The Butchers' Blessing Read online

  But thinking of the house only spurred her again. She crouched low into a clump of bog rush and stripped her layers away. She knew at this time of year, in only bra and knickers, there was no point trying to ease herself in. So instead she edged to the lip of the embankment and leapt—breath held—plunging beneath the water, where the cold was sharp as a million little knives; but she willed them to stab and stab, to cut to shreds whatever fug, whatever unease, had been blanketing her of late. She promised when she broke the surface again she would be renewed.

  It was afterwards, while she was getting dressed, that she saw him on the rock. At first she thought the movement was just a bird—a heron or a grebe—though surely it was too early yet for them? Then there was the giant eye that confused her further, but when he lowered the camera the whole of him just about made sense. She fixed the button on her jeans and slipped her feet into her boots.

  She hadn’t been doing anything wrong and yet she felt, once again, as if she had been caught outright. She wondered how far his lens could zoom in; wondered if he could see her nipples poking out beneath her gardening gear. But then the wonder turned into a kind of rage, because what was he—some sort of pervert? Lurking here in the back of beyond, preying on whatever poor unfortunate creature he happened across?

  “Excuse me?” The wind was up now and it was against her, making tendrils of her dripping hair. “Excuse me, you can’t just go taking photos of people without their permission.” She didn’t quite recognise the sound of her voice, nor the formality of her words. “You know I could report you to the Gardaí?”

  It was only when she was much closer that she felt her anger teetering. His hair was fair. His face was young. His sunglasses were perched on his head even though the sky above was still dark with clouds.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  When he spoke for the first time she frowned, resenting the implication that he had done anything to her at all.

  “I promise I’m only interested in the landscape.”

  The second time she felt something closer to offence.

  “Stunning, isn’t it?”

  It was his accent she noticed next—probably Dublin if she had to guess—but instead of asking, she followed his gaze towards the high bog where the conifers stood in formation, their roots living off the rot and bones of whatever had been swallowed there. “What are you, some kind of naturist?” She did her best to sound contrary. “Up from the big smoke to get your fix. Or are you—”

  “A naturist?” He took a step forward from the rock, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “In this weather? You’d freeze! No, I’m a photographer,” he said. “Ronan Monks. Doing a project on the borderlands.”

  She didn’t acknowledge his joke, only focused on his name, which made her think of holy men in habits. She wondered—of all things—whether this stranger was a man of faith.

  “Or at least, I’m trying to.”

  But when she focused back on his face, the smirk had already vanished.

  “I’ve been out here all week,” he said, “but my shots have been mostly rubbish. I don’t suppose you have any suggestions?”

  And for whatever reason, the question made Grá suddenly think, not of her long-lost sister or her precious daughter, but of her husband. A man of certainty, of absolutes. He had never asked her for a suggestion in his life. “Well, I’m afraid, Mr. Monks, I’ve no time to be playing tour guide.” She hurried her arms over her chest. “I’ll be swimming again tomorrow and I would appreciate some privacy.” Her nipples were now throbbing with the cold.

  It seemed the weather had at least decided to join in her fury, the clouds opening up as she turned for home, the rain stinging her face as she trampled the nettles and cottongrass. Upon returning, she slammed the front door and leaned her body against it, waiting for the breathlessness to pass. When it did she realised, very sharply, that her head was dizzy with hunger. She pulled a towel off the peg in the hallway and padded to the kitchen where she flicked on the radio and kettle, her two ever-loyal friends. As soon as she saw the cake, she reached for it with both hands. She didn’t bother with knives or plates. She took it in fists and crammed it into her mouth; felt the icing smear around her lips, the crumbs digging deep under her nails.

  She ate and ate until she began to feel sick, then she ate even more. Next she felt guilt, which always forced her to keep going; she had ruined everything so it was too late now to stop. It was only when half the cake was gone that she finally paused for breath and noticed the voices on the radio. It was the lunchtime news—apparently the scientists over in England had just confirmed it; apparently humans could definitely contract BSE. So British beef was now officially banned, though in some cases it was too late—the disease had already taken hold. Eight people were dead and counting.

  And just like that, the rage fell out of Grá’s body as she puddled to the kitchen floor. She rested her head against the cabinet door and closed her eyes. She tried to swallow, but already she could feel the sense of unease returning worse than ever, rising up in her throat with the icing like a grey and murky tide.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Fionn

  County Monaghan, March 1996

  He was already gobshite late, but he couldn’t leave without sorting herself.

  He had made boiled eggs and soldiers for his first breakfast and guzzled the whole lot down (to his mind, they had been British soldiers, of course—bite off their fecking heads). Then he had done a bowl of cornflakes, just to be sure—even if he wasn’t buying or selling today, it was always important not to set off to the mart on an empty gut.

  Fionn clicked the hob. The smell of the gas half reminded him of the drink. He shook his head and plonked the kettle over the flame.

  After everything that had happened, he had sold off most of the acres and scaled things right down on the farm. “Smallholder” was the word for him now. “Semi-retired” he preferred. He still managed to pool together just enough milk to meet the quotas. The farming subsidies (if he jiggered them right) just about kept the place afloat.

  Fionn noticed a spill of egg yolk hardening itself on the countertop. He flicked it off. The bitch would snuffle it up later for a salty treat.

  He knew it would feel a bit strange showing up empty-handed, even though he also knew it was curiosity as much as anything that was sending him down to the livestock mart today. Because ever since the British beef ban earlier in the month there had been endless talk doing the rounds about all the opportunities this could now mean for Irish farmers. Apparently there were new jobs on the horizon; new contracts from Europe to be signed. “The Celtic Beef Boom,” the papers were calling it. Fionn wondered who in shite had come up with that. But in fairness, if the rumours were true then it really could be a chance for the country to flourish; a chance to finally break away from England and prosper all on her own.

  The kettle’s rattle matched his enthusiasm. Fionn poured the water, then let it draw while he fetched the milk from the fridge.

  But on top of his nosiness about the boom, there was another purpose to today’s escapade: a face that needed to be found amongst the crowd and a question that needed to be asked. Fionn was well aware it was the reason he was a bit wired this morning, out milking the girls even earlier than usual. When he had finished, he hadn’t washed his hands. It was an old superstition meant to bring good luck.

  His boots went savage with the stairs, a shudder down to the foundations, a skip over the fourth step from the top, which always made the noisiest creak. But with every stage of the ascension Fionn felt himself relax, almost as if her aura were seeping underneath the door.

  “Eileen?” He rapped lightly, then he pushed; breathed in the slightly stale air. He would leave a note telling Davey to change her sheets when he got home from school. “Morning, love.” He tried a clumsy version of tiptoes, though still the duvet didn’t budge as he set the cup next to the Bible he had left out on the stand.

  Up close, he saw th
e eyes were shut, the new growth of hair matted flat into the pillow, but it was enough. He exhaled. He didn’t feel wired any more. “Right, love, I’m off to the mart. According to the rumours, the mad cow stuff in England has been good news for the boyos over here—the prices are going through the roof!” He stopped. The optimism somehow felt a little cruel. He wondered if today would be one of her good days or one of her bad.

  It was almost nine months since the last bit of treatment on the lump in Eileen’s brain. The surgery had excavated the bulk (Fionn pictured a wee JCB digger), then the chemo had zapped the dregs. Her strength was returning, but now the doctors had her on more drugs in case of a seizure or epileptic fit. The pills left her knackered; caused dreadful headaches of their own. Some days she barely left the bed.

  Fionn waited a moment longer, hoping to catch a glimpse of his wife’s emerald greens. She always said the eye colour ran in her family, though as it happened he had never met any of the others. When her lids stayed shut, he sighed and set off. He told himself she would be better when he came home from the mart, especially if he was bearing some good news of his own.

  Out on the road it was wild—Mother Nature at her most demented—no postcard bollocks as far as the eye could see; only whitebeam and blackthorn, bracken and broom, briars and brambles that would flay you to shreds. The hawthorn leaves had returned, thickening up the hedges, while elsewhere the fields were spliced by stone walls or barbed-wire fences—all the borderlines demarcating one man’s slab of muck from the next.

  Fionn revved the 4×4 a little harder, letting the familiar view work its wonders. He had been born and raised on the same farm and beaten about daily there as well. Though there had been a fistful of decent memories too—his father taking him off on junkets through these very roads, the shroud of blackness and petty criminality bringing them close.

  Fionn did his first bit of cattle smuggling when he was just fourteen years of age. “Not that you’ll be of any use,” his daddy had slurred through the drink. “Just keep your gob shut and watch.” Big Billy Tierney had been there that night, the Horgan duo nestled close in the lorry’s cab, a violent stench of farts and prawn-cocktail crisps. They drove for an hour before they reached the unapproved road, crossed the border into the North, and met the pair of Proddy lads just after two. The cattle hides glowed fluorescent beneath the moon, but their cover was safe enough—their contact had charged a small fortune to ensure the guards wouldn’t be on patrol tonight.

  It had taken them ages to get the last of their livestock loaded up into the filthy container. When it was finally over, Fionn’s daddy had pocketed the cash. And then he had offered his son a rare smile—a look that might have almost resembled love. It seemed that up in no man’s land the usual rules just didn’t apply.

  Fionn had been dreaming of such escapades ever since he was a little lad. At school they had done the story of Táin Bó Cúlainge, “The Cattle Raid of Cooley.” It began with the Queen of Connacht storming Ulster to try to get her hands on Dáire mac Fiachna’s bull. When she failed, the battles had begun—thousands of men led to the slaughter—all for the want of that fine specimen of a beast.

  And Fionn had long imagined passing the famous story down to a son of his very own, picturing happy years and clandestine trips to come. Only, by the time he was married, the cattle smuggling had become a far more complicated thing. The Troubles were raging. Contact or no, the borderlands were no longer safe. Then in ’74, the Dublin–Monaghan bombings had left thirty-three men, women, and children dead, which meant the patrols were even tighter than before. Eileen would sit glue-eyed to the violence on the tele, begging him to abandon his trips, while Fionn would try to explain: “It’s nothing to do with politics, love—it’s only cattle; only dodging the tariffs for a few extra quid.” Until one night, Big Billy Tierney got himself murdered on a run, a bullet through the face while he was driving some Dexters to sell on the sly. Eileen had soothed the worst of Fionn’s grief, then reminded him what he already knew: “In this country, love, cattle are politics.”

  Back on the road, Fionn spared a thought for his late friend, but also for what could have been—a rite of passage with his only child—the thing that might have finally brought them close. As it was, Davey had never shown any interest in the cattle or the farming, only in poetry and ancient books—Fionn wondered where in shite he had picked up all of that. Though he reminded himself, all things considered, it could have been a whole lot worse between them—compared to the bruises and bashes off his own daddy, it was grand. Fionn had sworn to himself he would never make the same mistakes; would never raise a fist to his family.

  He had broken that promise only once, and God knows he would never go breaking it again.

  From the moment he stepped out of the 4×4, the air was men and animals and it was mighty to him. Fionn inhaled, soaking it up, the throbbing buzz of baritones. There were tractors reversing and livestock groaning and Northern Sound blaring from car radios, traffic reports and weather forecasts and lists of all the recently deceased. Men supped from flasks of tea or stronger, trying to take all the edges off. Fionn paused. Christ above, he could have murdered a taste. But instead he tucked his T-shirt into his jocks, heaved another deep breath, and aimed his wellies in the direction of the hangar.

  The closer he got, the more he realised just how busy things really were. Every pen was stuffed to the brink; every queue stretched for miles out the door. The air was like a carnival—like when the knackers brought the hurdy-gurdies to town—a look of anticipation lit across every unshaven face.

  The Celtic Beef Boom.

  Opportunities.

  It turned out the rumours were absolutely true.

  Eventually a few lads clocked his arrival. Fionn was a little wary how they would react. He knew he had never been the most popular—they considered him a bit of a tight bastard, a nasty drunk—same as his daddy before him. And as for that oddball son? Fionn cast his mind back to the house. He hoped Davey had checked on Eileen before he left for school. He hoped she had woken in time to take her tea while it was still warm.

  “Thought you’d forgotten us down in your wee dairy retirement home.” The first one to approach him was Derek O’Brien, or “DOB” as he was known—a nickname that made him sound almost as thick as he truly was. But Fionn was grateful to him all the same; a precedent set so now the rest would follow suit.

  “Well, I heard ye were having the life of Reilly up here, so I figured I’d see about all the fuss.”

  “Never mind Reilly.” DOB winked. “With the Brits firmly out of the picture, we’re going to be able to buy and sell any Reilly for twice the fucking price.”

  Behind DOB now there was Mossy McGrath, Briain Ní Ghríofa, and the Sullivan twins. It seemed the atmosphere was so jubilant that any eejit was welcome—no matter your popularity or your daddy before you. So Fionn let his hand be pumped and let himself lap up the sense of occasion, matching the grins and nodding the head.

  And yet.

  His eyes remained peeled for Martin Fahey. A quiet wee word in his ear. A certain question meant for him and him alone.

  “Right so.” DOB slapped Fionn’s back. “Come on, I’ve a heifer up next.” Not waiting for an answer, only leading him inside where the atmosphere was tenser, so many men crammed under one roof it might collapse.

  The farmers sat in tiers around the ring, leaning forward and licking lips like the creatures on show were for eating there and then, not for taking home to fatten up. The board told the weight and breed of the next lot, while the shiny new ads from Bank of Ireland wished them well from on high. Some lads fidgeted their hands in their pockets—almost dodgy-looking, like—but Fionn knew it was only for surreptitious strings of rosary beads, as if Our Blessed Lady might spare a moment from her divine routine to dabble in a bit of agricultural bargaining.

  DOB’s heifer was led in by the drover with cauliflower ears who whacked his stick a few times on the dirt. She had a fine broad muzzle an
d a straight enough back. Fionn thought of Glassy, his favourite girl, with her gorgeous nature and her wonky walk. He had purchased her in this very room, secretly heeding the superstition about lame cows giving the sweetest milk. It turned out the lore had served him very well indeed.

  Now the bell rang out and the auctioneer began on the microphone, calling numbers and spotting twitches off men that meant a higher bid. The stream of words was almost unintelligible, racing a hundred miles an hour. It went so fast it took a minute for Fionn to get his ear back in, and even when the meaning arrived it still made little sense, because this was serious, the figures they were flinging—four, maybe five times what he used to get for a sale. He decided there must be an error on the board; must be a whole batch of heifers out back and this one just a sample specimen. DOB spotted the gorm on him and smirked. “Another contract arrived from France. Some English farmer had to let it go thanks to his woes so we hoovered it up. Cry me a river, Mr. Major, am I right?”

  The cow had started to grow a bit angsty, her hooves twitching a dance in the dust. But even as the stakes went higher the men didn’t blink, which let Fionn know that DOB was right—they could get their money back on the meat no bother—desperate times and desperate French and a round of pints in O’Connell’s pub tonight singing a chorus of “God save the beef-banned Queen!”

  But not for Fionn. He felt the fizz of him start to flatten—it was a world that suddenly felt very far away, while he was left behind with his semi-retirement and his oddball son and his beloved wife shrunken into herself.

  Which reminded him.

  Martin Fahey.

  All done!

  The auctioneer’s hammer clanged a final price and Fionn slipped away while DOB whistled out a rebel song.

  Martin Fahey’s wife had been diagnosed a few years back with a rare and untreatable form of cancer. Some had suggested taking her to the old woman down in Carrickmacross who was said to have “The Cure”—the ancient Irish gift for healing. But instead, Fionn heard Martin had taken her to a clinic in Dublin where they ran “experimental” trials. He didn’t know the details—he suspected it was far beyond what the semi-retirement could afford—but the least he could do was ask; the very very least.