Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

As I gazed upon her face a small black beetle emerged from the ruins of her right eye. It stood uncertainly upon the crest of her cheekbone as if suddenly reluctant to step out further. Though I looked upon the beetle as if it was something unutterably revolting, still I felt like we two had something in common. The butcher reached over, picked it up gently between his thumb and stubby forefinger then crushed it. I could hardly protest. He wiped its remains upon his shirt.

He smiled at me like we were two brothers engaged in holy conspiracy then poured fluid into the two ravaged sockets out of a small wooden cup before setting to clean out the holes with a piece of soiled linen, humming quietly as he worked. The smell was sweet and rich, like an ancient suet pudding. Great lumps of congealed sticky flesh he extracted with the cloth, which he wiped upon his trouser leg. Swallowing gently, I stood back, giddy for a moment, and breathed in some of the icy, wet air that hung about us like a damp mist. All I could think of was that when we were done here we would not be leaving all of the body behind. Some of it would be walking out with us, stuck upon the butcher’s arse. The cold in the room was a mercy. Walking about the table I positioned myself beside the butcher’s left shoulder so that I could see all, yet not too close.

Her face was white, so white that it must have been her complexion before death also. Pale orange freckles were still visible upon her nose and cheeks, though the rest of her face was now covered with a thin layer of green mould, which hid all subtleties of skin tone. What looked like moss had started to grow about the edges of the thin rope that was still tied across her mouth, biting into its corners so that she seemed to smile. It was not a happy smile, more like the smile of one that has swallowed a fly thinking it was a currant, yet would feign that it was a currant to those watching suspiciously.

Despite the awful empty eyes and her frantic grin, still I could tell that she had been beautiful — this cousin of mine. The butcher looked round at me as if checking my whereabouts, seemingly concerned with my welfare. Then he took a short-bladed knife from inside his coat and carefully cut the cord at the middle of her lips. He had to peel the rope away from the skin where it had become embedded by the bloating flesh. It came away with a sound that reminded me of walking through thick mud. Behind it her teeth were crooked, some still standing as they had before, others wrenched from their roots pointing backwards towards her throat. Tiny wriggling worms played about exposed roots.

‘He pulled it tight with all his strength,’ the butcher murmured. His face was ripe and weathered, thick-pored skin unblemished by pox. A big, friendly face. The way he spoke was strange — it sounded like Scots. Tall and broad, he had thick arms and he wore thick canvas trousers and a rough, stained linen shirt. His nails were cut very short, the ends of his fingers a dull red. Flakes of old dried blood sat in his cuticles and in the lines of his knuckles. Silver hair grew straight and strong upwards out of his head as if determined to escape the bloody grime that coated his scalp. He was a walking graveyard.

Staring into the girl’s mouth, he cautiously prised her jaws open wide with two giant forefingers. He was having to squint in the poor grey light that seeped into the vestry from inside the church, so I took a candle from the single shelf and held it that he might see better. Grunting, he stuck his knife into her mouth at which point I looked away. The room was bare save for a wooden crucifix on the wall, a cupboard, an array of wooden candlestick holders on the shelf and the table upon which lay the body of Anne Giles. What was I doing here in this cursed place?

The butcher stood up gradually and rubbed his back with his palms. Then he exhaled slowly and returned to his work. Lifting up her head with one hand, he carefully unwound the cord from her mouth, then dropped it into a cloth bag that he pulled from within his jacket.

‘We will burn it,’ he explained.

And your clothes with it, I thought to myself, but said nothing.

He took another length of cloth, moistened it, and cleaned up the rest of her face. The edges of the skin where the rope had bitten marked the edges of a jagged, deep ravine now sculpted across her face permanently, at least until the beetles came back and ate the rest of it later.

‘There she lies,’ said the butcher, wiping his hands on a new piece of cloth in a poor effort to clean them. There she lay indeed, her small, thin body shrouded in a thick cloth dress the colour of which I couldn’t tell in the small, dark room in which we three were grouped together. Her long red hair lay in waves across her shoulders and over her breasts but her face was mutilated almost beyond recognition.

‘You are sure that she be your cousin?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I have never met my cousin, indeed never knew she was my cousin.’

‘Oh.’ The butcher looked at me strangely.

I shrugged. Though she was supposed to be my cousin, I had never met her before and so felt no kinship. It was a grim experience to behold her in her current state, but in truth she looked no worse than the severed heads that blew in the breeze over Nonsuch House. The sooner we could get out of this room the better. The air was foul and I was worried that it would seep into my lungs and infect my humour.

Though he had a kindly face and a generous disposition, the way that the butcher looked at me was vexing. Something of his manner made me feel like I was being judged in all that I said. It wasn’t a feeling I much liked. He stared at me now as if I should tell him what to do next.

‘What do you conclude from your inspections?’ I asked him.

‘That some wicked villain cut both her eyes out with a short, wide blade and then tied a cord tight round her mouth so hard that her teeth broke.’

That much was obvious. Standing above me with his hands on his hips, it seemed that he was waiting for me to ask him another question. We stood in uncomfortable silence.

‘The body has been lying there for three days,’ he said at last.

‘Three days? They left the body in here three days?’

‘Aye, news got about quickly as to the nature of her death. The congregation will not return until they understand the meaning of it.’

‘And so what has happened in three days?’

The butcher watched me like he was suspicious. ‘Little. The King had to be consulted and agents appointed.’

And then they appointed the butcher? This was too strange. And who was it that went all the way to Cocksmouth to tell my father? Odd fish, indeed.

I peered about the small, unventilated room. Thick stone walls were damp to the touch and condensation fell from the ceiling in small drops. Little wonder that the body had started to go green so quick. ‘Has no one told the relatives that she lies here?’

He looked at me as if I were a simple buffoon. ‘You are the relative.’

‘Of course.’ I kept forgetting.

Fixing me with his big brown eyes he seemed determined to extract from me some explanation as to what was going on. You are looking at the wrong man, I thought, but felt no inclination to enlighten him just yet. My brow had started to prickle and my stomach was doing those things that it does just before you vomit. I grasped for the handle of the door that led outside, but the door was locked, so I turned and fled down the aisle of the church, out into the weak winter sunshine. Taking another breath, relieved that I had managed to get this far without unloading, I headed out as far as I could get into the more remote corners of the churchyard before I had to stop and discharge. The relief, when it came, was blessed.