Free Blood Relatives by Stevan Alcock Page A

black curls.
    We unbolted the doors and clambered up into t’ refrigerated air. There wor four carcasses on hooks: pale, headless, limbless, wrapped in orange meshing. They wor still swaying gently.
    Mitch said, ‘Help us get ’em down, then.’
    The carcasses wor smooth and cold to t’ touch, and the orange mesh made ’em hard to grip. It took the both of us to lift each one off its hook and heave it onto a pallet. By t’ time we’d unhooked the third we wor sweating heavily.
    I pondered the pile of pigs on t’ pallet. Hard to think that not so long back they’d been snuffling happily about, jostling wi’ other contented little piglets over t’ sow’s teats. Fattened up ’til they all squealed their last in t’ abattoir. I’d heard it said that pigs are bright buggers and know their fate, that pigs know death.
    I went to pick up t’ final carcass.
    ‘Leave that one,’ said Mitch, a little sharply.
    ‘But I thought …’
    ‘Well, you thought wrong.’
    We lowered the pallet onto a trolley. The woman smacked each carcass like a newborn’s backside, then took a clipboard from under her armpit.
    A group of miners passed by, freshly back up top, hard hats in their hands, white circles where their goggles had been. I watched ’em as they headed for t’ outdoor showers. Some wor already stripping off. The woman wi’ t’ meaty arms passed Mitch a docket to sign. Over her shoulder I glimpsed the pale arse of a miner as he nipped between t’ shower blocks.
    Mitch jabbed me in t’ ribs. ‘Stop gawping. There’s a pile of boxes under that tarpaulin in t’ back of t’ van. Bring me five of ’em.’
    I lifted the blue tarpaulin. Underneath wor about fifty boxes of hair rollers. What wor we doing wi’ hair rollers in a refrigerated lorry? At a coalmine?
    I handed the boxes to Mitch, who passed ’em down to t’ woman wi’ t’ docket. She handed us a pink copy wi’ a number 4 signed for, and kept a white one wi’ a 3 signed for. The last pig rode home wi’ us.
    We’d just driven by two ravens that wor pecking at a road kill, when Mitch said, ‘You keep shtumm about this, you hear?’
    ‘What are you going to do wi’ t’ pig?’
    ‘Let’s just say it fell off t’ back of a lorry.’
    ‘Or didn’t!’
    We both burst out laughing.
    ‘I’ll sell it on tomorrow to this bloke I know over Shipley way. When we get home I want you to keep your mother occupied while I stash the rest of them there hair rollers in t’ garage. You hear me?’
    ‘I hear you.’
    Mitch curled his bottom lip approvingly. I sat wi’ both feet up on t’ dashboard, feeling that all wor right wi’ t’ world, listening to Mitch singing Elvis songs tunelessly ’til he’d had enough of it. We wor stop-starting through inner-city traffic lights.
    Mitch said, ‘How you getting on at Corona?’
    ‘Better than that last job you got me.’
    ‘Aye, well that’s as may be. And Craner? How’s our Mr Craner?’
    ‘Craner’s all right, I suppose.’
    Mitch grunted, seemingly satisfied. He turned on t’ radio, which wor good cos it meant we didn’t have to sing or talk and there worn’t silence neither.
    That last ‘proper job’ Mitch got me wor in a loony bin. Work experience he called it. I lasted all of three days. They didn’t know what to do wi’ me, so I just mooched about like one of t’ inmates.
    I wor hanging about t’ corridor when suddenly there wor a friggin’ commotion and this woman screaming her lungs blue cos she wor being dragged along by t’ hair by two men in white coats. One of ’em eyeballed me and shouted, ‘Who the fuck are you?’
    The next day it wor suggested I could look after some men out in t’ gardens. Get out in t’ fresh air. I wor happy about this, cos inside it smelt of piss and bleach. So I wor sent out into t’ grounds wi’ five grown men to play cowboys and injuns.
    ‘But,’ I wor told, ‘make sure you watch ’em, don’t let any of ’em run off.’
    I looked on