The Slaughter Man

by Cassandra Parkin

  “This is a dream,” he reminds her, “but when you wake up, you can make it come true. I’m waiting for you. You only need to follow the signs. The rest is up to you.”

  Her parents have vanished. She’s alone with the Slaughter Man. There’s a blade in his hand now, and a smile on his face that reminds her of her own, and all she has to do is to say the words. But even if she stays silent, the words will remain on the tip of her tongue, waiting for their moment. I want to die. I know how to die. And now I’m ready to make it happen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  She wakes in a single smooth motion that lifts her from the bed and onto the floor, riding the wave of adrenaline like a surfer returning to shore. She stands strong and solid on her feet, her body alert and ready for action even as her eyelids unglue and her vision swims into focus. She’s still alive. She’s still alive. Her heart is bursting out of her chest, her hands are shaking, the muscles of her legs quiver, and she’s still alive, the one who lived, the anomaly, the freak, the mistake. The control in the experiment. The spare part. She’s done something terrible. It’s time for her to atone.

  “Would you maybe be willing to consider Laurel donating some of her organs?” The conversation took place in the room they hadn’t left since they’d been given the news, the room they’d been told they could use as long as they needed. Willow can still see the sickly peach colour of the walls, the strip of wallpaper separating the lower half of the room in a dreadful approximation of a once-fashionable decorating style. And her mother and father had looked at each other, that terrible glance that told Willow this was real, it was really happening. The first decision of their new life that no longer had Laurel in it. They have been in this room for less than two hours and already the world is demanding that they move on.

  “I think,” her mother began, and then stopped. Closed her eyes. Pressed her hand against her stomach. “I think…” And then, without warning, she was sick, quickly and neatly, a smooth turning of her head to one side and an efficient retch into the bin, as simple as emptying a coffee cup.

  “Do we have to…” her father began, and then stopped. “Sorry. Of course we do. Of course we do.” His gaze jittered wildly between his wife, his remaining daughter, looking for guidance. In his household of strong women, he was used to being the outsider, gladly outnumbered and happy to be told what to do. “I just… I mean… I don’t know…” His gaze fell on Willow. “Willow, do you know if Laurel – if she – if she would have wanted—?”

  And she knew. She knew. They’d talked about it sometimes, a lazy conversation where all moral decisions where simple because none of them would ever apply in real life. I’d never have an abortion, but I wouldn’t judge anyone who did. I’d never cheat on someone, even if I’d stopped loving them. If anything happened to me, of course I’d want to donate my organs. I mean, I wouldn’t be using them any more, would I? And the slow lazy hum of agreement as they lay luxuriously in the sunshine, two young healthy creatures among the rest of their healthy herd.

  “Willow?” Her mother, white as a sheet, took her hand. “What do you think Laurel would have wanted? Would she want to—?”

  And Willow, without thought, without guilt, without hesitation, shook her head.

  I killed them, Willow thought wonderingly. I killed all those people. I let Laurel’s body go to waste. Why am I even still alive? She opens her drawer, finds the broken piece of mirror she stole from the bathroom, and presses it hard against her wrist. All she needs to do is let it happen.

  But she can’t do it. Her hand won’t obey her orders, and her skin flinches away from the sharp pressure. Just a thin little line, that’s all she can manage before she drops her hand again. Why is she so pathetic? The kitten, tightly coiled in the rumpled blanket and undisturbed by her sudden waking, lifts his head and blinks at her with green-gold eyes, then stretches out one long paw towards her, claws splayed. She swallows hard. How could she let herself be beguiled by such surface prettiness? He’s a carnivore, the same as she is.

  Start with that, she thinks. Pick it up and wring its neck. Grab, twist, pull. All over. Think of it as practice.

  Her hands stretch out. He comes to her willingly, purring as her fingers reach under his chin, not knowing that death is seconds away.

  That’s right, she thinks. Stay calm. It’ll all be over in a minute.

  She grabs him hard around the neck. He squeaks in protest, struggling to right himself, as if she’s playing a game and has gone too far. He still doesn’t know what she’s going to do.

  Now twist. Twist and pull. Break its neck. Get it over with.

  But her hands won’t move. She’s weak. She can’t kill the kitten. She can’t kill anything.

  The kitten is still dangling from her hand, writhing and struggling. The claws of his back feet rake at her hand. She shakes him off onto the bed and opens the door to the darkness.

  The woods welcome her as if she’s part of them. She wonders if she could get lost in them, lost so completely that death might find her before anyone else could. Perhaps she could find the willpower to hide herself away until she died of thirst. But she knows already that she’s weak – couldn’t kill the kitten, couldn’t cut her wrists, couldn’t walk off the steps, couldn’t take the tablets, couldn’t take any of the chances she’s been offered – and there’s no way she can do this alone. She needs someone who can help her; someone who has already welcomed the darkness inside himself. He has a name, he has a job, but he is also the Slaughter Man, a man who kills for a living and hunts for his own amusement, and if she catches him in the right mood, she knows he’ll help her.

  And then what? Will he bury her out in the woods? Will her flesh and bones dissolve into earth and a tall green sapling grow from the place she lies? Or will she disappear into his freezer, so he can eat her flesh?

  Here she is, at the foot of the path she needs to take. The last time she came this way, a deer led her in a different direction. What will she do if he comes to her again tonight? She can almost hear something moving towards her, almost feel the vibrations of his footsteps in the earth. Hastily, before she can once again be seduced by the beauty of another living creature, reminding her of everything she’s about to leave behind, she turns up the path that leads to the Slaughter Man. She’s not going to be talked out of this, no matter how many gifts the universe sends her to try and bind her back into its fabric.

  She’s not making any effort to be quiet – after all, it hardly matters if he hears her coming this time – and her breath is loud in her ears. Nonetheless, she’s faintly aware of the sounds that follow in her wake, as if she’s being stalked by something small and stealthy, who doesn’t want to be seen. Perhaps there are rats in the woods? She remembers the squirming of the rat that the kittens had stalked and gnawed on, the distension of its belly and the sickening spill of little pinky-brown shapes like beans. How big is the bean in her mother’s belly? Does it have a heartbeat yet? Arms and legs? If someone cut her mother open, would it unfold and stretch in agony before it died?

  Two or three times she stops and looks back over her shoulder, strafing the air behind her with the beam of her phone. But there’s no sign of anything. Why would there be? Surely nothing would follow her down this path. Animals aren’t stupid.

  At the barbed wire fence, she pauses to study the notices in the trees. Follow the signs, the Slaughter Man said to her in her dream, and she wants to do as she’s been told, to show him that she’s listened to what he’s told her and she’s coming to him willingly. Possible Armed Response. Is that how he’ll do it? Will he shoot her through the heart, so that she matches Laurel? Or will he cut her throat and let her bleed out onto the floor? I will not be responsible for my actions. Of course he won’t. She’s the one in charge here. He’s been telling her, all along he’s been telling her. He can help her, but it has to be her choice, and now she’s ready to make it.

  She ducks under the wire, feeling the tug on her scalp as the barbs gra
b at her hair. If they come looking for her, this will surely be one of the places they’ll look first, and if they find her hair, they’ll know she’s been here. But will that matter? Surely they can’t convict someone over a strand of hair. Luca will tell them the story of the time they came before, two rebellious teens taking the path they’ve been specifically told to stay away from. As long as the Slaughter Man has properly hidden what’s left of her, that should be enough to keep their secret.

  Or perhaps he’s clever enough to come this way afterwards, looking for any faint traces of her final journey that might give them both away. If he finds the strands of her hair, what will he do with them? Will he burn them? Or will he let them blow away on the breeze?

  She can see the shape of the house ahead of her now, the long smooth shadow of it, too regular to be anything natural, and the burned patch of ground where the cauldron boiled and stank over the fire. She’s hoping he’ll be waiting for her, standing on the veranda with his gun by his side, waiting for her to come to him. But the Slaughter Man’s house is dark and silent, its windows blank, the door closed.

  Of course not, she thinks. He can’t make it too easy. He has to know for sure that I mean it. He’s not going to come and find me. I have to go to him.

  Her skin prickling, she makes her way across the clearing towards the workshop, with its separate entrance and white light and equipment lined up on the walls with a remorseless neatness. The door is ajar, and she can see the white light slipping out through the gap. He knows she’s coming tonight. Death is his business, and he’s prepared the way for her.

  The butchery room is exactly as she remembers, perfectly clean and with that terrible sense of order and ritual purpose. The apparatus of death and dissection is arranged on the wall with care and attention, as if this is a holy place and everything in it is to be treated with reverence. And if she had any doubts at all, any question in her head that the Slaughter Man might not be the one she needs, he has left her one last sign. On the table, gleaming like ebony beneath the harsh overhead light, a huge spread of antlers branch out from the dome of the bone-yellow skull.

  So the deer wasn’t following her in the woods after all. He was already waiting for her, in the place where she’s going. He’s gone the way of all flesh, shot through the head or the chest, then jointed and wrapped in plastic, preserved by the deep cold, not a part of him going to waste. Out in the woods, he’d been beautiful enough to stop her breath with the proud lift of his head and the deep muscled curve of his throat. When she’d found him in the freezer the day she came with Luca, her fingers had brushed against his dead flesh and she’d been sickened. But now, seeing him in his final form, the form given to him by the Slaughter Man, she sees beauty once again. A life completed isn’t ugly, not at all. The ugliness is only in the transition.

  She’s done it, she’s done everything right. She’s followed the signs and understood their message. And now she can hear his footsteps on the ground outside, quick and eager, growing closer. He’s almost running, as if he’s waited for this so long he can hardly stand it. Is she ready? Yes, oh yes she’s ready. Come on and get me. I won’t flinch. I won’t look away. Come and do this. Please.

  But the figure who stumbles in through the doorway, wide-eyed and panting with fear, is Luca.

  “Willow. What the fuck are you doing?”

  No, she thinks wildly. No, no, no. You can’t be here.

  “I saw you in the woods,” he gasps. “I mean, I wasn’t following you or anything, not at first anyway, I was… Well, obviously you know what it’s like, yeah? When your head’s full of shit and you need to get out and think, and I swear to God, it was so weird seeing you there too. I mean, I thought I was the only one who… Sorry, I know I’m going on and on, I just—” His eyes are black with fear, or perhaps excitement. “What’s that? Is that a deer skull? It is. It’s a bloody deer skull. He must have shot it himself. What the fuck are you doing in here, anyway?”

  She has to send him away, right now, before anything bad happens. She can’t trust herself near him. He’s going to end up hurt, or killed. No, it’s already too late; her hands are reaching for his neck, pulling his face down against hers so she can taste the inside of his mouth. He resists, gives in, kisses back, then pushes her away.

  “Seriously? You want to do – that – in here? You know, you’re freaking me out a bit.”

  She feels like a freak, loose and wild, unbound from any convention. Why can’t he see that he needs to leave? His eyes are black in the harsh light.

  “I mean.” He’s almost laughing now, and his fingers are tight around the flesh of her arms. “You and me. Alone in the woods. With a freezer. And a wall covered in meat cleavers. And a huge fucking steel table. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not a romantic at heart, yeah?”

  She’s come here for death, and she needs him to leave before her body remembers what it’s like to be alive. If he stands there any longer she won’t be able to stop herself. She reaches upwards, takes hold, and kisses him again, pressing him against her. His movements are clumsy and sudden, as if he’s fighting with his own body. When she strips her t-shirt off over her head, he swears.

  “Fuck me,” he whispers. “Willow. You are just—” His hands are traitors, grabbing for the clasp of her bra. “We can’t do this here. What if we get caught?”

  She wants to stop, she wants to send him away, but her body’s a traitor too, and it wants her to live. With a quick strong press of her wrists she lifts herself onto the table, feeling the sharpness of the edge even through her jeans. Luca takes a step towards her, then stops, then takes another step. His arms go around her. The wall beside her is lined with instruments of death. Cleaver, she thinks. Bone-saw. Filleting knife. She isn’t sure if these are the correct names, but the chime of the words in her head, the cold metal under her fingers as she runs her hands over them, is dizzying. They’re what she came for. Not for the sweet warmth of Luca’s breath on her neck, not for the press of his fingers against her skin. She’s here for the clean cold sharpness of the blades.

  “Christ,” Luca whispers, his mouth against hers. “Will you leave those bloody knives alone? This is so messed up.”

  Yes, she thinks wildly, I know. You can’t be here when he comes for me. You have to leave, now. Stop kissing me so I can let you go. The tremble in his flesh makes her think of the hum of a live wire, tempting to the touch even though it sings with danger. He presses against her, then with a sudden rush of movement, takes off his top. She has to stop him, but she can’t, she can’t. Her body is singing with joy, a siren call reminding her of the pleasure of being alive. Luca’s skin against hers is delicious, scorching.

  “I told you the last time we met.” The voice in the doorway is calm, conversational, a little bit weary, as if one of their parents has walked in and caught them eating biscuits before dinner, as if they’ve tipped Lego on the floor and not picked it up. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”

  They’re both so still that Willow imagines for a moment that she can hear Luca’s heartbeat.

  The Slaughter Man’s face is calm and terrible, almost meditative. She wonders if this is the expression he wears when he’s working. She imagines a smooth conveyor belt of death, animals standing obediently still as they make their way towards him, the raising of the gun, the single crack and then the boneless drop to the floor. Is this how it will be for her? Luca’s breathing is rapid and panicky. The lights gleam off the glossy brown stock of his gun.

  “I’m sure I told you what would happen to you if you came back here. I did tell you, didn’t I? What would happen to you? If you came back here?” He doesn’t raise the gun, not yet, but his grip on it becomes a little tighter, as if he’s readying himself for action. He must have fired it so often that the mechanics of taking aim are second nature to him. Probably he can simply raise it and pull the trigger in one simple movement. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was being unfair. By not warning you what would happen
if you came back here.”

  Do it, she thinks to herself. Do it. Do it now. Oh, Luca, I’m sorry, I didn’t want this to happen to you too.

  “If you fucking dare try anything, I’ll come over there and fucking kill you,” Luca whispers. “With my bare fucking hands, you hear me? With my bare fucking hands.”

  “Or maybe you could use some of my butchery equipment,” the Slaughter Man says. “I’m sure you’ve been looking at it again. Yes, I can see your fingerprints from here. You shouldn’t handle it without washing your hands first.” His gaze slides from Luca to Willow. “Or was that you? Do you like my butchery equipment? Because that’s not a nice thing to take an interest in.”

  Get on with it, she thinks. She hadn’t imagined he’d play with her; she’d thought it would be a quick clean thing, a flash of pain and then over. She wants it done, before she has time for second thoughts.

  “The two of you,” he says, sounding almost indulgent. “Standing here in my butchery room, sweaty and scruffy and half-dressed. Come here to fool around with each other, in a room made for taking animals to pieces. There’s something wrong with both of you children, isn’t there?”

  If she could be granted one wish before she dies, it would be to find her voice at last, so that she could scream at this awful, patronising man that of course there’s something wrong with her. She wants to scream that she’s not a child, she hasn’t been a child since the day they told her what had happened to her sister, and the least he could do is to treat her with dignity before he kills her. The words are huge in her mouth, like those gobstopper sweets that you have to force in past the reluctant stretch of your cheeks, so huge you think you might choke, spit and panic accumulating in the spaces around the edge, before you remember that you can breathe through your nose. What will it take to unlock her voice, if not this moment? She’s holding her breath in stark contrast to Luca, who pants like an animal beside her. Perhaps if she can make herself breathe out, the words might come with them? What if she tries to plead for Luca’s life?