Of course it’s okay. What else did she think farmers do? Of course it’s not okay. How could anyone raise an animal and then kill it before it even reaches adulthood? She wants to shrug and be cool and say, I know, it’s just life, isn’t it? She wants to shake Katherine by the shoulders, to tell her But you can’t, they’re so young, can’t they have a little bit more time? She wants her voice back. Katherine’s already gone, wheeling a barrow and muck-shovel in the direction of the chicken coop.
“Come on, mate.” Luca is shaking his head at her as if she’s being adorably funny. “I know it’s a bit horrible seeing that fucker from the woods round here, but you can’t tell me you didn’t know where meat comes from. You ate that curry at dinner, didn’t you?”
She’d thought they shared a connection, she and this boy she’s just remembered she hardly knows. Now, he’s standing beside her with that stupid grin on his face, laughing at her as she comes apart in front of him.
“Forget about it, okay? I know it’s not nice to think about, but it’ll be fine. Once they’re in the freezer you can forget all about it and enjoy some nice dinners.”
The worst of it is that she can still taste the tenderness of the curried goat in her mouth, just as she can still feel Luca’s hands on her body. What good would words do anyway? She ought to slap him round his stupid face. She ought to stab him through the chest with a pitchfork. She ought to…
“Please don’t look like that.” He’s trying to hold her. “I don’t like seeing you upset.”
As if he can make her feel better. As if physical contact could wipe out the knowledge that the animals she has played with and handled are now going to their deaths. Even as she thinks this she can hear the contradiction in her own head. What was she doing with Luca earlier, if not trying to blot out the memory of death—?
She was only young too, Willow thinks. She was the one that got picked out of the herd and killed off.
She’s running before she’s even aware that she’s decided to leave, not bothering to look back because she knows Luca won’t follow her. She runs until she’s tired but not exhausted, then lets herself slow to a walk so she can cool off before going back into the house. She doesn’t want her Uncle Joe to look at her and wonder what the matter is. If she could, she’d like to creep back up the outside staircase and hide herself in her room.
But she can’t do that, it’s not fair. She owes it to him to at least show her face and let her know she’s back before vanishing into her lair. She wants to see him for a minute, to know that there’s still someone in this world who’s the person he seems to be.
She runs her hands over her face, hoping that any streaks will look like sweat, which they definitely are, and not tears, which they definitely aren’t. At least he won’t ask her why she’s so quiet. Perhaps he’ll be in the kitchen, making supper for himself. Perhaps she might be able to sneak a glass of wine.
But he isn’t in the kitchen. Instead she finds a totally uncharacteristic mess of spilled oil and crumbs littered all over the surfaces, a glass shattered into fragments left unswept on the floor, the fridge humming frantically as it tries to compensate for the wide-open door, a slop of congealing cream trailing down the front of the freezer compartment and onto the slate tiles, and something burnt and shrivelled on the blackened grill-pan that lies flooded in a fat-flecked sink. It’s not just the filthiest she’s ever seen this kitchen, but the filthiest she’s ever seen any room ever.
Her first thought is that something terrible must have happened to her uncle, because there’s simply no way he would walk away and leave such a mess. She tears through the tiny house, checking the living room, the pantry, up the stairs to the bathroom where the door gapes innocently open. At the door to Joe’s room, she hesitates. What if he’s ill and doesn’t want to be disturbed? She raises her hand to knock, lets it fall again. She can hear someone talking.
“No, please.” It’s her uncle’s voice, made strange. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just, I wanted to—”
He must be on the phone to someone. She knows better than to listen, but she stays anyway, because what if there is something really wrong with him? What if he’s on the phone to the ambulance service? What if he needs her help?
“I know, I know. I know! But you don’t know what it’s like. It’s easy for you, you’ve got someone there with you. No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I know it’s hard for you too, but you don’t know how lonely it gets…”
Another pause.
“No, I have not, actually. What? Do I? Well, okay, but not much. A normal amount. You know bloody well what a normal amount is…! Oh for God’s sake, what do you care anyway? I thought you said you didn’t mind what I did any more… Then why did you fucking leave? We were going to be for ever, that’s what you promised, get the youngest off to university and we’d be together, that’s what you said… No, please, don’t hang up, don’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
Why is he making a fool of himself like that? Doesn’t he know how he sounds? He’s still talking, but in that hopeless way people do when they know the call has already ended, a querulous Hello? Hello? Are you still there? Then there’s the slow, defeated creak of the bed, the protest of the floorboards, and Joe is standing in the doorway, a bottle of vodka clutched tight in one hand.
“Hello,” he says, unsurprised to see her even though she wasn’t supposed to be home for hours yet. “Sorry you had to hear that. It’s just that he’s left me, you see. Gone back to his wife. Rose always said he would, right from the start. But we were so good together and we made each other so happy and I really thought he’d pick me over her in the end, when the time was right.”
That’s why she didn’t like him. Because he was married. Willow wants to grab Joe and shake him by the shoulders. My God, you were someone’s bit on the side. How could you be so stupid?
“He was very nice about it really.” Joe’s voice is quite calm but the tears are pouring down his cheeks. “We bought this place together, we even got a dog, and when he left he took the dog so I wouldn’t have to worry about it, and paid off the mortgage with his quarterly bonus, and gave me some money to tide me over while I got back on my feet. Did I mention he’s ridiculously rich? I suppose you’d have to be really, to run two households the way he did.” Joe seems to remember he’s holding a bottle. “Do you want some of this by any chance? I’ve already had more than I ought to so you’d be helping me out really.”
Don’t be like this, she thinks. I need you to help me. Why are you doing this tonight of all nights? It must be because he thought he was going to be alone. Is this what he’s been doing on all the other days when she’s spent her time over at the farm? Is nothing and nobody stable and reliable any more?
“I’m so sorry about this,” Joe continues. “Not much of an example to set a young girl. I wouldn’t have done this if you hadn’t gone out. You’ve been keeping me sane, to be honest. I mean, I can hardly do this while I’ve got you to look after, can I?” He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean you to see this, I thought you’d be out until later… Did you have a row with that boy of yours or something? God, they’re nothing but trouble. I think I’ll ask Katherine to castrate me. Then maybe I’ll get all fat and contented and stop bothering so much.”
He’s perfectly polite and sweet, the way he always is, but he’s also so drunk he can hardly stand up, and his eyes keep closing as if he’s barely holding onto consciousness.
He needs her help. There are things you’re supposed to do – get the person to be sick, put them on their side, give them water to drink and sit with them and keep them awake until they sober up – but she can’t seem to put her thoughts in order. She’s alone in the house with a drunk man, no voice to call for help if she needs it, her bridges burned with the only people she knows to go to, and no idea what to do for the best.
“I’m really sorry,” Joe says again, and smiles a loose, sloppy smile. “I’ll be back
to normal in the morning. You’ll see. Going to get some sleep now.” And then he’s gone, and she’s alone on the landing.
She stands for a minute in dull disbelief. Soon someone will be along to help her make sense of all of this. But there’s no one but the kitten, slinking out of the shadows to claw his way up her legs and onto her shoulder. He’s grown just in the short time he’s been with them. Already his weight is enough to throw her off-balance.
She goes into her room, which still smells residually of goat, and shuts the door, and lies down on the bed and waits for sleep to take her away from all of this.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
She’s in the waiting area of the funeral home, and she knows she’s dreaming because it’s become an opulent hotel bedroom. The thick white carpet is the same as in real life, immaculately clean, and so thick her feet sink into it a little bit, as if she’s walking on wet sand. But the long white sofa and the little gilt coffee table have been joined by a cream vanity with its own padded stool and mirror, and instead of the reception desk with its well-kept potted plant, there’s a huge double bed, its gold coverlet turned back to expose crisp white sheets.
When they came to this place in real life, she’d sat between her parents, the three of them tense with unshed tears and terrified. She remembers the box of tissues on the table, and the scent of air-freshener, and above all the whiteness of the carpet and the gleam of the glass, as if they’re here to book a cleaning service rather than a funeral and the room they’re in is designed to showcase their skills. She’d wondered why the dead would be so particular about housekeeping.
“We have an appointment to discuss a funeral,” her father says, exactly as he did the day this conversation took place for real. His voice is tight and determined, ready to do the last thing he’ll ever do for Laurel.
“For our daughter,” her mother says. Refusing to leave the burden to her husband; sharing the pain equally.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the funeral director says. Did he say this at the time? Willow can’t remember, because she’d convulsed with grief, grabbing great handfuls of tissue to catch the river of snot and tears that poured out of her, as if something had broken inside her head. Today, tearless, she looks the funeral director in the face and sees that he is the Slaughter Man, dressed in a dark grey suit and co-ordinating grey tie.
“Her name’s Willow,” her mother says, and takes Willow’s hand between her own.
“I see.” The Slaughter Man looks Willow up and down, a careful assessing glance that’s the opposite of lascivious, his gaze both discreet and penetrating. When he catches her eye he gives her a slow grave nod, as if they’re equal partners in some important enterprise.
“And how old is she?”
“Seventeen.” Her father answers this time. “The same as her sister Laurel. They’re twins.”
“I see.” The Slaughter Man nods again, as if this is what he was expecting. Willow remembers seeing this gesture in real life, from the woman who they met on that terrible day. She remembers wondering if part of her training was to learn to hold her face in a neutral expression no matter what strange stories her clients brought to her.
“In fact,” her mother says, “we came to you last time. I wondered if you’d recognise us.”
But, Willow thinks, this is that last time. I’m dreaming. This is just a reworking of the past, her mind niggling away at the pain, picking at the scab left by Laurel’s absence.
“I remember,” says the Slaughter Man. “It’s a great privilege to see to both of your daughters. I’m very honoured that you chose us a second time.”
This is the first time, Willow thinks. This is my dream and I can say how it goes, so this is the first time. We’re here for Laurel. Not me.
“If you could lie down on this bed for me,” the Slaughter Man says, and he’s definitely talking to Willow; his face is turned towards her and his eyes are bright and he’s even holding out a hand, as if Willow is a small child. Her mother and father nod encouragingly. Their faces are sad but composed. When she stands, her father takes her mother’s hand.
“It’s for the best,” her father says. “It’s hard for us, but we’ll be all right.”
“There’s a season for everything,” her mother agrees. “This is the time for the harvest. But we can always grow a new one.”
Willow tries to scream, and for a moment she thinks the force of her effort might drag her out of sleep and back into the real world, but then she’s sinking again, reality melting around her, and she’s standing beside the huge gold-covered bed with the Slaughter Man.
“Up you go,” the Slaughter Man says.
This is a dream, Willow thinks. This is all made up out of stuff in my head. None of this is happening. I’m in control and that means I don’t have to do what he says. But they aren’t in the funeral parlour any more, the soft white carpet and the beautiful lighting have vanished, and now they’re somewhere else.
“Do it, please,” says the Slaughter Man. “It’s what we agreed.”
But I didn’t, Willow thinks, I didn’t agree to anything.
The bed is tall and hard to climb. The thought of falling back onto the ground suddenly becomes terrible, as if she is climbing a cliff and might fall to her death. When she finally makes it onto the top, she feels relieved.
“That’s it.” The Slaughter Man smiles and presses his hands together. “That’s perfect. Now lie down for me and we’ll see how long you are.”
The bed’s become cold and hard. She can feel the chill through her clothes. She lies down, keeping her eyes wide open, afraid of tumbling off. They’re in a room with almost no furniture, and the lights above her are bright and unforgiving.
“I’m going to take some measurements now,” the Slaughter Man says, and takes a tape measure from his top pocket. “Would you prefer burial, cremation or butchery? We offer all three options here.”
But I’m not dead, Willow thinks. It’s not me that needs a funeral. You’ve got me confused with Laurel. She tries to sit up, but her body isn’t under her command any more. Her limbs are heavy and still. The best she can do is to turn her head.
“We were thinking cremation,” her father says. She wishes she could see them. If she could look at her father’s face, catch her mother’s eye, she could let them know she’s still alive.
“The same as her sister,” her mother chimes in. “We always tried to treat them as individuals, but they were the same person really. So it makes sense to do things the same. You could even get all the old files out and use Laurel’s notes if you like.”
“She might have grown since Laurel died,” the Slaughter Man says doubtfully.
“Oh, no.” Her father sounds sad, but resigned. “She hasn’t grown or changed at all. She died too, at the same time as Laurel. They’re the same person, you see, and their bodies both stopped working at the same time. We’ve just been keeping her around until we were sure.”
“And you’re quite sure you wouldn’t prefer butchery?” The Slaughter Man gestures to the wall where his knives and cleavers hang in rows. “Plenty of good usable protein here, help keep you nice and strong.” He grips Willow’s wrist, raises her arm high and squeezes at the meat of her arm. “Look. She’s young and tender, in her prime, perfect for the table. It’s always best to eat the young. The older ones are tougher, you see.”
“But doesn’t it distress the parents?” her father asks.
“Only at first. And if you take away their babies at about the time they’d be moving out on their own anyway, after a while the adults forget about them and get on with making some more.”
Her mother is stroking her stomach and looking at Willow hungrily. Her lips are wet and full.
“Perhaps it would be nice,” she says. “I have such a craving… such a craving for fresh meat…”
“And we want you strong,” her father agrees. “You’re not as young as you were. It’s going to be a strain.”
Willow’s trying
so hard now to move that the Slaughter Man becomes aware of her struggle. He turns towards her and puts out his hand and she thinks he’s going to hurt her in some way, but instead he strokes the side of her face.
“It’s all right,” he says. “You won’t have to worry. The killing process is instant. You won’t feel a thing.”
No, she thinks, but her body is not under her command any more, and all she can do is stare weakly at him as he continues to stroke her hair.
“This is how it’s supposed to be,” he continues. “Some young ones are bred for milk, and some for meat. It’s best to go now, while you’re in your prime. And you don’t want to stay here, in this world, do you?”
With a mighty effort, she shakes her head, not sure even in her own mind if she’s arguing, or agreeing.
“You know what your mother was trying to tell you earlier,” he says. “You tried not to listen, but you’re too clever to get away with that. And once the new one’s here, they won’t need you any more. They’ll grieve you for a while, but then they’ll get better and be happy again. Can you imagine how confusing it’s been for them, having to look after you? Seeing you walking around, wearing your sister’s skin?”
This is a dream, she reminds herself. This is just your head talking to itself.
“Of course it is,” he says. “I’m not really here at all. This is you telling yourself what you’ve known all along. You want to die. You’ve wanted to die for a long time now. And when you’re dead, you’ll be with her again. That’s what you’ve wanted since she left you, isn’t it? It’s all right, you can tell me. I won’t be shocked. I deal with death every day. It’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll help you. Say the word and I’ll help you. All you have to do is say the word.”
And to her utter terror, she realises that this is the true cause of her silence; because she lives in terror of the words that she might speak. I want to die. The words she’s held locked up behind her breastbone like jewels. But now the lock is springing open.
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