Dave the Butcher. He's not a butcher. Of course he's not. I'm getting wise to this game. It's taken twenty years, but when I get my head around something, I really get my head around it. Like drinking. I used to dabble, then I got serious. I'm a good drunk. Dedicated, even.
If I'm going to be in the family? The family?
I'm going in with my eyes open.
So what, Dave the Butcher's not really a butcher? Not of farmyard animals, anyway.
What am I? A housewife without a house, or a husband? Am I any less, any more honest, right now?
I'm married, I told him. But it's not really true. I'm no more married than he's a butcher, and perhaps I never was.
I wore a ring, I got fucked, I burned turkeys.
If that's a marriage, then it can fuck right off.
The 11th Day of Christmas
The Nod
I.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, New Year's Dave's there, on my doorstep. I'm back in my house, with a few borrowed things to make it a little easier. I'm wearing nearly borrowed everything, though I hit the shops and bought some things that I really didn't want to wear, washed or not. Mandy says the police might well freeze all my accounts, but they haven't done it yet, and her 'lawyer' is now my 'lawyer'. I'm not worried about the money.
The family will help out. I'm sure of that. We look after our own, don't we? We don't notice things that don't need noticing. And we don't talk. Ever.
I might have been crying as I roamed the house, eyes open but there's nothing there to see. There is no secret safe hidden in a wall, full of bundles of neat cash. But that's fine. I don't want money. I don't even want the house, not really. It's big, empty, and it was always too much for two. Now I'm one, it's ridiculous.
So, I was probably crying, a little bit. But when the doorbell kicks in throughout the ground floor, immensely loud, I don't stop crying to open the door, because it's my empty house and I'll cry if I want.
I'm feeling belligerent as hell, but for some reason when I do open the door, it's the sight of a bunch of flowers clenched hopefully in Dave's giant sausage fingers that greets me, and that makes me smile.
Dad's there, right over his shoulder. He never nods. He's not approved of a single boy or man I've ever dated. He's never given me the nod that dad's are supposed to do.
Then, dad, a big man himself, but dwarfed by Dave, nods.
I smile and cry at the same time.
'Come in,' I say to Dave.
II.
It's eleven o'clock, and it's not Christmas anymore. I'm wearing borrowed clothes, the house is empty, I'm not drunk.
I'm not drunk because peg-leg and his bastards took everything. I mean everything. They took the wine, the furniture, the clothes, the vibrators, the television, the chocolates, vases, cups, plates, potted plants...
It's horrible, in a way. But it's liberating, too. Now, there's nothing holding me back.
Dave's still holding the flowers, on the threshold.
'I haven't got anywhere to put them...they stole all the vases.'
'Where I come from,' says Dave, 'the garden's always been good enough for flowers.'
He throws the flowers onto the grass with a giant shrug.
'You look hungry,' he says.
'You've no idea,' I say. I am. I'm ravenous. Starving.
'Come on.'
'Like this?'
'You'll do,' he says, but he's got some kind of cheeky boy tucked away in his giant frame, and he can get away with it.
He probably does have a cheeky schoolboy in there. He probably ate him.
III.
The restaurant's quiet. I order pasta, he orders the biggest steak sandwich on the menu and tells them to burn it to a crisp, and then throw both slices of bread in the bin and replace them with other steaks.
The waiter knows he's not joking. He nods. 'Sir,' he says. He leaves us with a bottle of wine. It's lunchtime. I'm practising temperance. Lunchtime is about as far as that extends.
'I'm still married, you know,' I say again as he pours crisp white wine into my glass. The wine's cold, and good.
'I know.'
'I never cheated on him. Not once.'
'I know,' he says. How he knows, I don't ask. Maybe it's a grapevine thing. Maybe he's good a reading people, or he's talked with Mandy. Doesn't matter.
'The truth is...he hasn't been home for three months...'
'Did you miss him?'
'I did...' I say this, but I don't think I did. Not right now. 'You know...that's not true. I thought I did. Sometimes I got so low I felt I was looking up at myself through the soles of my shoes. And they were ugly shoes.'
He smiles. He's huge, big everything, lips, nose, face, head. Even his hair, curly and dark, seems somehow big. He's not a laugher. But he smiles well enough to make up for it. I like it.
'And now?'
I smile back. 'This is...nice,' I say. I take a drink of wine because I think I might blush, and I'm forty-fucking-five, and that would be embarrassing.
His steak comes out. Three steaks on top of each other. His lunch looks like the cows' national flag or something. He grins, genuine pleasure on his face, and picks the thing up just like a sandwich when my pasta's on the table.
He's a caveman. A big...no...a giant caveman. He kills people for a living and eats three steaks at once. He's got a gun under his jacket, a face like a bulldozer, and he's making me feel really...odd.
Shit.
I like him. I really do.
IV.
Dave drives me home. Nothing fancy, this car. It's a Ford, a good model. Not flashy or grand, but new and clean. I don't know if it's a family car, or syndicate, or whatever, or if it's his...I don't think I care.
'Hold on,' he says. 'Got to make a quick stop.'
He stops, hops out and goes into a camping store. He comes back with three big bags which he throws in the boot.
All the way, he drives and doesn't really talk, but he looks in his mirrors, like he's a driving instructor, but he looks down at my legs, too. I don't mind.
At the door, he gives me the bags. He doesn't ask when he kisses me, he's not awkward because he's confident. Something turns over inside my stomach.
'Sleep tight,' he says.
I go in and look in the bags. There, at the bottom of the bag, is a mobile phone in an envelope.
If you need me, #1
He didn't get the phone or the envelope in the store. He thought about it before we went for dinner, before he brought me home.
There's a sleeping bag, an electric kettle, a cellophane bag with tea bags, UHT milk, tin mugs, spoon...everything. Even a pair of thick, fleece pyjamas and a toothbrush with a tiny tube of paste.
Short of make-up, it's pretty good.
So I lay down in the kitchen, where it seems warmest. I put the sleeping bag down on a foam mat he bought. Its dark, and occasionally it's light, because I keep turning the phone in my hand on, looking at the number programmed in there. Then, I turn it off again.
Sometimes around midnight, I fall asleep with the phone in my hand.
On the last day of Christmas, the phone wakes me up.
'Hello?' It's Dave's voice.
'Hello?' I reply. 'You called me?'
I can sense his smile in his voice. He doesn't laugh. 'No...I think you called me. In your sleep. I've been listening to you breathe. Good morning.'
'You listened to me breathe...how long?'
'About four hours.'
'You're patient.'
He doesn't disagree.
'Dave...can you...come over? Today?'
'Yes.'
'I...want to see you.'
'I know.'
'Dave?'
'Yes?'
'What's your job? Really? You're not a butcher, are you?'
That smile, there, on his voice again. 'Kind of,' he says.
Sometimes, it's best to leave it at that. I'm gullible, maybe. I'm naive, too, in a lot of important ways. But when you know it's righ
t, after being wrong so long...
Well...does it really matter?
Dad's sitting on my kitchen counter, and shakes his head. I know what he means. No, he's saying. No, darling, it doesn't.
'But you were a policeman...you...were a...gangster? A gangster, too?'
But he just taps the side of his nose. Then he's gone.
V.
That night, while Dave was listening to me breathe, or snore, maybe, I had a dream about sausages again. I dreamed there was a calendar, singing out the twelve days of Christmas, and that on the twelfth day of Christmas this nightmare would be over, I'd be...what?
I don't know. I woke up before the dream ended.
Maybe that's how it's supposed to be.
The 12th Day of Christmas
The Good Man
I.
On the twelve day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...that's how it goes, right?
True love? Is that even real?
I don't think so.
Dave brings me an egg and sausage muffin from McDonald's. It's still warm. There's a drop of blood on his jacket.
He sees me notice.
'If I'm going to do this, I'm going in both eyes open, Dave. No secrets.'
'Fair enough,' he says. He's not bashful. 'Your husband disappointed my boss,' he says. He shrugs and waits a beat to see if I'm going to flip. Whatever I'm going to do, I don't do it. 'Then he wanted a clean house, you understand? I found that disappointing. We're no longer on speaking terms.'
I process that. He waits. It's all right there. It's messed up, more like scrabble tiles than cards on the table. I can make a seven letter word, though, and land on a treble, too, if I wanted to.
He quit his job for me.
Quit sounds nicer than thinking in terms of Dave shooting his boss.
'My husband...then...me?'
'Yes,' he says. He doesn't seem embarrassed, or worried. He's not waiting for me to bolt so he can shoot me in the back.
'Mandy?' I ask. I'm naive...not stupid.
'Day outside the cafe,' he says, and nods.
There's a bulge under his jacket when he puts his arms round me. I let him, but just for a few seconds, then I step back from his arms and point at the blood on his jacket. 'Did you quit before or after the egg muffin?'
'On the way there. Didn't want it to get cold.'
I like that he's thoughtful. No everyone thinks about the little things. So what, so he's a contract killer? So what, he killed my husband? My husband was going to get me killed, wasn't he? All told, I've been a gangster's girl for twenty years without even knowing it. This time, I'm determined to do it right.
'This job...does it have long hours?'
'No,' said Dave. 'Quick, really.'
'Good,' I say. 'I don't like being alone.'
'You're not,' he says.
My head ends up somewhere around his chest again.
'We done talking?' he asks.
My turn to nod. 'Take it off,' I say. He knows what I mean. He takes the gun, an automatic, along with the shoulder rig and wraps it in the leather, puts it on the kitchen island.
'Take that off, too,' I say, and he smiles. He's not a laugher. His jacket and shirt go on the island. I'm in pyjamas, then I'm not. Neither of us are shy. No need for that when you're in your forties and hoping to get laid hard on the kitchen island.
I nod at his trousers now I'm there naked and he's not. He moves easily, considering how big he is, and when he bends over I notice he's got puckered scars on his back, two, like bullet wounds, maybe, that were never stitched.
He unlaces his shoes and pulls off his socks. His trousers drop to the floor and he kicks them aside. He does the same with his underwear, then stands there while I look at him, he looks at me.
'Done?'
'Yep,' I say and step in toward him. He lifts me up easily by my waist and puts me on the kitchen island. His cock's nudging me, and he kisses me for maybe five seconds before he's inside me, and that's good, because fuck me I was done with waiting.
II.
After, we lay on the counter. It's hard and cold, but I'm on top of him and we talk for a while.
'How often do you...work?'
He doesn't shrug or try to escape the question.
'Not often. Mostly Europe, too. Longest a job's ever taken is three days. Two of those were getting there. Killing people doesn't take long, unless you're not very good at it. I'm pretty good at it.'
'Will you stay?'
'Will you let me?'
'Yes,' I say.
I stay on top of him on the counter for a while longer.
III.
In the evening, the doorbell goes. It's mum, all plastered up, shivering in the snow. A taxi's pulling out of the drive behind her. Dad's there, grinning ear-to-ear.
Mum looks at my face, my hair, my pyjamas. I've been drunk for so long, I've forgotten what I look like sober. But then, she's got a cheek, appraising me. She's got a broken foot in plaster and two crutches. I don't laugh, though.
'Bygones?' I say. I can build bridges well enough.
She smiles. A woman who married a gangster and a policeman and ran pubs and knocked men's teeth out into the air with rolling pins. She nods.
'You look different.' She wasn't born yesterday. Of course she knows I've been getting laid all day...and well.
'I met someone,' I say. 'He's...'
'Right there behind you?'
And he is. Dave's there, scars and hair and a slight belly, his top off, his trousers on.
'Nice to meet you,' he says, and easy as you like kisses my mum on the cheek right there on the doorstep.
'Well, aren't you a welcome sight?' she says. 'Big one, aren't you?'
'Mum!'
'I'll put the kettle on,' says Dave, smiling broadly, which is pretty much the only smile he's got. Or needs. 'Tea for four it is.'
'Is he a good man?' says mum.
I nod. I think I might have something in my eye.
'Can he?'
Dave's not a laughing man. I can laugh alright. I laugh right then.
'Yes, mum, he can. That man could pound nails and saw a tree in two at the same time.'
'Good, then let's see if he can make a decent cup of tea.'
We go in. There are four cups and dad's standing at the counter kind of trying to breathe in the steam.
'Four...?'
Dave shrugs. 'Seemed only polite.'
'I like him,' says mum. Dad's in agreement. Silent, but expressive enough. He even winks. We're all in agreement, which is better than I'd hoped for, and the tea's pretty fucking good, too.
The End
Sarah House will return.
About the Author:
Craig Saunders writes humour, horror, fantasy...and anything else going. He is the author of many novels and novellas, including Deadlift, the Spiggot series and The Estate. He has stories forthcoming from Darkfuse, Grand Mal Press and more fantasy tales set in the world of Rythe.
He lives in Norfolk, England, with his wife and children, likes nice people and good coffee. Find out more on Amazon, or visit:
www.craigrsaunders.blogspot.com
www.theislandarchive.blogspot.com
www.facebook.com/craigrsaundersauthor
@Grumblesprout
Read on for a novel sample of Craig's other work. I say 'Craig', though I mean 'my'. I don't have a team of monkeys to write these bits for me.
Thank you for reading.
Love you. x
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HOT ZONE copyright 2015 by Iain Rob Wright
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Cover Art Copyright 2015 Stephen Bryant
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