Come to Harm (26 page)

“The old guy—Marsh, that was his name! Pete Marsh—he was at the other side, cutting out the gut. You cut round and grab it before it drops into the belly and then you keep a hold of it till you've opened the underside and strip the whole gut out at once. That's the trickiest bit, to stop the guts spilling into the meat and spoiling it, but there's no need for it all to be done so quickly. That's the thing. There was no need for him to be at it already before Dad was finished at the throat. But I think it must be some kind of a … you know? To get the guts out, get the dirt away from the carcass before it's hardly dead?”

He closed his eyes and saw again Murray shrieking, backing away from his father and the fountain of blood.

“And he got under Marsh's feet and Marsh let go of the gut end, so then Murray tried to get out of the way of that and put his foot in the blood bucket. By this time he was squealing his head off, and it sounded exactly like the pig when they were lifting it.” Malcolm stopped for a couple of breaths, remembering, and then went on in a harder tone.

“All I could think about was getting Murray out of there and getting him cleaned up, and maybe if my father had left Marsh and the pig and taken Murray away in to Mum for a cuddle, he might have been okay. But Dad got angry. Mr. Marsh too. I think Dad was mad with himself for not having the sense to know that Murray was too young, but it was Murray he shouted at. Shaking him and shouting at him. And Marsh must have been angry with my father for letting his kids muck everything up—the carcass was completely ruined—and he was shouting too.

“So they're both really giving it some and Murray's screaming and skidding about, covered in blood and pig dirt and bile—it maybe sounds like nothing now, but—”

“It sounds horrific,” said Keiko. “Poor little boys, both of you.”

“I was all right,” said Malcolm. “I was eight, not five. I could have done something.”

“You mustn't say that. You mustn't think that way. It was up to your father to—”

“Well, anyway, Dad took him by the scruff and yanked him upstairs here, and then he starts shouting at Mum saying how she's turned him into a sissy, and she starts yelling back about the mess traipsed up into the flat. It was the worst row they ever had, and I'm sure Mum must have been against letting us see the slaughter in the first place. That's why she was so angry and how come Dad was shouting his head off at her. For being right, you know?”

Keiko nodded.

“They still weren't speaking by the time we went to bed that night. We could hear my dad scrubbing away at the slaughterhouse and my mum trying to get the footprints off the hall carpet, so when Murray had a nightmare there was no way I was going to get either of them. I took care of him myself. Tried to anyway.”

“Just that first night?” said Keiko.

Malcolm shook his head. “That was my big mistake,” he said. “My parents never mentioned it again, not a word, as if it never happened. And so I never told them how bad it was at nighttime.”

“They never said sorry to Murray?” Keiko asked him.

“They never said anything. And anytime they had a wee row about something, Murray would run away and hide, shaking. And I never told them about that either. I just tried to take care of it. Every night, I tried. When he had the bad dreams I used to get into his bed and tell him stories. No animals, no fighting or shouting, or shooting or swords, nothing to do with eating or dying. Nothing with smells.” Malcolm gave a short laugh. “It doesn't leave much,” he said.

“I used to tell him stories about Robotland. One about a robot who lived at a junk heap and used to fix up all the old beds and fridges and sell them to the other robots to save up his money and build a space rocket and fly away to the moon.”

“Ah,” Keiko said.

“And I know you're going to tell me he must have been headed the wrong way all along,” Malcolm said. “You're going to say one day couldn't cause …”

“Of course it could,” Keiko said. “That one day and all the silence afterwards.”

“I know,” said Malcolm. “I should have told them.”

“I didn't mean
your
silence,” Keiko said. “You were eight, Malcolm. You were a child.”

“I should have told them,” Malcolm said again. “But eventually, the nightmares tailed off. Probably he got used to telling himself his own stories, and when he got his first motorbike and started learning how to fix it up, they stopped altogether. He was too young to get a licence to ride it, and he used to get laughed at, but that didn't bother him. He had the slaughterhouse and the bikes, and he seemed fine.

“Anyway, Dad was still determined he would come into the shop and start his apprenticeship, go to college one day a week—meat processing, hygiene, health and safety—same as I had done when I was sixteen. And as far as Mum and Dad were concerned there was no reason why not. I don't suppose they had thought about that pig for years. And, funnily enough, Murray seemed okay about it too. I tried to bring it up with him one night in the summer when he'd just finished school. I thought if we both went to Mum and Dad together we'd persuade them that Murray could go his own way. But he said he had no problems with it. He had worked it out and he wanted to show me. He invited me in to see.

“There were birds, rats, one or two rabbits, all mixed in with the bike parts. Separated, you know, like … like Mr. Byers. He was bleaching the bones, putting them together with hinges and screws. He told me it didn't have to be like it was with the pig. His exact words were that people didn't have to be like pigs, they could be like him and the bikes, that he could always fix it no matter what was wrong. And as soon as he got a free hand with something bigger than rabbits, he would prove it.” Malcolm's eyes filled with bright crescents that balanced, trembling, on his lower lids before two drops detached themselves, ran to the points of his lashes and splashed onto his cheeks.

“The mobiles,” Keiko said. “I thought they were models. I thought he had carved them out of wood.”

“What mobiles?” said Malcolm.

“In the workshop. Birds. Skeletons, I suppose. I admired them and he took them away.” She blinked. “Sorry, Malcolm, go on.”

“It feels good to be telling someone,” Malcolm said. “Can you believe, I
still
didn't tell Mum and Dad when I went to them. Can you believe that?”

Keiko tried to put herself in Malcolm's place, imagining coming at all at this from the other end and how long she herself might have tried to hold things together. She nodded firmly.

“Of course,” she said. “You do what you think is best. Tonight we're doing what we think is best, and we'll only find out whether it's crazy or not depending on what we don't know yet.” They both sat for a moment, letting in the realisation of what must be happening out there right now with their consent and collusion, then they each retreated to Malcolm's story again.

“I told them Murray didn't want to be a butcher. I tried to make them see that we didn't need another person, but Dad was full of the notion to expand, open another branch, maybe one each. So then I tried to say that I didn't want Murray there, it was too much working with him all day long when we had never been that close. They just laughed. What did I mean not all that close? Being Murray's big brother was like my idea of what I was put on this earth for. If anything, they said, I should back off a bit and let him go. I nearly told them then. Nearly told them why I spent my whole damn life being Murray's big brother and it still wasn't enough.” He smiled and slapped his hands against his chest. “You don't often hear me saying I'm not big enough, eh?”

Keiko smiled awkwardly. She had never heard Malcolm mention his size before.

“So he started in the shop, started at college, and just for a while I thought maybe I had been wrong. Then out of nowhere Dad came to me and said Murray was giving up his apprenticeship and they were setting him up with the workshop at Byers's place instead. Dad was trying to be discreet, but I told him I knew, had known longer than him. And it turned out, you see, that Murray had been caught in the meat preparation suite at the college after hours. It was a lamb this time, and I don't know what he said to whoever it was that caught him, about what he had worked out or what he was trying to do, but it was enough to put the willies up them.”

He paused. There were footsteps coming up the stairs, and then the front door opened and shut softly. Malcolm tried for a smile as the kitchen door opened.

“Mum,” he said. “Fancy all right?”

“God love her,” said Mrs. Poole.

Keiko dragged herself to her feet, meaning to lead Mrs. Poole to a chair and get her something to drink, but she was shocked by the ache in her calves and knees, the sourness in her stomach, and the shivering that started again as soon as she moved. Two kinds of shivering—one on the surface of her skin like insects scuttling around under her clothes and another deep juddering as though she had just clanged the whole length of her body into a wall and was still reverberating from the blow. Mrs. Poole scraped her chair nearer to Keiko's and put an arm around her shoulder trying to stop the shaking, but she had no comfort to give. Her hands were cold, her body rigid, and it made Keiko want to pull away; instead both sat still, clashed together at the shoulders in a semblance of an embrace, waiting for some shared warmth to stop one of them from shuddering.

thirty-four

“How far have you
got?” said Mrs. Poole after long minutes of silence.

“As far as I can take it nearly,” said Malcolm. He kneaded one hand across his brow, snarling the hairs of his eyebrows out of line. He started to speak again, but the first words were sucked out of his mouth in a sob.

Keiko stretched towards him with her free hand, so the three of them were joined together.

“I was surprised when Murray took up with Natasha,” Mrs. Poole said, picking up the story. “He'd never had any time for girls before that, but all of a sudden there she was, round at the workshop every night in her leotard and every time the doorbell went, it was her looking for Murray. And then she stopped doing the workouts. She still came round to the house asking if Murray was in, but as often as not he would get us to say he wasn't.

“I knew what was up, of course. She started walking different. She always wore a ponytail high up on one side of her head and it used to bob up and down like a pom-pom whenever she moved. She washed her hair every day like all you youngsters. Well, around about the time Murray seemed to go off her, that ponytail wasn't bouncing any more. It was swaying from side to side instead. And I knew exactly what that meant—when you start rocking sideways as you walk and even your nose and fingers are looking bloated. She was pregnant, and it was Murray's and he was having nothing to do with it. So I got his father to talk to him. Duncan went to him and told him that if it was too late to fix it, then Murray would have to face up to his responsibilities and make the best of things.”

“
Fix
it?” Malcolm echoed.

“I know,” said Mrs. Poole. “We've gone over and over it until we were ready to scream. Your father trying to remember exactly what he said and if it could have been taken the wrong way.”

“But that's crazy. Dad couldn't have blamed himself. It's mad.”

Mrs. Poole choked him off. “Don't you think I tried to tell him that? I
know
only a madman would think he was telling his son to do away with the girl. And your father's answer to that was that he should have faced the fact that it was a madman he was talking to, and he should have had the sense to watch what he was saying.”

“But,” said Keiko, trying to bring them back to the story and lay out another fold of it for her, “why did Mrs. McMaster not do something? She must have known Tash was pregnant too.”

“Pet McMaster broke her heart when Fancy took off,” said Mrs. Poole. “And she blamed herself for being heavy-handed. She had tried to get Fancy to stay on at school, stay on with Pet even once her birthday was past. Then it was only months after Fancy left that Tash came. She was fifteen, and I think Pet would have walked on eggshells for the rest of her life to keep her. She would never have confronted her. She was waiting for Tash to turn to
her
. Didn't think she could bear it if another one ran away. Well, she was right. She couldn't. When Tash disappeared, I thought Pet was going to fall to pieces. She had tablets in the morning to wake her up and tablets at night to put her to sleep again. I don't know what would have happened if Fancy hadn't landed back here with her wee one, looking like a dog that was overdue for a kick. Of course, Fancy was that taken up with her own problems I don't think she even noticed how things were with Pet. And anyway as soon as Pet had got the pair of them installed, she started to pick up again too. She eventually gave up the idea of looking for Tash and, my God it shames us all to say it, but I don't think any one of us would have given the wee soul another thought.

“Except that I found her things, stuffed in a bag in the bottom of his cupboard.” Mrs. Poole pointed out of the kitchen door, towards Keiko's bedroom.

“Here?” Keiko said. “Murray lived here?”

“Not for very long,” said Mrs. Poole. “Just for a while, not even a year. After he gave up in the shop, you know, when we were trying to … he lived in the flat and he had the bikes. Then I found everything. Bra and pants, wee twists of leather she used to wear on her wrists. That's what made me sure it was Tash. I couldn't understand why he had kept them, but we saw the same tonight. The clothes separate from the rest. I suppose it made some kind of sense to Murray.

“I was looking for stuff for a jumble sale; having a good clear-out just like you do when you really believe you've turned a corner.” Her voice was rising. “Tash was out of sight out of mind, and Murray was more like himself than he'd been for a long time. He had been doing a bit more for us in the shop, you know.” Mrs. Poole withdrew from Keiko and hugged her arms around her own chest and shoulders, clawing at herself. “He had offered to do the rendering, for once. It's a horrible job, rendering bones. I thought it was a good sign. He made batches of sausages, which wasn't like him. Queer-tasting things they were, too much spice, but we encouraged him. He made the gravy for a load of Malcolm's pies and they—they—they—they went down very well.” She retched and pressed her hands against her mouth until it had passed.

“And then I found her things, and we agreed together, the pair of us, that we would keep the secret. Duncan spoke to Murray, warned him, put the fear of God into him from what I could make out: no more girlfriends and he was barred from the shop. One of us was to inspect his workshop every week. Ridiculous now, to think how we had it all planned out, but we really thought we could handle it. We really thought we were doing the right thing.”

She stopped and fought for a deep breath, gasping again and again until finally her chest filled and she sighed it out again.

“The first letter came about a month after we found out, about six months after Tash disappeared. Somebody knew.”

“The letter!” said Keiko. “I found it.”

“What?” said Mrs. Poole. “You can't have. I burned it.”

“What letter?” said Malcolm. “Who from?”

“It wasn't signed,” said his mother. “They just said they knew what had happened because they'd seen it and they threatened to tell everyone. And then there was another one and another, and the fourth one asked for money.”

“Ah, I see,” said Keiko. “There were a lot of them? Well, you missed one. I found it here. In the flat.
I know what you did. I saw you. I will
—” She bit off the words at the cry they had torn from Mrs. Poole. “Sorry!”

“A blackmail letter?” said Malcolm.

“They wanted five thousand pounds sent to a post office box number.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I know what you would have done,” his mother said. “Same as tonight. You would have said to call the police. Tell the world, let it all out.”

“But I would have told the police that you knew nothing,” said Malcolm. “I would have been more than willing to take my share of it.”

“But you were all we had left that wasn't ruined, Malcolm. We wanted to keep you out of it, so that one thing in our lives would still be right.”

Malcolm stared at his mother, slowly beginning to nod.

“We were stripping ourselves bare,” said Mrs. Poole. “Every penny we had and more, and the letters kept coming. I knew it was somebody local—had to be. Someone who'd seen something the night Tash went. On and on, everything we had worked for all our married life, any hope we had of getting Murray into a clinic if he'd ever agree, all our hopes of setting you up in a place of your own far away from here. Oh, yes—that's what we wanted. We wanted you at the other end of the country, independent, then we were going to put Murray into treatment. But the letters just kept on coming. I watched your father winding himself up like a spring, and I knew it couldn't go on.”

Keiko looked from one to the other of their faces. Normally so unlike each other, but now with identical dark blooms under their eyes and identical deep lines etched from the sides of their noses to their grim mouths, they looked like mother and son at last.

“We had stopped paying your father's life insurance,” she said, “and mine. The business was in debt, we were nearly a year behind with the mortgage on the house, the tax wasn't paid—every blessed penny we had and more went to that post office box number. And everyone talks about weight and blood pressure and hypertension and genes, and on and on, but every time you press them—the doctors—if you press them, every leaflet you read, somewhere in the small print it's there. ‘Stress is a factor.' ‘Stress could be a factor.'

“And he died. I knew then we would go under, and I should have given up. But all of a sudden I wasn't scared any more; I was angry. I wanted to keep going just long enough to find out who it was and face them with it, and then I would take whatever was coming.

“So Murray had to come back into the shop, because there was no money to pay anybody else. He would have had to give up the workshop too if Byers had pressed us, because there was no money for the rent. At any rate, there was no chance of buying it for him. Buying a property! I can't even afford to do the Christmas cooking for the homeless. Keiko moving into this place was just about all that let me keep going this last few months. Your father had offered it for the student way back when it was just an idea, and I pretended to Jimmy that we had always meant the Traders to pay us rent.

“Meanwhile, I started marking the notes.”

Her voice grew hard as she described it to them: the hours spent every day after closing time, hunched over the desk in the back office, making marks on bundles of grubby fivers and tenners, then spreading out the day's takings before her and looking for her old marks coming back. She put up with people's kind and not so kind remarks about the length of time it took her to do her books, shrugged off all offers of help. She had a plan. She kept a mental note of who was in the shop every day, and when she found a marked note she was going to narrow it down, start taking the money out of the till after every customer. She would think of something to say to the boys, she would make up some story. But it never came to that, because not one of her notes ever came back. In six months of her poring over them every night, she found not a single one. She looked at them through a magnifier, wondering if perhaps whoever it was was cleaning them or painting them out, but there was nothing. Every day she thought,
just one more day. If I can keep going just one more day.

“I'm sorry,” she said, turning to Keiko. “But when you arrived it seemed like the last straw. I thought God was laughing at me. I thought I was going mad. Because, it might sound daft, but it never occurred to me that you would be a girl. Even when we heard your name, we had no idea. I told myself you would be some wee bloke in specs coming to do an engineering degree, and when Jimmy told me it was a Miss Nishisato and showed me your picture and told us you were a psychology student, interested in
food
… Before I had time to call a halt to it, here you were. Beautiful wee thing, and as soon as Murray clapped eyes on you, I knew where it would go.” She smiled at Keiko, a calm, tired smile and then a small breath of laughter.

“I tried my best to keep you away from him, you can't say I didn't. I could hardly have been less welcoming, and I don't blame you for taking against me. Which you did!” she insisted as Keiko began to protest. “Which you did. All the same, I was terrified. Every night you were in that place doing your exercises together, I was outside the back door listening to you. Every time Murray came round here, I was downstairs. I felt sure you must know there was someone watching you.

“Still, you must think I'm wicked. How could I stand by and let you get close to him? I'll never forgive myself. But Tash was years ago and Murray was fine, seemed fine, ever since. And I knew, I thought—”

Tears were spilling from Malcolm's eyes again, faster and faster, the dark spots where they fell on his chest joining up into splotches. Now he sobbed.

“Son?” said Mrs. Poole.

“What were you thinking?” he said. “I don't mean about Keiko. I mean tonight.”

His mother only shook her head.

“What about tonight, Malcolm?” said Keiko.

“Don't you see?” he said. “If someone knows—the blackmailer—then Jimmy and Fancy are down there for nothing.”

Keiko stared at him, feeling her blood drain away.

“It's got to stop now,” he went on. “I'll go and get them back before it's too late and then we are going to call it a day. Maybe the police will keep things quiet as much they can. And maybe they'll be able to find the blackmailer for you, eh?” He was almost crooning, like a parent trying to coax a sulking child into smiles.

Mrs. Poole did smile, and again there was that air of calm, almost serenity, that made Keiko briefly wonder if she really had lost her mind.

“I sent two hundred pounds off at the weekend,” she said. “And I put a note in saying that it was the last. There would be no more. Tonight when I looked in Byers's wallet, there was a hundred and sixty left.”

They were silent then and so they all flinched at the sudden sound of the door. Fancy stood in the doorway, her hair plastered with sweat to the sides of her grey-white face. She raised one arm straight out from the shoulder holding a black plastic sack in her fist. She was trembling so much that it seemed she was shaking the bag in their faces like a cheerleader's pom-pom. Both Keiko and Mrs. Poole rose to draw her towards them.

“I'm not coming any closer,” said Fancy. “I stink. I'm sorry but I was sick quite a lot and it's on your stuff, Mrs. Poole.”

“I'm going to come home with you,” said Keiko, but Fancy shook her head.

“Can you keep Vi till tomorrow and I'll come and get her?” she said.

“Well, at least I'll walk home with you, sweetheart,” said Mrs. Poole, reaching out again.