Patrick McCabe - The Butcher Boy

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SHORTLISTED FOR THE 1992 BOOKER PRIZE
WINNER OF THE IRISH TIMES-AER LINGUS
LITERATURE PRIZE FOR FICTION
"BRILLIANT, UNIQUE. Patrick McCabe pushes your head through the book and you come out the other end gasping, admiring, and knowing that reading fiction will never be the same again. It's the best Irish novel I've read in years." – Roddy Doyle, Author, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
"STUNNING… PART HUCK FINN, PART HOLDEN CAULFIELD, PART HANNIBAL LECTER." – The New York Times Book Review
"AN ALMOST PERFECT NOVEL… A BECKETT MONOLOGUE WITH PLOT BY ALFRED HITCHCOCK… STARTLINGLY ORIGINAL." – The Washington Post Book World
"BRILLIANT… Francie is a shrewd and amusing observer… his voice is mordant, colloquial and brash as a punch in the nose." – Scott Turow
"A ROLLICKING NASTY NOVEL." – The Village Voice
"There are a number of fine novels about violent youth, and Patrick McCabe's frightening and sorrowful The Butcher Boy stands up to any of them… Francie portrays himself in every word he utters, and his language gives Patrick McCabe's The Butcher Boy its valuable dread power." – The Atlanta Journal Constitution
"A CHILLING TALE OF A CHILD'S HELL… OFTEN SCREAMINGLY FUNNY… THE BOOK HAS A COMPELLING AND TERRIBLE BEAUTY." – The Boston Globe
"A tour de force." – Kirkus Reviews
"IT'S AS BRIGHT AS IT IS DEPRESSING, AS FUNNY AS IT IS GRUESOME. We see Francie clearly as psychopath, and we ache with sympathy for him. It's almost impossible to pinpoint the moment in his growing up when the imagination of an ordinary boy shades over into something dangerously loony. The key is Francie's slangy, angry, '60s-flavored voice, which McCabe renders with a minimum of punctuation and a maximum of control." – Los Angeles Times Book Review
"AN UNRELENTING, UPBEAT STREAM OF PATTER. McCabe's acclaimed third novel… walks the path of dementia with remarkable assurance." – Entertainment Weekly
"McCABE'S FRANCIE SPEAKS IN A RICH VERNACULAR SPIRITED BY THE BRASSY AND ENDEARING RHYTHMS OF PERPETUAL DELINQUENCY; even in his gradual unhinging, Francie remains a winning raconteur. By looking so deeply into Francie's soul, McCabe subtly suggests a common source of political and personal violence – lack of love and hope." – Publishers Weekly
"PATRICK McCABE IS AN OUTSTANDING WRITER. The Butcher Boy is fearful, original, compelling and very hard to put out of your mind. American readers should pay close attention to this man." – Thomas McGuane
"A BRILLIANT BOOK SO VERY FUNNY AS WELL AS BEING HEARTRENDINGLY SAD." – J. P. Donleavy
"Written with wonderful assurance and a technical skill that is as great as it is unobtrusive… Perhaps the novel is best read as a twisted coming-of-age story; imagine Huck Finn crossed with Charlie Starkweather, and you have Francie Brady, the young narrator of The Butcher Boy." – The Washington Post Book World
"A POTENT AMALGAM OF COMEDY, HORROR AND PATHOS… The Butcher Boy is a prime slice of modern Gothic… McCabe presents a study in spiritual derangement that rivets." – The Sunday Times (London)
"DEADLY SERIOUS, TERRIFICALLY LOONY AND SCARY, AND ABSOLUTELY HILARIOUS… Francie Brady's story is reminiscent of Samuel Beckett's Molloy, Moran, Malone, and the Unnameable even, with Anthony Burgess's Alex tossed in for good measure." – James McManus
"THE MOST ASTONISHING IRISH NOVEL FOR MANY YEARS, A MASTERPIECE." – Sunday Independent
"A POWERFUL AND DEEPLY SHOCKING NOVEL where the seemingly innocent logic of a child imperceptibly turns into the manic logic of an unhinged mind. Patrick McCabe portrays 1960s small-town life from a bizarre perspective where the aliens from Outer Space on the television are as real as the emotional poverty of one child filled with unconscious envy for another." – Dermont Bolger

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The tree trunks had to haul him off me. I dusted myself down and complained to them. This is a disgrace, I said, a person can't walk around without being attacked.

Another day he comes over: So its a disgrace is it! Being attack-did is a disgrace.

Attack-did! Attack-did!

Well – I heard, he says. They're going to give you the treatment. There won't be so much lip out of you when they take you off and put the holes in your head. Know what they do then? They take your brains out. I know! I've been here long enough. I seen the last fellow. He used to stand at the window all day long eating bits of paper. Do you like paper? Well you better start getting to like it. He won't be so smart then he shouts down to Twighead at the bottom of the ward. He rubbed his hands with glee.

I had a good laugh at that. Taking your brains out, for fuck's sake. But that was before I woke up one day and there's Walter at the end of the bed talking away in whispers about me but I heard: Its best for him in the end! I knew it was no use saying anything to him. I ran out of the ward and went straight to the office. There was a meeting going on but I didn't care. I told them: You can't touch me! I said. You can't lay a finger on me! I want out of here!

I made a run for it but it was no use. Now Francis and another jab in the arse it must have been a big jab this time all I could say was mm mm as they carried me down the stairs.

We can do it now says the doctor and holds up the syringe to the light. Yes indeed says Walter and looks at me then I look down and what has he got in his hand only a drill you'd use to put up shelves.

Can you move your head a little please Francis?

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

There. That's better he said in a soft voice. Hand me the cotton wool please doctor.

Then there was a knock at the door and who pops his head in only Joe.

Is Francie here? C'mon Francie we're ridin' out. We've got to move fast!

A pony whinnied.

OK Joe I said and threw the white sheet off me.

That's what you think says Joe and I could hear the blondie one laughing outside the door.

Joe, I called, Joe!

So you're the Time Lord says the Roman, prepare to die and I swung away up hanging by the heel.

Joe I called again but the room was empty.

I could hear the hush of the sea.

I looked down and saw Mrs Connolly. She watched me swinging to and fro smiling away with her arms folded. Come on down out of that she says so down I got. The other women looked at me from the bottom of the shop. How are you today Francie Mrs Connolly said.

I'm fine I said.

Mrs Connolly folded her arms. Ah, she said and the women smiled.

I'll bet you didn't know Francie – I'll bet you didn't know I had something for you.

No Mrs Connolly I didn't I said.

Aha but I have! she says. What do you think of that!

It's good Mrs Connolly I said.

Ah isn't he lovely she said again.

Are you going to sing a little song for me? Is he going to sing a little song for us ladies?

They said: Are you Francis?

A little song and the special prize is all yours! says Mrs Connolly.

She was hiding it behind her back.

Well – what are you going to sing? Will you sing my favourite for me? You know how much I like that one. Mm?

Yes Mrs Connolly I said.

I was just standing there with my knees together and my head down all shy. I was like something you'd see on a snakes and ladders board.

Horray!, said Mrs Connolly. Quiet now ladies! Away you go Francis!

I did a few Irish dancing steps that the nuns taught us hopperty skip round the shop and singing:

I am a little Baby Pig I'll have you all to know

With the pinkest little floppy ears and a tail that curls up so

I like to trot around the town and have myself some fun

And I'll be a little porky pig till my trotting days are done!

When I was finished I was all hot and out of breath thank you thank you says Mrs Connolly and the women clapping away: He's better than the London Palladium!

Then Mrs Connolly put up her hand. Ssh, she says and out of nowhere a fat red polished apple.

Oh! the women gasped.

It just sat in the middle of Mrs Connolly's palm.

What-do-you-think-of- that! she says with her eyes twinkling.

Its lovely, I said.

Would you like to have a bite of it? she said.

Yes Mrs Connolly I said, I sure would and nodding away I could taste it in my mouth already.

What do you say ladies? Will I give him a bite of it?

Then the women started mm mm well and all this and had a big discussion.

Yes, they said then – if he picks it up like a pig!

Mrs Connolly rubbed it on her sleeve and said: Well Francis – will you pick it up like a pig?

I said I would and she went down on one knee and rolled it slowly along the rubber mat. I tried to grip it with my teeth but down on all fours like that it was too hard to get at it. You'd think you had it then down it'd go again and every time it did the women cheered. Oh! they said, he's dropped it again. Then they clapped and cheered and said: Come on Francie you can do it! But I couldn't do it. It was too hard. Can I use one hand? I said. One trotter you mean, they said. Uh-uh, sorry. That's against the rules. I don't know how many times I dropped it. Ten or eleven maybe. In the end Mrs Connolly took pity on me and handed me the apple.

Ah you poor little pig, she says, God love you. Can you not even pick up an apple?

Don't worry Francie!, the women said, its all yours now! Go on – eat it!

I didn't want to eat it while they were looking at me but I had to. They kept saying: And another bite now!

They did that until I was down to the core. Then Mrs Connolly went over to the window and looked out. Here they come! she said and they all started talking together again about the weather and how hard it was to manage with the price of everything. I didn't know who it was they were waiting for I just stood there watching the flesh of the apple browning in my hand. Then I looked up and saw who it was Ma and Da Pig standing there. The women went quiet when they came in and Mrs Connolly smiled over at ma. Then she coughed and dabbed her nose with a tissue. She leaned over to the woman beside her and whispered: We should see the father and mother of a row between these two in a minute!

They waited there looking them up and down. They were saying: Come on! Say something we want to see a row!

But there was no row. Ma and Da Pig didn't say anything just stood there roast red, afraid to speak or look anyone in the eye. Oh please! Let there be a row! Mrs Connolly was thinking. She squeezed the tissue up in her hand.

We've waited here all this time for nothing – there isn't going to be a row after all!

And there wasn't. The row didn't start until we got outside. Ma Pig was near to tears.

Why didn't you do something? Why didn't you say something? she cried.

Me? Da Pig snapped, why is it always me? He went hoarse arguing and he went from red to pure white. Then the two of them turned on me.

Why did you take the apple you stupid little pig? they said. I stuttered and stammered. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know why I had taken the stupid apple. The whole town was out to watch us going up Church Hill. Hello there Pigs, called Doctor Roche, that's not a bad day!

He locked his car and went into the hotel saying: They're a grand family those pigs!

There were so many people waving and calling to us that we were exhausted by the time we got to the Tower. There was nobody in the bar only us. There was a smell of old porter and a whiff coming from the men's toilets, it was a bar of dead years. The barman knew it was us without even looking up he rubbed his hands with a cloth and said well pigs what can I get you?

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