Wild Abandon (27 page)

“Are you ready?” she said.

“I’m waiting for my helper.”

“You don’t need a helper.”

“He’s on his way.”

“Which goat are you choosing?”

“Belona.”

“But she’s four years old. She’ll taste like boots.”

“I delegated the responsibility for choosing. I just want to say, before my helper gets here, he’s been fantastic. Really thrown himself into the research.”

Freya squinted. A voice came from behind her. “Belona will have a delicious gamey quality, ideal for stews and curries.”

“Oh no, Don, please,” she said, as small arms reached around her waist.

As Kate washed the potatoes, she came to terms with her own brother distrusting her. Although he could not have known about her behavior with Mervyn, she worried that Albert understood instinctively the type of person she had become. She was glad, then, of this punishment, the endless-seeming potatoes. The job took quite a while, and once she’d finished she took the clean ones through to the kitchen.

After that, she went and sat up on the flat roof watching silhouetted paragliders turning this way and that above the downs, more today than she’d ever seen. They looked like a child’s drawing of a flock of birds. She had a good view of the party taking shape: the kitchen garden and polytunnels were busy with people she didn’t recognize, kneeling, crouching, bent at the waist; one figure she found familiar but couldn’t name was moving along the runner beans; a rash of tents had spread across the top of the long field; a hay-bale pyramid was halfway to completion, making arena-style seating for the music yurt. At the blind bend, good-natured car congestion formed, people waving each other on, and above the downs she watched a paraglider either in a death spiral or really showing off, disappearing behind the hill before she could find out which.

The familiar-looking slouched person was now in the polytunnel, obscured by plants. Whoever it was moved instinctively among the tomatoes, plucking the ready ones with a firm tug, filling a salad bowl with reds and yellows. She only realized it was Geraint when he stepped out of the tunnel, framed by the doorway. He had grade-three’d his whole head and was wearing a white vest. He had a farmer’s tan with arms the color of teak. She felt dizzy and unsafe to be on the edge of a roof. He noticed her watching. He stopped and squinted.

He made binoculars with his hands to stare back at her.

All the years that Freya had known Don he had talked a good slaughter. She remembered that before eating roast dinners, he often took a moment to visualize the relevant animal’s living conditions and the circumstances of their death—to
check that he was morally comfortable (he always was)—before digging in. If Freya walked away from this now—and she had a good instinct to—then Don would be let off the hook again. She wanted him on the hook. And although Freya didn’t like her son’s involvement, the truth was that Albert would probably be calmer than most of the wwoofers, and certainly calmer than his father.

She and Albert led Belona to a secluded spot, a clearing between trees behind the barn. There was a young tree, she knew, that had a low branch they could use as a gambrel. Belona had two leashes round the top of her neck. Freya held one and Albert the other. They stood on either side of her, keeping the ropes a little slack so that she could scarf from her feed pan.

“Will this be painless?”

“It’ll be as humane as is possible.”

Belona tried to jump but the leashes kept her grounded. Albert dropped to his knees, let go of his rope, and hugged the goat round her middle, resting his head against her warm flank.

“Hope you enjoy your last meal.”

“Try not to make her nervous, Al.”

Don came round the corner of the barn carrying a molded plastic storage case with the word
Blitz
in red on it. In size and shape, it resembled his shaving kit. His cap was facing forward now. Belona made a noise from her stomach as he approached.

“Albert, would you like to say a word of thanks?” Don said.

“Don—please.”

“Thanks for everything,” Albert said, still with his arm round Belona’s neck, speaking into her ear. “This will teach me how to kill goats. It will allow us to survive in the end days.”

Freya made a small
tsh
noise. Don knelt down, laid the briefcase on the grass, and clicked it open. The bolt gun resembled a relay baton, but nickel plated. He lifted it out and hefted it in his hand. Albert stood and, copying his mother, picked up his leash and wrapped it twice round his wrist.

Don was testing his grip—one-handed then two—on the trigger lever.

“You’ve got to load it first,” Albert said.

“I know.”

Don spun the gun’s lid until it came off. Opening the small tin of 9-mm cartridges in the carrying case, he carefully pinched one out and immediately dropped it in the grass. Freya breathed deeply while he scrabbled around looking for it. She chose not to think about him doing the job badly and something terrible happening to Belona. He’d be relying on this weakness in her, she knew, hoping his incompetence would oblige her to step in.

“Take your time,” she said.

Eventually he found the cartridge, loaded it, and screwed the cap back on. By now, Belona had already half-emptied her feed pan. Once she finished eating she would be that much more difficult to control.

“She looks nervous,” Albert said.

“Don’t anthropomorphize,” Don said, and with his free hand he reached forward and stroked the goat’s jaw tassels. Then he rubbed the spot on her forehead where he would be
aiming for. A look came across his face. He stood up, turned his back, walked toward a patch of nettles, and let out some excess saliva.

Freya took deep breaths. This was part of her husband’s show. She remained calm. Eventually he came back toward Belona, whose head was still down, the bottom of the feed pan just visible now. Don held the baton in both hands, out in front of him, the way Italian waiters hold pepper grinders. She felt he was trying to seem ill-matched for the task.

“Dad, the firing pin’s still down,” Albert said.

Don nodded. He took one hand off the baton and, with difficulty, lifted the safety.

“Mum, I don’t think Dad’s very good at this.”

“Let your father be.”

“I’m fine,” Don said, and he dropped to his knees to get a better angle.

“I’ve been practicing on the Yellow Pages,” Albert said. “I’d be way better than him.”

As Don shuffled a little closer, Belona made a quick wail. Her tongue darted around the bottom of the pan, dabbing up the last of her food. Don’s lips disappeared. Freya could tell he was making the internal
3
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 … of children on high diving boards. At least she could see he was genuinely trying.

“It will be part of my education,” Albert said.

“Let him concentrate.”

“I just need to do it,” Don said, speaking to himself. He made a kind of two-handed stirring motion with the gun as he tried to get himself in the mode.

“Don’t think,” she said.

“Easier said than done,” he said.

His eyes were half-shut and this was the first time it really struck her that this was cruel.

“It would help me learn about responsibility and consequence,” Albert said.

Belona finished her food, made a throaty noise, and brought her head up to look at Don. He made the mistake of looking into the goat’s eyes, the letterbox-shaped pupils.

Albert said: “Why don’t I take over?”

“Leave your father alone.”

Don was still making eye contact with the goat, whose jaw was masticating.

“Young people are fearless,” Albert said.

“Don, you’re doing fine,” she said, surprised to find herself becoming straightforwardly encouraging now, wanting him to do well. Don noticed it too and glanced up.

“Okay, okay,
fine
,” he said, and his jaw tensed. “I
will
do this.”

As his voice grew loud, Belona kicked and pulled against her leashes, and Freya and Albert both had to step back and tighten their grip. Now that the goat was without the distraction of eating, which had kept her head lowered, Don had to stand up to get a better angle. He took a step back, as though a short run-up might help.

“I would be ruthless,” Albert said, leaning back. Belona’s head was stilled by their leashes.

Don began nodding now, redoubling his commitment. His knuckles showed white and he seemed to be saying something under his breath. Belona made a vibrato noise and a look passed across Don’s face.

“She’s nervous because you’re nervous, Dad. Probably best for me to take over.”

“Don, now’s your chance.”

His back hunched and he raised the gun above one shoulder. He held that position, the shiny baton aloft, the fact that his hands were now shaking making him look a little—Freya could not help but notice—as though he were preparing a cocktail. In truth, he did not resemble a killer.

Don’s expression was of a man who had surprised himself. He’d secretly thought that, for all his avoidance over the years, when it came to it, he would probably be able to go through with this. For Freya, here was his moment of self-awareness that she had been hoping to provoke, only now that it was in front of her, she realized they would both have been better off in ignorance.

Albert said: “Let’s face it. I’m the man for the job.”

Then Don, still with that same startled expression, held out the baton to his son.

Geraint was in the coop, lifting up the swing-down door on the hutch.

“How long have you been here, Ger?”

Kate watched him through the chicken wire as he reached in and stroked one of the hens.

“Basically since the day you left. I came here looking for you, but then I decided to help out.”

Kate wondered why no one had told her this.

“What do your mum and dad think?” she said.

“They’ve been really supportive.”

“Have you found out your results?”

“I haven’t had time,” he said. “Liz and Mervyn might bring them over later.”

He used their first names. He held a pudgy hen and nuzzled its wing feathers with his nose.

“I’m really sorry about leaving,” she said.

“No need.” It looked like he was talking to the hen. “You handled it badly, but you did what was right for you. Things worked out. My fault for not seeing there was a problem.”

He put the hen back down, felt around in the straw, and pulled out a small pale egg. He held it up and admired it. There didn’t seem to be much of his old self left, and for this she felt responsible.

Just then they heard an impact somewhere and saw birds complaining in the sky above them.

When Don heard the shot, it took him by surprise and he put his hand to his chest. He was standing in the corner of the barn, not more than ten meters away from his wife and son but no longer visible to them. He had been listening to their muffled voices, unable to make out exactly what they were saying so filling in the gaps himself. He was still wearing his slaughterwear but had taken off his cap, while he leaned his forehead against the brick.

Behind him there were two long tables and, on each, stacks of wooden plates and a cutlery tray. On stands on a workbench there were four barrels: mild, dark, perry, and “Lucky Dip Cloudy Cider.” He went to the table, took a reusable pint cup, held it beneath the tap, and watched the glaucous yellow liquid dribble in. A memory of Patrick and a golden balloon.
Once the glass was full, he took a long drink. In the corner of the barn, a red light came on.

“You okay, boss?”

Varghese stepped out, his camera held up.

“Yes.”

“Everyone’s arriving. You ready to give me that tour now?”

There was the
eek-eek-eek
of the rope working against the branch as the goat’s body jolted, the muscles still contracting.

“How do you feel?” she said.

“Sad.”

Albert watched the blood stream from the tip of Belona’s tuft of beard. As the metal bucket filled, the sound changed from
tacktacktack
to a pitter-patter.

“Mum?”

“Yes.”

“I’m worried about Dad’s survival in the next stage. What will happen to him?”

“He might adapt.”

Albert watched the bucket. Once it was half-full, a raspberry red, Freya swapped it for an empty one.

“You can take that to the kitchen.”

“Okay.”

“You did very well,” she said, and kissed him on the head. “Do you want to help me with the rest or have you had enough?”

“I think I’ve had enough.”

“Okay.”

He held the full bucket carefully, both hands on the handle,
and carried it through the grass, across the yard. It caught the light: a full moon.

In the kitchen, Arlo was dicing onions with ex-professional flare. His cheeks were wet but he did not wipe his eyes. Albert clanked the bucket onto the tiles.

“I bring-ah blood,” Albert said, but didn’t feel up to giving his Mediterranean accent the usual oomph.

“My boy! My butcher!” Arlo said, and he knelt down and hugged him. Albert felt Arlo’s tears wet against his cheek.

“Okay. Now, say after me: co-ag-u-la-re.”

“Coagulare,” Albert said, without enthusiasm.

“Perfect, Albert. Benissimo.”

“I would like to be crying too.”

“I can make that happen,” and from the hugging position, Arlo picked him up with a fireman’s lift and held his face above the onions.

Sitting on a garden chair with a chopping board on his lap, Arlo cut the seams of fat out of the liver. In an iron pan on a trivet over the fire, there were onions, chili, mushrooms, garlic, and fresh kidney sizzling. Albert stood by the fire with a long-handled wooden spoon, prodding at the pan. They heard footsteps and looked up to see Kate coming down the stepped path toward them.

“I smell death,” she said.

As his sister got close, Albert wiped his eyes with his forearms. He took a paper plate and served himself an unnecessarily large portion.

“There was no suffering,” Arlo said, red-handed from the liver.

“The hens can tell when something bad has happened,” she said, quoting Geraint now. “They won’t lay anymore today.”