Meat

Four

Hema and Harsha were sick the next day.

Richard had left while it was still dark, every muscle on his emaciated frame standing proud as he hoisted the pack of bricks and sand onto his back. Maya watched him with anticipation, knowing that by the evening the pack would be full of something other than her husband’s misplaced burden of guilt. She ate an apple for breakfast, not resenting it for once, and she sang a song she’d learned as a child while she prepared chopped fruit and porridge for the girls.

When she went upstairs to rouse them, she found them both in Harsha’s bed, clinging to each other and shivering in their sleep. Sweat blackened their already dark hair. It made her think of Richard, his temples dripping each night at the dinner table. She felt their brows. Her girls were burning up. Damn you, Richard, she thought. Their sweat was his sweat. Somehow he had passed his craziness into them. The craziness was damp on their foreheads.

She ran downstairs, pulled on a heavy coat and rushed out the door. She’d be exhausted by running for the Doctor. Why couldn’t they have lived nearer the town?

Snipe noticed the condition of WHITE-047’s teats immediately. There was no broken skin and no cracking of the aureoles but they were too swollen – even minutes after milking – to be healthy. If he didn’t do something about it now, it was almost a certainty that an infection would set in.

Snipe noticed certain cows in the dairy herd more than others but he had never been sure why that was. The ones he noticed were the ones he gave most care to. WHITE-047 was one of those cows and, as he looked at her now, he tried, as he often did, to work out why it was that some milkers were easier to look at than others.

She had the same stumps of fingers as all the others. Her big toes were missing like the rest of them. She made the same sighs and hisses. She limped because of her heel tag, but so did every Chosen in every herd. She was toothless and hairless and had the same hunched, weighed down posture that all the Chosen displayed. She was big in the hips – not all were shaped that way but most of them were – but there was something different about her shoulders. They were delicate somehow. Not the heavy-boned shoulders that milkers usually possessed. Ordinarily, weaker-looking stock was culled out of the herds to keep the offspring strong. WHITE-047 was slender at the top and that ought to have been noticed and taken care of. Perhaps it was the eyes that had saved her from a premature visit to the slaughterhouse. Her eyes were strong and, unlike almost every other cow in the herd, she risked making eye contact from time to time. That must have taken other stockmen’s attention from her finely boned shoulders. She was a lucky one. Or she had been until now.

Snipe approached the stall she was in but she didn’t try to step away. Like many of them, she had come to trust him. Instead, she looked at him for a split second and then turned her head away. She tried to stamp one of her feet but all it did was clank the shackles.

‘Easy there,’ he said. ‘Mr. Snipe’s not going to hurt you.’

He stepped into the stall with her as slowly and smoothly as he could. Cows were skittish and liable to hurt themselves if they felt threatened. He didn’t need a damaged milker on his shift.

‘Steady, girl. Steady now,’ he breathed.

He was right beside her now. Even after the milking her udders were round and plump. She was younger than a lot of the others. It was another thing he often noticed, the ones with the fuller udders. His pulse pumped in his neck and a flush of heat rose to his cheeks. He reached for the Beauty Balm in his cow-gown pocket with trembling fingers.

The population was hungry. But that was no excuse.

And the ones that were starving – the ones that might really have needed the protein to survive – they rarely got it. Meat went to those who could afford it. Life went to those who could afford it and so it had always been.

Richard Shanti had blood on his hands. Unlike his coworkers he didn’t deny it. He didn’t pretend it was okay. While they absolved themselves with placatory readings from the Book of Giving or the Gut Psalter, he bore his guilt fully, at least in his own mind. He never spoke of his culpability to anyone. He did not share his horror at the part he played each day. Instead he made himself suffer in every way he knew. In this manner he planned to punish himself for his wrongs while he was alive. Perhaps his next life might not be lived in a similar sort of hell to the one he was employed to create every day of the working week. And if there was no next life, some small justice would still have been served upon him.

His understanding of animals had been obvious from the outset. He began his career an untrained casual worker. They made him clean up blood and off-cuts. Even then, he’d been drawn to the more agitated of the Chosen, the ones that struggled and resisted. He wasn’t authorised to be anywhere near the chain but in his first week a young steer went crazy in the crowd pens, halting the chain. Shanti walked straight over to the panicking animal and calmed it in moments, delighting the stunner who managed to recover a decent chain speed. Similar incidents happened many times in those early days. Soon Magnus Meat Packers gave him a permanent position: Shanti the pacifier, Shanti the whisperer, as he’d been back then.

‘Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Greville Snipe’s roar echoed around the milking parlour. Roach and Parfitt jolted inside their cow-gowns with the shock of it. They turned off the high-pressure hoses and turned toward their boss. In the corner, against the white tiled wall, WHITE-047 cowered, shivering; water running off her reddened skin. Neither of the lads could look him in the eye.

Snipe approached with deliberate slowness and stealth letting them know they were his prey. He lowered his voice to a whisper:

‘I asked you a fucking QUESTION.’

And screamed the last word.

‘Look at me. LOOK AT ME.’

Weighted, their heads came up. Their eyes slid around, looked everywhere but at him.

‘You should be ashamed. Drop those nozzles – you’ve got no business using them that way. What did you think you were doing?’

Roach and Parfitt glanced at each other but neither spoke. Behind them, the sighing and hissing that came from WHITE-047 vibrated with the uncontrolled tremoring of her muscles. Snipe looked from face to face and then slapped Roach across the side of his head. The sound of the blow reverberated in the silence. Roach’s eyes blazed white but gravity overcame his anger. He stared down at his feet.

‘I’m going to ask you once more. I don’t care who answers me. But I want to know. I want to hear it from your lips. What do you think you were doing?’

‘I…’ began Parfitt. ‘Well we… she was dirty. Sir.’

‘All cows are dirty. What was so special about this one?’

‘She was… covered in shit, Mr. Snipe,’ said Roach, finding his voice at last.

Perhaps, thought Snipe, he thinks I’m giving them an opportunity to make an excuse for their behaviour.

‘Harrison and Maidwell aren’t exactly intelligent,’ said Snipe. ‘But you two are probably the stupidest dairy boys I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with. I bet that cow’s got more brains than the pair of you put together. Since when have you been stockmen?’

The two lads looked at each other again, not seeming to understand what they were meant to say.

‘Dear Father of Abyrne, this is your last chance to speak to me before I report you to Mr. Magnus himself.’

‘W… we’re not stockmen, sir,’ said Parfitt.

‘So why are you doing a stockman’s job? What makes you think you’re qualified, eh?’

‘We’re not,’ said Roach.

‘Oh? So you do know what job you’re supposed to be doing then? That’s a fucking relief. For a moment there I thought you were trying to get promoted out of the dairy. You have no idea how much I’d have missed having you here.’ He walked between them to WHITE-047. ‘Stay where you are you two. I haven’t finished with you yet.’

He opened the large wooden milking parlour doors and shooed WHITE-047 from her corner and out towards the feedlots. The cow hobbled, bent almost double. He called out to a stockman and pointed to the cow: ‘Missing one?’ The stockman nodded. Snipe nodded back and pulled the parlour doors closed again.

He gathered the two idiot dairy boys had been talking to each other. Parfitt took the job of spokesman, seeing as Roach had already received a palming.

‘Sir, we didn’t mean anything by it. The cow was a mess so we tried to clean her up. It won’t happen again.’

Snipe stared at them and then grinned in disbelief.

‘You must think I’m a mushroom that grew in yesterday’s cow pat if you think I believe that rubbish. You two deliberately separated a cow from the herd and abused it with the high-pressure hoses. Hoses that are designed, as you’re well aware, for cleaning encrusted shit off tiles, brick and concrete. What do you think that kind of jet does to an animal’s body? I’d be very surprised if that cow isn’t damaged goods now. Might even have to be processed.’

‘It’s only water, sir. Couldn’t have done it much harm,’ said Roach.

Snipe smiled a different kind of smile.

‘Do you know what Rory Magnus does to employees that abuse his cattle?’

The pair of them drained white.

‘You’re not going to report us are you, sir?’ said Parfitt. ‘You can’t… I mean, we need this job. Our families need our help to survive.’

‘You should have thought about that before you started damaging the herd.’

‘Please, sir. We didn’t damage the herd,’ said Roach.

Snipe cupped an elbow in one hand and drummed the fingers of the other against his mouth.

‘I’ll give you a choice,’ he said. ‘A very simple choice. Either I send you over to the mansion now to report yourselves with a written note from me, or, you find out how undamaging it is to be on the other end of one of these.’ He gestured to the stiff hoses at his feet.

‘But, sir—’

‘It’s a simple choice, Roach. Even a shithead like you knows the right answer. Get those gowns off, the pair of you. Come on. And chuck your clothes in a pile over there.’ Snipe bent down and picked up both hoses. ‘Let’s see if it’s possible to wash off two severe cases of stupid.’

They were so much like animals the townsfolk had forgotten what the Chosen were. Forgotten, or put it out of their minds. Shanti hadn’t forgotten, though. Not when he worked with them every day, not when he listened to their harsh whispers and coded knocking on the walls.

Not when he looked into their eyes as he placed the captive bolt gun to their heads.

In the twilight, she saw him. The wire-tight tendons, the slick of sweat, the hammering of the pack against him, the never-straight legs, the penitent smile. Her eyes widened, the irises floating in pure white anger. She wanted to scream.

She confronted him as he threw cold water over himself in front of the old trough. Hands on hips, eyes luminous in the dusk she began with just two words.

‘You promised.’

He couldn’t look at her. The bloody coward. The weak-willed, pathetic coward.

‘You don’t care about anyone else except yourself, do you?’

He clenched his teeth. His ribs still heaved as his body recovered from the run.

‘You can’t manipulate me, Maya. It’s wrong. It’s dishonest.’

‘When I simply ask you, nothing ever happens. This isn’t about our morals, Richard Shanti. This is about raising a family. Caring for others.’

His temper snapped.

‘There is nothing, nothing, caring about feeding meat to our children.’

Maya snorted her disgust.

‘Really? Perhaps you can explain that to the doctor. Perhaps you can explain that to Hema and Harsha. And perhaps,’ her voice broke and she half screamed, half cried at him, ‘you can explain it to the Welfare when they come snooping into our lives next week.’

He grabbed the ragged old towel he used and ran past her into the house still dripping.

‘What doctor? What’s happened?’

She followed him up to the girls’ bedroom where he stood beside their bunks, alternately resting a slim-fingered hand on each of their foreheads.

‘They’re on fire.’

She stood in the doorway shaking her head.

‘What’s wrong with them?’ he asked.

‘It’s some kind of flu. Lots of kids have it at the moment.’

‘But they haven’t been in to the school this week.’

‘That’s what I told Doctor Fellows. He said the virus has a long incubation period. It’s not uncommon.’

He turned his head towards her.

‘Are they going to be all right?’

‘They’ll probably get over the virus, if that’s what you mean. But there are going to be other problems now.’

He stood up and faced her.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘The doctor was concerned that the girls were underweight.’

‘No. No, Maya. We’ve talked about this. Why didn’t you tell him that their weight is perfectly normal? I’ve told you it is a hundred times.’

Harsha tried to sit up. In the end she managed to stay up on one elbow.

‘The doctor man had cold hands, Daddy. He said we’re not eating enough poteem.’

‘Lie down, sweetness,’ said Richard, ‘You need to rest and then you’ll feel better. Daddy’s going to get you some protein.’

Maya signalled him to go downstairs and wait for her. She wiped the girls’ heads with a damp cloth and kissed their hot cheeks saying, ‘I’ll be checking up on you. Use this broom handle to knock on the floor if you need me.’

In the kitchen, Richard stood with his palms resting on the counter as he stared into the darkness outside. He hung his head low and Maya saw his shoulders trembling. Her heart was hard.

‘I can’t believe it has to come to this before you start to care for your own children. They’re too thin, Richard. We all are. And you, you’re killing yourself with this running nonsense. No man can keep up the kind of punishment you give your body. Why must you treat us this way?’

The man who turned to face her was a tired old derelict. There was no flesh on his face, only hollow lines. His skin was pasty and blotched red from crying. If she hadn’t seen him in the last ten years and then suddenly met him like this she wouldn’t have recognised him.

‘Because I care about you. I care about your spirits.’

‘Richard, in this life, talk of the spirit is irrelevant. You have to care about our bodies. You have to look after us. If you don’t, spirit is all that will remain.’

She watched his eyes. Dear Father, she thought, he really doesn’t understand. He’d rather see us die for some inexplicable righteousness than live a healthy life.

‘Richard, please. It’s your duty as a husband and father to look after us, to provide for us. You could not be in a better position to do that. Most of the men you work with don’t have the meat allowance that you have and yet you refuse to take advantage of it. Meanwhile, your family is starving.’

‘You are not starving,’ he whispered.

‘Tell that to the Parson of the Welfare. She’s coming on Monday evening. She’ll be here for dinner and I expect there to be meat on this table. Otherwise I’m going to take the twins away myself. And I swear to you now, Richard Shanti, if that happens, you will never see any of us again.’

The second milking of the day was complete, the dairy boys had clocked out seconds after the shift had ended and Snipe was alone with his herd.

He tapped the jar of Beauty Balm in his cow-gown as he paced the rows. Most of the herd were back in the feedlots or pastures but those he was concerned about remained. WHITE 1260, WHITE 091, WHITE 7650 and several others looked in need of his ministrations. He gave his full attention to each one but he looked up often at a milking stall on the far side of the parlour where WHITE-047 was still chained. He was saving her until last. After what the dairy boys had done to her she would be traumatised. It could affect her yield or make her more prone to disease. Cows were far more sensitive to stress than management made allowances for.

He moved from cow to cow trying to maintain his soothing tones and movements but all the time he thought about WHITE-047 and her clear, shining eyes. He thought about the way looking at her made him feel. He’d unloaded all his anger onto Roach and Parfitt. They’d made it to the end of the shift but every move they’d made had been in agony. The hoses had bruised their pale skins and forced their closed eyes almost from their sockets. He’d played the jets over every part of them making them move their hands from their crotches to their faces to protect themselves. He’d been one step ahead all the time. Water on their genitals would have been like a series of kicks. When they turned away from him he aimed at the backs of their heads where the pressure was almost enough to make them faint. Then the creases of their skinny arses where, no doubt, the jets of water would have forced their way within.

When he’d finished their skin was red and raw from the rucking of the icy barrage. They’d cried and vomited and shat pale brown water as they ran away from him. He’d stood there trembling for several minutes unable to move or turn away from the place where WHITE-047 had stood before them. In the changing rooms he’d threatened them both with their jobs and told them he was docking a day’s wages from their pay packets. Neither of them had spoken a word in response. He told them if they tried to take sick time, he’d report them.

There was a hiss from the cow he was working on and he realised he was massaging too vigorously.

‘Hey, now, I’m sorry old girl. Here, how’s this? Better?’

He eased off the pressure, worked Beauty Balm more gently into the cow’s swollen teats between his callused fingers. The hissing stopped.

One by one he led the cows out to join the rest of the herds. In time he was left alone with WHITE-047. His heartbeat quickened as he approached her and, for some reason he couldn’t explain, his lower back ached. He swallowed again and again but his mouth and throat refused to moisten. He tried to ignore the stiffness of his crotch and the strange heat there.

Standing in front of the cow, he was once more amazed by the look of her. She was definitely different to all the others. But what was it? He looked and looked until it was a thoughtless stare. Only her nervous shuffling against the milking restraints broke his reverie.

The damage to her was superficial fortunately. They couldn’t have had the jets on her for more than a couple of minutes when he’d caught them. He could see areas of redness where her skin was chafed by the high pressure and bruises beginning to flower on the strong curves of her thighs.

‘It won’t happen again, lass. Mr. Snipe promises you that. I’ve showed them the error of their ways. I’ve taught them some respect.’

He stepped into the stall with the cow and she backed away as far as the restraints allowed. Not her usual response.

Those stupid bastards.

‘It’s alright now. Mr. Snipe’s not going to hurt you. Mr. Snipe’s going to keep you healthy.’

His hands shaking, he brought out the jar of Beauty Balm and unscrewed the lid. He fingered out a larger scoop than he allowed the other cows, placed the jar on the partition, and split the lubricant evenly between his hands. Pressing close to the animal he stroked the greasy substance around its sore looking teats. As he massaged, he entered a kind of trance. His pulse thrummed in his crotch.

‘Beautiful, bounteous creature,’ he crooned. ‘Beautiful, beautiful girl. Mr. Snipe’s going to make it all better.’

WHITE-047 cringed away from the touch but there was nowhere she could go. Snipe didn’t even notice. Minutes passed and he felt slow leakage in his underwear. He changed position to be closer to the cow, knocking the Beauty Balm from the edge of the stall with his elbow. It fell in slow motion, landed without sound, somehow remaining intact. He knelt to retrieve it and his face came close to the cow’s bald vulva. A scent came from her, a singular note among many that made up the smell of the dairy herd. It was unique. Just like everything else about WHITE-047.

The smell affected him the way he imagined wives wanted perfume to affect their husbands. He paused, crouched on the concrete, his nose inches from the cow’s skin, the Beauty Balm forgotten on the cold, wet floor. He breathed in the scent of the cow and it filled his mind. Some part of him snapped from its stratospheric tether and plummeted earthwards.

He dived for the cow’s sex and pressed his face into it, licking, nuzzling and snuffling. The cow hissed but he didn’t hear it. He was crying, his face wet with joy. He rose on trembling legs and looked at WHITE-047 as though seeing her for the first time but the look in her eyes was not the one he wanted to see. The look was one of knowing and disgust, of helplessness and hatred. The eyes were too cold. He turned her away from him. He unbuttoned his trousers and forced them down with shaking hands. He moved against her and the milking restraints tightened. She wasn’t accepting him. Crazy now, he reached again for the Beauty Balm, plunged three fingers into the jar and slapped the wad of grease up between the cow’s legs.

Half laughing, half crying he pushed into her once more and lost himself there totally. It was the only thrust he made. He convulsed and laid his head against her back still weeping tears he did not understand.

He never heard their footsteps. For a few moments he stayed close to her and then a strong contraction forced him from her. He reached down for his trousers, tucked his shirt in and turned around. They were all there: Harrison, Maidwell, Roach and Parfitt. All dressed in their town clothes. Legs apart. Arms folded. For once they weren’t laughing.

Fearing a beating, Snipe began to babble.

‘Listen, lads… this isn’t what you think it is. I mean—’

‘Shut up, Snipe,’ said Roach. ‘You’re in some trouble.’

‘There’s an explanation, I can assure you. I—’

‘You can explain it to Magnus.’

The crimson embarrassment faded from Snipe’s face leaving it grey. The dairy boys didn’t lift a finger to him. They turned away and left, their boots echoing off the damp concrete.

‘Boys! Boys? Please don’t do this. Please.’ He sank to his knees with his hands outstretched to the deserted milking parlour. ‘Pleeeease,’ he begged.

But the dairy boys were gone.