarlet mist into the warm air of the study.

  His eyes were mesmeric – a full border of white surrounding each iris – and he seemed not to stare so much as allow everything in. Magnus had the feeling that Collins could even see behind himself. The odds, so screamingly in Magnus’s favour only seconds before, now seemed a little closer than he wanted to believe. Smooth and steady as a surgeon, he reached his right hand under his jacket and extracted the cosh he kept in a sling under his left arm. It was the head and first eight inches of a humerus, the marrow replaced with lead – everyone called it the ‘no-brainer’. The bone was polished to a pale yellow gleam and delicately monogrammed, R.M. It wouldn’t hurt to tip the scales further in his favour and Magnus didn’t want to use a blade on the man. Not yet awhile.

  Collins’s eyes didn’t flicker when the no-brainer came into view.

  Now he held the cosh, Magnus felt happier to approach Collins. He’d beat him like an expert now, rupture a muscle here and there, crack a few ribs and a facial bone or two but nothing that would spoil Cleaver’s work. Nothing that would prevent Collins from feeling every parting of his skin, every tear in his flesh, every snap of his ligaments and tendons and every crack of his separating bones and joints.

  The overturned chair lay between them. Magnus would have to kick it out of the way before he could lay another finger on Collins. He stepped forward a pace gauging Collins’s response. Still nothing. Not a twitch of a muscle. Not a flicker of his eye. Magnus hefted his boot-clad right foot at the chair and sent it spinning away from them towards the wall. The way between them was now open. Magnus raised the no-brainer and advanced.

  Of the orphans adopted that year, two were already dead. The others knew nothing about the Shanti family. Nor did they know anything about other orphans who might not have been accounted for. Those surviving were as ignorant and uninterested in her questions as the worst townsfolk could be. She reflected that perhaps orphans shouldn’t be adopted, losing status instead to be taken out to the plant. It would keep the numbers of worthless townsfolk to a minimum. Abyrne already overflowed with the ignorant. Ignorant of their religion; ignorant of their protectors, the Welfare; ignorant of everything it took to keep the town going.

  Turning up nothing but dead ends, she made a final trip to the office of records. Whittaker and Rawlins rose from their seats whenever they saw her now and glasses of milk came without her needing to ask.

  She was having a good few days. The trembling in her body had eased off and the pain in her stomach had also receded. She put it down to the Grand Bishop’s kind request for veal in her dutiful rations. She now ate it every day, usually at breakfast, and found it much easier to keep down.

  There was a trail worn through the dust where she had passed up and down the centre of the archives to reach the shelves of boxes. Having bid Whittaker and Rawlins a more cheery good afternoon than was normal for her, she went straight to the original record box that she’d first checked and took it down again. In it she found the details of the dead boy, Richard Shanti, killed by his own umbilicus as he was born. She then found, on looking more carefully, that Richard Shanti had an older brother named Reginald Arnold Shanti. This brother had been stillborn. The Shanti line had not been destined to continue, no matter how noble a name it had been when the town was first created out of the ash of the wasteland.

  Two tragic pregnancies. Two dead boys. Dead on their first day in the world.

  What would that do to a mother? What would it do to a father who wanted his line to extend and flourish? Surely they would have to admit to themselves that their lineage was finished. Once they’d accepted that, what would they do? Taking orphaned children would benefit the children by making them townsfolk and saving them from the plant or from a life as fugitives in The Derelict Quarter, but it would do nothing for the bloodline.

  So what did it mean that two boys were dead? Was there another man out there in the town with a noble name who was not what he believed he was?

  She went to check the records of the parents again to see what more she could discover.

  Bruno sprinted into the study, knocking the door open with a violent shove as he passed through. The door connected with the inner wall and the handle gouged plaster from the wall.

  ‘Stay back,’ shouted Magnus.

  Bruno noticed his boss was careful not to take his gaze from Collins’s face. The eye contact between them had become compulsory. A glance away at the wrong moment and either man might take advantage.

  ‘Me and Mr. Godhungry here are about to get a little better acquainted,’ continued Magnus. ‘I don’t want any interruptions.’

  Bruno looked at Collins’s bloody nose and mouth, saw again how starved he looked and remembered how easy it had been to bring him in. He noticed the shining piece of human ivory in his boss’s right hand and relaxed a little. The no-brainer was legend in the town, a weapon feared by everyone.

  The noise of the toppled chair and sprawling body had been loud downstairs. Bruno had thought for one panicked moment it might have been Magnus who had been overpowered. Now he realised how stupid that was, how needlessly paranoid. Magnus only needed a curtain of men around him to stop knives and rocks and spears. Magnus didn’t need any kind of bodyguard when it was man-to-man like this. He had the physique of a heavyweight boxer and speed utterly at odds with his bulky gut and chest. He’d seen Magnus take dozens of men over the years. This fight with Prophet John would be meat and drink to him. If they got too close for blows to be struck, Magnus’s sheer weight and power dwarfed Collins. The thin man had no chance.

  He’d called in an extra shift of enforcers to check out the grounds of the mansion. There was no trace of any accomplices out there, no ambush of starving townsfolk, no heretical raiding party. The mansion was entirely secure. Collins was a man alone in the very worst situation. Magnus would bludgeon him with great skill and care, leaving him intact for an execution that promised to be the bloodiest the town had ever seen.

  He compared them now; the pale wraith of a man – by his own admission an abstainer from meat and under-fed for months – with his crazy-sounding words and blasphemies, and his only strength coming from the intensity of his eyes. He was crouched, almost cowering. He faced a giant, the man Bruno had worked and killed for ever since he was a teenager brought in off the streets. Magnus looked bigger than the largest bull, his shoulders and chest always pressing out from his suits, as though he might burst his tailoring. And Magnus was a full man; full of rage, full of hunger and passion, full of the lifeblood and flesh of every man that had crossed him since he took his place as Abyrne’s Meat Baron.

  He put Bruno in mind of some kind of ogre made human. His rust-coloured hair, thinning but still long, hung far beyond his collar. His beard was so full you could only guess at the shape of his mouth beneath it and the whiskers spread so far up his face they speckled his cheek bones. His shoulders were two arcs of muscle and his hands were as large as shovels. Hunger must have made Collins rotten in the brain. Only a total nutter would go looking for a fight with a man like M
agnus.

  ‘That means, depart, Bruno.’

  Bruno was reluctant to leave them alone. It wasn’t for fear of his boss’s welfare; he merely wanted to see this mismatch play out to its inevitable consequence. He wanted to see Collins beaten and humiliated before they gave him to Cleaver to dissect at leisure. It would be a slaughter no one would ever forget.

  Bruno backed out of the room and kept the image of the two fighters in his mind. On one side, the ruddy bear of a man that ran the town of Abyrne. On the other, the whippet-bodied ascetic, soon to perish.

  It was a shame he had to miss it.

  Twelve

  Magnus knew there was no perfect moment now that he’d taken first blood. It was time to use his muscle.

  He leapt forward, aiming to catch Collins with an outstretched arm, depending on which way he dived. Collins didn’t move. Magnus had time to grin to himself as he put out both arms to engulf his opponent in a full body tackle. Collins would be crushed by it. At the last possible instant, Collins sidestepped and he flew right past. The lunge became a dive and Magnus crashed to the floor. The rug of woven hair did little to cushion the impact. And Collins, the sneaky little bastard, was now behind him.

  He squat-thrusted himself upright like a drill sergeant showing his men how it was done. Before Collins could make another move Magnus was facing him, no advantage lost. Right-handed, he swung the no-brainer at Collins’s jaw hoping to knock him out in one swipe. Again he believed he was going to connect and again, when it seemed too late to be possible, Collins moved a few inches outside the arc. Magnus, unable to stop the momentum of his bone-cosh, followed through clumsily, once more leaving a flank open to Collins for dangerous moments. He spun back using the circular movement to try for the other side of Collins’s face with a backhand strike. Collins shifted his head and the blow missed. He seemed to melt in the face of each onslaught. Magnus didn’t like the calm look on his hollowed face.

  ‘I thought you wanted a bloody fight. Now you’re the shrinking violet. What’s it to be, Collins?’

  Collins, so passionately expressive before, said nothing. Magnus saw his eyes taking in every nuance of movement he made. He tried a couple of feinted jabs with his left fist but Collins knew they weren’t going to connect and stayed absolutely still. His passivity was taking the fire out of Magnus, replacing it with childish frustration. They weren’t fighting like men. They were playing tag.

  Magnus eyed his opponent. His only satisfaction in that moment was knowing without doubt how all this was going to end. Collins didn’t stand any kind of chance at all. The serenity of the man was disquieting to him, though, and for a few seconds, he almost made the decision to call Bruno back in and bring Collins’s little performance of agility to a close. Safer to have him bound and moved into the town centre for public torture and execution by slow dismemberment and ablation. Take him out and let Cleaver have him and everything would return to normal – better than normal with nothing left of Collins save a bloody and shocking memory in the minds of the townsfolk. Enough to remind them who ran Abyrne and forget all ideas of abstinence from God’s divine gift: meat.

  What am I thinking? The man hasn’t had a proper meal for months. Anyone as light as that would move with a bit of speed. When I catch him, he’s finished. If he doesn’t want to be caught, I’ll get Bruno on the job. Either way, this is my contest for the taking. By God, it’ll feel good to break a few of his bones.

  Magnus swiped with confidence, Collins dodged again. He swung so hard he lost his balance. He saw the disbelief in Collins’s eyes, an opportunity he couldn’t have dreamed up. Magnus felt something like a sharp stone hitting his Adam’s apple square on – Collins’s bony elbow, the closest part of his body. By the time it had happened it was too late to respond.

  The no-brainer dropped from Magnus’s limp fingers. His left hand went to his throat. He could neither breathe nor swallow. The blockage there felt as hard as the stone of a plum. He tried to call for Bruno but was unable to make any sound. Words of fury and fear backed up in his mind but he could not speak them. He was suffocating while Collins looked on. He was vulnerable to any attack and yet Collins hadn’t moved.

  This is it. The skinny bastard’s going to stand there and watch me die.

  ‘Perhaps now you’ll take me a little more seriously,’ said Collins.

  Magnus could see Collins could barely believe his luck. He put his hands out to steady himself on something but there was nothing there. He sank to his knees, finally attempting to massage his throat with his fat fingers. It didn’t do anything except hurt more. Collins smiled and Magnus saw real relief there, a dispersal of tension.

  ‘Still, I’m glad we met.’

  Collins stepped out of view towards the window and Magnus’s vision became black and starry.

  Dino’s was a stockman’s shift-end paradise.

  It was loud and smoky and served harsh grain vodka to loosen the minds and muscles of all MMP workers whether slaughtermen, dairymen or herders. The place was sawdust rough because of its clientele. However, their high wages and standing in the town made it difficult for others without the right connections to get in. Many of Abyrne’s unattached ladies came to Dino’s to look for a solvent husband. They were any age from sixteen to forty and some of them had been waiting that entire span of years. Stockmen called them spent milkers. They never gave up their search, though. It was that or die of hopelessness.

  A band played danceable jigs with fiddle, guitar, whistle and a couple of rattling drums. The music had a stretched, laboured sound to it but it made the workers jump and twitch nevertheless. Musical instruments were hard to come by in Abyrne. Live, well-played music was even rarer. Within an hour of the shift end, most of the patrons were dancing, kicking up dirt or slamming their vodka. The rest were watching the floor for openings. Stockmen looked for a healthy young woman – another rarity – and the women looked for stockmen of any kind.

  The dairy boys made sure to arrive before the Cathedral clock struck the hour. They didn’t know what patience Torrance would have with tardiness; even outside the plant. None of them wanted to find out.

  They walked through the front doors with several minutes to spare, having showed their MMP cards to the massive doormen who didn’t recognise them. Inside they blinked at the smoke, the clamour of laughter and shouting, the cloud rising over the enormous dance floor. No one noticed them.

  Unsure what to do, they followed Parfitt when he began to shoulder his way to the bar. Each of them felt like kids on the first day at school, nervous about what to expect, afraid of danger, excited at the possibilities. It was the final part of growing up and they were glad Torrance had ‘invited’ them.

  Parfitt would have liked more time to view the minor selection of drinks behind the bar before ordering – none of them had drunk anything before – but one of the many barmen had already seen him. He didn’t try to speak over the commotion, he merely gave an upward flick of his head signalling that he knew they were waiting and what did they want? Parfitt had to make a decision and picked a label he liked the look of.

  ‘Four bullwhips,’ he shouted.

  ‘Where’s your bloody manners?’

  Something wrong with the way the words sounded. Parfitt reddened anyway. No choice.

  ‘Please.’

  The barman grinned. All his upper and lower front teeth were missing. He turned away and spilled the vodka into four bullet-shaped shooters. He placed them on the bar. The dairy boys reached out but he held up his hand.

  ‘A few words of advice to you, lads. If you want to drink in Dino’s, you’ve got to behave like stockmen – that means give respect and you’ll get it right back. Don’t ever come in here thinking you’re better than anyone else. Understand?’

  They turned to one another and every pair of eyes said Do we really have to take this? No one knew the answer and it wasn’t worth risking a fight on their first visit. They might want to make a habit of it after all. Parfitt was thin
king in particular about the surfeit of women in the bar.

  Angry but contained, they all nodded.

  ‘Good lads. That’ll be a groat for the drinks.’

  ‘How much?’ said Parfitt, disbelieving.

  The barman heaved a long-suffering sigh.

  ‘Listen, you pick the most expensive drink, you’ve got to pay for it, right? All booze is made by the grain bosses. All vodka is equally piss-like and the price makes little difference. Next time go for Prods.’

  The barman gave a final smile, more of a taunt than a pleasantry, and wandered away to other customers. Roach slapped a hand onto Parfitt’s shoulder.

  ‘Forget it, mate. Let’s enjoy ourselves.’

  He held his glass up and the others did likewise.

  ‘To the Chosen. Long may they give us their flesh.’

  And together:

  ‘To the Chosen.’

  They threw back the shots with a toss of their heads, the way everyone else did, and all of them regretted it. It tore each throat all the way to the stomach making their gorges rise and their eyes leak. Saliva flooded Parfitt’s mouth as he tried not to vomit. After a few moments he got himself under control. They caught each other’s eyes, saw each other’s faces and then they were laughing. The laughter felt good. The tension evaporated and they leaned back against the bar to survey their new territory.

  Parfitt lost himself for a while in all the activity, let it wash over him, envelop him. This was what their work was all about. They worked the Chosen and gave the fruit of their labours to the people of Abyrne. They were paid well for their skill and appreciated for it too. Stockmen were respected members of every district and every quarter. Here in Dino’s their efforts came full circle, they drank, they relaxed, they danced and the women came looking for them. He smiled at no one in particular. Life was suddenly very good. The job made sense to him.