Stone Bruises (15 page)

‘Close that,’ he tells me, gesturing to the open gate.

He walks off without waiting to see if I do. The remaining pigs are starting to drift over to the gate, so I quickly shut and fasten it with a loop of wire that hooks over the fence post. There’s a curse from Arnaud. I look around to see him sending the spaniel away with a kick as it gets too close. The dog yelps and runs off down the path.

They get the sanglochon to the entrance of the hut before it baulks. Its squeals become frantic, as though something about the place has panicked it. Georges has his full weight behind the board, pressing against the terrified animal, while Arnaud is trying to block it from escaping with his legs.

‘Are you just going to watch?’ he hollers at me.

I go across, standing opposite Arnaud so that, with Georges behind, the sanglochon has nowhere to run. I put my hand on its back and push. Its hide is rough and bristly. Solid, like a leather sandbag. Georges whacks it with the stick and the sow darts through the doorway.

Its squeals are amplified inside, pitching off the unyielding walls and concrete floor. I stay in the entrance, reluctant to go any further.

‘Get in here and shut the door,’ Arnaud snaps. ‘Leave the top open.’

I do as I’m told. It’s a stable door, split into two halves. There are no windows in the small hut, so the open top section is the only source of light. Flies buzz excitedly inside, and I try not to recoil from the stink of dried blood and faeces. In the centre of the shed is a waist-high stone slab. A rail is attached to the ceiling above it, from which hangs a pulley with a chain and hook. I stay close to the door as Georges picks up a long-handled lump hammer from the slab. It’s bigger than the one I’ve been using, but the old man hefts it easily, his oversized forearms corded with tendons and veins.

The sanglochon is blundering from side to side in the corner, although it seems to realize there’s no way out. Georges goes over to it and takes something from his pocket. Scraps of vegetables. He scatters them on the floor in front of the pig, scratching it behind the ears and muttering reassuringly. After a moment the animal calms down enough to get their scent. Still agitated, it sniffs at them. Georges waits until it puts its head down to eat and then hits it between the eyes with the hammer.

I flinch at the meaty thud. The pig drops, twitching on the floor like a sleeping dog chasing rabbits. While Georges takes hold of its back legs, Arnaud pulls the chain down from the pulley with a swift rattle. The routine seems almost choreographed, suggesting they’ve done it many times. Arnaud winds the chain around the pig’s legs and slips the hook through a link higher up to hold it in place. As he straightens he winces and rubs his back.

‘Give me a hand.’

I don’t move.

‘Come on, don’t just stand there!’

I make myself go forward. He shoves a length of chain in my hand. Georges comes and takes hold of it with me. I still have the crutch under my arm. I hesitate, unable to think what to do with it, then lean it against the wall. Arnaud moves clear, walking stiffly.

‘Pull.’

The chain is cold and rough. It moves easily for a few inches, and then checks as it takes up the pig’s weight. There’s a stench as the animal voids its bowels. The chain tugs at my arms as Georges heaves on it. I do the same. I’ve lost all volition. When he pulls, I pull. I feel the strain in my back, my arms. The pig’s rear end lifts off the floor, and then it’s hanging clear. It’s still twitching, still alive. We pull it higher.

‘OK.’

Arnaud puts a brake on the chain to stop it running out. We let go. The pulley squeaks on the rail as Arnaud drags it until the pig is suspended over the stone slab. It swings like a pendulum. Georges has put on a leather butcher’s apron from a hook on the wall, stiff and crusted with black splashes. As he ties it, Arnaud fetches a wide aluminium bucket from a corner. He positions it under the pig’s head, steadying its swinging with one hand. Georges goes to the slab again, this time picking up a longbladed butchering knife. I’m watching it all as if I’m not really there, and then, as Georges goes to the pig, Arnaud turns to me with a sly smile.

‘Do you want to do it?’

I grab for my crutch as Georges puts the knife to the sow’s throat. From behind me there’s a sound of something splashing into the aluminium tub, and then I’m outside. I make it a few yards before doubling over, the eggs I ate earlier rising on a wave of bile into my throat. There’s a rushing in my ears as the bright clearing darkens. I hear the hollow
thud
of the hammer again, see the pig’s skull squirt blood. Other images tumble over it, one falling body blurring with another:
someone screaming, blood shining black under the sick glow of a streetlight …

The rushing in my head becomes the indifferent buzzing of flies. The clearing re-forms around me, restoring me to the here and now. I hear someone come out of the shed.

‘No stomach for it, eh?’

There’s pleasure in Arnaud’s voice. I straighten, taking a last, steadying breath. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look it. What’s wrong? Frightened of a little blood?’

He holds up his hands. They glisten wetly, and panic flutters up in me again. I force it down. ‘I thought you needed some sort of licence to slaughter animals? EU rules, or something?’

‘No one tells me what to do on my own farm. Least of all a bunch of suited bureaucrats.’ Arnaud regards me sourly as he takes a rag from his pocket and wipes his hands. ‘Remind me again why you’re here?’

My hangover has returned. I try to clear my head as Arnaud puts the bloodstained rag away. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s got to be a good reason for a city boy like you to hide himself away. Won’t anyone wonder where you are?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you have any friends?’

‘None who’ll stay up nights worrying where I am.’

‘Family, then.’

‘My mother left when I was a kid and my father’s dead.’

‘What did he die of? Shame?’ Arnaud’s grin is savage. ‘You still haven’t explained why you want to bury yourself away in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Maybe that’s my own business.’

‘And what if I decide to make it mine? Give the police a little call?’

Strangely, the threat doesn’t bother me. ‘Then I’m sure they’ll be interested in the statues and traps in the woods.’

The smile vanishes. The pale-grey eyes turn hard, then he grins. ‘So you do have a set of balls on you after all. About time; I was starting to wonder.’

There’s a banging from the pens at the other side of the shed. Still grinning, Arnaud tips his head towards it.

‘Old Bayard’s scented the blood,’ he says, almost fondly.

‘Bayard?’

‘The boar.’ There’s the sound of wood breaking. Arnaud’s expression changes. ‘He’s getting out.’

Bad back or not, he outpaces me as he sets off around the shed to the boar’s pen. The fence is visibly bending as the boar batters at it, squealing furiously. One of the planks has a jagged split. As we get there another crack sounds out and the spilt widens, showing fresh white wood.

Arnaud yells at the boar, clapping his hands as he reaches the fence. It answers with a shriek of its own, intensifying its attack. Snatching up a stick, Arnaud jabs at it through the slats.

‘Go on, you bugger! Get back!’

The animal is enraged. Moving more quickly than I would have believed given its bulk, it snaps at the stick. Arnaud pulls it back and jabs again, and there’s a crunch as the stick breaks.

Arnaud throws it down. ‘Georges!’ he shouts over his shoulder. ‘He’s nearly out! Get a plank!’

Georges is already hurrying from the shed, throwing off the butcher’s apron. But the boar becomes even more frenzied as it catches the scent of fresh blood on him. The broken spar gives way and Arnaud jumps back as the animal rams its head through the gap. The massive block of its shoulders crashes into the next spar up, bending it outwards.

‘The board! Quick!’ Arnaud tells me, pointing.

There’s a thick square of plywood nearby, similar to the one Georges used with the smaller pig. I offer it to Arnaud but he waves me away.

‘Give me your crutch!’

‘What?’

‘Your bloody crutch!’ He beckons with his hand. ‘Come on!’

I hesitate, but another crack from the fence decides me. I hand it over. Arnaud thrusts the padded end in the boar’s face. It squeals and snaps at it, tearing the pad off with one of its tusks. Turning the crutch around, he jabs with the shaft. The rubber foot connects with the pig’s snout. Arnaud puts all his weight behind it and pushes.

‘Get ready with the board!’ he grunts as the boar draws back. He gives another jab. ‘Now!’

I shove the board against the gap in the fence. A moment later I’m almost bowled over as the boar rams it. I brace myself as best I can but I’m still knocked back until Arnaud stands beside me. He puts his leg against the board next to mine while he thrusts over the fence with the crutch. Even then, it’s like trying to stop a bulldozer.

Georges appears again, carrying a long plank in one hand and a steaming bucket in the other. Without stopping, he drops the plank to the ground and goes to the pen several feet away. Leaning over the fence, he slaps his hand on it and calls to the boar, making clicking noises with his tongue. For a moment the animal is too enraged to notice, but then it charges this new annoyance. Before it reaches him Georges tips some of the bucket’s contents into the pen. The sweetly rank smell of offal comes from it. The boar slows, snuffling uncertainly at the offering. Then, still grunting bad-temperedly to itself, it buries its snout in it.

Arnaud breathes a sigh of relief and steps away from the board. I begin to do the same.

‘Keep it there!’

Walking stiffly, he goes over to Georges. His attention still on the boar, the old man pulls a hammer and several nails from his trouser pocket and gives them to him.

‘It needs a new fence,’ he tells Arnaud.

‘It’ll do for now.’

It has the sound of an old argument. Georges’s silence makes his disapproval plain.

‘Take him out of the way,’ Arnaud says.

Georges picks up the bucket and clicks his tongue again. The boar trots after him like a dog as he walks around the pen. When he reaches the opposite side he tips out more slops from the bucket. The boar eagerly begins to eat.

Arnaud picks up the plank Georges dropped, bending with obvious effort. ‘All right, you can move.’

My legs are shaking. I hop to one side and lean against the fence, hoping he won’t notice. The crutch is lying on the floor. Arnaud kicks it and grins.

‘Not much good now, is it?’

He’s right. The pad lies in shreds and the metal shaft is bent and buckled. I lean on it experimentally. Useless. I’m surprised how lost I feel, but I’m not about to let Arnaud see that.

‘What does he eat when he can’t get aluminium?’ I ask.

Arnaud chuckles. The incident seems to have put him in a good mood. ‘Pigs eat anything. And old Bayard will take a chew of whatever he can get hold of. Think yourself lucky it wasn’t his jaws you stepped in. You’d have one foot less if it was.’

I look uneasily over at the boar as Arnaud holds the plank in place and hammers a nail into it. But it’s still eating, placid enough as Georges scrubs it with a long-handled brush. It seems quiet now, although I notice that the old man has stayed on the other side of the fence. As I watch he pours something from a bottle onto its back before continuing the rub. Vinegar, I guess, remembering what Gretchen told me.

‘Does it always go berserk when you kill another pig?’ I ask.

Arnaud speaks around a mouthful of nails. ‘If the wind carries the blood to him.’

‘Why don’t you get one that’s less vicious?’

He gives me a sour look as he hits the nail the rest of the way home and goes to the other end of the plank.

‘He’s a good boar. He only has to cover most sows once or twice to get the job done.’ There’s pride in his voice. He takes another nail from his mouth and hammers it into place with three blows. ‘You don’t get rid of prime breeding stock because of a bit of temper.’

‘What about the pig you just slaughtered?’

‘She was barren. I tried Bayard with her enough times for it to take if it was going to. If they’re not going to litter they’re no use to me.’

‘No wonder he’s mad if you’re butchering his sows.’

Arnaud laughs. ‘Bayard doesn’t care about that. He’s just impatient for the offal.’

He stands up, wincing. Massaging his back, he thrusts the hammer and nails at me. ‘Here. Make yourself useful.’

Leaving me to finish off, he walks out of the clearing without a backward glance.

FOR A TIME
after Chloe’s one-night disappearance, things settle almost back to normal. The fact of it hasn’t gone away, but it’s something both of us have avoided confronting. I’ve chosen to accept that she was telling the truth when she said nothing happened, and Chloe appears to have made an effort to put her temporary lapse behind her. If I don’t think about it I can almost pretend things between us haven’t changed.

But they have.

I’ve started meeting her at the bar again sometimes when she finishes work. Neither of us has acknowledged the implication behind this, which is that I no longer trust her. It’s just part of the unspoken deal we’ve reached.

One night when I arrive she’s at the bar with a man. She’s standing next to him while he sits on a tall stool, and at first I think it’s a customer. Then I take in the way they lean towards each other, the sombreness of Chloe’s expression as she listens to whatever he’s saying. I have to pause to steady myself, then I walk over.

Chloe looks up and sees me as I approach. Her eyes widen a little, in either shock or apprehension. The man also looks around now, but I take no notice of him. I force my mouth into the semblance of a smile.

‘Hi. You ready to go?’

Chloe’s face is alive with nervousness. ‘You’re early.’

Her eyes flick to the man. He’s been staring at me and now I turn to face him. Chloe grows even more flustered.

‘Sean … this is Jules.’