Joseph D'Lacey - Meat

‘Townsfolk of Abyrne, you are God’s children in God’s town. As His representative, as the keeper of your welfare, I tell you this: A great blessing has come to pass this day. Rory Magnus, the man who kept the town on the edge of starvation because of his greed, Rory Magnus is dead. He is dead because God wants a righteous town where everyone eats and no one starves. He wants a town where there is order and piety through compassion, not violence. He decrees—’

‘What about meat?’ shouted a voice. He couldn’t see who’d said it.

‘You shall have it. The whole town shall have meat. Go back to your homes. Allow my Parsons and I to continue to the plant where we will regain control of all production. Then we can distribute God’s divine gift of nourishment fairly and abundantly.’

‘But we’re hungry now,’ someone else shouted. ‘What are we going to eat right now?’

He knew he shouldn’t have considered the question, allowed it to linger in his mind. He should have just continued and ignored it.

‘Yeah,’ yelled another voice. ‘We want meat today. Now. Not some fucking distribution.’

More voices joined in.

‘He’s right.’

‘No distribution.’

‘Give us meat.’

‘We’ll not starve.’

‘We want it now.’

The Grand Bishop raised his hands once more to placate the agitated voices.

‘Please, please. That’s enough. You shall all have full stomachs, as God is my witness.’

A couple of the Parsons to his right backed away from the crowd. Just a couple of inches, more of a flinch really, but the townsfolk sensed it even if they didn’t actually see it.

‘Stand firm,’ hissed the Grand Bishop from the side of his mouth.

‘We want meat.’

‘I’ve already told y–’

‘We want meat.’

A chant had begun.

‘We want meat.’

‘Good townsfolk, I implore you…’

He was losing control.

The chant intensified and spread back through the crowd. Anger flared in their eyes again.

‘WE WANT MEAT.’

Someone threw a broken brick. It hit Atwell between the eyes making a loud, damp thud. Something had broken inside.

The chant stopped.

Atwell staggered half a step back, unsure what had happened. Blood cascaded from the wound, down his face and onto his robes staining them an even deeper red. He dropped to his knees and fell on his face.

The chant began again, spoken quietly now, not shouted.

‘We want meat… We want meat.’

Boots and bars tapped the broken road surface in time with the syllables.

‘We want meat… We want meat.’

The chant gained power, townsfolk from far, far back giving their voices to it.

Someone threw another brick. The Grand Bishop saw it coming and ducked. He didn’t see which of his Parsons it hit but he heard the cry of pain.

There was a moment, it stretched long between chants. In the moment both sides knew something was about to happen. It rose like an invisible wave. At the end of the moment every Parson turned away and started to run. At the same time, missiles shot from the mob and thundered into their turned backs. Stones hitting heads, rocks hitting backs and legs. The Parsons began to fall and the suddenly rushing mob trampled them into the tarmac with its thousands of stomping feet.

The Grand Bishop lifted the hem of his robes and fled.

The ditch was just deep enough that, if they kept their heads down, no one would see them from the road or from the plant. From time to time Shanti stopped and peeped up over the long grass and weeds that grew unchecked along the verge.

Collins and his followers had split into two lines. One faced Bruno’s men, the other the MMP gate. Bruno’s arrival had emboldened Torrance and the stockmen anew – their enemies were now trapped in a pincer as well as outnumbered. It couldn’t be long before someone made a move on them. Shanti didn’t want to see them butchered but going back to help would do no good. He had his part to play, as Collins had said. There were no more choices now.

Further ahead on the other side of the road was the rear perimeter fence that surrounded the meat packing plant. Shanti knew it was old and poorly maintained. Breaking through would be easy. He knelt down.

‘Girls, I want you to stay here. Lie down in the ditch or go further back into the hedge, but whatever happens, do not come out to look for me. No one must see you. Understand?’

Two solemn nods and with them, quiet tears.

He hugged them tight.

‘If there was any other way of doing this, a way that meant we could stay together, I’d do it. But there isn’t.’

In his mind he said to them: But if we survive this, it must be without either of you seeing the inside of this plant. No one should ever see such a place again.

‘So, hide now, my sweethearts, and I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.’

He gave them each another kiss, telling himself it would not be the last.

Then he scrambled farther along the ditch, far enough that none of the fighters at the gate would see him. Finally, he darted up over the lip of the ditch and across the road. The fence was completely broken down in one place and he ran straight over it to the wall of the first building. The wall was made of wood. He pulled nine thimbles out of his pocket and pressed his eight fingers and one thumb into them.

Then he began to tap, loud and hard, on that wooden wall, like a madman playing a tuneless piano.

Collins stood beside Staithe and with his back to Vigors.

In the road right behind them stood Bruno and his crew – ready to go at it again but with reservations. Ahead were too many men to count. The followers stood back to back with eyes on each faction. It was fine to die this way and Collins was more than ready. His life had gone on far longer than he’d planned. He might have died that day back in Magnus’s study had it not been for the realisation that he could do so much better, so much more.

However, he didn’t mean to give the opposition an easy victory. He and his followers would take as many as they could and hold the rest off for as long as possible. But the light in their bellies would not last forever. Sooner or later the energy would be spent, and at that moment they’d succumb to the odds.

He harried himself over how best to use their small numbers. Finally it came to him. He spoke into Staithe’s ear and the message passed swiftly. Unseen by their opponents, they all put their hands behind their backs and touched for strength and friendship one final time.

‘NOW!’ cried Collins.

The thirty lean, rag-attired followers all faced the front gate and rushed in past the barrier. They split, fifteen slipping past the right side of the mob, fifteen passing to the left. Collins saw the look of outraged disbelief on Torrance’s face as he flitted past the man. It had been the perfect move. Now the stockmen and black-coats had to fight on two flanks and Bruno’s men would have to join them rather than having the advantage of attacking simultaneously from behind.

At no time in their brief fighting past had the followers needed to land the first blow – Parsons and black-coats had needed no invitation. Stockmen were no different. The attacks came furiously; hate propelling the swipe of every weapon. The faces of the followers were serene as they danced between the slashes and thrusts.

Parfitt unlocked another gate.

Skidding from one bullpen to the next, he slammed open the bolts, bruising his palms with each new impact. He was sweating, panicking. There wasn’t enough time. Halfway around the pens he realised there was no movement. No bulls were coming out of their pens.

Too frightened.