Free Dirty Chick by Antonia Murphy Page B

“Skin’s carving it up now.”
    A single sheep produces a formidable pile of meat, enough to feed the whole community. Skin carved up the roast with his buck knife, and the way he glided it through the flesh, it was clear that blade was as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. There were slices of haunch, big chunks of backbone dripping with fat, and drumsticks so huge they looked Jurassic. The children came running when they saw the meat, the older ones helping themselves to plates, the younger ones hanging on their parents, demanding to be served. Kowhai and Phoenix stood around hopefully, wagging their tails and looking mournful. Skin tossed them a handful of scraps, and they fell on the meat in rapture.
    â€œMama, look what Maris did!” Miranda yelled, holding up her doll for inspection. “Isn’t that cool?” That Baby appeared to have been the victim of a slasher attack. Her plastic throat was slit and her belly eviscerated. The doll was soaked in ketchup, a spoonful of canned spaghetti standing in for her entrails.
    â€œThat’s very nice, Miranda.” I smiled, feeling ill. “Would you like something to eat?”
    The sheep, it turned out, was delectable. The meat was meltingly tender, each bite suffused with fat like a fine marbled steak. “Yep, that lamb you get in the shop’s no good,” Skin explained. “Kill it too early, before it’s had a chance to develop the flavor. This one’s done proper, all the grease and the fat still in.”
    â€œDone at both ends.” Maria raised her glass. “To perfection!”
    â€œThank you, Skin,” I told him, this time with a smile. “The meat is incredible. It’s some of the best I’ve ever had. Do—I mean, do you think you might teach me how to cook a sheep sometime? I’d like to try it.”
    He looked pleased. “Yep, we could do that.”
    But Lish just shook her head. “He’ll never tell. Moans all day about the work it takes, but he loves it. Wouldn’t give it up for the world.”
    Skin laughed and shoved her arm with affection.
    After our meal, we sat under the stars sipping the ninth or tenth bottle of peach wine. Or maybe it was cider. Or maybe it was both. By that time, I didn’t much care.

CHAPTER SIX
    STRIPPER CALVES WITH SATAN TONGUES
    F ollowing their lurid performance at the party, I decided that Nova and Maris needed a better palette to draw from. I poked around on the Internet and found a theatrical makeup supplier in Hamilton.
    Later that week, I ran into Autumn at the school. “I have sort of a strange question for you,” I began.
    Autumn waited.
    â€œWould you mind if I gave your children blood?”
    She did a double take. “Pardon?”
    Thankfully, it wasn’t too awkward to explain, and in the next few days, I put together a little care package for the girls: a dozen blood capsules, a package of wound wax for creating realistic effects, and half a liter of stage blood, in a purplish, arterial hue. I dropped the package on their doorstep, feeling good about playing Secret Santa, and promptly forgot about it.
    And that’s when things got really dark. One night in March,Abi woke to a strange sound in her house. “It was like a bowl of Rice Bubbles,” she told me. “You know, the cereal? With Snap, Crackle, and Pop? Just a real soft popping noise.”
    She padded out into the lounge to see where the sound was coming from. It should have been pitch-black at two in the morning, but the room was lit up with a pale yellow glow. When she drew back the curtains, she saw Michiko’s house, just across the road—or rather, what was left of it. The house was consumed in flames.
    No one was home when it happened. Michiko and her kids were on their way back from a holiday abroad. When Michiko got the news the next day, she moved away to stay with friends. Her home, clothing, furniture—everything she