‘Sometimes the heart and God are in accordance and sometimes they are not.’ He wasn’t looking at her when he said this but she knew what he was referring to. ‘As you know, I have always based my decisions upon what God dictates. Because of that I look back on my life without regret.’ He let his eyes meet hers. Somehow, he suffered his own inner barbs. She thought she could see dampness around his eyes. ‘Without regret, Mary. And I know without question that I am saved. That I go on to glory. Adhering to the will of God makes life so much simpler. It relieves us of complexity. It makes suffering unnecessary.’
She sat in silence letting his words cover her as they had so many times throughout the years. She knew this was what he would say even though she’d hoped he would say otherwise. It was no different from before. His response in all matters came down to the simple acceptance of God’s law as laid down in the Book of Giving. She found it both disappointing and reassuring to discover that he had not changed. That he would never change.
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
He seemed to become suddenly aware of the long line of Parsons waiting outside his door. He stood and helped her to her feet. She wanted to ask for help in the other matter, the matter of her illness but she knew that his answer would centre around the idea of selfless service at the expense of one’s own Welfare. That was what being a Parson of the Welfare was all about. Maybe he knew she wanted more from him or maybe he just took pity on her. Or could it be that despite the words he said, some part of him would have liked very much the complexity and suffering of acting against God’s will? Whatever was the case, she did not expect what came next.
‘I’ll make sure your dutiful rations contain something particularly sacred and nourishing from now on. I’m sure it will make you feel a lot better.’
She went to kneel and kiss his hand but he stopped her.
‘That’s really not necessary, Mary. Go and get some rest now. Start again tomorrow.’
She smiled and left.
Torrance watched the group of four workers exiting the dairy while he smoked a cigarette against the back wall of the slaughterhouse.
Beside him a truck had backed into a loading bay, its engine idling. He could hear the wet sound of vats being emptied into the stainless steel compartments of the wagon and the rumbling thud as hollow units filled with valuable flesh.
‘Hey, boys!’
He held up a packet of smokes as he beckoned them. They changed course and approached.
‘What’s the rush?’ he asked when they were close enough. ‘Got something better to do than milk cows?’
‘No, sir,’ said Harrison. ‘We were just…’
‘It’s all right, there’s no need to explain. I get out of here as quick as the next man when my shift’s over. There’s more to life than MMP, am I right?’
They nodded, relaxed a little.
‘Here, smoke with me.’
Torrance offered the pack around. They hesitated and then all reached out together. He flicked a match and four heads leaned in to draw on the flame.
‘Thanks, sir.’
Torrance nodded. Respect was right and proper. They had it for him but not for their previous boss. That too, was right and proper.
‘How are things in the dairy now?’
‘A lot better without that freak Snipe,’ said Roach. The others looked at him and then at Torrance. Roach realised he’d gone too far and looked down at his feet wishing he didn’t have such a big mouth.
‘You’re right,’ said Torrance. ‘Snipe was a freak of the lowest order. Not fit to work here, not fit to be townsfolk. You know what happened to him, right?’
They shrugged.
‘Status revoked,’ said Maidwell.
‘That’s correct. And you all understand what that means, don’t you?’
They nodded but he could tell they were still too young to fully understand. They knew but they didn’t really get it.
‘If you’re not townsfolk, you’re meat, boys. It’s as simple as that. Let me show you something.’
He walked over to the truck in the nearby bay and they followed. They could now see the gas logo on the doors and the nature of the cargo. One by one, vats of intestines were being upended into the wagon’s open sections. Shiny ropes of pale pink, grey, white and blue innards avalanched from each vat. Stomachs, pancreases and gall bladders went with them. The natural twists and turns in the loops of large and small intestine made them look like links of strangely coloured sausage. There was something intimate and sexual about the way the intestines glistened and coiled around each other as they tumbled down.
‘That’s the power for the town right there. Those of us lucky to have electricity – this is where it comes from. Snipe, your old boss, is in there somewhere and that’s entirely fitting. He did something unforgivable by God and by Magnus. Now he’s going to give of himself to feed the townsfolk, light their stoves and power our trucks. He’s going to make sure the plant has power to keep processing the Chosen. One way or another we all make that contribution, boys. Best to make it the right way. Know what I mean?’
Parfitt was as pale as the spent organs slopping into the truck but the others were accepting, if a little grim-faced. They all nodded and said ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well that’s fine.’ Torrance crushed out the cigarette under his boot. ‘And now that you’ve all been working here a few months, I think it’s time you enjoyed a little extra-curricular activity. Be at Dino’s tonight at ten o’clock.’
Harrison was about to protest but Torrance didn’t give him the chance.
‘Don’t be late.’
It wasn’t what Magnus had expected.
Collins moved like a cat. Not a startled animal. A very lean, confident and deliberate cat. The claret ran from both of his nostrils but Collins hadn’t even bothered to swipe the back of his hand across his face to see the extent of it. Instead, he breathed, far too slowly for Magnus’s liking, and the occasional blood bubble filled and burst above his upper lip, sending a brief scarlet mist into the warm air of the study.
His eyes were mesmeric – a full border of white surrounding each iris – and he seemed not to stare so much as allow everything in. Magnus had the feeling that Collins could even see behind himself. The odds, so screamingly in Magnus’s favour only seconds before, now seemed a little closer than he wanted to believe. Smooth and steady as a surgeon, he reached his right hand under his jacket and extracted the cosh he kept in a sling under his left arm. It was the head and first eight inches of a humerus, the marrow replaced with lead – everyone called it the ‘no-brainer’. The bone was polished to a pale yellow gleam and delicately monogrammed, R.M. It wouldn’t hurt to tip the scales further in his favour and Magnus didn’t want to use a blade on the man. Not yet awhile.
Collins’s eyes didn’t flicker when the no-brainer came into view.
Now he held the cosh, Magnus felt happier to approach Collins. He’d beat him like an expert now, rupture a muscle here and there, crack a few ribs and a facial bone or two but nothing that would spoil Cleaver’s work. Nothing that would prevent Collins from feeling every parting of his skin, every tear in his flesh, every snap of his ligaments and tendons and every crack of his separating bones and joints.
The overturned chair lay between them. Magnus would have to kick it out of the way before he could lay another finger on Collins. He stepped forward a pace gauging Collins’s response. Still nothing. Not a twitch of a muscle. Not a flicker of his eye. Magnus hefted his boot-clad right foot at the chair and sent it spinning away from them towards the wall. The way between them was now open. Magnus raised the no-brainer and advanced.