it felt wrong not to watch, as though by looking away he would be dodging a guilt that was rightfully his own.
There was a carefulness to David’s actions, a deliberate regard for each step along the way. Everything was laid out where he needed it, everything was ready. Leaning over, he picked up the bolt gun and held the lamb against himself. Sandy turned the head of the animal he was holding and covered one eye with his palm, as David had told him to do. ‘Du nivver kens,’ he’d said, in explanation. ‘Du nivver kens.’
There was no hesitation in what happened next. David’s hand closed over the trigger and the gun cracked, no louder than the pop of a champagne cork. The lamb, then, became a different thing. It tensed solid and shook as its nerves spasmed, back legs belting the air. David drew his knife deep through the animal’s throat, then gaped the head back to let it bleed. Sandy realised he’d been holding his breath, and he relaxed as the gush of dark blood fanned out across the concrete. When the spilling and the shuddering stopped, David cut deeper and removed the head, placing it just behind him on the ground. He lifted the body clear of the mess.
‘Okay, next een.’
Sandy shuffled forward, aware that the living, breathing creature in his hands had only a few more seconds to live and breathe. He was not sentimental, but nor was he immune to the gravity of what was happening. It was better done here than dragging them to the abattoir in town, David always said. And he was right. Everything was calmer and more honest this way. But still, there was a weight in Sandy’s stomach as he passed the animal to David, then stood back to watch.
When both lambs were lying dead, the men took one each and carried them into the shed, front legs gripped in one hand, back legs in the other. They set them down on the curved, slatted benches by the doorway, feet pointing at the roof. David shook his knife in the basin of water, then wiped the blade and washed his hands. Sandy removed his own knife, turned it over, inspecting it.
‘Is he sharp enough?’ asked David.
‘Should be.’
Though he’d done this job before, Sandy did not feel confident. There was a lot to remember, and he waited until David had begun before he started himself, watching and following the older man’s movements. He removed the feet and lower legs. The joints split with a crunch, like the first bite of an apple. He washed the blade, then lifted the skin around the breastbone and made an incision, first one way, towards the neck, and then the other, towards the belly. Lifting the flap of pelt that faced towards him, he pressed the knife beneath, separating the skin from the flesh, like a label from a parcel. He laid the blade down, then put his right fist into the space he’d created, running his knuckles back and forth against the join, gently at first, then harder, forcing it back, widening it, until his whole hand could fit inside. It was hot and clammy in there, beneath the fleece, and Sandy felt he was entering some private, forbidden space, the heat a kind of warning. He felt the shape of the ribs against his fingers, the firm curve of the body. And as he reached further, soft-punching towards the stiff ridges of the spine, he tried hard to think only of what he was doing, not what he had done.
One side complete, he walked around and began from the other, loosening the lamb from itself until his hand met the space he’d already made beneath. His knuckles were stinging with the effort, and he paused a moment before continuing, slicing and stripping until the cloak of skin had been completely removed and the animal lay unwrapped on the bench.
Sandy looked over at David, watching the quick, perfect movement of his hands. He tried to copy, lifting the thin membrane that covered the stomach cavity, slitting it carefully, holding his blade away from the bulging gut below. A fatty, fetid smell erupted from within, and the coiled mess emerged, delicate and horrific. This is where it can go wrong, he thought. Everything you don’t want to break is here: a full bladder and intestines. He cut a line from the groin up to the sternum, then cut deeper, towards the neck, splitting the rib cage. The animal came apart.
David had never taught Emma how to kill and gut a lamb. Nor had he taught his older daughter, Kate. He was not a traditionalist in every way, but he was in this one: men taught their sons, so he taught Sandy. Perhaps he had imagined that knowledge being passed on further, to his own future grandson, though he never spoke such a thought aloud. But now, today, the severing of that unspoken thought was apparent to Sandy, and perhaps to David, too. Today, they were only neighbours. The understanding of that change stood between them as they turned around their tables in silence, like lonely dancers.
‘Is du feenished?’ asked David.
‘Almost. I’ll be wi you in a moment.’
David walked to the cupboard on the side wall and fetched a handful of metal hooks. He punctured the hind leg tendons of his lamb and pushed one hook through each. Sandy stood beside him and took hold of the metal, then lifted the lamb as high as he could manage. David reached his hand in and cut away the dark liver and the heart, setting them aside. He sliced the diaphragm, cut the windpipe and oesophagus, then pulled the insides out, flopping the guts into a plastic bucket at his feet. Finally, the kidneys were removed, with an ivory nugget of fat congealed around them.
‘Okay, hang him up,’ David said, ‘and we’ll start ageen.’
When they were done, there were eight bodies suspended from the rail that ran along the side wall of the shed, each marbled pink and purple and white. All warmth had gone from them now, and all hints of the life so recently ended. They were solid and stiff. In a few days they would each be in pieces, stacked in David’s chest freezer. Sandy’s too, he hoped.
The two men cleaned the mess, bundling skins and guts and heads into black bags, scraping the jellied slick of blood from outside and brushing detergent over the blotched floor. They stood together in the doorway, then, looking out over the croft and the valley as an arrow of geese came wing-striding overhead, the air whimpering through their feathers. They watched the birds go, south towards Treswick.
David turned to speak. ‘Is du wantin ta tak een o yon heads hame?’ he asked. ‘Fir company, lik.’
Sandy let the joke hang between them for a moment, enjoying the awkwardness of it. Then he laughed.
‘No, I’ll likely be aaright.’
David nodded solemnly. ‘If du says so.’
Sandy noticed a spatter of blood on the older man’s face, and he felt an urge, then, to tell him, or to wipe it off with the sleeve of his jumper. But it didn’t matter. He was the only one who would ever see it.
‘So du’ll be back da moarn?’ David asked. ‘Just a few left noo, but I could dae wi dy help ageen.’
‘Yeah. I’ll be back.’
‘Good. Ah’ll ask Mary to mak extra fir denner. Du can eat wi wis. Come alang aboot ten, if it suits dee.’
Sandy smiled and picked up a polythene bag with two livers and two hearts inside, the clear plastic clinging to his greasy hands. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, then turned and walked back up the driveway and out onto the road.
* * *
‘Darlin, I’m just putting the tatties on. Make sure you’re back in twenty minutes, okay?’
‘Aye,’ David shouted. He was rummaging for something in the porch cupboard, then he was gone. The front door opened and closed. A bustle of cold air arrived in the kitchen, and Mary stepped closer to the stove. Her husband had a way of hearing without seeming to listen. It used to irritate her but not any more. She knew he’d be back in time to
