Turning Blue

by Benjamin Myers

  Her belly went south and her tits went south and everything went south but the men started coming back round again.

  She never mentioned what he had seen and he never mentioned what he had seen and they never mentioned what they had seen.

  It was as if it had never happened. That night.

  It was as if it had never existed. That night.

  Through anything those pigs can eat. Slops and carcasses. Offal and bones. Everything but the teeth.

  LATE-AFTERNOON WINTER SUN is shining down and Rutter has his eyes closed and is feeling its warming rays on his face when the chair is wheeled into the anteroom that the care-home staff call a conservatory.

  He is exhausted. He has not slept; has not changed from his snow clothes. He sees first her feet then the thin airless tyres and then her mottled veiny legs emerge through the doorway. Rolls of fat sitting on her slippers. Belly pork he thinks. Like belly pork.

  Mother.

  The nurse winces and draws back. It is the smell of him. It fills the room. It is overpowering.

  It is the fug of old wood-smoke and sweat and layer upon layer of clothing congealing into one mass; the smell of dried urine and soil and semen and moss and mildew and rotting teeth and bleeding gums. It is the smell of rotten human flesh and putrefying skin and death gases and decomposition clinging to a physical form. It is Steve Rutter.

  The nurse. She is new here. She has not encountered Steve Rutter before. Not experienced him. When her manager sent her to fetch Aggie Rutter it was with a word of forewarning: her son’s a character mind. That was all: a character.

  And now she is reeling.

  Rutter thinks his mother fills her wheelchair like too much jelly fills an overflowing mould. It is as if her skeletal framework has been removed and she has been poured in. She has no centre and her mouth is twisted into a wet grimace. There is dried saliva crusted around the edge of it. Her eyes are wet and glassy. They roam the room before settling on her son.

  A ventilation tube runs into her nose. At the other end is a breathing apparatus. Her hands are folded in her lap like two dead birds.

  Those breasts that made her famous are now two sad empty deflated balloons from a party long since over.

  Here we are says the nurse but speaking involves breathing and she does not want to stay in the room a moment longer. The smell is from beyond the realm of normality. It is sad – sorrowful even – but it scares her too.

  Twice in one day says the nurse.

  Rutter says what?

  Your brother. He was here earlier.

  Rutter fixes his eyes on her and the way he stares unnerves her. Makes her feel naked. She wheels the chair to the space beside him and locks on the brakes before retreating.

  He closes his eyes and feels the sun on his face again. The conservatory door opens out onto a small patch of patio where many bird-feeders have been hung.

  All he can hear is the sound of his mother’s breathing aided by the ventilator. It is a taut wheeze. An automated rasp. Robotic almost.

  Rutter finally opens his eyes. He glances at his mother. She has hairs growing from her chin. Thick black hairs. They are on her upper lip too. A bubble of spittle has formed at her mouth. It is her breath made physical and for a moment it is as if time has stood still and he watches the bubble expand so that the sun catches it and he sees spectral colours in it and everything is silent for a moment and then his mother wheezes and the bubble bursts and flecks her impassive face with her own milky spittle.

  Aggie Rutter’s eyes stare back at him and Rutter is sickening for something and anxious and his throat feels like it is tightening. Suddenly it is hot in the room. Too hot. The heat is a cloak hung over him.

  He looks at her. His mother is a pathetic mound of hairy sagging flesh who is only staying alive to spite him. Of this much he is now certain. Spite keeps her heart beating. She may be imprisoned by her useless body but he is imprisoned by the whole stupid world. By the farm. The only world he knows. It was she who said he had to stay until he was pushing fifty before he could sell up. Another decade yet. Ten years trapped. The real world slipping further away.

  He knows she knows this. The way she drools – it is directed at him. Each suspended string is mocking him.

  Rutter’s breathing is tight and quick where his mother’s is measured and aided. Automated.

  The other thing that angers Rutter: each day she spends here takes money from the future sale of the farm. Yes. His property. His farm – his land. His legacy. Each day alive is a roof tile taken.

  He closes his eyes again. Takes a breath. Feels the sun.

  Brother thinks Rutter. What bloody brother?

  RUTTER’S TRUCK IS a VW Caddy pick-up bought second-hand twelve years since. It is open-backed and red-rusted. The front-left wing has been replaced by a fibreglass panel sprayed black and there are holes in two of the wheel arches. Inside the small cabin the passenger seat and floor are a mess of mud and sweet wrappers drinks cans and carrier bags and branches and cigarette dimps and broken lighters. A tangle of wire and string and rope and sheep-skull and oily rags and a boiler suit and an old pair of gumboots and torn gloves and some damp newspapers and a rancid yoghurt pot and spilled dog biscuits and dog hair and dried dog scat. The open back has more junk on it. Logs branches kindling an empty oil drum a funnel a spanner a wrench more rope more string more wire a spare tyre and all held down under a tarpaulin by straps.

  The windows do not open. They are jammed shut from dents and prangs in both doors. Inside the stale smell is strong. Just as a discarded jar on a town tip cultivates life so too this airless space is rife with white mould and green mildew.

  The snow has laid and the snow has flattened and the snow has iced. Driving back from the care home the road is a rink and the truck is a figure skater warming up. It slides from side to side following the tilt and dip of the road. Twice Rutter hits the verge. Once he scrapes a wall and the wall comes off worse as the truck leaves red flakes of paint in its wake.

  The gritters don’t come this far up.

  The light snowfall is turning to a total whiteout by the time he reaches town.

  Town is dead.

  Town is dead quiet.

  Town is dead quiet like a morgue.

  He parks up he gets out he walks across the square and the snow creaks beneath his boots.

  He passes Barry Harbottle coming the other way.

  Now then Rutter.

  Rutter nods in recognition.

  What about this snow.

  What about it? says Rutter.

  It’s coming down thick but.

  Aye well. It’s winter.

  Harbottle is the coal man Harbottle is a drinker Harbottle is a father of many. Rutter has known Harbottle most of his life. He has never liked Harbottle but circumstance and the passing of time binds them in some way. They call each other by their surnames as if still back in the playground.

  How’s that farm of yours?

  Fine.

  What you doing for Christmas then?

  Rutter shrugs.

  It’s for the kiddies isn’t it says Harbottle

  I suppose.

  Harbottle stamps the snow from his boots.

  Aye. The kiddies love Christmas. As for me I can take it or leave it.

  Yeah says Rutter squinting across the square. He wants to get out of the cold. He does not want to talk to Harbottle. He does not like Harbottle. He doesn’t care a fig for Harbottle.

  Stand you a Christmas drink if you like.

  Rutter toes the ground.

  Nah he says.

  A quick one. One for the festive season.

  Rutter squints through the falling snow again.

  Come on Rutter it’s taters out here. Buy you a nip.

  Rutter toes the ground again then turns his collar up and clears his throat.

  I’ll be seeing you he says.

  Suit yourself.

  Rutter jams his hands in his pockets and leaves Harbottle staring a
t his back as the snow falls thicker and he walks across the square. His feet softly crumping the virgin white.

  DID I HEAR you say Rutter?

  Mace is on sailor’s legs and the man has him cornered by the Magnet’s fruit machine. He is standing too close to him and a drop of his beer flies out and lands on Mace’s cheek. He wipes it away with the back of his hand but the man doesn’t seem to notice.

  Maybe says Mace. Why?

  You were talking to that bloke before.

  Yes.

  Who is he?

  Some copper.

  The man’s neck is fat with ripples of flesh. It sits on the buttoned collar of the checked shirt that he has washed especially for Christmas. He’s large but with an unusually small and lipless mouth closing in on itself. Like a cat’s anus thinks Mace. His features seem lost in the vastness of his face and there is an intensity to his eyes. Mace has seen him around town but has always given him a wide berth.

  Is he here about Ray Muncy’s girl?

  Yeah says Mace. Why?

  You want to look into that Rutter one. He’s not what he seems. Tell the copper.

  Thanks I will.

  But don’t tell him I said so.

  I won’t. Sorry – what’s your name pal?

  Everyone just calls me K2.

  K2?

  Yeah.

  So why do they call you that?

  He looks at Mace as if he is stupid.

  Because of my size.

  Right. I’m Roddy Mace.

  The man – K2 – stares back. Mace feels cornered.

  I know who you are. You’re the writer. That’s why I’m telling you about Rutter. You can put it in the paper. Only don’t say you heard it from me.

  You know him do you?

  Rutter? Of course I do.

  A friend of yours? asks Mace.

  Is he hell. That smelly bastard’d gag a maggot on a shit-truck. But Ray Muncy is.

  A friend?

  He’s been good to me has Ray. I’ve done bits and pieces of work for him over the years. I know what they say about him but he looks after his own does Ray.

  Like what type of work?

  Like anything says K2. Lifting and that. Building work. Anything going.

  Right.

  And it’s fucking terrible what has happened with his Melanie. I’ve been up on the moors helping them look for her. We all have.

  His small eyes look around the pub for a moment.

  Waste of time looking up there though if you ask me.

  Why’s that then? asks Mace.

  You want to look at Rutter. Have a dig. There’s more to that one than meets the eye.

  Like what?

  Can’t say. But it runs deep and wide.

  What does?

  Rutter’s business. I’m thirsty.

  Are you? says Mace before taking the hint. Oh right. Pint?

  And a whisky.

  When Mace returns with the drinks K2 takes the whisky from him and downs it in one gulp and then takes the beer from him.

  Go on says Mace. Tell me what you know.

  K2 downs half of his pint and then belches.

  Well he says. For starters there was that other girl what went missing wasn’t there.

  4

  THE VALLEY IS white and the hamlet is jammed with police cars and vans when Rutter returns.

  He sees that the road in is blocked. Blocked by cars with flashing lights around which stand police in luminous jackets. Some are talking in low voices. Others are stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together.

  Rutter pulls over on the verge and gets out. He leaves the engine running and exhaust fumes mottle the snow. Policemen are stood around with some of the villagers. The muffled sound of barking dogs comes from the back of a van. A young policeman walks over to him.

  Sir he says.

  Rutter grunts.

  Where are you planning on going?

  Where do you think I’m going?

  I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.

  Up the hill.

  I need to take your name then.

  I’ve already spoken to you lot once.

  I still need your name.

  Rutter.

  The policeman turns away. There is a small burst of noise and then he talks into his radio.

  Turn off your engine and wait here he says. Rutter walks back to his truck and kills the engine. He leaves the keys dangling.

  The policeman walks over to one of his colleagues. It is the one who came to Rutter’s house; the one he went on the search with. Muncy’s pal. Jeff Temple. He approaches.

  I need to speak to you Steven he says to Rutter.

  You already have.

  I need to speak to you again.

  The dogs need feeding but.

  I’ll be up to see you in ten minutes then.

  Why?

  I’ll be up to see you.

  Not found the lass then.

  We’re still conducting enquiries.

  Rutter runs a finger along his jaw line. Follows the weft of his bristles.

  Expect she’ll be on the National Express to London by now.

  That’s as maybe says Temple. We’re checking all the stations again.

  Rutter shrugs then hawks mucus from the back of his throat.

  You’d be minded to he says.

  You seem to know a lot about it.

  Another policeman walks over. It is Johnny Mason. The landlord Bull Mason’s twin brother.

  I’ve got this Jeff.

  No – you’re alright says Temple. It’s in hand.

  As I said – I’ve got this. Me and Steve go back.

  A moment passes between the officers and Temple looks from Mason to Rutter and lingers a moment longer and then he says OK then and leaves.

  Johnny Mason checks his radio and then moves in close. He looks at Rutter. Studies him. Shoves his hands in the armpits of his gilet.

  Not like you Steve.

  What’s not?

  To do anything that you might get caught for.

  I’ve not.

  Johnny Mason steps closer. He is right in Rutter’s face now. His voice is low and measured.

  I’m worried Steve he says.

  What for?

  I’m worried about you.

  Why but?

  You know why.

  I’ve not done owt says Rutter.

  You’ve done plenty.

  Rutter tries to pull his eyes away from Johnny Mason’s but he can’t seem to.

  You and I know of families in this valley says the policemen. Strong families. Tight-knit families. It’d be a shame if some fucking loser who’s not a part of this decided to open his mouth and destroy those families.

  Rutter says nothing.

  There are secrets says Johnny Mason. There are livelihoods to think about. Endeavours to maintain. Don’t forget your obligations Steve. Don’t forget your position.

  I’ve not done owt. I don’t even know what you’re on about.

  Play dumb but we all know you carry secrets Steve and that makes your position precarious. And if you happened to have done something stupid.

  I haven’t.

  We know what you’re capable of.

  Aye says Rutter. Well.

  I wonder what he’d say if he got a phone call on Christmas Day?

  Who?

  I doubt you’ve forgotten.

  You mean Mr Hood.

  Johnny Mason looks around and then hisses:

  Don’t say his name you fucking stinking scut-hole. Try saying his name again round here and see what happens.

  Johnny Mason steps back. He takes a packet of mints from his pocket and pops one into his mouth.

  Either way the thin man will be getting a call.

  There’s no need to do that says Rutter.

  It’s happening. It’s already happened. And you’d be wise to have a tidy-up.

  How do you mean?

  Use your head. Get up there and sort that place out. I
’ll come up in a bit. Jeff Temple and that lot aren’t from the valley but. I’m sure Roy’ll do what he can as well. And keep your fucking mouth shut or you’ll have Mr Skelton up here with his pliers and blowtorch. Now fuck off.

  IT CAME FROM a man.

  Just some man. Any man.

  Another country man passing through his mother’s bedroom.

  He must have taken pity on the lad because as he sloped out the back door looking sheepish one day he gave him a pig off the back of his truck. Gave young Steve his first grunter. Just like that. Free of charge.

  It was a little thing. A grunting thing.

  A stinking thing.

  That’s a special pig said the man swinging it to him by its back heels. From strong stock. A rare breed that they call a large black. None will grow bigger.

  He handed it to the boy who was now a teenager dotted with spots and sprouting hairs.

  It was only eight inches long; hard to believe it could grow to be big.

  It’s a nipper now but just you wait he said as if reading Rutter’s mind. Feed it right and you’ll have a giant on your hands. Vicious buggers too the large black. Aggressive like. I reckon this breed got some wild boar in it way back when. Things got muddled. You’ll not need a guard dog with one of them about the place.

  What do I feed it? he asked.

  Anything. Feed it anything. They’re not fussy. Just feed it often and feed it well. I bought the semen that made that one. I inseminated the mother myself. It’s one of the oldest breeds in England is that.

  The man stopped and smiled at this then he said aye better than any bloody guard dog then he climbed in his truck and he left and the boy thought how it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

  The pig ate constantly. Its appetite had no limit. It grew and it grew quickly.

  It ate and it roamed and it followed him around. And still it grew.

  His mother liked to prod it and cajole it. Kick it and whip it.

  Boot it and prod it. Always at it.

  It’ll help train it up tough she said. Keep it on edge. They like it that way. They’ve got to know their place.