And like that, she’s gone, and she and Luca are alone, but with a task to do that makes the moment pass comfortably and smooths out the leftover awkwardness. Perhaps Katherine did it on purpose. Perhaps she knows everything that’s happened between the two of them. She spends her life breeding animals, after all. She must know the signs. The bean pods feel crisp and dry, like paper. She slits open a pod and squeezes one of the beans. It’s hard and dry and solid, like a little stone.
“I can’t fucking stand vegetables normally,” says Luca. “But Katherine does this thing where she soaks them and cooks them with spices and that and they’re actually pretty good.” The low autumn sun is behind him and she has to squint to read the expression on his face. “Look, Willow, about this afternoon…”
She plucks another pod, drops it into the bowl, reaches for another.
“I mean, I like you. I really do.”
But, she thinks. Why are boys always so predictable?
“It’s just,” he says, and hesitates. “I’m not safe. You know what I mean? I mean, I don’t know if I can trust myself.”
He doesn’t need to tell her this. She’s seen that side of him already, that day in the woods. Why does he think she cares? She’ll take her chances.
When someone tells you who they are, believe them. One of her mother’s many life mantras. And specifically, don’t ever go out with a man who boasts about being violent. But that doesn’t apply now, surely. There’s no future in this, and they both know it. She simply wants to know that he likes her. She simply wants to feel alive again, the way she felt when he kissed her. The way she used to feel before Laurel died.
“I mean, I’m not proud of it,” Luca says, even though he sounds proud, as if sudden uncontrolled violence is a sign of manhood. “It’s just. I mean. That’s why I sometimes might be a bit funny with you. Because sometimes when I’m, you know, thinking about sex, or when I look at you, I mean, I want to kiss you, but there’s… other stuff I want to do, too.”
If she kissed him, would he stop talking and give in to the moment? Would he hurt her? Or would he push her away? Shameful though it is, she’d prefer roughness to rejection.
“I mean, it’s not you, it’s me. Something wrong with me, I mean. Well, I mean, you know, don’t you? You remember what happened. In the woods. And I don’t want to – you know – if that bit of me comes out again, I don’t want to be hurting you—”
Maybe that’s what I like about you, she thinks. Maybe I like that you’re dangerous. Maybe I want someone who might hurt me.
“Besides,” he says, tugging a handful of pods and leaves so hard the whole plant shakes and trembles, “I’m probably going to prison soon. So, you know, not much future in it or anything.” He lets the pods fall to the ground. “But, you know… if you… I mean… it doesn’t have to be anything heavy…”
Shut up and kiss me, she thinks.
“I should fucking shut up now, shouldn’t I,” he says, with an embarrassed laugh. “Right pair we are. I talk too much and you don’t talk at all. I mean, how am I meant to get consent and that when you can’t even tell me—”
Whatever he was going to say next is lost because Willow, tired of the sound of his voice, puts the bowl of dried bean pods down on the ground and kisses him, firm and sweet, and it’s better than it was this afternoon because they’ve already learned so much about how this works. The earth comes up to welcome them, as easy as if this moment is why they were born in the first place, and everything is simple between them; they’re one animal in two bodies, no more words needed.
Katherine has prepared a feast in small portions, spicy and sweet and colourful, spreading out across the tablecloth in a profusion of bowls and platters. There are two kinds of curry – a sweet one and a hot one as Katherine explains – fragrant rice, thick chewy flatbreads, vegetables drenched in flavour and gleaming with oil. There’s a dish of beans, not shrivelly and hard any more but plump and mealy, with more vegetables added and cubes of crumbly, wet-looking cheese nestled among them. There’s something not quite real about it all, something not quite real about the entire world, as if she’s looking at it through glass. She has to press her hands against the sides of the chair to remind herself that she’s still in contact with the earth.
(“Fucking hell,” Luca whispers against her ear, and she feels herself melt as surely as if he had told her he loved her. They’re lying in a long dry space between the bean-rows, the sun poking curiously at their eyes and skin, dry crumbs of soil scratching at their cheeks and crawling into their hair. Willow’s t-shirt is tangled around her neck and her bra is unfastened. Luca has taken off his top. They’re adrift on the heady thrill of exploration, a pause for breath as they consider what they might do next.)
“Eat,” Katherine orders, and hands them each a plate. “If you’re not sure what you like, have some of everything.”
Willow isn’t sure if she’s too happy to eat, or too hungry to wait. Her body’s appetite has become a sweet mystery. She dips her spoon into the curry Katherine said was sweet, and licks at the long drip of sauce that traces its way around her thumb. When she glances at Luca, she sees him watching her and thinks she might dissolve into the floorboards.
(“Just look at you,” Luca mumbles. His gaze as it moves down her skin is so hungry that she thinks it might leave a mark. His hand follows, trailing shyly around the curve of her left breast.)
The food bursts with the kinds of flavours she would once have rejected, but now finds herself savouring. How strange to think that a couple of months ago she would have eaten only bread and rice from this carnival of taste. The meat in the curry is chewy in exactly the right way, rich and delicious and satisfying. She thinks of the word gamey, and wonders if this is what it means.
“Clearing out the freezer,” Katherine says with a smile, and helps herself to another spoonful. “Take some home to your uncle when you leave. Oi.” She glances down at the pair of cats who have come into the dining room to twine longingly around her legs. “You don’t eat curry. Too much garlic. No, there’s no point looking pretty and confiding, you’re still not getting any.”
The cats give up on Katherine and move on to Luca. He pushes them away with one leg, then takes a spoonful of the bean dish, picks out a cube of cheese and lays it on the edge of his plate. A beat, two beats, and then the cube of cheese is between his fingers, pinched in two and dropped onto the floor, while he makes a clumsy attempt to cover up what he’s doing by reaching for another piece of flatbread. Willow can hear the purring of the cats from right across the room. She licks sauce from her knife, wondering how a boy who’ll feed two plump farm cats just because they asked him to can also be a boy who beat a man almost to death with his bare hands.
(Between the bean-rows, Willow basks in his touch. Her skin is hot and tingly, her limbs heavy. Luca’s mouth is full and rosy with the kisses they’ve exchanged, the brush of their bodies against each other. The press of his erection against her thigh makes her feel drunk. Soon they’ll have to go inside and sit side-by-side at Katherine’s shining wooden table, in the dim comfort of thick walls that hold the cool air and form a blessed respite from the low sunlight, and their lack of satisfaction will become a kind of satisfaction in itself. What’s happening between them will remain unfinished business, a question not yet answered.)
The cats, who are cleaning their whiskers and watching Luca intently in case more bounty drops from the sky, turn their heads in unison towards the window. Katherine chuckles.
“That’ll be Francis,” she says. “They can probably hear his truck coming down the lane.” The cats are on high alert now, their ears straining forwards. They look both funny and frightening, as if they’re either putting on a two-handed comedy act or being possessed by the same demon. Now even Willow can hear the faint rumble, growing closer and more distinct, resolving into the sound of a large vehicle being bumped down a rough track. “You two stay here and finish your food. Don’t clear the table, you might want t
o pick at it later. Put your plates and forks in the dishwasher when you’re done.”
There’s something very comforting about Katherine’s clear, flat instructions about what chores are expected of them. On visits to friends’ houses, Willow has tied herself in knots over the correct procedure. If she takes all the plates to the kitchen, will she look weird and overeager? If she takes only her own, is that rude? And when they tell her No, don’t worry, we’ll clear up, you’re the guest, is she supposed to take them at their word, or ignore it? She’s eating out of greed rather than hunger now, scooping up globs of sauce with her bread and letting the spices unravel on her tongue. Outside Katherine is talking to Francis, whoever Francis might be. Perhaps he’s delivering something to the farm. Or is it too late for deliveries? She has no idea what kind of schedule farms operate on. Katherine never seems to fully come to rest, her days a continuous transition from one task to the next.
“This is bloody amazing,” says Luca, picking up a nugget of meat from his plate with his fingers. “I had something like this once at the Carnival. You know the Notting Hill Carnival? It’s, like, this huge cultural celebration, loads of floats and dancers and music and stuff, all out in the streets.” Willow rolls her eyes. “Well, I don’t know what you know, do I? Anyway, the street food there is amazing. Properly, properly amazing. But this is even better.” He sucks the sauce off the final piece of meat, breaks it into two pieces and drops it to the floor. The cats stalk over with their tails high and quivering. “I got the stuff off. Should be all right… Shall we, um, get the plates cleared and that?”
Without the barrier of the table, now there’s a chance to be close again, they’re suddenly shy with each other. Getting through the door becomes a challenge. Navigating the dishwasher is almost impossible. She can feel the imperative singing through her bones. Kiss him again. Touch him again. Get lost in how it feels. Is this love? She doesn’t know or care. In all the endless stretch of time since Laurel died, this is the only thing she’s found that’s made her feel good, and she wants more of it. Luca is bending over the dishwasher, the small tight shape of his buttocks outlined by the pull of the denim. She thinks about sliding her hand along the curve, finds she’s already turned her thought into action.
What is she expecting? To feel his body come to stillness like a cat being caressed in just the right spot, to hear him sigh with desire. To see him turn towards her. To smell the spices that have stained his lips, taste his tongue against hers. She’s ready for all of these things, her body softening, her skin awake. She’s not at all ready for Luca to shoot suddenly upright as if he’s been given an electric shock, his eyes black with rage, his hands held up in front of him. She staggers backwards.
“Shit,” Luca says. “Shit, Willow. I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
She can’t tell. She’s too busy holding onto the tears that are gathering in her chest. You will not cry over this, she tells herself sternly. This is nothing. Don’t let him get to you.
“I didn’t hit you, did I?” Luca looks as shocked as she feels, as upset as she’s trying not to be. “Jesus, Willow, you’ve got to be careful around me. I’m not always going to be a nice guy.”
It sounds like a line from a bad movie. It sounds like a terrible truth that she needs to take into her heart. When someone shows you who they are, believe them. Is this who Luca is? And does she want him badly enough to accept the risk?
“Oh Jesus, come here.” He holds his arms out to her. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I frightened you.”
She goes into his arms and lets him hold her, but this is almost worse than nothing at all. She doesn’t want to be petted and calmed and stroked smooth. She wants the clumsy tenderness of his hands on her naked flesh, the feeling that he’s bringing her back to life. She lets him hold her and wonders if this is the end as well as the beginning.
“It’s like there’s this other guy who lives inside me,” Luca mumbles into the top of her head. “And he gets out sometimes. I can’t help it.”
His hands are on her back, but they don’t feel the way they felt before. His body is wooden and sexless. It’s like holding onto a mannequin. She’s so hungry for something she hardly even knew she needed, but he doesn’t seem to be aware of it. How far will she go to get that feeling back again? If he asked her to have sex with him, would she say yes? She turns her face up towards him and kisses him.
“Willow,” he says, and it sounds like a warning.
She kisses him again.
“Willow. Shit. I can’t… we can’t—” She can feel the quiver in his body. “I mean, Katherine’s right outside. She might come in any minute.”
Then let’s go somewhere else. There are so many places. They could go back to the bean-patch and lie down in the dry, grainy soil. They could climb the haystack, hide in the hot dusty space between the bales and the roof. They could go out to the woods. They could even go up the stairs to Luca’s bedroom, which is the closest and most comfortable option. But she’s not sure she’s ready for the intimacy of seeing his private space yet. She takes his hand and leads him towards the door.
“What d’you fancy doing?” Now they’re on the move again, Luca seems happier, although he frees his hand from hers under the guise of petting a passing cat. “Want to see the little goats and give them a farewell cuddle?” She looks at him blankly. “It’s their last day out. We’re bringing them in tomorrow afternoon, then they’re off the next morning.”
Of course she knows not every animal can stay on the farm for ever, breeding and breeding. But still, she’s saddened by the thought of the young goats climbing onto the truck, not knowing they’ll never see their family again. Will their mother miss them? Will they miss her? How long will it take them all to forget? She’s pretty sure the billy won’t give a damn—
Luca is still talking to her, something about room in the freezer and Katherine’s cooking, but she doesn’t have time to listen to it, because now she can see Katherine in the yard, talking to the person she named as Francis, and she can see his face and she understands everything, because Francis is the Slaughter Man.
He’s leaning on the bonnet of his van and nodding as Katherine talks to him. The van is small, the kind used by tradesmen to transport small amounts of equipment. It can’t be the one he uses to take away the animals and kill them. That’s what Luca is talking about. That’s what Katherine meant by allowing the goat his last hurrah. That’s why she was clearing room in her freezer. The Slaughter Man is going to do his job.
“You all right, mate?” Luca pats her shoulder. “You look a bit funny.”
She’s always known this is where meat comes from. Animals are made of meat and meat is what she eats. But she’s only now making the connection between the stuff that fills her plate and the living breathing creatures who have eaten food from her hands, leaned against her for comfort. Francis and Katherine are laughing together, her hand on his arm. How can she stand to touch him? Doesn’t she know who he is? We eat meat. It’s what we do. She remembers the kittens learning to hunt in the hayloft, the confusion and fear of the rat as it stumbled blindly from side to side, desperate to escape.
The conversation goes on and on. There must be more to this butchery business than simply Can you please kill my little goats for me; there must be decisions to be made and agreements to be reached. Francis is watching and nodding as Katherine draws her hand around the top of her hip-joint, then diagonally across her chest to her armpit. She must be explaining how she wants her meat dressed. We eat meat. This is what eating meat means. Now Katherine’s gesturing to her ribs, and Willow remembers the beat of the little goat’s heart as she lifted him over the fence, the warmth of him as she slept in her lap. What will happen to that heart now? Will it be eaten? Or does that part get thrown away?
“Fuck!” Luca is beside her now, his eyes wide. “Is that—? God, I never knew he had, like, an actual job.” He laughs. “Although I suppose working in, like, a slaughterhouse is pretty much the per
fect position for someone like him.” He stretches out his fingers until the knuckles crack. “Creepy fucker. Should have fucking punched him when I had the chance. If he comes anywhere near us I’ll kill him.”
But you can’t kill him, Willow thinks. None of us can. Because he’s the Slaughter Man. He’s always going to win in the end.
Katherine shakes Francis’s hand and says something about seeing him the day after tomorrow. Francis glances around the yard, his gaze slow and assessing. What will happen if he sees her? She shrinks back into the doorway of the farmhouse and prays his gaze won’t fall on her.
He looks in her direction for a moment, but she can’t tell if he’s noticed her or not. He climbs into his van, folding up his long lanky self into the driver’s seat. He starts the engine. He turns the van around. He’s gone.
Stop it. You’re being ridiculous. We eat meat. This is where meat comes from. She disentangles her hand from Luca’s.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Katherine’s hand is firm and kindly on her shoulder. “That’s Francis. He runs the local abattoir. He’s coming to collect the young goats the day after tomorrow for slaughter.”
Katherine says this as if it’s natural, as if there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Willow blinks up at her, trying to recognise the kindness she thought she knew.
“They’re a by-product of the milk production,” Katherine says. “I keep the best of the nannies for milk but they can’t all stay, there isn’t enough land and they’d fight. We have to eat, Willow, and most of us like to eat cheese and meat, so that’s what’s going to happen to them. Francis is quick and humane, and he’s local, so they won’t have to travel far. And I promise, every part of them gets used. The chefs who buy goat meat come from cultures where you don’t waste anything. Okay?”
The Slaughter Man Page 23