Meat

Five

‘We should pray,’ said Parson Mary Simonson of the Welfare. ‘Join hands with me, everyone.’

The girls, mostly recovered from their fevers, held hands easily with each other but the Parson was sitting between Hema and her father. The Parson reached out and grabbed Hema’s fingers before she could pull away. A smile accompanied the unwanted grip. Maya took Harsha’s small, hot hand in her left and reached the other reluctantly towards Richard. They had not touched for several days. It was his thumbless hand she found. She could see his bowed head from the edge of her vision. It was not bowed in piety but so that the Parson would not see his rage at her intrusion into their household. She saw his left hand take hold of the Parson’s, saw the grip tighten.

‘Such intensity, Mr. Shanti. How delightful.’ Parson Mary Simonson composed herself, breathed deeply and settled her shoulders. ‘Ah, yes. A couple of lines from the Gut Psalter seem particularly appropriate: Let us not reject Your gifts, Dear Father, nor take Your love for granted. Help us to have faith in Your mystery and may we never question Your ways.’ She paused and sighed, not letting go. ‘Bless this food, Dear Father, that we may do Your bidding gladly and with strength. We thank You for the gift of meat this day.’

She lifted her head and looked at each face around the table. All hands withdrew swiftly.

Maya had already served the plates. Each one was set before the members of her family and the Parson that had come to assess them. Maya’s mouth watered, the children’s faces were all anticipation now that their noses were full of the savoury scent from their plates. Maya tried not to look at Richard because she knew that he would be restraining his rising gorge long before a morsel passed his lips. If the Parson suspected that there was anything out of the ordinary in a good helping of meat, she would make her visits regular to be sure nothing was amiss. Everything had to appear normal or they risked losing the children. If Richard gave anything away he could be reported and lose his job. It was no secret that bad things happened to people who lost a job with Magnus Meat Processing. As far as Rory Magnus was concerned, you were either in or out. If you were out you weren’t to be trusted. If Rory Magnus didn’t trust you, life in the town wasn’t worth living and you’d stop living it very soon.

‘Please begin,’ said the Parson but no one moved. She looked around the faces at the table again and then smiled. ‘Well, that’s very polite, I must say. Your family is a credit to you, Mr. Shanti.’ She took up her knife and fork and stared into the rare griddled fillet that took up most of her plate. Lines blackened its surface and once the serrated edge of the knife was through the seared layer, it revealed the bloody flesh within. Watery red juices spread out on the plate as she sawed off a bite and forked it into her mouth. Maya watched her husband’s jaw muscle ripple and clench. ‘Mmm,’ said the Parson, nodding in deep satisfaction. ‘That is excellent steak, Mrs. Shanti. And, may I say, perfectly done.’

‘Thank you,’ said Maya. ‘But it’s really nothing to do with me. Richard has a top position at MMP. It comes with certain… advantages.’

‘I understand. Extremely fortunate.’ The Parson’s words came out over half-chewed mouthfuls, the most polite way to talk at the table. ‘But do you realise that there are townsfolk who can only afford meat once a week?’

Maya shook her head and then noticed the twins hadn’t touched their food.

‘Go on, girls,’ she whispered.

They picked up their knives and forks and used them to tear at the meat. Maya had made sure it was thoroughly cooked. So cooked it was almost dry. The twins had problems cutting it up. Their knives and forks clattered against their plates drawing a stare from the Parson. Maya reached over and as swiftly as she could, cut their small steaks into manageable pieces while she blustered an excuse at the Parson.

‘Still weak from the fever, poor things.’

She watched the Parson’s eyes and decided that she was satisfied with the explanation. Thank the Lord, she thought, that Richard had brought home the best quality meat he could get his hands on. It seemed to be keeping the Parson happy. For the moment.

And the meat was truly delicious. Maya could not remember the last time she’d had any and the browned richness of it, the texture of it resisting her teeth, the nourishing juice of it flooded her mouth with saliva. It was close to impossible to eat it slowly.

‘I wanted to ask you about that,’ said the Parson.

Maya glanced at Richard. He still hadn’t touched his food. She caught his eye, pleaded with him mentally not to let the family down. She telepathed to him in that split-second glance, one she prayed the Parson had not noticed, that if he didn’t do his part, everything they’d made together would be finished forever. He picked up his knife and fork.

‘Why do you think your girls are so skinny, Mrs. Shanti? Are they prone to this kind of illness? A healthy, well-nourished child shouldn’t be getting sick, you know.’

Maya shrugged.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to tell you your job, Parson, but when I was a girl we were always coming down with something.’

It was the wrong thing to say and she regretted it almost before the sentence was out of her mouth. But it was too late to take it back and the Parson’s face had lost any joviality that the steak had put there.

‘When you were a girl, Mrs. Shanti, people didn’t eat as well as they do now. Illness is not something to be taken lightly, as you would know if you read your Gut Psalter regularly. Illness is a matter to be taken very, very seriously indeed.’

Even at seven years of age the twins knew what ‘serious’ meant coming from the mouth of a Parson of the Welfare. They continued to eat their meals in silence.

Maya felt pale and cold inside. The Parson had stopped chewing her meat and was staring at her.

‘I like a bit of gravy with my meat,’ the Parson said. ‘Adds a certain sloppiness. I like my meat sloppy. Shame,’ she said, ‘that there’s no gravy.’

‘I can easily make some,’ Maya said. ‘It won’t take two minutes.’

Parson Mary Simonson smiled and thrust a dripping piece of flesh into her thin-lipped mouth.

‘Not to worry, Mrs. Shanti. I’m almost finished now. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘Oh, it’s no trouble. No trouble at all. I just… didn’t want to spoil the flavour of the meat. I’m… not a very good cook, you see.’

The Parson snorted.

‘I think Mr. Shanti would agree with that. He hasn’t touched his food.’ She turned to Richard, appraising his lean features with what Maya took to be suspicion. ‘I hope you’re not feeling unwell, Mr. Shanti. Illness in the head of the family is not something that can be ignored.’

‘I’m fine.’

He smiled at the Parson. It had been so long since she’d seen his face in that shape that Maya barely recognised the expression. She certainly didn’t know that this was the smile he often cracked at work for his colleagues; the same smile that made him seem like a capable man who enjoyed his job. She thought it made him look insane. The Parson had seen the idiotic look he had. That was the end. They’d take the kids. Then they’d come and take him and that would be the end of her life as a respectable townsperson.

‘It’s been a custom in my family that we always let a guest finish their meal before we start our own,’ he began. ‘It’s old-fashioned, I know. Going back to those very first days when Our Dear Father made the flesh honourable and sacred. The Shantis have been involved from the very beginning, you know. If it makes you feel uncomfortable, I will gladly join you before you finish your meal.’

The Parson was silent for too long. Maya knew whatever Richard had said was wrong and that the stupid look on his face had cemented their destiny. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t even kick him under the table to make him stop. She looked at the Parson’s face. The woman had stopped chewing mid-mouthful and had yet to swallow. Finally she choked down the half chewed lump on her tongue and said, ‘I didn’t realise, Mr. Shanti. I do hope you can forgive my behaviour. I assumed that… well, never mind. I’d be honoured to finish my meal before you begin yours. And after that I’ll be able to make my report to Head Office. I can assure you it will be deemed entirely satisfactory.’

Richard performed a very small bow. Just a deep nod of the head really and the Parson finished her steak in silence.

Maya was stunned. The Shantis had been involved since when? The report would be entirely satisfactory? What had just happened? She had no way to tell. The Parson pushed her empty plate away and stood up.

‘Wonderful food, Mrs. Shanti.’ She cast her eye over the rest of the family and around the dining room and adjoining kitchen area nodding to herself. She removed a clipboard from a leather satchel at her feet and made a few marks on it with a red pencil and then said, ‘Well, there we are. Everything’s in order. I shall say thank you and bid you all good night. May the Father bless you and fill your stomachs.’

She was gone before Richard had put the blade of his steak knife to the meat on his plate. All that remained of her was a memory of her layered red robes. For several seconds everyone was silent. Then Maya said, ‘Dear Father, Richard, what did you say to her? What on earth has happened?’

With four witnesses speaking against him and no one to defend his claims, Snipe’s ‘appearance’ before Rory Magnus was brief. He spent most of the time looking at the cattle-hair rug on which he stood in the giant man’s office. On the occasions he did glance up he saw a look on Magnus’s face he hadn’t expected. The man was not outraged by the charges. He appeared almost amused as he smoked a small black cheroot and sipped vodka. From time to time he didn’t even seem to be listening.

Snipe began to hope that what he’d done wasn’t enough to bring the full weight of Magnus’s might down upon him. Maybe they’d caught him on a good day. Maybe the rumours of Magnus’s punishments were no more than idle talk to make the workforce toe the line. After ten minutes, Magnus dismissed the dairy boys and Snipe was left alone with the Meat Baron and his bodyguard.

When the sound of the boys’ footsteps had receded down the stairs Magnus spoke directly to Snipe for the first time.

‘You’d be surprised how many cow fuckers I see in here, Snipe. Some of them like to fuck the veal calves, others prefer the steers. Doesn’t matter to me what they do because when I find out, they never do it again.’

Snipe couldn’t meet the man’s glare. Magnus’s dangerous joviality on top of his own shame was too much to bear.

‘Sex has always been a risky business at the best of times. You never know what you’ll catch off the scum that pass themselves off as women in this town. It’s no wonder the cattle look better to some of my workers than their own wives and squeezes. I don’t understand it, but I can see how it happens.

‘Unfortunately, that doesn’t make me any happier about the potential damage to, and disrespect for, my property. Every single beast in this town belongs to me and anyone that treats my beasts with anything other than respect is going to pay the price. What I can’t comprehend is why my workers haven’t got that into their tiny brains yet. It’s not written down anywhere, but everyone knows the penalty for messing with my business.’

Magnus leaned back in his chair causing it to creak.

‘I assume you’ve read The Book of Giving.’

Snipe was impelled to fill the silent void that followed the statement.

‘Yes, Mr. Magnus.’

‘You therefore know the punishment for ‘lying down’ with the Chosen, correct?’

‘Yes, Mr. Magnus.’

Magnus pressed his lips together in a look that seemed to bring the matter to a close in his mind.

‘In that case, I’ve nothing further to say to you. Bruno, arrange for Snipe’s introduction to the herd. Have it done here as soon as you can find Cleaver. Make sure Snipe is processed immediately. I want nothing but sausage to remain by this evening.’

He poured himself another vodka.

Bruno grabbed Snipe by the back of the neck, his customary grip, and propelled him towards a curtain at the back of the study. Pulling it open revealed a door in the wooden panelling. Bruno opened it and pushed Snipe onto a dark staircase that led straight down.

‘Oh, and Bruno, leave that open would you? I may pop down for a few minutes when Cleaver gets to work.’

Like many workers in the meat industry, Shanti was missing a digit. In his case it was the thumb of his right hand. Unlike the others, injured in the course of a day’s meat processing, he had lost his in an accident of which he had no recollection. It had happened before he was even a year old and he had learned to cope without the use of it very well. It didn’t hamper his use of the captive bolt gun at all.

As far as management were concerned, his dexterity was prized not because it was humane but because it meant more meat through the chutes each day. Shanti believed himself to be a kind, compassionate man and he dealt death as swiftly and painlessly as possible. He abhorred the thought of suffering in any creature but himself. What he saw each day was not a parade of mindless cattle, nor was it a queue of expressionless, animal faces. It was not lives he saw passing him by and winking out. No, that was too great a reality to take in. What Richard Shanti saw in the lines of Chosen that passed each day was a montage of eyes.

The eyes were luminous woodland green. The eyes were polished antique brown. The eyes were wise grey. The eyes were the blue of free skies and shattered sapphires. The eyes were ringed with the whites of pleading, whites of staring. The eyes were set in resolute white. Trapped in resigned white. Surrounded by the whiteness of death. The eyes spoke to him because the owners of the eyes could not.

Though he did not listen, he could not help but hear.

For calves of the Chosen, the various rituals performed that branded them cattle for the rest of their lives took place in their infancy and over several weeks. For Greville Snipe the process took less than an hour.

He had to wait while Cleaver finished his lunch. Bruno watched over him to make sure he didn’t bolt when he saw the room they’d brought him to. Snipe had seen many of the procedures performed on young calves and had never given it much thought. Now he was in a windowless room where all these measures, and many others that usually occurred in the slaughterhouse and meat packing areas could be carried out. The vibrating that began in his body was very different from the one he’d felt whilst conjoined with the object of his sin in the milking parlour. There was an unreliability in his bowels and bladder and in his knees. He could feel his patellae jumping like bait jerked on a line.

It had all happened so quickly that he couldn’t make space for it in his mind. And yet, his body knew what was coming. It was preparing. He felt the cold in his feet and hands as his blood flow restricted itself to his core. His face felt cold and wet and there was a torsion of the muscles in his stomach. His thoughts fled wildly within the confines of his mind as his eyes fluttered across each of the areas in the room.

It was not clean. There were black, flaky areas on the floor that he knew could only be one thing. Similar stains covered the various straps, restraints and crude, slablike tables. The air in the room was stuck somehow. It smelled of animals and chemicals. The odour stung his eyes and nose.

Uppermost in his mind was the knowledge that this was a room where he would not die.

The clenching of his stomach became irresistible – his body still preparing itself – and he vomited a tubelike spray of greenish fluid. At this, Bruno kicked him away and he fell hard on his knees, unable to break his fall with his tied hands.

‘Keep your filth away from me.’

Bruno kicked him again in the back of the thigh drawing a cry this time.

‘Fucking useless piece of meat.’

A door opened at one end of the dim room and a switch was flicked. The place was filled with a cold, hard glare. Every piece of equipment seemed to become either black, white or silver. There was more to be seen too. Snipe saw the banks of instruments that no one had bothered to clean other than with the swipe of a rag. They hung from racks and lay in untidy rows on a bench; like tools in an uncared-for workshop. He heard Cleaver approach before he saw him through the stab of harsh light – steel-cleated boots on concrete – the sound of the slaughterhouse man arriving for work.

Cleaver stepped into view and wiped his hand down the front of his dark beard trying to remove the remains of his lunch. Snipe saw very clearly the scraps of grey meat and gelatine from a savoury pie. Cleaver looked right through him to Bruno.

‘You hanging around for this or what?’

Bruno shrugged.

‘Do you need me?’

‘Not unless you want to get that nice overcoat dirty.’

‘Fine. The beast’s all yours.’

‘He’s not a beast yet. He’s still a man. Aren’t you?’

He looked at Snipe for the first time. Appraising him as though he were already no more than a hindquarter.

‘Not exactly a quality item, though, are you?’

Snipe was unable to speak.

‘Better leave us to it, Bruno. I’ll have him ready in an hour or so.’

Bruno sauntered to the door without looking back. Snipe was a forgotten man and he knew it.

‘Right you. Here’s how we’re going to do it. First, you need to void your tanks. That means number ones and twos – I don’t want you messing on me when we’re halfway through.’

While he talked, Cleaver prepared a long pole with a noose at the end of it and before Snipe could register what it was, the loop was around his neck. Cleaver pulled it tight then released Snipe’s wrist shackles.

‘Come on, this way.’

He hauled Snipe to a corner of the room where there was a rough hole in the concrete and told him to squat.

‘Make it quick, I’ve got plenty more jobs to do before the day’s out.’

Snipe couldn’t have held it in if he’d tried. When he finished he felt empty not only of waste but of his organs. He was a hollow man.

Cleaver yanked him away from the latrine without letting him clean himself. That was when Snipe began to cry. His whole solar plexus shuddered until he couldn’t tell if he was breathing in or out and the snot dribbled from his nose in bubbling rivulets. Cleaver didn’t appear to notice.

On the far side of the room he kicked open a panel on the floor to reveal what looked like a giant sunken bath. It was filled with a thin white fluid. This was where the chemical smell originated. Without any kind of warning, Cleaver pulled Snipe into the bath. It was deep and though Snipe didn’t sink naturally, he felt the pole forcing him down to the bottom of the trough. Within seconds, a burning began all over his body. He opened his mouth to scream and the chemical dip flooded in. He choked. Before he could take another breath, the noose was lifting him out at the other end of the trough and he was lying on the cold floor heaving and coughing. The noose loosened a little – Cleaver giving him a moment to recover.

It didn’t last.

The pole hauled him to his feet. Though his stomach was empty he retched and retched trying to clear the fluid from his throat. When he opened his eyes he was half-blinded. A white haze lay over everything. Even through this he could see the hair sliding off his body. Then the high-pressure hose was on him, its freezing jet welcome, at least for the first few seconds as it washed away the burn. But soon enough the jet was painful. Cleaver aimed it at every part of him, jerked him around to get the desired angles. Snipe shivered.

His hair, all of it, was gone.

Shanti watched the bull through a crack between the gate and hinge. It was on its side and curled tight like a giant baby. Amazing, he thought, how different they are asleep and awake. The bull’s number was 792, stencilled onto a blue tag that pierced the flattened area of flesh between its Achilles tendon and anklebone. The tag bolts were made of stainless steel about half a centimetre thick. Removing them was impossible for the Chosen but a stockman could do it with a specially made pair of pliers. The tags were attached to newborns around the time many of the other rituals were performed, whilst they were young enough to forget the pain. Once the piercing had healed, new numbers and colour codes could be attached as necessary depending on the animal’s ultimate purpose.

BLUE-792 was a prize bull. His genes had created hundreds, possibly thousands, of calves over the years and some of his offspring, a very few, had become bulls too, siring even more calves to keep the herds going. Shanti recognised every one of BLUE-792’s descendants. They weren’t the beautiful cattle of the herds. They were the heavy-boned, hardy strain. They were the ones that survived disease and the cold, regimented routine that was herd life. They were the ones that fulfilled their purpose. All of them shared his blue eyes and round face. Most of them had his swollen bulb of a nose. They were in the dairy herds, in the bullpens, in the veal enclosures and in the meat herds too. Only bulls and dairy cows would live as long as BLUE-792 and of those, only the very finest bulls would lead such a long and prosperous existence.

Shanti watched the bull sleep and wondered how many of its offspring he had already dispatched. So many times the access panel on the conveyor had opened and he would find himself looking into the eyes of BLUE-792 passed down one, or sometimes two, generations. And here was their predecessor, still alive. Still kicking, as the stockmen would say.

BLUE-792 stirred causing the straw he was lying in to rustle. Shanti froze in position. If the bull knew it was being watched it could cause problems. Cattle that formed any kind of relationship with their human overlords tended to alter their behaviour patterns, to become unmanageable. Many words were synonymous with meat at MMP. ‘Unmanageable’ was one of them. Shanti liked watching this particular bull. He didn’t want to find himself looking into its eyes as he pressed a pneumatic weapon to its head. Not yet. Not until BLUE-792’s time was well and truly up.

The bull sat up, as though waking to a sudden loud noise. Shanti shrank back away from the crack and held his breath for a few moments. More scratching and rustling came from inside the pen as the bull raised itself heavily onto its legs. For a few seconds afterwards there was total silence. Shanti planned to back away quickly and noiselessly if he heard the bull come towards where he was standing. Instead he heard the swish of straw as BLUE-792 walked to the far end of its pen and began to tap its finger stumps on the wall. Shanti heard the whispered hissing and sighing coming from the bull’s mouth. He wondered how many other Magnus Meat Processing employees had noticed the Chosen signalling each other this way. He doubted anyone had the time for observation. None of them took the same interest he did.

The not-quite-random taps and breaths continued and Shanti crept back towards the crack. Inside he saw BLUE-792 with one ear laid to the aluminium panels. There was a smile creasing its face. Perhaps it was comforted just to hear the response of other animals and know that it was not alone.

Nauseated and weakened by the chemicals in the dip, Snipe found himself barely able to struggle as Cleaver forced him towards one of the sarcophagus-shaped operating tables. The noose tightened, constricting Snipe’s windpipe and cutting off most of the blood flow to and from his head. Just before he reached the table he blacked out.

It must have been part of Cleaver’s method for handling his charges on his own. When Snipe came round, the hard lights came back into focus above him; he was spread-eagled on the slab. Cleaver was tightening a strap on his ankle. His other limbs were already secured but Cleaver appeared to want no movement at all to disrupt his work. A leather strap came over his chest and was pulled so taut he had to breathe from his solar plexus to get any air. Another was looped over the bones of his pelvis, another locked his knees flat. The final strap was for his head. He tried to fight this one because it would mean he could no longer see what was happening. He didn’t want to look but it was the last modicum of control he possessed. He swung his head from side to side trying to evade Cleaver’s grip and for a while he succeeded in preventing the last strap being fixed. It was only when Snipe felt a smooth section of timber slide under the back of his neck that he realised Cleaver wanted him to struggle so that he could arrange things according to his requirements.

With the block of wood there, his struggles were restricted but he didn’t give up. The tip of a knife appeared large and distorted only millimetres from his right eye.

‘You’re going to make me late with all this fucking around. Blinding isn’t part of the ritual,’ breathed Cleaver. ‘But I’d be happy to include it at your request.’

Snipe stopped moving.

‘That’s more like it.’

Cleaver drew a strap across his forehead and pulled it tight. Because of the block underneath his neck, Snipe’s throat was extended and exposed as the broad loop of leather shortened against his brow. He could breathe but he could no longer swallow.

When Cleaver thrust the tip of a scalpel into his larynx, Snipe screamed for the first and last time. The sound was cut short.

Rory Magnus sat back in his chair with a creak so familiar he didn’t notice it and put his booted feet on the scarred oak of his desk. He lit a cheroot from the previous one he’d been smoking and dropped the first one into his ashtray without bothering to crush it out.

From the door at the back of his study he could hear the faint sounds of struggling, the rush of bodily evacuations and inevitable dunking and wet thrashing. He’d heard it all a hundred, a thousand times, before and he never tired of it. This was how to rule the town. This was how to maintain high standards at the factory. This was how to command respect and destroy dissent.

The curtain by the door shifted in an air current and soon Magnus could smell shit and bile and the acidic tang of the dip. It was unusual in so far as there had been no words of pleading from the cow-poking dairyman. But soon, though. Any minute now there would be –

The scream.

The first incision was the easiest to abide but they all screamed. Every single one of them. And then the scream would cease as though someone had swept an axe down upon a block. Efficient Mr. Cleaver. He smiled.

And after the scream there was a different sound, just as intense. More so perhaps. A desperate sibilation that struggled to be heard. Magnus could imagine Snipe’s lips moving as his words no longer came. The silent begging and the wordless hisses of transformation.

Deeper, more complete cuts would follow.

Magnus listened as if to a familiar duet played by unfamiliar musicians.

He listened and it was good.