The Butcher's Daughter Page 5

  It is hard to pass on a message to my father when I am not allowed to enter his workshop. He might be anywhere inside and would not hear me even if I yelled at the top of my lungs. He never does when he is working. Neither me nor my mother understand why he must bring his work home with him. You would think working all those hours in the butcher’s shop would be enough for anybody. Luckily, the door to the workshop is wide open, a rarity, and I spot him straight away. He has his back to me but I can tell by the way his elbows are moving like pistons that he is chopping up meat on the butcher’s block.

  He is not yet aware of me, so I have a good look around, something I never usually get the chance to do. If caught, my father will once again accuse me of spying, but I am only six, seven in a few weeks’ time, and I do not know what he means by this.

  There are metal hooks hanging from the ceiling. They are so shiny I am sure I could see my face in them, if I wanted to. But I don’t because I know they are used to hang dead animals, and this is something I do not like to think about. When I grow up, I am meant to take over from my father and become a butcher too. But I console myself that this will not take place for hundreds of years.

  A single ray of sunshine pokes through the clouds and sneaks its way into the building through the metal bars at the window. The light reflects on my father’s bent head, making him appear like an angel.

  ‘Daddy!’

  I watch him spin around, eyes blazing with fear and alarm, looking more like the devil than an angel. At the same time, the knife in his hand clatters to the floor. I didn’t mean to frighten him, and I am about to tell him so when—

  ‘How many times have I told you never to come in here?’

  I should be frightened, and of course I am, but I am even more terrified by what I can see on the butcher’s block—a severed finger. A bloody torn human finger! Unable to breathe or move or react to my father’s angry expression—all I can do is break another of Frank’s laws, by opening my mouth and screaming.

  Capable of moving athletically when he wants to, but only when he wants to, he reaches me quickly. His warm bloodstained hand clasps a silencing hand over my mouth but I fight back, kicking and squealing.

  ‘Stop that screaming. Stop it,’ he commands.

  I bite down on his fleshy finger and scream even louder, pointing hysterically at the dismembered finger. Why doesn’t he see it? Why doesn’t he do anything about it? I feel myself being shaken like a rat and my mind goes cloudy for a while. I do not realise I have been dragged outside until I feel the cold rain running down my neck.

  Before I know it, I am back in the house, sat at the kitchen table with snot running out of my nose. I am told not to cry but I cannot help it. My mother is nowhere to be seen. She never is in such moments. My father stands by the sink, running water over his hands, which is an odd thing for him to do when I am sat here sobbing my heart out. I watch him take a pocketknife out of his apron and jab at something. A sharp intake of breath cuts through the silence and then my father slips the knife back in his apron. His movements are sly, like a cat stalking a bird. When he looks over his shoulder at me, I quickly turn my head away, so he cannot accuse me of spying.

  ‘It’s all right. My finger is fine. See. I didn’t lose it.’

  My father thrusts his hand in my face, a hostile action that does not match his conciliatory tone. Seeing the deep bloody gash on his finger makes me whimper even more, and unable to help himself, he resorts to shaking me again.

  ‘I saw. I saw.’ I am beside myself with fear and confusion. I do not trust my father. After what I saw, I cannot believe anything he says. All I know is somebody is missing a finger and it is not him.

  ‘Forget what you thought you saw, Natalie. Do you hear me? Damn it.’

  He slaps my face. Hard. I do not know who is more surprised—him or me. In the stunned silence that follows, we both stare open mouthed at each other.

  I am surrounded by my mother’s whisper. It has a way of bringing me back to the present like no drug can. I feel as if I have been floating on a calm ocean and now find myself in dangerous waters, because when I open my eyes, I realise am still touching the knife. Quickly, I withdraw my finger but I am a second too late and it nicks me anyway. The trickle of crimson blood makes me tremble, yet I remain hypnotised by it.

  My body feels hot and cold at the same time and there is a dull ache in my head, a sign that I am late taking my medication. I cannot even be sure I took my first lot of pills this morning, so it is hardly any wonder I feel as I do. What would Dr Moses say if he could see me now, staring into space and drifting in and out of different timelines?

  Wanting to escape the building, the jumble of confusing memories, all thoughts of Thornhaugh and Dr Moses’ subtle threats, I bolt out of the building. The need to flee is overwhelming and I run as fast as I can towards the house but I do not get far—because the desire to retch is stronger. Coming to a breathless stop, I vomit up saliva and beer. That is when I see my father coming out of the other door of the whitewashed building, the one he swears never to use. When he sees the state I am in, he barks a sarcastic laugh.

  ‘Perhaps now you’ll keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you.’ He wags a warning finger at me.

  Little Downey Beach

  I plod despondently along the deserted beach, swinging my flip-flops in one hand and shielding my eyes from the sun with the other, watching the rocky curve of the coastline getting further away from me. Putting distance between myself and the house by the sea has never felt so important.

  Further out, the sea is choppy and black but the water I am paddling through is cloudy and calm. On the hottest of days, the water remains cold and I am glad of this, because my feet are scorching from walking too long on hot pebbles. After what happened in the whitewashed building, I came down to the beach, as I always do when I am troubled or in trouble, to escape my father. The sea is a much better parent.

  When I come across an upside-down crab, I crouch to take a closer look. It is about the same size as my hand and is a familiar visitor to the Welsh coastline, this being a spider crab. The crab’s shell is a mottled brown, which cleverly mimics the colour of the seaweed that has been left behind by the tide. Today though, the crab is out in the open and has nowhere to hide. I am surprised it has not already been picked up by a hungry gull. Deciding that this discovery is the nicest thing to happen to me today, I watch the crab wriggling to be free, happy in the knowledge that I can help it. When I attempt to flip it over, its salmon pink claw comes out to swipe me but having shared this beach with crabs much bigger than this one, I easily outwit it.

  As soon as it is upright again, it scurries away in a jerky sideways motion towards the water’s edge and I hear the gentlest of plops as it disappears into the ocean. The smile on my face vanishes when I see the gypsy and his dog coming towards me. When the dog spots me, it freezes, then barks in alarm before running towards me with its hackles raised. The gypsy does not call it back, even though it looks as if it might bite me. Instead, he carries on whistling through his fingers and searching the coastline with troubled eyes.

  Having deliberately avoided going anywhere near the gypsy camp, I am angry with him for being on this part of the beach. My beach. I am angry at his dog too, which continues to circle me, growling uneasily whenever I move. I am not afraid of the dog, but I will not risk antagonising it, so I keep still and lower my eyes to show that I am no threat.

  When it suits him, the gypsy eventually comes over, barely registering the fact that I am being held captive by his dog.

  ‘Have you seen my other dog? He’s a lot like this one, only smaller.’

  Deciding that words are too precious to waste on him, I shake my head. This is all the answer he is going to get out of me. I should feel sorry for him because he has lost his dog but I do not. The image of the chicken on the block is still fresh in my mind; besides, I am sure the dog will turn up. They usually do.

  He runs a hand through his hai
r and it occurs to me that he appears genuinely concerned. There is a kind of appeal in his clashing eyes that is new. Because I have only ever known him to be sarcastic or cruel, this surprises me. Could I have got him wrong? What comes out of his mouth next convinces me otherwise.

  ‘I guess there must be a bitch in heat somewhere.’

  The teasing grin is back. His hands are in his pockets and his head is cocked to one side, both eyes on me at once. He is much too close. I can see sweat trickling down his chest. I am about to say something when—

  ‘Jed!’

  We both turn to see the beautiful young gypsy woman climbing down from a sand dune. As before, she looks hot and bothered—and no wonder, she is wearing a long off-the-shoulder dress that hinders her every move. She has bunches of it in her hands to stop her from tripping and keeps looking back over her shoulder as if she has left something important behind. Surely not the baby. As she heads towards us, I notice that the scowl on her face does not diminish her dark beauty.

  I turn back to the gypsy and watch him shrug comically, his eyebrows shooting upwards, as if the sudden appearance of the gypsy woman tickles him. I cannot think why, when she is clearly angry with him. I certainly would not want to be in his shoes. I watch him walk over to her, his dog following on his heels.

  Keen to avoid any conflict with the fiery gypsy woman, whom I suspect would beat me hands down in a fight, I carry on walking, but cannot resist one quick look back. They are still in the same spot, arguing. Tossing her hair about angrily, the gypsy woman gestures wildly with her hands, while he stares at the sand. He has his comeuppance, I cannot resist thinking. And I am glad he is in trouble. I cannot think of anyone who deserves it more.

  I am back on my rock, looking out to sea, and struggling to make sense of everything. The sun, low in the sky, dips its blazing toe in the ocean and I feel eager for it to set. The sooner this day is over the better. I cannot stop thinking about the gypsy, trying to work him out. One minute he is everything I detest in a person—cruel, sarcastic, taunting, nothing at all like Daniel, and the next, let’s say he’s the opposite. His name is Jed. I repeat the name over in my mind until I feel used to it. It suits him. I do not think I could have come up with a better one. I do not ask myself why I am wasting my time thinking about him. Deep down, I suspect the answer might shock me.

  I hear it for some time before it registers—the sound of a dog barking and whining. At first, I try to ignore it but in the end I give up and go to investigate. Before I get very far, I find myself hoping that it is not the gypsy’s dog I can hear, because I do not want to be the one that has to return it, not after the way his woman looked at me on the beach. As soon as I see the scruffy wire-haired lurcher digging in the sand dune my heart sinks, because of course it is the gypsy’s dog. Just like he said, this one is a lot like the one from before, only smaller. Friendlier too, because when it sees me its tail moves from side to side but it does not pause in its digging. Sand flies everywhere, including on me.

  ‘Hello, boy. What are you doing there? Trying to dig your way to Australia?’

  Hearing my voice, the dog’s head shoots up and sand pours off its biscuit-coloured snout, making it sneeze. Tail wagging frantically, it backs away, play bows and yelps in excitement. I know enough about dogs to guess that it wants to show me something.

  ‘What is it? What have you got there?’

  Chapter 15

  I do not know what happened to the dog. My screams must have frightened it off because it is nowhere to be seen. There is no one chasing after me or nipping at my heels. Only the sun is behind me as I run towards the gap in the cliffs and the well-worn sand trail that leads up to the house by the sea, where safety of sorts awaits. My heart is hammering against my ribcage and there is a lump in my throat that I cannot swallow. God, I wish I could unsee what I have seen. The thought of it makes me want to vomit. But I dare not pause, even for a moment. Not even to catch my breath. I must get home, to my father.

  When I see a tall familiar figure striding confidently towards me, I do not give up on my screaming. Fear keeps me at it. When the sound reaches him, it brings him to a halt but only for a second or two and then, like me, he is running.

  ‘Daniel!’ I yell, picking up pace so that I can reach him quicker. I am so relieved to see him, I could burst.

  He catches me in his arms and I sob almost immediately into his shoulder. Physically, my rescuer is in far better shape than I am; his body muscular and unyielding. But as upset as I am, it disturbs me that I can smell meat on him. The romantic girl in me is disillusioned and I for one could strangle her. Honestly, Natalie. Talk about ungrateful.

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you all right?’

  While I try to get my breath, sucking in great gulps of salty sea air, I can tell Daniel is already trying to work out what has happened. I watch his intelligent blue eyes flitting across the empty beach and scanning the rocks before coming to rest, almost with dread, on the protruding cliff edge that looks down on us. I guess what he is thinking. Another suicide. Another jumper. I shake my head at him, but the words will not come—

  ‘The… The…’

  ‘What, Natalie?’

  He pushes me away and I stumble a little, surprised by his tone, because he sounds annoyed with me. But in the next second, he pulls me close again. I realise after all that he is simply concerned and possibly frightened for me.

  ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  ‘The gypsy’—is all I can manage.

  A long pause, and then—

  ‘Scum gypsies. I’ll make sure they’re run out of here for good.’

  As I watch his eyes narrow with hatred, I realise his response is exactly as I predicted. There has never been any love lost between Little Downey and the travelling community. Already, Daniel’s scowling eyes are on the lookout, wanting to do harm to another human being and I feel suddenly protective of the gypsy and his way of life.

  ‘No,’ I say, but I can tell Daniel is no longer listening to me. ‘It was the gypsy’s dog I saw… It was… It had… It was eating something. It looked human.’

  There. I finally get my words out. I say them aloud all right—I can tell this by the quizzical way Daniel is looking at me, as if he’s not sure he should be taking me seriously or not. Now he is going to think I am insane. Soon, he will be like everyone else in Little Downey, even though he swore he was different.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ he instructs and I nod. There is no way he or anybody else will catch me in those sand dunes again. Not after what I saw.

  He is gone longer than I imagined. What can he be doing? Surely, he’s found it by now. When there is still no sign of him, I scratch at my arms. The skin there is pitted from old scarring. It feels ugly to touch and I roll my sleeves down again, ashamed of myself. Waiting makes me a bundle of nerves. I understand why I am like this. I have had it explained to me enough times.

  My mother was late for everything and as a child I was traumatised by this; wrongly assuming I had been abandoned and that she was never coming back. My hysteria was therefore unfounded, they said. Except I don’t believe what they told me at Thornhaugh, because isn’t that exactly what my mother did in the end? If throwing yourself off a cliff edge and committing suicide is not abandonment, I do not know what is.

  When Daniel finally returns, I am at first relieved, then horrified, to see him carrying something in his arms. I think of the blood and the battered human flesh with its torn endings. The clawing fingers. The putrid stench. My God, why is he bringing it back? Surely, he should leave it where I found it, for the police to examine. Then, I remember that involving outsiders, even the local constabulary, is not how things are done in Little Downey.

  When I see his mouth curl into a smile, I know something is not right. He would not be grinning if he had seen what I saw.

  ‘Is this what you saw?’ he asks gently.

  Bracing myself, I look down at what he is holding and I shake my head in disbelief at the dead b
ranch covered in slimy seaweed that has bits of grasping twig sticking out of it. I suppose it does look a little like an arm but I am still not convinced this is what I saw in the sand dune. I could not be that mistaken, could I? When I glance up at Daniel, I can tell he never believed me in the first place but did not want to hurt my feelings. He can save himself the bother, I think resentfully, because I do not want or need his pity. That would change everything between us. We would no longer be equals. Suddenly, I realise how important it is that he does not look at me the way I am used to being looked at.

  ‘I could have sworn…’ My voice sounds lame and unpersuasive, even to my own ears. The evidence is right there in front of me but I was so sure of what I had seen.

  ‘You’ll laugh about this later, I promise,’ he jokes.

  Little Downey Coast Road

  I am wearing my mother’s favourite red dress. I can never hope to look as beautiful in it as she did but I spent a lot of my childhood imagining myself in it and so today, I went into the room she once shared with my father and slid it off its hanger. As soon as the cool silky fabric was in my hands, her scent and laughter were everywhere. How many times have I watched her sitting in front of the dressing table mirror applying bright red lipstick, with a romantic story to tell?

  I sometimes think my mother was more in love with the idea of being in love than anything else. She may have had a grown woman’s responsibilities—a house, husband and a child to look after, but in her heart she remained a young girl. I take after her in looks, at least that is what people say, but otherwise we have nothing in common. Is this why she went away? Who could blame her for wanting to escape her oh-so-serious tomboy child and domineering husband?