Furnace (8 page)

A long day, said the fisherman.

All paid nicely for, mind. Aye, all paid nicely for, he said again, and looked set to go on talking, but first he spooned a soft pat of ice-cream into his mouth with a little plastic paddle.
I’ll be glad to get home mind, he said after swallowing. Glad to get to bed, like.

The fisherman nodded. Know when the bus is due?

The man spooned in another lump of ice-cream, this time talking through it. Naw. Normal days I get me a lift home from the slaughterhouse like, so
I don’t pay any attention to the buses.

The slaughterhouse? he said, interested.

Aye. A tear of ice-cream welled at the corner of his mouth and started to trickle. He smeared it with the back of his hand.

What’s it you do there then?

The man cleared his throat. I’m on the tripe bags, me. Mind I can do the guts too.

The fisherman looked more closely at the crusty brown specks he’d already noticed sprinkling the collar at the front of the man’s white T-shirt. Is it cows you do?

Aye, cows and lambs. And the odd run of pigs, like. Mainly lambs now mind, this time of year. Two thousand through today. That’s how I was in early like. Lots of money to be made with the
overtime this week, like.

There were more tiny stains, the fisherman noticed now, some on the side of his chin and one, darker and smoother, along his right ear lobe.

The slaughterman started scraping at the last of the ice-cream but it was too far gone in the heat. He gave up and drank the remains straight from the tub.

The fisherman looked at his watch and sighed. Christ, it’s hot, he said.

Aye, the slaughterman agreed.

The fisherman tipped his pack and sat on it, levelling his legs out onto the road. Must be a hell of a job in this heat, he said.

The slaughterman blinked at him, surprised. Naw, he said mildly, and shook his head. Naw, it’s fantastic, a great laugh with all the lads, like. He placed the empty ice-cream tub at his
feet, then straightened back up. The fisherman glanced from the empty tub to the man’s boots, filthy with dried blood. They were big and steel toe-capped; yellow, like big, dangerous
clowns’ boots. A great job, he went on. They’re great lads, like. And I can get a whole lamb for the mother for thirty quid, me. Thirty quid! And I
know
it’s been killed
fresh the day. Oh aye. Aye, it’s great. He fumbled in a pocket and found a pack of Embassy blues. He offered one to the fisherman, who shook his head. The slaughterman lit up and drew down
hard, then breathed it back contentedly. Thirty or forty depending on size, like, he said.

Behind them the door of a hotel snapped shut and they both turned. A heavy, red-faced man strolled over to them. He stopped between them and looked from one to the other, appraisingly. In the
end he addressed himself to the fisherman.

Still no fucking bus eh? I’ve been watching from that window there since five o’ fucking clock. Another public transport fuck-up, eh? Why do we fucking bother? Eh? He stared down at
the fisherman, then at the fishing tackle. He worked his top lip from the inside with his tongue and the thick brown clump of his moustache shrugged and bristled. His tongue found something and
scooped it back and he took his time mashing it with his front teeth. Five past fucking five, eh?

The fisherman nodded and stood up, uneasy with the big stranger looming over him.

Been fishing, eh pal? He picked up the rod and felt for the sections inside the cotton bag, gauging them with his fingertips. Is it for trout this is for then? He belched massively and the
fisherman caught a strong, stale waft of beer.

The fisherman nodded, watching the man’s thick fingers stumbling over the slim tubes under the cloth.

Must be, eh? He was addressing the slaughterman now, suddenly. Too fucking dinky for salmon, this rig. He snorted. Aye by Christ. He looked away across the road. Up in the hills? He tilted the
rod to a wide gap between a garage and a church on the opposite side of the wide street. Through it the border hills were visible, rolling back into the pale late afternoon haze. The fisherman
nodded, and the big man turned back to the slaughterhouse worker. You too, pal?

Naw. He grinned, embarrassed. I work in the slaughterhouse, me. Back there. He pointed briefly down and across the road.

Two young girls – teenagers, dressed in pastel shorts and vests – stepped out onto the road just where he was pointing. They looked at him and giggled, whispering something. A small
white terrier was nosing around their legs, but they were oblivious to it. They trotted across to the three men, the dog following, then hurried on past and waited behind them, leaning whispering
against the wall of the hotel the big man had come from. The loud, heavy stranger tracked them with his eyes, then stared off into space, finally turning back to the slaughterhouse worker.

Is it still the old gun you use there, then?

The slaughterman blinked. Well, aye, for the cows, like, with the bolt, aye. But you’ve got your prongs mind, for the lambs.

The big man laid the rod back against the bus-stop and lifted two fingers to either side of his head, just behind the ears. Like that, he said. Right pal?

Aye! The slaughterman brightened, gratified that the stranger knew something about his work. He grinned conspiratorially. Hey, I tell you what though, new buckets came in the day and the first
thing I had to say to the boss was naw, no good, send them back! Send them back? he says. Aye, I say. Too big! I say. Aye, they were too big for the little plastic chutes, too big to go under them
like. He shook his head, still grinning, then took another drag on his cigarette.

There was quiet for a while.

That’s my place there, the big man said, thumbing back at the hotel where the girls still leaned, whispering. Chef. Head Chef. He glared at them as if expecting some kind of challenge.

They both nodded.

Tell you what pal, it’s you we get our steaks from I reckon, he said to the slaughterman.

Well, I wouldn’t know that like, but aye, mebbe.

Aye. You kill the bastards all wrong, mind.

The slaughterman looked up at him, blinking again.

Right enough you do, pal. That bolt thing, it’s a bastard for bruising. Ruins the off-cuts every shot, and your good cuts too, now and again. The bruising spreads, ken? Toughens the meat.
Toughens it all to fuck.

The fisherman watched the chef’s face, wondering. It sounded like bullshit, but there wasn’t any sign. The slaughterman twisted his face doubtfully.

Listen pal, said the chef, what colour is a lobster when you catch it, eh?

It’s…eh, it’s orange, like.

No, no pal, when it’s fucking
caught,
ken?
Alive
.

The slaughterman fidgeted with his cigarette. Aye, well brown like.

No, no it’s fucking
blue
, eh? It goes red because the hot water you drop it into touches its brain, and that makes it bruise, pal. It’s a big fucking
bruise
, all that
pink and red. He turned to the fisherman. Ken? he said. A
bruise
. Whoosh. All over. Now see what I mean about the bolt and your cow and that, eh? It’s all in the fucking
brain,
pal. He tapped his skull and leered.

Aye, mebbe like. He shrugged and went back to his cigarette. The dog that had crossed the road behind the girls suddenly appeared at the slaughterman’s feet, sniffing around his legs and
speckled boots. For a while it got distracted by the empty ice-cream tub, but soon went back to the boots. The slaughterman watched the dog for a while, then caught the fisherman’s eye.

It’s all that offal he’s smelling, eh? On the boots like. He grinned happily.

They both looked back down at the dog. It started to lick at one of the ankles. Then it took hold of a lace with small sharp teeth and the slaughterman nudged it away with a yellow steel toecap.
It tried again and got another, sharper dig in the ribs. It gave up and lay down in the sun near the boots, panting but still staring at the toecaps.

The fisherman saw the girl from the cafe come out carrying a long wooden pole. She used it to push back the awning over the window, went back inside with it and reappeared moments later with a
stooping man who locked the door behind them. They both got into his car which pulled off sharply, u-turned across the road and accelerated up the street past the bus-stop. She looked straight
ahead as they sped by.

The two younger girls suddenly appeared at his side, brushing between him and the chef. They made a show of looking up and down the empty road, then rushed across, the leading girl snorting with
stifled laughter. Both men watched them trot over into the garage forecourt and on into its refreshments shop.

Those two crazy bitches came in on the bus with me this morning, the chef said in a low voice. Giggling and whispering like that all the fucking way. Aye by Christ. He turned to the
slaughterman, pushing with his tongue behind both lips before speaking. Anyway pal, I don’t go much for steak anyway, he said.

Eh, I love a bit of steak, me, the slaughterman replied, interested again. It’s great, steak is.

Nah. You ken what I like? I like to get a wee bit garlic, right? Tomatoes, chopped onions, those fucking courgettes, aye? And a few mushrooms, and cover the lot with fucking brandy, after
you’ve made a ring of sliced potatoes first mind, – fried nice, ken? – and covered in cheese, plenty of herbs like, and set fire to the fucking brandy and serve it up like that,
with all the fucking flames still going. Right fucking tasty, that is. He was swaying as he spoke.

Aye, said the slaughterman, bewildered.

Bugger to eat mind, said the fisherman.

The chef worked the underside of his lips again before answering. Aye, all those flames, he said sourly. That’s right.

The street was busier now, traffic getting back from the city, the fisherman guessed. The heavy air was starting to taste of dust and petrol. The chef had taken hold of the rod and was fingering
it through the cloth again. The fisherman watched him, then looked over to the slaughterman. He was staring away across the wide street and the fisherman couldn’t tell if he was grinning or
wincing into the low sun. The dog at his feet was alert now, flicking his head after traffic, sniffing the air. Out of the corner of his eye the fisherman saw the two girls standing at the edge of
the garage forecourt, waiting arm in arm for a break in the traffic. He turned to watch them and they teetered forward off the kerb and onto the road. He felt the chef at his side and realised he
was tilting the rod in the girls’ direction, pointing them out. I tell you what, son, he said in a suddenly low, restful voice, if I was your age I’d have those two up in those hills
alright, the pair of them, up in the bushes up there. That’s what they want when they’re that age by Christ, up in the bushes like that, they can’t help it, I’m telling you,
straight up son, straight fucking up.

The young fisherman looked along the angle of the rod to the girls, still hesitating, just beyond the kerb; then up to the hills in the distance at their backs. There were no bushes, only the
bare folds of the slopes, and out beyond the slopes a smoky, hot haze, up above them an empty evening sky, and somewhere amongst them a cold, quick river.

This morning at work I found an overnight email from Angus Grant, a name I hadn’t given a thought to for more than twenty years. The message was brief. He’d seen in
the funeral notices of the local newspaper that Jessie Frayn had been cremated earlier that week. Seeing her name like that, he wrote, had brought back a few memories, and made him curious, and
he’d taken it into his head to search me out. Was I who he thought I was? he was wondering.

I deleted it without replying, hoping that would be an end to it.

My chambers at Gray’s Inn Court are at basement level and whenever I feel, as any barrister sometimes must, tired of the awful comedy of the work, I push away my case files, light a single
illicit indoor cigarette and watch the brisk black shoes and legs of colleagues, judges and secretaries, all the automata of the law, scissoring back and forth above my window. I lower the heavy
sash to let out the smoke and listen to snatches of conversation, the clicking of heels, or in city drizzle the
swip
of a briefcase over the skirts of a waxed raincoat. A vague feeling of
reckoning comes to me in the language of all those anonymous sounds, and it reassures and calms me.

This morning I smoked a second cigarette, slowly, and then a third before heaving the window shut. By mid-morning I was home again, here at my window desk, the cold room at my back somehow
strange to me at this hour of a working day. Before starting to write I sit still for a while, looking east over Earl’s Court and beyond to the overcast heart of the city. It’s October
already, and when I try to recall the early summer months of recriminations, fighting and separation nothing comes except a vague impression of long, stifling nights of heat. Suddenly, I feel an
almost overwhelming desire to sleep, but it’s not tiredness, I know, so I resist it, and begin.

To fill the months between finishing my school exams and studying Law in London I took a summer job at Driscoll’s, a general store and newsagent’s opposite the sea
wall in the village. My parents had moved to the Scottish coast near the Holy Loch from Portsmouth in my early teens. My father, a naval engineer, worked on the nuclear submarines, and I suppose my
own life too soon took on something of a stealthy, trespassing quality. I was the oldest in my year and found it easy to satisfy myself with a certain type of disaffected local girl – the
clever rebels, bored and contemptuous of the less worldly-wise village boys – but in the main I was a silent, foreign intruder at the High School, made few acquaintances and wanted even
fewer, and was glad to escape my days there for the menial work of a summer job.

I was interviewed in the back room of Driscoll’s by the petite, blonde, forty-something manager, Mrs Campbell. I can picture her now, removing and folding her gold-rimmed glasses before
starting the interview. She read the questions from a clipboard and ticked boxes as she went. And do you smoke? she finished up by asking.