by Sam Millar
The heat in the room was becoming unbearable for Ferguson, who was slowly loosening the top button of his sharp, starched shirt, trying feebly to release the tie that had become a snake squeezing the life out of him. The collar felt like a blade against his throat.
“I remember one day when she came to my shop, crying. She hated that journey into night, hated the young, arrogant barman who told her not to worry, her wee secret was safe with him.”
Ferguson saw the door calling to him, telling him to leave now, while the choice was his.
“Does Lizzy still walk the docks, Mister Ferguson? That used to be her old hunting ground. Loved the men, did Lizzy, and wasn’t a bit shy with them, if you get my meaning.” Cathleen winked, a sneaky knowing wink that said: don’t you worry, sonny. Your ma’s wee secret is safe with me. But perhaps not for long …
“Well, I never in all my life …” mumbled a devastated Ferguson.
“Unlike Lizzy, eh?” grinned Cathleen. “Always be careful of where you crap, mister. You might just walk in it, one day.”
Ferguson slammed his briefcase shut and walked quickly towards the door.
“Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run!” shouted Cathleen, laughing after Ferguson while he ran down the stairs. “Watch the door doesn’t hit you up the arse!”
Eventually, Cathleen stopped laughing and decided that today’s meeting of minds was the best tonic she had had in ages. To hell with all doctors.
God, she had enjoyed the look on that arrogant little bastard’s face, loved deflating it with the sharpness of her tongue, wondering if he realised he actually is a bastard? Hmm. Hopefully, I can enlighten him on that if he ever shows his face again. In the meantime, she would get Biddy to change the sheets. Laughter truly is the best medicine, she agreed, realising the bed was soaking. She had proven that by literally pissing herself.
CHAPTER FIVE
FAMILY IN THE BLOOD
“There is no trusting appearances.”
Philip Henry Sheridan
“No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.”
Edmund Burke
PAUL SAT EATING his lunch in the ramshackle, large holding shed of the abattoir – a reprieve from the steam and blood inside the building – alone except for the company of beasts awaiting execution. Thin light filtered through the holes in the walls barely illuminating their faces.
The unnatural silence suited him, as if watching TV with the volume turned down. Only the soft chewing could be heard; his own, as well as the beasts’. Garbage bags full of animal eyes rested a few feet away, waiting to be shipped overseas as a delicacy. The bags bulged and stretched so thickly that traces of eyes’ colours squeezed and surpassed the black plastic turning it into a rainbow of spheres and lumps. The heavy fragrance of ripe cow dung interlaced with the heady smell of mouldy hay and grain hung in the air, almost visible, punctuated by the pungent stench of fresh blood.
He remembered how he was initially baffled, all those weeks ago, as to how anyone could eat a meal in this hell of a place. Now here he was, munching happily away at his corn beef and onion sandwich, justifying it by reminding himself this was horsemeat and they didn’t shoot horses here in the abattoir. They had their principles. Horses were for riding and betting on – not slaughtering. Yet, he had never truly become comfortable with the stares from the cows, their inflated lips and sorrowful eyes. The eyes had the same effect as the dead spooky babies he once saw in McCabe’s funeral parlour when he sneaked in one day after school, eight years ago. The babies had all belonged to the same family, killed by some ruthless disease living in the dark and damp homes. Mangler Delaney, who worked during the summer as an apprentice coffin maker for McCabe, had charged him – and all the rest of the boys in town – four Chocolate Logs or two Lucky Bags to sneak in and have a good look at the tiny bundles of flesh with blue, pockmarked skin and bulging eyes. It was the most vile and frightening scene Paul had ever witnessed, but if he had had the money, he would gladly have paid, over and over again.
Eight years ago and he could still remember it vividly.
Little by little, all sound in the shed was repulsed. The chewing became quieter, like a munching noise being softly gummed. Paul felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, the skin on his arms thickening with goose bumps.
He had heard the soft whisper of feet and stopped eating his sandwich, holding his breath as he tried to detect just where exactly they were coming from.
He knew it must be her and could picture her trying desperately not to make a sound as she stepped on the screaming dry hay, lifting each stubborn leg, placing it before her. He could envision the stress on her face as she softly cursed the protesting legs, cursing their uselessness, wanting to chop them off at the knees.
Paul cleared his throat with one good cough. “No one likes a sneak. They’re the lowest of the low,” he said, directly to the cow in front of his face. Not only was there fear in the cow’s black eyes, but betrayal and bewilderment. “Sneaks have always something to hide. That’s why they hide in shadows and whispers. Rather gutless, actually, Miss Cow.”
Perhaps there was no one there, after all? Perhaps he had imagined the noise? He felt foolish, talking to a cow, actually giving it a title, hoping it would respond.
“Too good to eat with us?” she finally said, her voice a mixture of anger and loathing.
He didn’t turn in her direction. He didn’t want to scare her away. Shit, he knew he couldn’t scare her at any thing. “No, just too lazy. Walking all the way to the canteen doesn’t appeal to me …”
He felt her weight touch the ground, inching slowly in his direction. She was directly behind him, now. That he could sense. He took a bite from his sandwich, and waited.
“You’ve come a long way from your first day, Goodman,” said Violent Violet, stepping from the shadows, wearing a t-shirt proclaiming: IT’S ONLY FUNNY UNTIL SOMEONE GETS HURT. THEN IT’S HILARIOUS.
Disappointment registered in his face. He had deftly avoided Violet each morning through a series of skilful manoeuvres; a pattern developed by working one place one day and another the next. He though – hoped – it had been Geordie. He didn’t know what he would have said to her, but he would have said something, even though he had only seen her half a dozen times.
“Didn’t know you were permitted to leave the office, Violet,” said Paul, half-heartedly. He didn’t want a conversation with her.
“I could see the terror in your eyes, that first day, Goodman, the look on your face. I had a bet with Shank that you would be gone within a week,” she said, snidely, her voice sounding like an annoying insect.
“Just goes to show that you can never tell a book from its cover,” replied Paul, placing his sandwich on the ground, appetite gone.
Uninvited, she sat down beside him. “You find me repulsive, don’t you, Goodman? You can’t even look at my face, can you?”
Paul looked directly at Violet, and then quickly looked away as her locked eyes stared with a self-awareness that seemed strange, as if she wanted to drill holes in his face.
“Or can you? Most people recoil when they see my face, like they just swallowed a cup of bleach. But you’re different, Goodman. You want to look at it. Don’t you? It reminds you of something. Doesn’t it?”
Random thoughts buzzed through his mind, looking for topics to light on. For one terrible moment he wanted to give Stevie Foster’s reply that she reminded him of disco days long gone. With caution at first, unsure of his own ability to hold her in conversation, Paul replied, softly, “Spooky babies …”
There was silence. Not another word was uttered for at least ten, long seconds that stretched forever.
“Spooky babies?” Violet remained impassive, then slowly smiled. “Spooky babies. I like that, Goodman. Spooky babies …” It was a real smile, and it tightened the devastated skin on her face, closing all the holes living there, and for one terribly brief and revealing moment, Paul coul
d see the beauty that had at one time dwelt there. Now he understood her bitterness, her hatred for the world and felt at that moment how he would hate the world and all in it if the roles were reversed.
“I’ve got to get back to work, Violet.”
“Shank isn’t back until Thursday, Goodman. Relax. When he’s not here, I’m in charge. Besides, I need someone to help me with the stocktaking. Shank reckons someone is stealing meat from him without paying. Personally, I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to steal from Shank. He wouldn’t look too kindly on it.” She smiled her cold smile, and then surprised him by saying: “You’re not on his list of suspects, Goodman, so you can stop looking as if you’re about to crap your pants.”
“Why would Shank leave you in charge? Why not one of the gold hats, like Geordie? She has more control over the workers and they respect her.”
“And you, Goodman? Do you respect her? A cripple? I would imagine a man like you would find it very difficult taking orders from not only a woman, but also a cripple?”
“Doesn’t bother me in the least. I think she does a great job up there, in the thick of things, never afraid to get her hands dirty or bloody – unlike some people I could mention, sitting in their wee comfortable office.” Paul wondered why he sounded so defensive.
“Goodman! Have I touched a raw nerve? Do you mean to tell me that you have feelings for a cripple? That is sick –”
“You’re the one who is sick. How can you even talk like that? Don’t you know how everyone thinks of …” He was about to say how everyone thinks of you as a freak, also, but luckily held his tongue in time. Or so he thought.
“How everyone …? Yes, Goodman? What?”
He licked his lips. They had become parched. There was little point in pursuing this discussion. “Nothing …”
“Don’t be a coward, Goodman. Say it. Shank tells me you’re an honest man. Prove it. Everyone what, Goodman?”
His heart was beating faster, as if he had just downed a gallon of tea.
“Nothing. I was just being …”
“Honest? Hmm. Perhaps Shank is right about you after all. An honest man. Who would believe such a creature existed? Certainly not me. Not the freak with the broken face. Isn’t that it, Goodman?”
Her words devastated him. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. She had made him angry.
“I … I didn’t mean … I just lost my temper when you made fun of Geordie. I don’t like to hear people making fun of …”
“Cripples?” Violet laughed out loud, startling a group of cows to her right. “Well, for your information, Goodman, if that crippled bitch even thought you regarded her as a cripple, she would kill you.” Violet stared at Paul. “I mean that, Goodman. Make no mistake. It’s not just her body that’s all fucked-up. Shank has her like that.”
“Shank?”
Violet looked at Paul, her face tightening. “You don’t know, do you? Perhaps you are stupid, just like all the rest.”
“Know what?” He was becoming agitated and shifted uncomfortably.
“Geordie and Shank are lovers.”
A lick of jealousy touched Paul. He couldn’t explain it, but he recognised its taste.
“Lovers …?”
“I know. Disgusting. They fuck like rabbits.”
The word fuck hit him like an axe. It sounded disgusting, obscene, coming from Violet’s mouth. “But … he’s … he’s her father – your father. How can you sit there and talk like that? Even thought I know you’re trying to wind me up, it still sounds disgusting.”
Violet laughed, but this time there was ice attached to it.
“Am I winding you up? Or is there truth in what I said?”
Paul stood to go. “I don’t care. It’s really none of my business, but you shouldn’t talk about your sister and father, like that.”
“Our father, Goodman, and hallowed be his name. Forever and ever …”
Paul could still feel her laughter on the back of his neck as he quickly left the shed.
CHAPTER SIX
STRANGE ENCOUNTERS, SOON TO BE FAMILIAR
“Neither fraud, nor deceit, nor malice had yet interfered with truth and plain dealing.”
Cervantes, Don Quixote
“The innocent is the person who explains nothing.”
Albert Camus
KENNEDY HEARD THE door’s chime indicating a customer – or potential customer – just as he entered the hallway to mount the stairs with Cathleen’s lunch. He debated whether to bring the soup and bread on up, or see to the customer. He decided the latter should be seen to first, knowing Cathleen would ask had any transaction taken place.
She’ll be inconvenienced. Fine. Let her soup be cold …
“Yes?” he asked, straining to see the details of the person standing there, framed in the darkened entry of the doorway.
“I called in last week, about the snooker cues,” said Paul, slowly advancing. The cluttered doorway narrowed with his approach.
Kennedy felt a slight pinprick in his chest. There was the slightest tone of grey inside the shadow of the doorway, as if someone was standing behind the young man in the blackness, like an out-of-focus photo. Seconds later, it was gone, forcing Kennedy to question his aging eyes.
“Snooker …? Oh yes. I remember. Yes … you got me at a bad time. The doctor was in seeing my wife and everything was topsy-turvy. I was a bit rude, if I remember correctly, and I apologise for it.”
“No big deal,” replied Paul, relieved. “I’ve had days like that myself.”
“Snooker cues?” asked Kennedy, returning to the back of the counter. “Any particular make?”
“Something above a brush shaft. Not too expensive, though …” laughed Paul.
Kennedy nodded, opened a larger glass panel, and delicately removed a cue.
“Don’t have too many requests for these nowadays. I thought snooker was going out of fashion?” He placed the cue on the counter, before turning to remove two more from their enclosure.
“I doubt if snooker will ever be out of fashion,” insisted Paul, handling the cue expertly. “Television has given it a lot of prominence. People no longer regard it as corner-boy stuff.”
Placing the remaining cues on the counter, Kennedy smiled. “No, I’ve never regarded snooker as a corner-boy activity, myself. Enjoyed quiet a few games in my time. Those were the days of more hair, less belly.”
“Whereabouts?” asked Paul, intrigued at the thought of this old man, leaning over a table, potting balls. He found it difficult to envision.
“Any place I could get a game, you found me there. Any weather, made no difference. I had a passion for it.”
“What happened? Lose all interest? Lose too many games?”
Kennedy thought for a moment. “Got married …”
Paul laughed. “I don’t think I could allow any woman to come between me and snooker. It’s what I live for.”
Now it was Kennedy’s turn to laugh, softly. His laughter had rustiness to it. “Oh, you only think that. When you meet the right woman, believe me, snooker will go out the window. So enjoy it while you can. The trick is the right woman.”
“Is that what happened to you, then? Met the right woman?” Paul held one of the cues in his hand, balancing it between his fingers, feeling the wood soak into his skin, hoping it would tell him something.
“You don’t need me to tell you how much the cue you use is of paramount importance to your game,” said Kennedy, ignoring the question. He reached for the last remaining cue. “This one, perhaps?”
“It certainly looks the part,” said Paul, admiringly, hypnotised by the beauty before him.
The cue was a stunning piece of craftsmanship with a splendid venation of grain – a vitally important aspect of the artisan’s craft and pride. The end result spoke of masterful artistic precision. Antonio Stradivari, had he been a cue maker, would have been proud of it.
“How much?” asked Paul, knowing this gorgeous instrument was well out of hi
s financial reach.
“Very expensive,” admitted Kennedy. “But well worth the price. Do you prefer light or heavy cues?”
Paul could no longer hear Kennedy. The Tin Hut was full to capacity; television crews were setting up their apparatus, waiting for the star of the show, Paul Goodman to make an entrance. A 147 break was a strong possibility with this young star. The crowd wanted it, almost as much as Paul.
“We could come to some sort of arrangement,” said Kennedy, repeating himself.
“Oh. Sorry. Did you say something? I think I drifted for a moment,” said Paul, embarrassed.
“I was saying we could come to some sort of an agreement. Monthly instalments, if that would suit you?”
Paul couldn’t believe his luck. This was the cue he had searched all his life for – the Holy Grail of the snooker world – and all he had to do was agree to monthly instalments? Suspicion kicked in. Was this a trick from the owner? Why the generosity of one stranger to another? What was the catch? Was the cue flawed, a hairline crack? He knew the cue also had to satisfy him psychologically. Not comfortable with it would affect his overall performance.
A look of apprehension appeared on Kennedy’s face. Why was the young man staring at him so intensely?
A tapping sound drilled its way down from above, interrupting his thoughts, but Kennedy ignored it, gaining pleasure from the act of defiance. Damn it, woman. Your soup will wait – as will you …
“Is the cue flawed?” asked Paul.