Joseph D'Lacey - Meat

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.

‘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.