The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller

by Mark Tilbury

  We would throw the empty bottles against the air raid shelters, pretending they were hand grenades, watching them explode in showers of glass. My childhood was all right in some ways. I had good mates, the Bunky Line, Oxo, and my mum. The only thing spoiling it, putting a great big skid mark on it, was my dad. That man-mountain, with the angry eyes. Even his fucking moustache scared me, crawling across his top lip like a caterpillar from hell.

  I looked at Oxo and wished with all my heart I could train him to tear the bastard to shreds. Unfortunately, Oxo didn’t look capable of tearing a fly to shreds. His teeth were more for noshing than gnashing.

  The silver alarm clock on the bedside table told me it was just gone six-thirty. Five more hours before Billy the Bully came home and started World War Three. Why couldn’t he just die of a heart attack or something? One of our teachers, Mr. Warwick, had gone on holiday last summer and never returned. He’d had a heart attack in France and died. A nice bloke. Still young. If God could kill someone like Mr. Warwick, then why couldn’t He do the right thing and kill my dad? It didn’t seem fair.

  I tried to remember when I was little, if my dad had always been such a monster. It was quite sketchy, but I recalled him taking me to school once when I was about six. He’d perched me on top of his shoulders and made me feel about ten feet tall. I also remembered him taking me fishing once, but I hated it. Maggots. Ugh! Disgusting things, wriggling around in a plastic tub. Putting a fishhook between their eyes. How shit is that? And here was the thing that made me really want to puke: he put some in his mouth to keep them warm. I kept imagining them slipping down his throat and wriggling about in his stomach.

  When I thought back to those days, I couldn’t remember him drinking. Maybe he did; I was probably too young to notice. I didn’t recall fights either, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. In those days, I used to go to bed and fall asleep before my head hit the pillow. I had no worries. I was happy. I thought my mum and dad were happy, too. That they would always be together and always love each other.

  The first time I actually remember them rowing was a few nights after my ninth birthday, over a pair of school trousers my mother had bought for me. I was up in my room, getting ready for bed, when it started. I heard them clearly because the stairs led directly down into the front room. He kept going on and on about wasting five pounds on them. My mother had tried to reason with him at first. Told him I needed them. But, he wasn’t having any of it. He told her to take them back and go to the jumble sale instead.

  One-nil to Dad.

  Mum told him if he spent less time in the pub, she wouldn’t have to resort to scratching around at jumble sales.

  Great equaliser!

  ‘I work my bollocks off all week in that factory. I’m entitled to a drink.’

  Two-one.

  ‘A drink, yes. But, you’re in the pub most nights.’

  Good point, but, the goal was ruled offside. ‘Most nights, my arse. Thursday and Friday. End of.’

  ‘So where were you on Tuesday?’

  ‘Clem’s birthday?’

  ‘And Clem’s more important than your own son?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  A short silence. I pushed open my bedroom door, and stood just inside my room, waiting for mum to say something. Score a goal. Win the match.

  I heard a katush sound. A can opening. No prizes for guessing it wasn’t fizzy pop.

  ‘You think everything revolves around you. You and that bloody kid.’

  My mum made a strange snorting sound. ‘That’s a nice way to speak about your own son.’

  ‘Who earns all the money in this house?’

  ‘I want to work. It’s you who keeps saying I have to stay at home and take care of the house. I’m more than happy to get a job, now Mikey’s older.’

  My mum was definitely winning now. Game over.

  ‘Will you stop calling him Mikey? His name’s Michael. It’s the same as that “love-bug” nonsense. You’ll turn him into a queer.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not. Next thing you’ll be dressing him up in a frock and high-heeled shoes.’

  ‘I’d like to know how, when I can’t even buy him a pair of bloody school trousers.’

  My mum was good. She ought to get a job at the school. No one would ever get one over on her.

  ‘I didn’t say you couldn’t buy him school trousers. I just said—’

  ‘Go to the jumble. I know. I heard you the first time.’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me.’

  Another long silence. I knew I should go to bed. Shut the door. It was wrong to listen. But, the argument had sucked me in.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘I’m tired, Billy. I’m tired of rowing. Tired of having no money.’

  ‘You’re all the same. Fucking women. Moan, moan, moan. What do you do all day?’

  ‘Cook your meals. Clean the house. Washing. Ironing.’

  ‘Coulda fooled me.’ His voice had taken on a nasty tone, like kids when they taunt one another in the playground. ‘House looks like a shit-tip.’

  ‘If you’re referring to the ironing pile, pardon me for not getting it all put away.’

  A chair scraped back. ‘Lazy bitch.’

  ‘You can talk.’

  There was a loud crack, followed by a scream. I’d never heard my mum make a noise like that before. It sounded so full of hurt, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. I wanted to run down the stairs and protect her, save her from the evil monster who used to be my dad, but I had only just turned nine. A puny nine, at that. I had about as much chance of standing up to my dad as I did of flying to the moon.

  The scream was followed by a creepy silence. I closed the door and tiptoed over to my bed. I threw myself on top of it and spent half the night trying to convince myself I’d made a mistake. Imagined it. Got it all wrong.

  By the time I went down for breakfast the following morning, I was convinced I must have dreamed the whole thing. My mum didn’t scream like that. My dad wouldn’t hurt her. He might not be the friendliest bloke in the world, he might even keep maggots in his mouth when he went fishing, but he wouldn’t—

  ‘Morning, love-bug.’

  My jaw dropped. There was a huge bruise underneath her left eye. Some of the skin was broken. She’d tried to put makeup over the wound, but it made it look even worse.

  I had a nasty queasy feeling in my tummy, like when I had to go somewhere on a bus. ‘What’s up with your eye?’

  She smiled. Not her usual smile; the one which made me feel warm inside. ‘I banged it on the door.’

  I wanted to ask her if she’d been arguing with Dad. If he’d hit her. But, I somehow knew this would only hurt her more than she already was. ‘Oh.’

  ‘You want me to walk you to school?’

  I shook my head. No way. I was nine, not four. Black eye or no black eye, I’d never live it down.

  In the three years following the row over my school trousers, I lost count of how many times my dad had beat up my mum. If I said once a month, I’d be close. Sometimes, it was more, sometimes less.

  There was only one thing worse than listening to the beatings, and that was hearing him crying and apologising to her, promising to change and get help. Telling her she meant everything to him. How sick was that? Did he really think apologising made any difference? Healed my mum’s face? Mended her broken ribs? The bastard was evil, fake tears or not.

  I didn’t understand why she stayed with him. I mean, I knew what she told me about having nowhere to go, but surely anywhere was better than this? I’d have lived in the park in a tent, if it meant she didn’t have to suffer. Or live in one of the air raid shelters along the Bunky Line. Anywhere away from his stinking breath and piles of beer cans.

  I looked at Oxo. ‘I bet you hate him, too?’

  Oxo licked the tip of his nose. He didn’t look like he could hate anyone. Not even the farmer wh
o’d kept him tied up at Finley’s Farm. Me and Tommy Preston used to go down there and steal chicken eggs from the battery houses. A dozen at a time. Brilliant for whizzing at windows. A great pastime for two eleven-year-old losers. Oxo had looked about as sorry as it was possible for a dog to look. For quite a while, we mistook that grinning mutt for being vicious.

  ‘But, why’s he wagging his tail?’ Tommy had asked one day. ‘He looks all right to me.’

  ‘He’s just trying to trick us into thinking he’s friendly.’

  ‘Nah. He’s just a mongrel. I’m gonna stroke him.’

  I kept my distance. Any minute now, Old Man Finley would come plodding though the farmyard in his big green Wellington boots, and blast us with his shotgun for trespassing on his land.

  ‘Come on, Tommy, leave it. Let’s just get the eggs.’

  Tommy didn’t seem to hear me. ‘Hey, you’re all right, aren’t you, boy?’

  ‘Like he’s going to answer you.’

  The dog’s tail whirred behind him like a helicopter blade.

  Tommy got to within two feet of the dog, and held out his hand, palm down. ‘Hey, that a boy.’

  The dog licked Tommy’s hand for all it was worth. Turbo-tongue and turbo-tail.

  Tommy turned to me. ‘See. He’s really friendly.’

  Reluctantly, I ambled over, keeping half an eye on the farmhouse. ‘I wonder what his name is?’

  Tommy grinned. ‘Slobber.’

  I crouched down beside Tommy and stroked the dog’s back. He was a lovely colour. Black and tan. Long haired. The best eyes ever. They weren’t so much as looking, but bubbling in their sockets.

  ‘I wonder why he’s tied up?’ I said. ‘He’s about as vicious as a butterfly.’

  Tommy looked at me as if I was the dumbest person alive. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘It’s cruel. He hasn’t even got a kennel.’

  ‘Maybe Finley takes him indoors at night.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t?’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘Not much we can do about that, is there?’

  ‘We could tell the cops.’

  ‘And say what? A farmer keeps his mutt tied up in the farmyard? They’re hardly going to give a damn about that, are they?’

  ‘Maybe we ought to come back tonight.’

  Tommy looked as if I’d just suggested burning the farm down. ‘What for?’

  ‘See if Finley’s taken him indoors.’

  ‘I’m not allowed out past eight o’clock.’

  ‘I’ll tell my mum I’m going to my Aunt Jean’s. You can tell your mum you’re going to my house. That way, it doesn’t matter.’

  He considered this for a while, and then said, ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Do you reckon you could get a knife?’

  ‘What the fuck for?’

  ‘To cut him free.’

  ‘We can’t just set him loose. He won’t have anywhere to go.’

  ‘I’ll take him home.’

  ‘And what if your old man tells you to get rid of him?’

  ‘He won’t.’ A lie. I hadn’t even thought of that.

  ‘I ain’t nicking no knives from home. My mum would slit my throat with one if she caught me. But, I’ve got a good blade on my Swiss Army Knife.’

  And so it was agreed. We met down near the entrance to Finley’s Farm. November ninth. The day I rescued my best friend from that muddy farmyard. Tommy was ten minutes late. I was about to give up and go home when he lumbered around the corner.

  ‘I didn’t think you were coming,’ I said.

  ‘My old lady wasn’t going to let me. I ended up telling her it was important stuff for a science project. That just about swung it, so you make sure you tell her the same if she ever asks you, right?’

  I nodded. ‘You got your knife?’

  He patted his jeans’ pocket. ‘Yeah.’

  By the time we reached the farmyard, my belly felt as if a load of bees were buzzing around inside it. At least the place was well lit. The dog was still there, but he’d moved close to one of the barns surrounding the yard. As soon as he saw us, his tail sprang into action.

  Stupidly, I put a finger to my lips to shush him.

  ‘What are we gonna do if Finley comes?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘He won’t. Not if we’re quick.’ As if that would make any difference. By the time we reached the dog, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely stroke him. ‘Quick, Tommy. Cut the rope.’

  He pulled out his Swiss Army Knife and selected a blade. ‘This ought to do it.’

  The rope was about half an inch thick. It took Tommy an age to get through it. ‘I thought these Swiss knives were meant to be good.’

  ‘Nearly—’

  ‘You boys! What are you doing?’

  Shit. Finley. About a hundred yards away. ‘Have you cut the fucking thing yet?’

  ‘Stay right where you are. Don’t move,’ Finley shouted. He was carrying a large stick, and a lot of weight. As tall as my old man, but twice as round. We wouldn’t have any trouble outrunning him, but I wanted that dog first. I wanted him so bad I almost peed my pants as Finley drew closer.

  Tommy shoved the knife back in his pocket. ‘It’s through.’

  The best words I’d ever heard in my life. Tommy held the free end of the rope and walked the dog out of the farmyard.

  ‘Bring that dog back!’

  I turned around. ‘Or what?’

  ‘The rope’s too short to walk with him properly,’ Tommy said, as we neared the cinder track leading away from the farm.

  ‘I’ll have the police on you.’

  ‘And I’ll have the police on you for being cruel to animals,’ I shouted back.

  Finley moved quite fast for a man of his size. We hurried away, but the short length of rope was holding us back. Tommy looked at me. ‘I’ve got to let it go.’

  Finley was closing in. Tommy let go of the rope, and we sprinted along the cinder path towards the main road. I didn’t once look back. We’d let the poor dog down. Failed. A pair of cowards.

  We reached the road. ‘Fuck, that was close,’ Tommy said.

  I bent over, resting my hands on my knees. I had a terrible stitch, and my lungs were burning. ‘Why’d Finley have to come into the—’ The words caught in my throat, as I saw the dog trotting towards us.

  ‘Slobber,’ Tommy shouted. ‘Hey, boy, you made it.’

  I didn’t like the name Slobber. It didn’t suit him. I patted my knees and called him. He trotted up to me and sat down, tail sweeping the dirt, grinning in that crazy way he had.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Tommy said. ‘I told my mum I’d only be an hour, tops. What are you gonna do with him if your dad won’t let him stay?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’ll be at the pub until closing time.’

  By the time I reached home, I’d rehearsed my lie about just finding him enough times to believe it myself.

  ‘But, you can’t keep him here. Your dad won’t have a dog in the house.’

  I tried to impersonate the dog’s pleading eyes. ‘Please, Mum. He hasn’t got nowhere to go.’

  ‘You’ll have to take him somewhere else.’

  After a good ten minutes bargaining, I persuaded her to let the dog stay for one night. ‘You keep him in your bedroom. But, I’m warning you, if your father hears him, he’ll go mad.’

  I left him in my room the following morning while I ate breakfast. Told him to be quiet; about as much use as telling a kid to be careful. Dad was buttering a slice of toast when the dog barked. A single yap.

  Dad froze, the butter knife hovering above his plate. ‘What was that?’

  Mum looked at me as if I’d just let one go at the dining table. ‘Probably kids mucking about outside.’

  He shook his head. ‘It was a dog.’

  I studied my toast. I could feel my cheeks burning. I prayed to a God I didn’t really believe in to keep the dog quiet and make my dad think he was imagining things.

  Mum poured tea into my dad’s cu
p. I could see the teapot juddering in her hand. Oxo yapped again. No mistaking that noise, or where it was coming from.

  Dad looked at me through red-rimmed eyes. ‘You got a dog in your room?’

  ‘I found him. He was wandering about in the street.’

  ‘So, you just thought you’d bring him home?’

  I needed to pee. ‘Sorry, I—’

  ‘What do you think this is, boy, Battersea Dogs’ Home?’

  Mum tried to help. ‘It was only for one night.’

  ‘So, you knew about this?’

  ‘He’s going to take the dog back to where he found him on the way to school, aren’t you, Mikey?’

  ‘But, he’s got nowhere to go,’ I protested. ‘It’s not like he’s any bother. He’s really friendly. I’ll take him for walks. I’ll brush him. I’ll do everything for him. You won’t even know he’s here.’

  He shook his head. ‘Dogs cost too much. They need feeding. Collars and leads. Baskets.’

  What about all the money you spend in the pub, I thought. ‘Please.’

  ‘And what about if he gets sick? Who’s going to pay for the vets?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Oh, you will, will you? And where are you going to get the money from?’

  ‘I’ll do jobs.’

  ‘Not around here you won’t. I’m not paying you to do chores for your mother.’

  ‘I’ll get a job.’

  ‘You’re nine years old. Where are you going to get a job? In the factory with me?’

  ‘I’ll get a paper round.’

  ‘The answer’s still no.’

  ‘Please. I promise.’

  He slurped some tea. ‘You can barely get yourself out of bed for school in the morning. How the hell are you going to manage a paper round?’

  ‘I’ll take him with me. I can walk him at the same time before school.’

  ‘And what if it’s pissing down with rain?’

  ‘I’ll wear a coat.’ Smart answer. Perhaps a little too smart, judging by the look in his eyes.