Meat

by Joseph D'lacey

  All this had started with that sneaky, skinny bastard, Collins.

  All the threats, all the promises he’d made about the pain he was going to inflict and the runt had tricked him and beaten him in his own house.

  I must be going soft in the bloody head.

  It was not the first time the notion had occurred. In the weeks leading up to the ‘capture’ of Prophet John Collins, Magnus had experienced problems concentrating. Especially trying were the production/demand figures. He could read them easily enough but he found interpreting them more and more troublesome. The figures proved something was amiss and had been for several months – the meat surplus was increasing. It had to be something to do with Collins. But far worse than this for Magnus, who couldn’t help but attract most of the money in the town, was that his ability to come up with a strategy for increasing the demand was practically nonexistent.

  He couldn’t concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time. The span was shortening. So was his memory. Over the years Magnus had faced many rivals and every kind of man from the wily to the ferocious, hand-to-hand and in business. None of it scared him as much as what was happening to him now. He couldn’t blame Collins for cursing him with an illness – he didn’t believe that kind of rubbish, just as he didn’t believe a word in the Book of Giving – but he knew whatever was ailing him had accelerated ever since he woke up from the throat jab that had floored him. Perhaps it was his illness that had permitted the attack

  No one talked about it much, especially not the Welfare, but the Shakes was a common illness in every district of Abyrne. There were many remedies, the majority of them based on by-products from his plant, but what good they did he couldn’t determine. Veal was particularly sought after for the Shakes. No one ever seemed to recover, though. The illness progressed gradually over years or swiftly within months, reducing its victims to quivering, man-shaped lumps of gelatine. They lost the ability to look after themselves – to eat, dress or shit without help. Eventually, they had no say in whether they held their shit in or not. Then they laid down to die. Some opted to have their throats cut or hanged themselves long before it ever reached that stage.

  Magnus supposed he would have to do the same.

  Unless…unless it wasn’t the Shakes. It was just possible that he had a low-grade fever – they too went round the town with some regularity. If that was all it was, he’d beat it and be his old self again.

  He took another swallow of vodka grimacing more at the pain in his throat than the heat of the alcohol. Collins would pay with the most exquisite torture Cleaver could devise. He would ensure the process took days to complete – long enough that parts of Collins would be rotting and rat-eaten while he still lived to see it.

  He checked his hands again. The tremor had subsided.

  Good. Bloody good. I’ve got the flu and I’m going to beat it. I’m getting better already. I’ll see Collins in white-eyed agony by the end of the week.

  He leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Bruno!’

  The door opened and his greasy-haired aide stepped in.

  ‘Mr. Magnus?’

  ‘Get the cook to bring me three veal cutlets. I want them rare. I want them bloody. Still hissing. Understand?’

  ‘Absolutely, Mr. Magnus.’

  ‘And get him to cut them up like he would for a baby. I don’t want to bloody choke.’

  Bruno nodded and turned to leave.

  ‘Wait. I want some action too. Three maids. Straight after I eat. Tell them…tell them I need my wash. All right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. Now, fuck off.’

  Alone again, Magnus felt better.

  Three steaks. Three maids. Followed by a nice long rest. And tomorrow I’ll be my old self again.

  A frown passed across his face.

  Bugger it. Forgot the most important thing.

  ‘Bruno, get back here.’

  He heard footsteps on the staircase as Bruno returned, not having reached either the kitchens or the maids’ quarters. He heard Bruno pause outside his door and smiled. Nice to know that the man wanted to compose himself before entering.

  Bruno reappeared showing no sign of breathlessness or disarray.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Magnus.’

  ‘Tell me what’s going on out there. Have you found him yet?’

  ‘We’ve got teams of two patrolling the border of the Derelict Quarter, watching the comings and goings for anything strange. Every now and again we take a random traveller between the two areas and remind them why the Derelict Quarter is so dangerous. Want to send out the right kind of message.

  ‘We’ve got people inside the Derelict Quarter too. They keep their eyes open. There have been several sightings and they seem to centre round a particular area on the far side of the tower blocks. There’s a rumour he’s underground and has others with him. We’re not sure of numbers and we’re not sure of his exact hiding place. But we’re getting closer every day. It’s only a matter of time before we send in a decent-sized force and root him out. Him and his so-called followers. Then you can do what you like with them. With him.’

  Magnus stared out of the window.

  ‘It’s not bloody quick enough, Bruno. I don’t want to wait another day. Another hour. Another minute.’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can, Mr. Magnus.’

  ‘I know that, Bruno. Just do more of it. Otherwise, it’s going to look very bad on your CV.’

  Magnus lit a new cheroot from the one he was smoking and crushed the first one out. His eyes defocussed. He didn’t notice Bruno studying his hand as he smoked.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Mr. Magnus?’

  ‘No. But hurry up with that veal. I’m fucking starving.’

  The more he understood of the Chosen and their language, the longer each day at the plant became.

  But Torrance – usually his greatest supporter and protector when other stockmen were ridiculing his refusal to use the MMP buses and his insistence on wearing a backpack that must have weighed the same as a stunned cow – had changed. Instead of watching him work with his usual air of pride and pleasure, now Torrance’s eye had become critical and overbearing. It was like he was waiting for Shanti to make a mistake, willing him to. There was something else about Torrance’s manner that disturbed Shanti, a kind of mocking disrespect.

  Torrance and Shanti stood on the steel balcony that overlooked the many stations on the MMP chain. Torrance leant on the railings only half surveying the activity on the plant floor. When he spoke, he didn’t turn and address Shanti face to face. The words went into the void above the ceaseless slaughter just loud enough for the two of them to hear.

  ‘Your stun rate’s dropping, Rick. Are you sick?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not fine. It’s not fine. I’ve got the speeds for the last month logged right here.’ He lifted a clipboard from the railing but didn’t turn. ‘Want to see them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would. Because you know what they’ll show, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Torrance was silent. He looked out across the factory floor but didn’t seem to see it.

  His pause was filled with the sounds of the plant: the sighs and hisses of the Chosen milling in the crowd pens, the hollow knock of struggling knees and elbows on buckling metal panels, the pneumatic stamping of the bolt gun, the rattle of chains, the harsh breath of the scalding vats, the succulent drawing of blades through warm flesh, bearings in the high runners like curtains being closed, the snap of severed joints, the thump of body parts onto rubber conveyors, workers sharpening knives on endlessly rotating whetstones. The sounds of men using steel to transmute life into meat.

  ‘Why don’t you take some time off?’

  Shanti couldn’t imagine anything better but he couldn’t allow Torrance to discover as much. It was difficult to make himself sound shocked, offended by the suggestion.

&nbs
p; ‘I don’t want to, sir. There’s no need.’

  ‘There is a need, regardless of what you think you want, Rick.’ Now Torrance turned to him and Shanti didn’t care for his expression. ‘I can’t allow chain speeds to drop when demand for the flesh of the Chosen is so high. Besides, we have standards to maintain. We can’t be seen to do a poor job. But very specifically, we can’t let someone like you, the Ice Pick, be seen to lose his way. You’re a legend around here, Rick. An inspiration to the other workers regardless of your habits – we all get by the best way we know how. I’ve got no choice but to take you off the stun while your rate of efficiency is still relatively high. That way you’ll be remembered for the good things you’ve done here. I wouldn’t want it any other way.’

  ‘What are you saying, sir? Are you…firing me?’

  ‘No, Rick. I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re one of the best stockmen I’ve ever seen. You’re a credit to MMP and I want to keep it that way. What I’m suggesting is that we gradually transfer you off the high-pressure jobs and on to something less stressful. God knows, I’ve seen plenty of stunners lose it over the years, Rick. I wouldn’t want to see that happen to you.’

  ‘What is going to happen?’

  ‘I’m going to move you to other areas of the plant and keep moving you until we find you a new niche where you’re as comfortable as you’ve been here in the main slaughterhouse all these years.’

  Shanti was amazed by his reactions. Despite having hated the job since the first day and now having come to a new understanding that filled each working moment with revulsion, he found himself hurt, upset, rejected. He was being reduced from the man he had been to a smaller man, a lower man. There were tears in his eyes.

  ‘My God, Robert…I…I just can’t believe what you’re telling me.’

  He searched Torrance’s face and thought he saw something there, something that showed Torrance did care what happened to him. Was it pity? A kind of sufferance?

  ‘Rick, listen. If it was anyone else, anyone else at all, I’d be sending them home to look for a new job. You’re different. You belong here among the herds, working your magic on them and, in time, we’ll find you a position you’ll fill as well as you have your position in the slaughterhouse. I’m saving your life, here, Rick. I wouldn’t keep another man on if he was in your position. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  Shanti nodded, his throat too swollen to speak.

  ‘I’m sending you home for a couple of days’ rest. No arguments. It’s official. My report will say you haven’t been well. When you come back, I’m going to reassign you. We’ll find you a better job.’

  Shanti looked at his boss with undisguised anguish. Tears bled into his beard and were lost there. Torrance’s face hardened.

  ‘Just go home. Now.’

  Between the two daily milking sessions, after they spray-cleaned the walls and floors, there was plenty of time for the dairy boys to sit around, play cards and smoke. Conversation inevitably turned to their first night out on the town.

  ‘Betty’s got a serious fixation with my cock,’ said Roach.

  They’d heard his tale about a dozen times. Maidwell cut it short.

  ‘That’s not what she told me, Roach. After you passed out, she told me she was looking for a man with a real weapon.’

  Roach was scarlet.

  ‘I…I did not pass out.’

  ‘Do you remember puking all over the back seat of the bus?’

  ‘No,’ said Roach, indignant.

  ‘That’s because you passed out.’

  Roach looked at Harrison and Parfitt, then back to Maidwell. They all nodded.

  ‘Aw, shit.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Roach. Everyone was sick. We just managed not to get it all over the work’s transport. The girls were nice enough to give it a sluicing out but the bus still stinks. Everyone’s calling you Retch now.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Cool name,’ said Maidwell.

  Parfitt grinned but didn’t speak. The night out with Torrance was still troubling him. He didn’t think he was the only one. None of them had mentioned the bullfights and he didn’t believe it was just because they were illegal.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Maidwell. ‘The point is that I was able to give Betty what she wanted. She’s … an energetic lady.’

  Harrison: ‘She’s no lady.’

  Roach slid down in his seat and pretended to scrutinise his hand of cards. He’d come so close with Betty and then blown it. He couldn’t help himself, though. He had to find out.

  ‘So, uh…did you fuck her?’

  ‘Course I fucked her. I was doing you a favour. I merely gave her what you couldn’t provide. The least a mate can do, eh?’

  Everyone chuckled.

  Roach reddened again.

  ‘Are you…you know, will you see her again?’

  ‘God, no. What for?’

  ‘Well, I just thought you might…I don’t know—’

  ‘Listen, Roach, I’ve got no reason in the world to see Betty a second time.’

  ‘Don’t you want to fuck her again?’ asked Harrison. He was merely voicing what they were all thinking.

  ‘No need. When Jeff Maidwell fucks a woman, she stays fucked.’

  Parfitt left the three of them, even Roach, doubled over with laughter and went outside to smoke a cigarette.

  He’d had it lit for a few seconds when he saw Bob Torrance striding over to him from the slaughter block. He stopped leaning on the wall and straightened up. Torrance raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘How you doing, Parfitt?’

  ‘All right. You?’

  ‘Nothing a bolt gun couldn’t put right. Listen, I’ve got a job for you. You’ll get very decent overtime.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Just meet me by loading bay when the shift’s over. Wear some overalls and be ready to do some proper work for a change.’ Torrance flashed a humourless grin, exposing brown teeth, and slapped Parfitt on the shoulder. ‘Don’t mention it to anyone, understand?’

  Parfitt had no choice but to nod.

  ‘Good man. See you tonight.’

  Torrance walked away and disappeared back into the slaughter block. The rest of Parfitt’s cigarette tasted awful.

  Fourteen

  For the first time in many years Richard Shanti walked home. He still wore the sand-and brick-filled pack but he didn’t have the will to move any faster than a heavy-footed trudge. It took a lot longer; familiar landmarks he normally passed between in seconds took minutes to go by. When he reached the short drive of his out-of-the-way house, his legs felt wearier than on any arrival home in his life.

  He saw Maya’s face in the window, concerned that he was home early. Already wondering why he wasn’t running and what it meant. He didn’t think she had any real concern for him. All she worried about was getting enough meat and staying a cut above the other women in the town. Her concerns meant nothing to him now. He realised that he didn’t love Maya any more. Perhaps this was the first opportunity he’d had both the time and energy to consider it.

  Her face in the window was a cheap copy of what it ought to be. There should be a woman there who loves me or there should be no face at all. He walked past the window to the back of the house, shrugged off his pack and didn’t bother to wash himself off at the trough.

  In the kitchen he smelled meat. She’d been cooking it for weeks now, more and more it seemed. The greasy taint of it smothered the kitchen curtains and adhered to the damp, flaky paint on the walls. He could smell it in her hair and clothes without going anywhere near her. She was sweating it, meat juice running from her pores, as she worked over the cooker preparing the family meal. She had raw meat on her hands and with those hands she was touching the vegetables he would later eat, rinsing his rice with the same unclean fingers.

  He could tell she wasn’t sure whether to reprimand him for his early return from the plant or give him sympathy over w
hatever his problem was. She was deciding whether to care about him or not. That wasn’t love.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked eventually. On another day he might have believed it was a question of concern.

  ‘Where are the girls?’

  ‘They’re still at school.’ She dried her hands on a towel and approached him. ‘What’s going on, Richard?’

  ‘I’d like to see them when they come in. Wake me up, would you?’

  He walked away from her to the bedroom.

  ‘Darling, I asked you a question.’

  ‘Don’t disturb me until they get back. I’m exhausted.’

  In the bedroom he didn’t bother to change out of his running gear. He lay down diagonally across the bed and pulled a corner of the coverlet over himself as far as it would come. He could hear the confused silence in the kitchen while Maya considered whether to be angry with him or be safe and let him sleep. He knew she wouldn’t disturb him. She didn’t have the right.

  He closed his eyes. All he saw were the faces of Chosen passing before him. Passive, loving eyes that did not even accuse. They spoke to him. Hhah, sssuuh. We know you. You are the one who blesses us with darkness before we give of ourselves. You are the compassionate one, the releaser.

  He thought back over the years and the eyes that had passed before him. The souls. He knew what he had done. There was no way to atone for it. No punishment in this world that could repay him for his evils. In some unimaginable eternity, he would relive the death of generations of Chosen. He knew it was true.

  Sleep would not come.

  He saw mutilation. Skin punctured. Skulls breached. Blood wasted on floors and steel tabletops. The decisive thunk of cleavers through joints. The deft trimming of fat with long, fine blades. Chops and fillets tossed onto moving belts – separated from carcasses so swiftly the meat was still warm and steaming. Rainbows of viscera sorted into types by bloodstained hands. Drooping livers. Turgid kidneys. Fibrous hearts. He saw raw bones, obstinate nubs of flesh and ligament still attached, pale blue cartilage shiny with lubricant. Bones cooking in vats of simmering water, grey scum and pools of melted fat floating on the surface. He was paralysed. A panel opened in front of his eyes. He looked out from the restrainer, saw the bolt gun placed against his head, Torrance behind it smiling through his filthy beard.