The Butchers

by Ruth Gilligan

  By morning it had dried, but in its wake a new instinct had been born. Because what if she were to hurt him back?

  The taxi’s horn sounded just as she was applying the bottle to her neck and the underside of her wrists. She ran to the kitchen and slipped the hardback into her handbag. It weighed a ton. She had decided if she took the alibi along with her she would be safe from getting caught out – another strange instinct she somehow knew to trust.

  ‘Evening, love.’ The driver’s eyes were fat and greedy with her in the rear-view mirror.

  She gave the gist of the address.

  ‘Hot date on the town?’

  She ignored him and looked out the window. She realised she had forgotten to rinse the tidemark from the tub.

  Night lay down everywhere, draping the land in a dense, funereal black. Though really, Grá knew this was the season of birth, the fields twitching giddy with brand-new infant tribes. She sometimes caught the gleam of the purple afterbirths strewn slick across the grass before they disappeared beneath a starving swoop of birds.

  It had taken them years to get her pregnant. They had tried everything – had spent Cúch’s entire month home in bed; had even discussed her meeting him halfway round the route to have another go. It wasn’t until she reached twenty-seven that something had clicked and her stomach had finally begun to swell. Every day she had walked to the village, half-ignoring half-relishing the remarks the local women hissed her way.

  ‘I heard she was barren.’

  ‘Must be carrying a calf in there.’

  ‘I heard they sometimes eat their own young – it’s another one of their traditions, don’t you know?’

  But after the birth, she didn’t care what anyone said; she finally understood the meaning of true love. She had thought of her sister; had wanted to give Úna her name (though that would have meant revealing everything to Cúch). As for him, she had assumed from that point onwards he wouldn’t be off travelling as much. There were two of them now and only one of him – it was basic maths; basic family. But it soon became clear nothing was going to change. If anything, being a father only seemed to make him more fixed in his ways. Because that was tradition; that was the comfort of ancient certainties; that was the reason she loved him.

  Wasn’t it?

  The hazard lights flashed before her eyes.

  ‘Here you are.’

  Her heart skipped as she handed over the note. She tried to remember the last time she had spent so much money on a single journey.

  ‘I’ll come back and get you for the price of a kiss?’

  She opened the door and felt the weight of the book in her bag. She imagined the brutal hurt it could cause if she smashed it hard enough into his face.

  ___________

  The restaurant was a glammed-up thing fashioned awkwardly out of the ribs of a pub. There was a decent crowd for a Wednesday night, George Michael on the stereo singing them all along, extolling the virtues of having faith, faith, faith.

  She saw the back of him first, the lean sweep of his neck and the shiny flop of his golden hair. She had worn earrings after all, though she still worried it was too much. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m late.’

  The words came out colder than she intended. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I only just—’

  ‘I said I know,’ she repeated as she sat. There was a glass of water on the table, which she downed in one. The bath always left her dehydrated.

  When she finally focused, she saw he was wearing a white shirt and a pale blue tie. She wondered if he had already packed the formal wear in his suitcase, or if he had had to buy it especially for tonight. Either way, he looked different – she was used to him in scuffed jeans and walking boots; a pair of black sunglasses for eyes; a camera slung around his neck and a finger on the button always ready, very gently, to press.

  After that first encounter by the lake, she had spotted him the following afternoon when she went down for her swim. She felt his eyes tracing her every stroke; felt a thrill that was more startling than she understood. When she was dry he had approached, repeating his request for suggestions. She realised she must have been preparing her answer overnight. She turned north, the opposite direction from the house. ‘Follow me.’ When he did, it thrilled her all over again.

  For the next few weeks they had spent most afternoons venturing higher and higher into the borderlands. Grá knew that, up here, it was a lawless kind of place; that, up here, different rules applied. He did most of the talking, mostly to do with his work, his various ambitions and dreams – how they would exhibit his work in the museums of London and New York; how his pictures would take him very far from home. As she listened, Grá felt as if she were being transported too. She found herself thinking more and more of her sister. She found that, the day after their walks, her limbs were stiff and sore in ways they hadn’t been in years.

  ‘You look incredible.’

  Tonight, though, their limbs weren’t side by side, they were facing one another across a candlelit table. Grá felt herself blushing so to cover it she reached for the bottle of red that sat open, breathing and ready.

  ‘I mean it, I’d barely recognise you.’

  She picked up her glass and he did the same. She very rarely took a drink. She wondered if he knew it was the best thing he could have possibly said.

  They turned to the menus and this time Grá felt herself blushing at the prices, even though he had insisted it was his treat. That was the whole point of the dinner when he first suggested it – a ‘thank you’ for her assistance with the project. He was heading back to Dublin shortly so it was the least that he could do.

  It was, Grá knew, the last borderland venture they might have.

  She hadn’t accepted right away, but then last week after the incident with Úna, her anger had spurred her to tell him that ‘yes’ she would come. At the time, Ronan had been crouched behind a mound of sedge photographing a heron who had, just then, taken flight. Grá thought now of that bird; thought again of her sister. She wondered if Lena would recognise her after so many years apart. She wondered if, in the last few weeks, they had actually grown more alike.

  ‘Right so, are yous ready?’

  Grá looked up. She could take the waitress’s question as loaded or she could just let herself smile and order the fish. With the menus removed, it somehow felt the first hurdle was out of the way. Soon they fell into their usual rhythm – him prattling about his project, all the latest ideas and developments.

  A bread basket appeared, which gave her something to do with her mouth.

  ‘I took your suggestion about your man Eoin Goldsmith.’ As he spoke, Ronan tore the crusts away from the edges like a child. ‘Strolled up Monaghan way, made a few enquiries. And you were spot on – the Bull does seem to be at the heart of this boom. Although, did you hear about the suspected case in Cork they reported this afternoon? If the BSE has arrived over here, the boom might be fucked after all.’

  Grá nodded along even if, being honest, she had fallen out of interest in the poor mad cows. She had had more than enough on her mind (and her body) to keep her occupied. She tried to remember the last time she had even been to a restaurant – probably Mrs P’s sixtieth birthday lunch a few years ago, the older woman getting wobbly on two glasses of sparkling wine, then bemoaning Sol’s absence for the whole bus journey home.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve decided the Bull might be the last photo I need. I’m still lacking a killer shot to pull it all together. And if I can’t—’

  ‘You mean to say you went walking without me?’ She was teasing him, but she got a small buzz out of seeing him flinch. She decided the shirt and tie made him look younger, but what she couldn’t decide was whether that was bad or good.

  ‘Grá.’ His voice came out wounded. ‘You told me you couldn’t . . . You said you needed the day to get ready.’ And then: ‘It was worth it – you look incredible.’

  ‘You already said that.’

  For another mom
ent his eyes sparkled, the pair of them wide and terrified. But when she smiled, he exhaled and looked up at her, a bashful wee grin. ‘Well, it’s true.’ Until his confidence returned, his gaze travelling down her throat to the low-cut border of skin and dress. She reached out for the bottle, the gesture stretching the neckline so there was a glimpse into the shadows beneath. As she poured, she tried so hard to keep her hand from shaking.

  ___________

  She took one look at the salmon and knew there would be invisible bones she would have to search out with her tongue. The first bottle had somehow vanished so they ordered another. He had asked for his ribeye well done.

  ‘Worried it might make you mad?’ She sent her hand across the space between them to help herself to one of his chips.

  ‘Ah sure, I reckon I’m already a bit cracked.’

  She knew he was joking, though he had mentioned his moods more than once before. It was something to do with depression; with a cocktail of pills he took to keep him up or keep him down. By all accounts he’d had a tricky childhood – a father who’d abandoned him young and moved back across to England. Grá had listened, though she didn’t much care for the details, except to wonder if every family had their runaway.

  She wondered if there was ever room for more than one.

  ‘And did you hear about the Gardaí?’

  She watched him now, still going, still obsessed, furiously working his elbow to saw through the black lump of meat. ‘They’ve just launched a new operation to barricade the border shut. It’s costing the government thousands of pounds.’ He raised his fork to his lips. She tried not to pay too much attention to the smell. ‘Apparently some illegal smugglers have started sneaking in contaminated cattle from the North, so the guards want to catch the bastards and lock them up.’ He took the bite and began to chew; swallowed so quickly it must have hurt. ‘And the whole initiative has been given quite the name.’ With this, though, he took a moment, savouring the punchline before he spat it out. He smiled. He really was handsome. ‘Operation Matador.’

  She took a moment too; felt the mischief building in her. ‘Matador?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She leaned in over the table. ‘Now there,’ she said, ‘is your killer shot.’ As she pictured it, her smile began to spread. ‘The Gardaí lined up in a row along the border. All dressed in their bright red capes.’ Their laughter rang out as one and it felt glorious.

  By the time they had settled, she looked down and saw her plate was empty. She couldn’t remember the last time she had finished a meal.

  ‘You enjoyed that.’

  She looked at him. ‘I did.’

  ‘Dessert?’

  She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘I think you probably could.’ His lips had gone blue from the wine, which meant hers probably had too, so now the transformation was complete. She was a different creature, beyond recognition entirely.

  ___________

  In the back of the taxi, the camera case sat between them – it turned out he’d had it stashed under the table all along. She had teased him – ‘all work and no play’ – and he had said not to worry, he was feeling very playful indeed. As if to prove a point, they had drained the second bottle, then rolled on to some Irish coffees, the smack of whiskey spinning their words and their heads out the door and into this sticky leather-look back seat.

  She suddenly wondered if what she longed for, more than anything, was for him to just take her photograph; to be committed to film, as if she mattered.

  For now, the device sat between them untouched, like a border, a barricade, a new operation – Matador! – could you believe it? And beyond the device was his body, also untouched, though she could feel its heat from here, a bright red flag to a fired-up bull. She tried to distract herself by singing songs in her head, but she kept slipping over the words. They had told the driver the first stop would be her address. If anything more had been decided, it hadn’t been said aloud.

  She wanted to roll down the window. She needed air; needed water. Or maybe she needed something else entirely. She saw where the clouds had started coming into themselves, squaring up like broad-shouldered men – there would be rain within the hour. She reminded herself it would be good for the garden, though truth be told she hadn’t tended to the thing recently. In just a few short weeks it had started to grow, she knew, wild.

  ‘Right – here you are.’

  She looked up. Yes, suddenly, here they were – two strangers in the back of a taxi, nothing between them except a black camera case and three weeks of desire. The hazard lights tried so hard to warn them. She looked at his face and knew this was the last time she would ever see it. She could taste the dark fruit of the second bottle, which made her think of the locals who still believed rowan berries kept you safe from being captured by the fairies. Oh yes, some beliefs never died. Faith, faith, faith.

  ‘He can walk from here,’ she told the driver as she lurched herself out of the car, leaving Ronan to pay the price. She wondered, not for the first time, how he was supporting himself while he worked on his project. She wondered, not for the first time, whether there were other women he went walking with.

  Outside, the night air was as damp as it looked. There was the crunch of her footsteps on the gravel. And there was a stranger sound. She stopped to listen – the fox’s bark. It was getting very close. Next she heard his footsteps and the tyres rolling away so she staggered as far as the front door before she turned. He came to join her, their bodies only inches apart, though still they hadn’t laid a finger. Suddenly she remembered. ‘I have something for you.’ She reached into her bag while he stood there, confused, his eyes stretched wide and terrified again. It was as if he was worried she might eat him alive. It was everything in the world she wanted to do. She felt the first spits of rain on her skin, little pricks of delight, as she handed over the book. The Butcher Boy. His laughter was more like a gasp of relief and hers was more like a howl, an animal sound.

  When their laughter stopped the only noise was the droplets of water, faster now, and the silence of all the days ahead when there would be no more walks, no more dreams, only her husband’s absence and her daughter’s despair; only her friend’s dependence and her long-lost sister’s bravery. There would only be hours drowning in the bath trying to touch herself, trying to claw for something – anything – more.

  She grabbed the back of his head. Her tongue searched out the dark fruit of his.

  The heavens finally opened themselves wide up.

  ___________

  When she woke, she was alone in her bed, a steady beat thrumming against the four walls of her skull. She staggered up to her elbows. It was barely dawn, so there wasn’t much yet in the way of light. She thought of the darkroom Ronan had once described to her. The process there sounded like a kind of magic. She had left her earrings in, so the flesh of her lobes also thrummed a steady beat.

  ‘Before I go, can I ask you something?’

  It was only when he came into focus, his shirt buttoned, that she fully noticed her nakedness. Her limbs were cold, a little stiff, though it would be hours – or maybe days, maybe weeks – before last night would fully sink in.

  ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want, but I was wondering … Do you by any chance know what county the Butchers are headed for next?’ Ronan paused to lick his dry lips. ‘Do you think they would sit for me? Never mind the Bull, I’ve realised that’s the killer shot I need.’

  While she listened, the bedsheet fell below her breasts, but Grá didn’t move to pick it up. Her anger started low, her voice very careful not to trigger the looming pain in her head. ‘So that’s what this was about?’ she growled. ‘Your great artistic strategy – using the women to get at the men? The ones with the lives that are actually worth capturing?’ But just as soon as it got going, her tirade stopped. Around them, the room was already lighter. Much to both their surprise, her moans had been loud enough to fill all fou
r walls to the brim. ‘Monaghan,’ she said as she sighed and rolled over. ‘They’ll be arriving there in the next couple of days.’ Because she knew women sometimes used men too; knew, in the end, that was all bodies were really for.

  ___________

  By noon, Grá could no longer delay the walk to Mrs P’s to collect her only child. She had drawn a bath, though she already knew she would draw another, even hotter one, tonight. From the sideboard, the radio struck a sombre note. The suspected case Ronan had mentioned down in Cork had just been confirmed. Which meant it was official – the BSE had somehow managed to make its way to Ireland.

  I hope that something bad happens to them out there.

  Grá thought of her daughter’s words and then she thought of the taxi driver who had dropped them off together. She thought how she had almost ordered steak at the restaurant, but then hadn’t – it seemed, despite everything, some loyalties were harder to break. And when she grabbed her coat and opened the front door, she thought the fox’s tongue was just lolling out because it was thirsty – because it needed Grá to go back inside and fetch her a bowl of water – but the contortion of limbs across the front step said otherwise.

  The night’s torrential rain had finally run itself dry. The breeze blew soft furrows through the tail. Up close, the animal wasn’t orange and it wasn’t brown and it wasn’t breathing either. Madra rua it was called in Irish. ‘Red dog’.

  It really will be reddy!

  Grá scanned beyond the road towards the sodden fields, searching for any lurking predator. There was only dirt and then there was nothing; only the endless, lifelong nothing. Maybe the taxi had hit the poor creature with its bumper. Or maybe it had eaten a dose of rat poison a farmer left out. Or maybe it had been infected by a widow’s curse or an English disease, which, despite their best efforts, had found its way across the Irish Sea. But Grá realised the explanation didn’t matter one bit when she heard the sound of the cubs mewling somewhere close, calling for their mother to please, please, come home.