Free Cows by Matthew Stokoe Page B

fucker.”
    “There are enough of you …”
    “Shit, Cripps is too careful. He doesn’t give us the chance.” The Guernsey stopped circling. “That’s why we brought you here.”
    “You want me to kill him?”
    “No, we want you to make it so we can kill him. Bring him to the slaughter room at night. Get him alone. Just set him up for us, man, that’s all.”
    “It’s the same thing.”
    “The guy’s a fucking butcher. You’ve seen what happens because of him. Is it right? Come on, man, tell me. Is that sort of shit right?”
    “Of course not. But I can’t do it.”
    “Cripps ain’t going to leave you alone, you know. You think today was bad, but he’ll take you into that room again and again and you won’t fucking believe what he does to you. Did you like it today? Do you want to feel that way every day? It’ll happen, dude. And sooner or later, if there’s any part of you left to think, you’ll want him dead just like us.”
    “I can’t do it.”
    Steven shook his head, his vision blurred. He was back in the slaughter room under fountains of blood. Dicks stuck into him on every side and he was foundering, sinking fast in a bath of cow guts. The air was red and it was hard to breathe. His eyes rolled shut and he fell through the red air and, like streamers of come in hot water, the Guernsey’s words stuck to him and trailed behind.
    “Think about it, man. One day you’ll want it as bad as us … If you last that long.”
    He woke outside a storm drain at the edge of the meat plant. It was still night and his clothes were damp. He walked home. It was okay because it was too late for people.
    The kitchen light was on and the Hagbeast sat at the table, fork in her fist and an empty plate in front of her. Through the window the city dawn sky looked sick—a febrile, unlaundered sheet smeared with the sweaty excretions of the dark hours.
    “Where’s my fucking dinner? I’ve been waiting all night, you animal. Where were you?”
    She looked ill. The rolls of fat under her chin were gray and her eyes watered. It seemed an effort for her to remain upright in the chair. Steven was too tired to speak. Unutterably tired. He collected her plate and another and stumped to the bathroom. Under the deadness and exhaustion and self-loathing there was a dim remembrance of some plan, already in motion, that must be fed and fueled.
    The bathroom was stark and dirty under early-a.m. fluorescent light. Steven squatted over the plates. His shit came out pale and soft, in long thin strips without body. It left his ass filthy but he didn’t bother to wipe, just trudged out into the kitchen again and sat down in front of the Beast. He ate without looking at her, shuddering as the rotting paste went down. But it wasn’t as bad as before, tiredness and familiarity had dulled his stomach’s rebellion.
    The Hagbeast ate as well yet had built no immunity, the first forkful made her vomit. But she didn’t stop and Steven liked the wet gravely choking noises she made as she forced herself through the plate.
    “And you didn’t leave me any fucking breakfast, either.”
    Steven finished, left the Hagbeast in a pool of puke, made it to his room and collapsed on the bed. Dog dragged over, sniffed his blood-caked clothes, then cuddled in and went to sleep.

CHAPTER EIGHTEN

    L ate afternoon, too late for work. Steven opened his eyes and lay wondering how he felt. He had dreaded waking, thinking it would bring with it the final, crushing ramifications of his time in the slaughter room—an inescapable knowledge of debasement. He had expected to rise tainted with the guilt of having taken life. But it wasn’t so. He felt relaxed, flushed of the dross that usually chained him to indecision and fear. Like the time on the bus, he was freed of something. He felt unaccountably good.
    On the way out of the flat he passed the Hagbeast, still slumped over the kitchen table. She appeared not to have moved since dawn. His breath caught