The Butcher's Hook

by Janet Ellis

  ‘I am still a teacher,’ he smiles, ‘and we should continue our lessons, should we not? I cannot have you arrested in your studies in that churlish way. On that particular topic, I am a veritable professor. But I don’t see any furnishings. Where shall the schoolroom be?’

  ‘Here!’ I say quickly. His eyes do not leave me now and I have his full attention. The pit is dug and in he falls. ‘It is early and no one is around, or about to come upon us. The cows will not be herded in for hours, the church has no service today and the priest is about in the parish.’ He does not know how sure I am of my facts. He certainly does not know why. ‘God’s classroom!’ I fling my arms theatrically wide to the fields around.

  He laughs, and spreads his arms too, taking an unsteady step towards me. I do not want his embrace. I step back too fast. He looks affronted and so I laugh as if we are playing a delicious game.

  ‘To the lesson: remove your jacket, Sir!’

  ‘Are you the teacher now, giving orders? I do not care for this reversal.’ But he begins to wrestle his arms from the heavy cloth. He reaches for the collar of his shirt but I stay his hand.

  ‘No, please leave on your shirt, Dr Edwards. I wish this to be as before.’ I whisper those last two words as if they have great significance for us. I only think it might suggest he was about some other business (pissing or pleasuring) if he’s half-dressed when he’s discovered. I realise I am already thinking of him as a dead body and I feel that catch of laughter in my throat once again, at knowing how close his end is.

  ‘As before!’ He hears my tone as mutual excitement, and he gets to the ground and fumbles with his britches.

  My fingers go to my pockets, where the silky scarves are warm and waiting. ‘Put your back to the tree, Dr Edwards, I have brought my own contribution.’ I bring the scarves out with a flourish I did not intend and he claps his hands with delight.

  ‘Magic?’ he cries, ‘do you bring magic? My mother always said I could never resist sleight of hand!’

  Do not mention your mother, I think. I do not want to know that buried beneath this carapace of ageing flesh and grey, wild hair, there is the ghost of a little boy, all fresh and curious, who looked at the world with those same eyes that regard me now.

  ‘Better than magic. Give me your hands.’ I stand behind him then pull his arms together and bind them with the silk. He is wet from the ground and his fingers are slippery. ‘So that you may not move . . .’ He struggles a little, but only in mock anguish and protestation. ‘Soon, you will not want to move,’ I say into his ear, which smells of wax and oil.

  He giggles, holding his hands together obediently. With the other tie, I circle the tree, then join the two scarves together. Another knot. Then another two more. I pause to admire my handiwork. It has come out better than I’d hoped. Dr Edwards’ age and infirmity have contributed more than I could have asked. His legs are stuck straight out in front of him.

  He watches me as I reach for the sash of my dress, then undo the little buttons. I am very glad my costume no longer fastens at the back; there are many advantages to my getting older and this one is obvious. I didn’t put on a hoop so that is one less thing to remove. When I step out of my dress leaving me only in my petticoats and stays, Dr Edwards blinks rapidly as if to confirm what he can see. I take off one petticoat, but go no further. He makes a small sound, a single high note of exclamation.

  I kneel at his feet and pull off his boots. He laughs and kicks his feet out while I do, but only to help me free them. When I go to the buttons at his waist, I gag, but make a small cough to cover it. ‘Just a little way!’ I say gaily, trying to pull his britches to his knees. I only get them as far as his thighs and it takes an enormous struggle to get them that far, as his skin seems to cling to the material. His upper legs are mottled with so many different colours you’d lose count if you tried to number them. The flesh is lumpy and cold as unkneaded dough. I wish I had brought a bigger knife, my little weapon may only get as far as his marbling fat. Beneath his gut, pale as semolina and almost folded in half, his little man-person sags.

  We both regard it solemnly, as if we’d unearthed a mole from its tunnel. It begins to uncurl, a blind creature with its one unseeing eye searching. Dr Edwards looks sadly at this offering, shifting his behind on the wet grass beneath him.

  He must be lulled like a baby now, so that he trusts me entirely. There’s no other way to do this except the most unsavoury. ‘Let’s make him stand to attention!’ I cry, taking the thing in my hand. The skin there is soft as milk and I can smell cheese, too. It is so difficult to grip it might be a bladder half-full of water, entirely without muscle, and it slips about as if it would escape. I go about my task with such determination that my teeth begin to ache for I’m gritting them with my effort.

  Eventually, it sticks out in front. Fub’s hard person stands flat against his belly, tempting as a sweetmeat. This is poor pickings. Dr Edwards begins to squirm; he wants to get his hands there himself but the scarves hold.

  ‘Close your eyes!’ I hiss.

  He obeys with a contented sigh. I watch him while I fetch the knife: his eyes are screwed tight shut, his bare stomach heaves and his member trembles like a newly-hatched chick. This man was once an infant in his cot and all these parts of him were tickled and loved. His every gasp and gurgle was once exclaimed at with joy and recorded with wonder. His inert body will be pawed over again in due course, but only for the information it holds about his death, not with a kind touch.

  I sit astride him, putting my shawl round me like an apron. This will be a messy business and I’m fond of this stomacher. His eyes twitch to open, but I put my free hand over them, closing the lids softly.

  It is the last gentle thing I do to him. I examine him carefully then push the knife as hard as I can into his leg. There is resistance from flesh and sinew, then bone stops my progress entirely, so I have to turn the handle this way and that until it’s in up to the hilt.

  For a moment, he stays as still as if he sleeps, then his eyes open so wide I can see a large circle of white gleam around each iris. He bucks beneath me like a horse, but with his arms pinioned behind his back and his legs immobile underneath the full weight of my body, he can do little. He stops moving and his upper body collapses, deflated by shock.

  I wriggle backwards a fraction to examine the wound. Already, bright, wondrously red blood pumps like a river in full flood onto the ground beside him. He looks down at this phenomenon dispassionately. ‘I feel no pain,’ he says, measuring the sensation as if he were his own experiment.

  ‘Good,’ I reply, conversationally.

  We pause, and look at each other. We might be at the dinner table and a little short of topics to discuss. I clasp the knife’s handle to try and pull it free.

  ‘A strange Excalibur!’ Dr Edwards remarks.

  It takes a great deal more trouble to remove it than it did to insert the thing.

  ‘I cannot help you,’ he says, ruefully, watching my efforts. The weapon is sticky from tip to end and I clean it carefully with my shawl. ‘You have cut an artery,’ he says.

  ‘Or a vein,’ I offer, helpfully.

  ‘No, it is the severed artery causes this eruption,’ Dr Edwards explains. He smiles weakly. ‘You will have a great deal of my blood on you too, as that is the case. You will have to wash after this.’

  I look at my hands and the right one is indeed quite drenched. There is no point in trying to wipe myself clean quite yet. ‘Your blood reeks,’ I say. I inhale to describe the smell to him accurately. ‘It is like iron and vinegar mixed.’ He nods, as much as he is able – he is always a stickler for accuracy.

  The expression on Dr Edwards’ face hardly changes as I lift his shirt and thrust the knife into his chest – a little to the left to avoid his breastbone – and he makes no sound. I replace his shirt as carefully as if I tend to a baby’s bedclothes. Then I slice int
o the other leg.

  My butchery is more polished this time and the knife cuts obediently. From the waist down, he is scarlet. Blood spreads across his torso like spilled paint. I watch its steady progress with fascination and wonder where to pierce him next.

  ‘That is enough, child,’ he says, as though calling a halt to a particularly taxing lesson to the relief of both teacher and pupil.

  ‘Thank goodness it rained,’ I say, climbing off him, and I slide my fingers from palm to tip on the wet ground, leaving foaming pink bubbles on the grass.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Dr Edwards agrees. He sounds almost kindly, as if he is worried about my welfare.

  Once more we sit in silence. I had imagined he would succumb almost immediately. It really seems rather rude of him to outstay his welcome by so much. Besides waiting for him to leave, there are no distractions here. I should have brought a book. Perhaps he has something interesting with him in his bag?

  He splutters a little and I look at him keenly, but he says ‘Not yet,’ and we resume our contemplation.

  ‘Anne.’ He leans his head towards me as far as his tethered and damaged body will allow. ‘I want to tell you something.’

  I sigh. ‘With what purpose?’ I ask, petulantly. ‘Do you think I am the right person for your confidence?’

  ‘It is something I have never told anyone and I want to die with my conscience clear,’ he says.

  ‘I am to be both your executioner and your priest together, then,’ I point out. ‘That is a novel appointment.’

  He closes his eyes and moans. ‘Oh, Annie, I am afraid,’ he says softly, ‘for it hurts now.’ He groans again.

  ‘I am hardly your doctor as well,’ I say, tartly. ‘What is it you wish to say?’

  He clears his throat, and draws in his breath as if he were about to give a sermon. The sound is so wet, I think his blood must be leaking into his chest. ‘When my sister and I were young, we often played together. She was younger than I . . .’ I frown at him; this sounds like the beginning of a long and tedious narrative. His death and I will fight each other, then, to see who ends it first. ‘She had a doll she loved very much,’ he continues, ignoring my ill-humour. ‘She carried it everywhere, it sat beside her at the table and she slept with it in her cot.’ Dr Edwards shakes his head sorrowfully.

  ‘One day, when she had slighted me in her childish fashion, I stole it from her and threw it down the well. The shaft was deep, I did not even hear a splash. She cried so hard because it was lost that they confined her to bed. She became ill with a fever not long afterwards and died within the month. I could not tell anyone what I had done, for I was afraid that I had hastened her death.’ His eyes fill with tears, large and round as marbles. ‘I believed, in fact, that I had caused it. People do die of a broken heart, don’t they, Anne? I had surely broken hers.’ He closes his eyes, and two fat tears race each other down his cheeks.

  ‘They die more effectively from a stabbing.’ I get up. My legs are cramped from sitting still for so long and my skirts are saturated with dew and blood. I look down at him: he sags against the tree and keeps his eyes shut.

  ‘Don’t you have a proper confession for me?’ I stand with my hands on my hips in front of him. ‘You have more to feel guilty about than stolen toys, don’t you? Why do you think that we are here and you are dying? Must I explain? You are a thief. You stole my childhood from me then confiscated my education. Then you threatened to remove the one person I care for most. Are you sorry now for your crimes?’ He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Dr Edwards!’ I say more loudly. ‘Have you an answer for me?’ I shake his bare foot to rouse him; his head lolls heavily on his chest. I study him carefully. He looks somehow changed, although outwardly all of his features and limbs and appendages are the same as they were a moment ago. I half expect him to step from behind the tree, as if he’d left a great stuffed dummy of himself here to fool me. I shake his foot again, but more gently now that I know he will not wake.

  I am very disappointed and a little cross with both of us that I missed the exact moment of his death. I had meant to watch for it, to observe the light going out and hear the sigh of his last breath. I wanted to see his calf-eye cloud over. Instead, he is just no longer present.

  He certainly cannot cooperate in the untying of the bindings and the releasing of his arms, nor can he comment as I arrange the scene. It is all quite hard to do, and I find I miss his gibes as I fumble, trying to conceal the knife under my bodice and keep from getting more of his blood anywhere else on myself. My shawl is thoroughly ruined so I will have to leave it somewhere as I cannot take it home. A pity, it is a nice one. I take off my sodden petticoat and wipe my hands clean where there is still white cotton. Dressing, I keep watch on Dr Edwards’ inert body. Just as he enjoyed the removal of my clothes, so I am relishing putting them back on.

  The wind carries shouting from somewhere near the church so I stop what I’m doing and scan the meadow. I see no one, but I had better be quick. I have no idea how long we have been here.

  When the clock next chimes, I count each stroke to discover the hour. Ten o’clock! Poor Dr Edwards took an age to depart. ‘Never mind ‘‘poor’’ Dr Edwards,’ Fub would say. ‘Just cause and just effect. You were judge and jury to him, as well as all your other titles. Go carefully when you leave, remove all traces of yourself. Do not be too hasty. It’ll take a while till he’s missed, anyway.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ I would reply, ‘But I should hurry to put a distance between me and what’s left of him before he’s discovered.’

  There is a little black cat on the wall when I go through the gate. It yawns and shows all the inside of its pink mouth. It watches me as I bundle the shawl and petticoat into a ball and hide them under leaves and branches. It arches its back as I stroke along its length then nuzzles into my hand, rubbing its soft head against my palm. ‘There’s one less living thing in the world now,’ I tell it, as it purrs and pushes against me all the more. It is quite at ease with this news, for it has killed a mouse or two in its time. A little death or a big one, it’s all the same to us two.

  As I turn into the street, I hear in the distance a woman’s loud, high cry, as piercing as a fox’s scream and full of panic. The people near to me stop abruptly in their tracks. There is no mistaking her urgency, and they begin to run towards the sound.

  I walk away slowly and with care, my cat-claws sheathed.

  Part Three

  Other men’s crosses are not mine,

  Other men’s merits cannot save me.’

  John Donne, Sermons LXXII

  Chapter 21

  On my way home, I amuse myself with thoughts of how Dr Edwards will never see these streets again or enjoy his ale any more. He won’t return to his lodgings, either – all his things lie as he left them and it’s to be hoped they’re in good order. Someone will have to clear away his clothes and eat up any food he kept. I expect that boy will get in first and take the best stuff.

  I imagine Fub hearing the news in different ways. Sometimes it’s Levener with the tidings, at other times I tell him first. Or we hear it together, Fub being astonished that Dr Edwards should have been so fortuitously despatched and me pretending to be surprised, too. ‘Oh!’ I’d say, ‘how is that for a coincidence!’ I do not know how I keep from shouting my achievement aloud. If I told anyone about Fub’s knife, he’d be shackled to me – which is a sweet notion. But as likely hanged with me, too, which is not. I press my lips together to seal my secrets inside.

  If I have a different demeanour now that I have stopped the breath in another, no one in the house remarks on it. They all bustle and stomp or creep about exactly as they did before. I change my dress, for although I have inspected every inch of it and found no trace, I feel as if I drip red gore. The blood on the knife is already brown. I wash it tenderly, scraping with my nails to clean the joint where the blade meets the handle
.

  I throw my window wide and empty the basin. I wish Fub were here now. All I can see is the bare street and the unclimbed vines. I sit back on my bed, twisting the coverlet to keep my hands busy. Perhaps it is for the best if we don’t meet today: if I have murder on my breath, he will surely smell it. But I am so lost without him that I wail softly to myself, keening as if he’s dead, too.

  My stomach growls, empty. I have not eaten for hours and I run to the kitchen and beg Jane for some bread and fruit. ‘That’s good to see,’ Jane says, watching me eat. ‘You were so pale yesterday, I’m glad to see you recovered.’ I am hungry enough for two. Perhaps I have taken Dr Edwards’ appetite as well as his life. Shovelling food into my mouth, I laugh to myself at how incongruous it is that I sit here in this warm kitchen as if nothing has happened.

  ‘Steady!’ Jane pats my back: my laughing has made me choke. I shy away, she’s the first person to touch me since Dr Edwards and I cannot help but recoil. Is he found? Where did I put the knife?

  ‘Fub did not come today,’ Jane says, watching me carefully. ‘Levener himself brought our order.’

  I look at her stonily. ‘Why should I want to know this?’

  ‘You wanted to be kept informed of household matters.’ Jane cannot hide a tiny smile of triumph.

  ‘I did,’ I say, crossly. ‘but who comes and who does not come is a trifling thing.’ I should refrain from saying anything further, but Jane is still twitching and I cannot resist asking: ‘Do you know why he didn’t come himself?’