Meat

by Joseph D'lacey

  Their den amid the rubble and decay of the Derelict Quarter was squalid but tidy. By night they cleared it of debris, swept and cleaned as best they could. Furnishings had been smuggled in by every member of his following. They made it deep, their hiding place, risking entombment if the ageing supports and arches ever gave way. Here and there in the tunnels, there had already been cave-ins but Collins reassured them that they were from the time before Abyrne became what it was now.

  Outside their circles, to discuss the idea of a time before the town was blasphemy. According to the Book of Giving, Abyrne appeared out of the wasteland at God’s behest. Before that there had been nothing but blasted, blackened land incapable of life.

  They all sat there with him now, waiting for him to speak.

  These were his people, the renewed souls of the town, their essences forged by the exercises he’d taught them. They were stronger now – eating vegetable matter occasionally or, in the case of the more advanced, eating nothing at all – than they’d ever been dining on the flesh of the Chosen. They numbered thirty. Thirty pure souls out of the thousands in the town.

  He lifted his eyes and looked out across their faces.

  ‘When I look at you, I see what is possible. In a short time, less than two years, there are this many of us willing not only to change the way we live because we know what is right, but also to leave those dear to us and risk everything for the future.’

  He looked around at the walls that encased them. But for the gas lamps they would have been in a darkness more complete than any night out on the streets of the town. Three levels below the Derelict Quarter there was no light.

  ‘It’s ironic that we who subsist on light and air are forced to live where the sun cannot penetrate and where the air could not be more lifeless. Everything we do now is in the nature of a sacrifice. That’s what I need to talk to you about.

  ‘As recently as a week ago, I believed my public execution at the hands of Magnus and his butchers would be the event that pushed the town into seeing how wrong its ways have been all these years. I believed that those of you here, and the others who have heard my message in the lock-up, would spread the word and that, in time a revolution would quietly end the need for meat in Abyrne. That done, the Meat Baron would be finished forever and the Welfare would collapse.

  ‘I’ve seen Magnus now. Spoken to him. Crossed swords, so to speak. And I can tell you that I’ve been naïve and foolish to think that we’d done enough. We have not. We have only just begun to change things.’

  Collins looked into his outstretched palms, made fists and opened them again. He held them up to his following.

  ‘I wish I could tell you the future. I can’t. I’ve been wrong about it once already. I see now that all I can do is plan carefully and hope each of you still wishes to help me. I reiterate now, before saying anything more, that every one of you is free. You always will be. I ask nothing of you that you are not willing to do. You may back out at any time and no less will be thought of you. Each of you has achieved far more than I believed possible when I started out. You have made yourselves pure. What I ask of you goes against everything I stand for but I ask it because I am certain that there is no other way.

  ‘We must stand against Magnus and his men. We must take the message to them in a form they understand. In the first instance, that form will not be mere words. I think you all know what I’m trying to say.

  ‘Evil rules Abyrne through Magnus and the Welfare as surely as human blood flows in the veins of the Chosen. Nothing we say, no example we give, will ever change Magnus’s need for power or the Welfare’s need for control through its twisted religion. We must do what no one has yet been prepared to do.

  ‘We have to fight them.’

  Collins looked from face to face, anxious that the more he spoke the further from their ship of unity he was drifting. None of their faces showed any expression. Their new way of living allowed them to master most of their free-floating emotions and to keep their minds very clear. So they were thinking now, evaluating his words. And, he was certain, readying themselves for separation from his cause. He nodded inwardly. They were free. He meant that. If he had to walk back and fight Magnus alone, he would do it without a single bad feeling over the actions of his followers. Truly, they had changed Abyrne already.

  There was silence in the underground chamber, but for the hiss of gas lamps. Collins felt there was more he ought to say, that he could be more specific before he asked them to take up arms, give them an outline of how he envisaged their campaign. He was about to speak when Vigors stood up.

  ‘I will fight,’ she said.

  Staithe rose at almost the same moment.

  ‘I will fight,’ he said.

  One by one they stood and echoed the simple words and when the echoes were silenced, not one was left sitting.

  The puny fire crackled in the grate but it was a luxury only a few in the town could afford. There wasn’t much land left where trees grew and where they did, they didn’t flourish. Only the Welfare could decree when a tree was to be felled and townsfolk caught damaging trees or stealing branches – windfall or otherwise – faced heavy fines or forced labour. Much of the wood used for burning was scavenged from deserted buildings but these days it was increasingly difficult to find.

  The fire gave out little warmth or cheer but the Grand Bishop never resented its meagreness.

  ‘You and I have got a very big fucking problem, Bish.’

  What he resented was the behaviour of his visitor. The way he moved and spoke, the man’s very presence rankled. The Grand Bishop shifted in his chair.

  ‘The way I understand it,’ he replied, ‘the entire town has ‘a very big fucking problem’.’

  His visitor shrugged, fluffed his ginger beard with the fingers of one hand while he dragged on a cheroot in the other.

  ‘This town and the people in it have no significance for me. Except,’ and here Magnus pointed his two ochre-stained smoking fingers at the Grand Bishop, ‘for those that eat meat, my employees and the Chosen. Those people make this world go around. They make your world go round too, Bish. But most of the townsfolk are as stupid as the meat they eat. If it weren’t for their groats buying my produce, I’d just as soon turn them into cheap pies.’

  ‘Yes, I can see how you care for those around you. And yet you’ve come all the way here to discuss the matter with me in person. It’s most unusual, considering you normally send a runner with your ‘requests’.’ The Grand bishop appeared to muse for a few seconds. ‘Heavens, it must be five years since I last saw you, Rory.’

  He watched the pressure building inside Magnus knowing there was nothing the man could do to him. They would needle each other until the matter was resolved and a plan formulated. It would have been quicker and simpler to cooperate but Magnus didn’t work that way.

  ‘Sales are dropping,’ said Magnus.

  The Grand Bishop decided not to hear. Instead he stared into the fire, piously distracted.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘We’re dumping tons of meat each week. Demand is slumping.’

  The Grand Bishop raised his eyebrows but continued to stare into the fire.

  ‘Slumping, you say? Well, well.’

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Magnus swelling in his chair. The man already engulfed it, barely able to keep both buttocks on board.

  ‘The townsfolk,’ said Magnus through clenched teeth, ‘are not eating as much meat as they used to.’

  Looking bored and slightly annoyed, the Grand Bishop hauled his gaze away from the fire.

  ‘That, Rory, sounds to me like your ‘very big fucking problem’, not mine.’

  Magnus stood up, tipping his chair over.

  ‘That nutter John Collins is spouting blasphemies to all who’ll listen, Bish. He’s telling them they don’t need to eat meat. He’s telling them …’ The Grand Bishop noticed now the vibration that seemed to affect Magnus’s whole body and inwardly he smiled. H
e’d seen Magnus angry before – Magnus was always angry about something – but he never shook with rage. This was something new. Perhaps the man wasn’t going to be such a nuisance for much longer. ‘He’s telling them that they don’t need to eat anything at all. Some of them believe him, Bish. The man’s a disaster.’

  ‘Sit down, Rory.’

  ‘I’ll do no such th–’

  The Grand Bishop held up a calming hand.

  ‘Just sit down and listen to me for a second. John Collins is a lunatic. That much I grant you. But what he’s saying is so outlandish that he destroys himself with his own message. Surely, you don’t believe what he’s telling them.’

  ‘Of course I fucking don’t believe it.’

  ‘So what makes you think that what he says will make any difference? We’ve got to look at the long term here, Rory. The man will have his moment and when the people realise that not eating meat and not eating at all leads to weakness and ultimately death, they’ll realise how stupid they’ve been. Collins’s time will be over.’

  ‘But he’s already made a difference. People are listening to him and acting on what he says. Doesn’t it bother you that he’s a blasphemous heretic?’

  The Grand Bishop let his eyes find Magnus’s.

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first one I’ve had dealings with, Rory.’

  Magnus sat down. It looked as though he did it because he was tired rather than because he’d regained his composure.

  ‘But he’s making a mockery of the Welfare.’

  ‘We’ll survive. And when his downfall comes, we’ll be sure to capitalise on it.’

  Magnus’s shoulders slumped. He took a new cheroot from a case and lit it from the one he was finishing. He flicked the spent one at the fire but missed. Sighing, the Grand Bishop stood up and scraped the butt out with his boot.

  ‘I want your Parsons to help my men find him.’

  ‘And why should I authorise that?’

  ‘I’m not making this up, Bish. I’ve met this man. I’ve…we came to blows.’

  This time the Grand Bishop’s eyebrows raised in genuine interest.

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes. Indeed. He’s a strong man. And I don’t mean purely physically. He has a will, Bish. You know what I’m talking about. He sees through lies. He fears nothing.’

  The Grand Bishop was silent for a long time. He’d thought long about how to deal with Collins, taken a lot of advice and information from his scouts and spies around the town. He was more than aware of the threat the man posed but he wasn’t about to share that with Magnus. Especially now that Magnus looked so weak.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rory. I understand your concerns, I really do. And I can see how important it is that your business runs profitably. But I have our faith to consider and the spiritual welfare of the town. I cannot be seen to form an open alliance with MMP –’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Bish, it would be clandestine. We’re not going to advertise it.’

  ‘We wouldn’t need to. Word gets around, Rory, you know that. I can’t afford to let the townsfolk think the Welfare sees John Collins as a threat. I must be seen only to deride the man for the charlatan he is.’

  ‘Is that your final word on this?’

  ‘It is.’

  Magnus stood. With difficulty, the Grand Bishop was delighted to observe.

  ‘Support for Parsons entering dangerous areas of the town may no longer be available, Bish. I’ll be experiencing some manpower deficiencies in the near future as I try to take care of a problem the Welfare should be dealing with. But with you as an example, I’m sure your representatives know how to look after themselves, don’t they?’

  He didn’t wait for a reply.

  When the door had closed, the Grand Bishop permitted himself a smile. Welfare had been cowed by Magnus Meat Processing for far too long. Now Magnus himself was sick and things were going to change in the town. The Grand Bishop’s best Parsons were already searching for Collins. Reports suggested they were very close to finding him and his gang of starveling followers. Welfare would root out Collins for the whole town to see. Welfare would show the town what happened to people who didn’t eat the flesh of the Chosen as instructed by God. And then Welfare would reassert religious control over the production of meat, and harmony and piety would return to the town.

  Each morning before dawn they rose as if pulled by an invisible tide and ascended the many stairs and broken escalators that brought them to the surface. He led them and they moved silently. The night after their council, the silence was loaded, resolved.

  Collins believed they were deep enough in the Derelict Quarter that the Welfare would not come looking for them but he couldn’t be certain of it. However, there was nothing Magnus wouldn’t do to find him. His scouts and spies would be abroad in the town like cockroaches picking over people’s leavings.

  So they were quiet and careful in the early aura. To stay strong they had no choice but to emerge at this precise time each day and perform the rites and exercise that Collins had shown them. It was their most vulnerable time.

  That said, Collins knew that they were strong and sensitive in ways that the townsfolk weren’t. All their senses were clear and sharp. They had intuition that could warn of many things, not merely danger. As dark as it was when they first stood among the monolithic outlines of ruined buildings, Collins could ‘see’ all of them by the auric signature that their bodies exuded.

  On this morning Collins felt something that had been growing in him for some time. He felt not so much an individual or a leader but rather that all his followers were connected. It was a physical sensation like magnetism in the blood. When they walked together he felt their movements like a force in his guts – approaching, a little push against him: departing, a little pull – and the connection was never broken. The more they breathed together and swallowed light, the stronger the sensation became.

  It led him to believe that not only were they stronger as individuals but that as a group their power was exponentially greater.

  They stood facing east where a dusty grey light sprouted. Collins stood at their head. Together they drew in the dawn and when the sun cleared the dirty horizon, they were filled with warmth. As one they concentrated the light in their bellies.

  Collins had never seen himself as a general. He didn’t want to fight. Fighting would bring bloodshed and death. It was wrong to use the forces he was trying to eschew in order to defeat those same forces. However, he knew there was no other way. In the silence of the morning they charged themselves.

  Soon after sunrise, they slipped back underground, each taking a concentrated gutful of sunlight with them, their muscles and sinews tightened and invigorated by the exercise.

  In the dark, John Collins plotted and each of his followers grew stronger.

  Seventeen

  Richard Shanti’s father had been a stockman too. He’d worked on the chain in the days before Magnus took control of the plant and the Chosen. Back then the Welfare had more control over the way meat was provided. Visits by the Grand Bishop and Parsons to the plant had been frequent and the air of sanctity around the rearing and slaughter of the Chosen was far greater. These days it seemed as though Magnus left the religious doctrines out of his working practices, merely paying lip service to them whilst trading ritual practices for higher chain speeds. It had become a production line.

  Parson Mary Simonson doubted the correct prayers were spoken at the moment of stunning and exsanguination. In Shanti’s father’s time, those prayers were every stockman’s mantra from clocking on to knocking off. She wondered if the pious-seeming Richard Shanti remembered his prayers at work. Welfare inspections of MMP practices happened so rarely these days it was impossible to tell.

  She rifled through the cards that recorded Albert Shanti’s life. Like his son he’d been an exemplary stunner – caring, efficient and quick. Still, back then the chain speeds had rarely reached ninety per hour. So much had changed in just a generation. S
he checked for irregularities in his behaviour, interventions by Welfare at any time and found that there was a file showing some Welfare involvement. She checked the dates. It was around the time of Elizabeth Shanti’s second tragic pregnancy that the Welfare had visited. Reports of screaming and fighting in the Shanti house – a property nearer the town centre where neighbours could listen in.

  It could have been a grudge – someone making trouble for Shanti by telling tales and bringing the suspicion of the Welfare down on him. She couldn’t rule that out. Or it might have been genuine unpleasantness between a childless couple with no more chances.

  Further reports to the Welfare were made by the plant when Albert Shanti’s stun performance dipped. No visit was made, as it was the province of the then Meat Baron, Greg Santos, to deal with employees in his own way. But other reports were made – not by Albert’s superiors but by other workers in the plant – of inappropriate behaviour. It was stated in the records that he had been seen spending his lunch hours watching cows nurse their newborn calves. Parson Mary Simonson’s heart went out to the man as she imagined what it must have been like to lose two children and see so much life being brought into the world where he worked.

  And then there was a final report.

  At least there was space for another report, a dated card divider with an incident number, but there was nothing in the file. No actual record of whatever it was Albert Shanti had done. The incident number was coded with a ‘C’ which meant whatever it described had occurred in the plant and was related to the Chosen. The Parson shook her head in disbelief. Someone had tampered with Welfare files. She’d never come across such a thing. Never even heard of it.