Underdog (4 page)

Cal knelt down and leant over the corner of the pit. He grabbed Bane by the back of the neck and lifted his head. As he did so, a thick stream of blood came gurgling from Bane’s throat and splashed to the floor; careful not to get any on him, Cal heaved the dog out of the pit, onto the concrete floor.

Taking a leather collar from his pocket, he looped it round Bane’s neck. Fastening it tightly, he dragged Bane across the floor, through the cigarette butts and ash to the barn door. As soon as he got outside he loosened his grip, casually letting the animal fall to the ground in a heap. He looked back into the barn at the wet slick of blood leading from the pit. Andy was the only one still in the parking area, sitting on the bank in front of the trees, rolling a joint.

‘Save some of that for me,’ said Cal as he walked to the back of his car.

He opened the boot and took out a roll of bin liners. Stripping off a couple, he grabbed his spade and leant it against the rear wheel arch.

‘So it went alright, then, Cal?’ asked Andy.

‘Maybe. I need you to sort a few things. I’ll give you the details on the way.’

Cal flopped down next to Andy, taking the joint from him. They sat in silence, Cal contemplating the success of the evening as he smoked. He held each toke deep in his lungs, letting the skunk work its magic. For the first time that evening, he started to relax.

‘I was sure Bane was going to have him there, Cal. He was on fire.’

‘He would’ve,’ said Cal, putting a hand in his pocket, feeling for the tool. ‘If it weren’t for this.’

He brought out a homemade spike. A sharpened nail fixed into a cork, it was small enough to conceal in the palm of his hand. He passed it over to Andy.

‘I stuck him after that leg hold. Bane would’ve killed Tanner easy. If I’d let him.’

Andy looked at the sinister weapon and cupped it in his hand, just as Cal had done.

‘Nasty fucking bastard,’ he said, handing it back.

‘Don’t you forget it,’ Cal warned. ‘It needed to be done. Won’t do
you
any harm.’

Andy nodded. From what little Cal had told him, he knew there was going to be a bonus for everyone involved. He was looking forward to getting his hands on more gear, and making some extra money on the side.

Cal finished the joint, throwing the smoking roach down in front of him. He stood up and crushed it into the gravel.

‘Get yourself in the barn and clear up,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going to sort Bane.’

Cal stuffed the bin liners into his pocket. He grabbed the spade, then wandered back to the barn, taking a minute to cast an eye over Bane’s broken, dying body. Bending down beside him, he laid the bin liners on top of one another, then dragged the dog onto them. Unbuckling the dog’s collar, he tied the corners of the bags together to create a bundle. Then he slipped the handle of the spade under the knot.

It took a couple of minutes to drag Bane to the thick copse of trees that stood at the top of the track. Cal dropped the bag and untied it. Bane was gasping weakly for air, blood bubbling in his throat. Cal bent over and put a hand on the dog’s head, leaving it there a moment before standing upright again.

‘See ya, mate.’

He stood back and raised the spade above his head. With all the strength he could muster, he brought it down, breaking Bane’s neck instantly, the force of the blow almost decapitating him. Cal couldn’t be bothered to dig a grave. Instead, he simply scraped off the leaves and topsoil from the soft ground and rolled Bane into the hollow. Placing the liners over the corpse, he covered them with a thin layer of dirt.

When he returned, Andy was standing outside the barn door, waiting.

‘All done inside?’ Cal asked as he walked over to him.

‘Yeah, it’s sorted.’

‘Give us the once-over. Make sure me shirt’s not got any on it.’ Cal turned around in a circle with his arms raised.

‘You’re fine. Not a drop.’

‘Stick that in the boot.’ Cal handed over the spade. ‘I’m just going to check the others.’

His boots crunched on the gravel as he reached the kennel barn, the noise causing the dogs to start barking again. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

In the darkness he could just make out the shape of the dog standing in the corner. This one was silent, and shuffled further back into his cage as Cal approached. Cal glanced over the dog's sleek musculature then gave the cage a kick.

‘We’re going have to toughen you up a bit,’ he said. ‘It’s your turn next.’

Tom stuffed his hands deeper into the barrel, savouring the dry, cool softness of the shavings on his forearms. Cupping his hands together, he raised his arms slowly, drawing up as much of the sawdust as possible before throwing it onto the floor. Reaching for the broom, he started to work his way around the bottom of the blocks, watching as the sawdust became a moist and sticky red mass.

‘Hurry it up,’ said Sam as he entered the back room. ‘I want that floor clean enough to eat your dinner off.’

The middle-aged man tried his best to look stern as he cast an eye over Tom’s work, but it wasn’t in him to be anything but cheerful; his face was too round, too jolly. He put a hand on his belly, which hung over the ties of his apron and threatened to burst the buttons of his shirt, rubbing it as though he had just enjoyed a substantial meal. He nodded approvingly and smiled, exposing an untidy set of stunted teeth separated by dark gaps.

‘You’re doing well, Tom. Keep it up,’

Sam rearranged the butcher’s hat that sat at an angle on the thick frizz of his greying hair. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder, leaving it there for a moment.

‘I could make a good butcher out of you, son. You’ve done well these last couple of weeks. You should think about an apprenticeship when you leave school. If it’s what you want.’ He took his hand away. ‘Now, let’s get cracking, I’ve got some orders need filling for this afternoon and there’s a delivery for you to make. You can give the blocks a go when you’ve finished the floor.’

Tom glanced over at the two solid cutting blocks that stood side by side against the white-tiled wall. The nine-inch-thick slabs of kiln-dried maple were coated in a reddish film, the edges dotted with dried blood and specks of fat, knife scores and marks etched into the oil-finished surface. The blood and scratches reminded Tom of his arms.

Sam headed through the red and white fly curtains back into the shop. There was a loud zap as another fly crackled on the luminous blue rings of the UV attractor.

Tom stopped brushing the floor and wiped his bloodied hands on his apron. He looked as though he had been in a battle; fresh red splashes and dried smudges streaked the white of the material. Gathering up the thick sludge of shavings with his dustpan and brush, he took them outside.

The sun had already warmed the mess inside the waste bins, cooking up a stench so noxious it made Tom retch when he neared them. He forced himself forward, holding the bin lid open as he tapped the dustpan empty, holding his breath against the acrid, choking air. Blowflies buzzed in and out of the bin, their humming exaggerated by the depth of the metal drum. Tom waved the dustpan at a fly zinging around his head and let the lid fall shut with a clang.

Stepping back inside the back room, he patted his trouser pocket through his apron, making sure his packet of cigarettes was there. He was looking forward to his break.

‘Tom … Tom!’ called Sam from the shop. ‘Get yourself out here, will you? There’s customers.’

‘Just be a minute. Need to wash my hands.’

Tom scrubbed up and made his way into the shop, tightening the strings of his apron as he joined the others behind the counter. Customers stood chatting in front of the glass display; the queue stretched out of the open shop door and onto the high street.

‘Mrs. Jarvis needs a round of the apple and pork, and two sirloins.’

Tom picked out the items, wrapping them in the greaseproof paper he stripped from the roll by the till.

‘Will that be all, Mrs. Jarvis?’ asked Sam. ‘Can’t tempt you with some chops? Beautiful quality; best lamb I’ve had in ages.’ If only she knew.

Mrs. Jarvis waved an arthritic finger in front of the glass as though getting a feel for the freshness of the overly ripe, marbled meat.

‘Oh, go on, then, Sam,’ she said, her face wrinkling up into a smile. ‘You know I can never say no to you.’

Tom half expected her to wink at his boss. He wasn’t sure what made him feel worse: the smell of the stinking bins still lingering in his nostrils, or the sight of Mrs. Jarvis’ spider-leg moustache. He looked down at the chops on the platter, wondering how many bites it would take before her oversized false teeth got stuck in the meat and were sucked away from her gums. The thought made him grin as he looked up at her.

‘How many, then, missus?’

‘I’ll take two, young man,’ she replied, casting an eye over Tom as he collected the final items of her order. ‘You’re new, aren’t you? I’m sure I’d remember someone so handsome.’

‘He is indeed. New, that is.’ Sam finished serving the customer beside her.

‘You’ve landed on your feet working here with Sam. He’ll look after you.’

Tom handed over the packages of meat and waited while Mrs. Jarvis rooted around in her purse.

‘Charming, Sam,’ she said, counting out the money. ‘Such lovely eyes.’ She leant across the counter. ‘I can’t take him with me as well, can I?’

Tom could feel his cheeks burn as Mrs. Jarvis cackled and Sam began to laugh. He suddenly felt self-conscious: everyone in the queue looking at him. It was a relief when the old lady finally took her change and stepped out of the shop into the bright morning sunshine.

‘Got an admirer there, eh, Tom?’ joked Sam as he began to serve his next customer, winking at the wiry young man serving next to him. ‘How about we send him off with her next time, Kev?’

Kevin laughed as he took out a large ham and placed it on the meat slicer. He licked his lips provocatively and blew Tom a kiss.

Tom ignored the ribbing and got on with picking out and wrapping the meat as each customer was served. It was getting hotter by the minute; the shop swamped with warm air that rushed in through the open door and rendered the air conditioning useless. Tom could feel the sweat forming on his brow, and hoped no-one would notice should a drip fall onto the selection of meats he hovered over.

‘Get that door closed, then, Tom,’ ordered Sam when the rush had died down. His face was bright red. ‘You can take a quick break before the delivery.’

Tom peeled back the fly curtains and stepped into the cool of the back room. Stopping at the fridge, he pulled out a bottle of mineral water and placed it against his forehead.

The sun beat down onto his shoulders as he stepped outside. Having undone the top buttons of his shirt, Tom rolled up his sleeves, moving quickly past the bins to perch himself on one of the metal railings that partitioned the delivery spaces. Opening his bottle of water, he drained it thirstily and took out his cigarettes.

He was halfway through his first smoke when Kevin came out. Tom watched as his workmate opened one of the bins and dropped in a large bag. Kevin took a sniff, then winked at Tom. He lowered the lid and wandered over, taking a seat. Having peeled off the rubber band that tidied his hair into a thick ponytail, he shook his head, his matted ginger locks falling over his face and shoulders. Kevin pushed some strands away from his eyes.

‘Got a spare?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Tom replied, making certain only the underside of his arm could be seen as he offered up the packet.

‘Ta,’ said Kevin, taking a cigarette. He looked up at the cloudless sky. ‘It’ll be even hotter than yesterday. Proper heatwave on its way, they reckon.’

As they sat smoking, Tom lowered his shirt sleeves and buttoned the cuffs.

‘You’ll boil like that,’ said Kevin. ‘You want to get that shirt off.’

‘I’m alright. Don’t want to get burned.’ Tom could feel the sweat beading almost before he finished his sentence.

‘It’ll be me that’ll burn,’ said Kevin, raising a milk-white arm. He eyed the sweat on Tom’s forehead. ‘See? You’re starting to melt already. You’ll stink worse than them bins.’

Tom was just happy that Kevin had not spotted his scars. They were too uniform for him to claim he had fallen into a bush, was scratched by a cat or bitten by a dog. All those excuses were used up long ago. They were even more of an embarrassment than the cuts. He flicked his cigarette away and went back in. Sam was in the back, tying the last string of sausages for the order.

‘Come on, Tom. We don’t want to be getting behind. Get yourself changed for the delivery. Oh, and get me some bones. Two bags’ worth. Quick as you like, lad.’

Tom made his way across the room and opened the coldroom door. Stepping inside the cramped space, he stood still, letting the refrigerated air chill his body. Every inch of the dimly lit store was packed full, the stainless-steel shelves crammed with boxes and trays brimming with various cuts of meat. A smoky smell filled Tom’s nostrils: like bacon crisps, only stronger and fresher. He looked up at the headless side of pig suspended in front of him, its yellowing skin clammy to the touch. The carcass rotated gently on its hook, revealing the sawn-through bones and pink flesh. Pushing it to one side, Tom squeezed his way past the other carcasses, leaving them swinging from the rail.

Taking a couple of bags from the shelf next to him, he rooted around for the bones. The edges of the large cardboard box he found them in were crusted with blood. He selected the largest ones he could find and filled the bags. As he turned to leave, Tom noticed four pig heads, lined up along the shelf above the door. In the murky light, it looked as if they were sleeping. The skin on the back of Tom’s neck began to tighten as he imagined their eyes opening, their mouths coming alive and squealing at him.

‘Tom!’

Startled by the sound of Sam’s voice, Tom darted out of the coldroom, letting the door swing shut with a thud. The shop doorbell rang.

‘Give that a quick rinse,’ said Sam, handing him the sausage-meat strainer before going to serve the customer.

The strainer was filthy, its stainless-steel mesh caked and blocked with a mix of fresh and dried meat, the inside coated in a layer of white grease. Tom took it to the basins and warmed some fat, straining it through with hot water to flush out the worst of the detritus. When it was washed and dried he placed it next to the sausage machine, then went to get a fresh apron and a clean shirt. As he stepped through the fly curtain, Sam was serving a big, menacing-looking man dressed in jeans and a grimy leather jacket. The two men were deep in hushed conversation, stopping mid-sentence when Tom joined them. The moment’s silence made Tom feel as though he had stumbled in on something he shouldn’t have. Sam finished wrapping the package, then handed it over to the customer, who took it without paying.

‘Cheers. See you next time?’

The man fixed his gaze on Tom and raised a large hand to scratch the stubble on his chin. The way he stared made Tom look away.

‘We'll see,’ Sam replied.

The man turned and left without another word.

‘You ready, then, Tom?’ Sam asked, tutting as he gave him a quick inspection. ‘You’re not even dressed, lad. Get a new shirt and apron on.’

‘I’m just doing it,’ said Tom, taking them from the cupboard beneath the tills.

He carried the clothes into the back room and got changed. The shirt was newly washed and ironed. It smelt fresh and felt crisp against his skin. Picking up his dirty things from the floor, he threw them into the wash bin before tying his apron and changing his shoes.

Tom glanced at Kevin chopping away at the cutting blocks. ‘I was meant to give them a going-over.’

‘It’s okay. Don’t think anyone’ll know.’ Kevin cut another steak from the huge rib of beef laid out on the unclean surface. ‘As long as they cook them through.’

He wrapped the steaks and handed them over. Tom gathered up the bunched sausages Sam had prepared and headed back into the shop.

‘Everything for the order’s ready.’

He laid out the meat for Sam, who set to work bagging it up with other assorted cuts from the counter. The bags were stamped with Fenton’s Family Butchers in solid blue type along the bottom, and a line-drawing caricature of Sam printed above.

‘It’s all going to The Two Feathers. Bus from Mickering Street.’ Sam bagged the last package. ‘They’ll be expecting you. Now, get a move on. No later than half-past.’

It was so bright outside, Tom was forced to squint as he made his way down the high street. The shops were busy, pedestrians crowding the pavement. A car horn blasted; the traffic was hardly moving.

It didn’t take long for Tom’s feet to start aching. The black shoes provided him for deliveries were too tight, constricting the flow of blood to his toes. He felt like taking them off and stuffing them in one of the bags. As he passed the sports shop, he glanced at the trainers in the window display, stopping to get a better look. The white ones were best.

He carried on, head down to shield the sun from his eyes. It was baking, and the bags in his hands seemed to be getting heavier with each step. Passing the bookmakers at the corner, he turned off, relieved to see the bus stop was no more than a hundred yards away. A girl stood there on her own, next to the sign, her back to him.

Tom straightened, temporarily forgetting about the load in his hands and the pain in his feet. The long blond hair and the shape of the girl’s body were familiar, becoming more so as he drew closer. He suddenly felt embarrassed about the way he was dressed. His heart began to race, and for a moment he considered turning back; then, hearing his footsteps, the girl turned around.

Tom’s face flushed and his legs felt unsteady as he came to a standstill beside her. He didn’t know where to look or what to say. It felt as if his muscles had frozen. The more conscious he became of how awkward he felt, the worse the sensation seemed to get. He took a deep breath. Compared to the bustle of the high street, everything suddenly seemed very quiet. There was no-one else around. Tom racked his brains for something to say. But it was Alison who spoke first.

‘Hi Tommy.’ She smiled.

Tom’s heart was pumping so hard, it was beginning to hurt. No-one called him ‘Tommy’ anymore. He felt breathless as he put the bags down and rested them against the bus stop sign.

‘You look smart,’ she added.

‘I’m on a delivery,’ he stammered, nervously facing her. ‘I’m working at Fenton’s on the high street.’