thing. It is the stillness of curiosity. I ache to dip my thumb into the dish of the wound to see if I am warm or cool; indeed, I lift my hand to do so, and only hesitate because Alfred is shaking violently, small sobs coming from deep within his chest.
‘I must go. I must go and find a doctor,’ he says, over and over, not stirring. ‘I should not have spoken to you. I distracted you. This is my fault.’
I want to say, It is not, but I am lost in contemplation of this phenomenon.
‘I am not bleeding,’ I muse, and find I have spoken aloud.
Alfred is sitting quite still. ‘Dear Christ,’ he breathes. ‘You are not.’
It is the truth. The injury is full of blood, but is not spilling over.
‘I wonder why,’ I say, for it holds me in a fascination.
I am a slaughter-man: I know well the fountaining of heart’s-blood when an artery is severed.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ repeats Alfred. ‘Look.’
I look. The blood is sinking, and as it subsides the edges of the wound begin to close together very slowly, but fast enough that it is possible to observe the motion. I am held in the grip of a terrific stillness, so entrancing is the sight of my body re-sealing itself. After minutes I forget to count all that can be seen is a red seam along my forearm. I flex my fingers, and they move: I can bend easily at the elbow. Nothing is damaged. Alfred gets to his feet, staggering backwards.
‘You …’ he says, his eyes wild. ‘When a man is cut, he should stay open. You close up. It is not right. You should be dead.’
His gaze darts up and down and from side to side; everywhere but at me.
‘I am not,’ I say simply.
His breathing is rough. ‘I do not—’ he begins, and stops. ‘I do not know you.’
He walks away. I inspect my miraculous arm, twisting it about and watching the line where I cut myself grow smooth and pink. After a while I pick up my axe and continue with my labours. I am determined to concentrate, for I do not wish to slip into another bout of this dangerous half-sleep. The others come back in; Alfred also, but he says nothing, and will not look at me.
I set my teeth and apply myself to my labour. I am a slaughter-man, I say to myself. I cut open the bodies of beasts. They stay open. I was cut, and I closed up. I did not bleed. I shake the troubling thoughts away. I must have been mistaken: I cannot have cut myself so deeply. These things are not possible.
The remainder of the day is simpler. Each beast waits patiently in line, and the greatest noise we hear is the sigh of each giving up its spirit gladly. At the end of the day, I walk out of the gate to find Alfred waiting.
‘Let’s be walking home, then,’ he says grudgingly.
He keeps half a pace ahead of me, and looks back every now and then, as though expecting something, eyes sliding to my forearm. I wince with the knowledge of my body and how it healed; and how he witnessed it happening.
‘Alfred?’
‘What?’ he growls.
‘You are my friend,’ I mumble.
‘Yes, yes,’ he mutters. ‘So you keep saying. Give it a rest.’
He thrusts his eyes ahead, walking faster so that I have to quicken my step to keep up with him. I chew the inside of my mouth until I taste iron. I hold out the package I have been given as my day’s perk: I bear the prize of an entire head, brains and all, for the way I turned things round, the gaffer said.
‘I like brains,’ I say. ‘Brains are tasty.’
He breathes out, slowing down so that I do not have to rush so.
‘They are,’ he agrees, and we fall back into step.
The evening is chilly: he is wrapped up in his coat like a boatman, breath standing before him, humming some tune I do not recognise. I try not to interrupt him. It is difficult. At last I speak.
‘About today—’ I start.
‘It is of no consequence,’ he snaps, picking up the pace again.
‘But it was—’
‘It was nothing!’ he cries. ‘It was a difficult day. That bullock! God, how it wouldn’t die! Enough to make any man see things.’
‘But, Alfred, at the slaughter-house—’
‘I do not want to talk about it. In fact, I remember nothing.’
‘Alfred—’
‘I said, I do not want to talk about it. Get a move on,’ he grunts. ‘It is time to get some food inside us.’
‘Oh.’
My mouth fills with water.
‘That’s the job. Think of that. Nothing else.’
‘Yes. You are right.’
He breathes out heavily, clouding the air around his head.
‘Of course I am. No more rambling. I’m freezing. Let’s get back and get this lot cooked. Of a sudden I have a powerful hunger upon me. Think how good it’ll taste. Any meat you’ve had a hand in is a clean and cheerful dish.’
He slaps my shoulder. I know that the events of today have brought me close to grasping something, but it is already beginning to slip away. If he would talk to me, maybe I could fix my understanding. But he will not.
We walk in silence to our lodging house, a narrow squeeze of a building caught between the muscular shoulders of the tenements to each side. Ours is little different, except the bricks are perhaps grimier, the steps to our cellar a little more slippery with spilt beer and bacon fat, the straw in our palliasses a little older. But there are just as many folk squeezed into the upper floors – three families to a room as I hear it. Their babies squall as lustily; their men and women argue just as cantankerously. It is our crowded ark, one of an armada of vessels crammed thick with humanity. I have no desire to move from my cellar, where everything is cosy and peaceful by comparison.
A woman from one of the upstairs rooms cooks the meat, and there is plenty to share. All the cellar-men fill up the kitchen, joining in the feast of my good fortune. One man brings beer, another, bread; for this is our way of a night. We eat until Alfred’s bad humour is quite taken away, and we are friendly once again. When we have finished, we return to the cellar and Alfred finds our pallets as sure as a seagull finds its nest from the hundreds on a cliff. I stretch out, cradled in the comfort of my companions patting their stomachs, smacking their lips and wiping gravy off their chins.
Alfred lolls on his elbow, picking at his buckled teeth with a straw. His rough sandy hair stands up in surprised tufts. He shifts his thin hips, cracks out a fart and laughs at the sound. His mouth is soft, for all his endeavours to hide it beneath a broad moustache.
‘You know what, Abel?’ he muses. ‘When we strike it rich, we’ll be out of here. Get a nicer
