Collins, so passionately expressive before, said nothing. Magnus saw his eyes taking in every nuance of movement he made. He tried a couple of feinted jabs with his left fist but Collins knew they weren’t going to connect and stayed absolutely still. His passivity was taking the fire out of Magnus, replacing it with childish frustration. They weren’t fighting like men. They were playing tag.
Magnus eyed his opponent. His only satisfaction in that moment was knowing without doubt how all this was going to end. Collins didn’t stand any kind of chance at all. The serenity of the man was disquieting to him, though, and for a few seconds, he almost made the decision to call Bruno back in and bring Collins’s little performance of agility to a close. Safer to have him bound and moved into the town centre for public torture and execution by slow dismemberment and ablation. Take him out and let Cleaver have him and everything would return to normal – better than normal with nothing left of Collins save a bloody and shocking memory in the minds of the townsfolk. Enough to remind them who ran Abyrne and forget all ideas of abstinence from God’s divine gift: meat.
What am I thinking? The man hasn’t had a proper meal for months. Anyone as light as that would move with a bit of speed. When I catch him, he’s finished. If he doesn’t want to be caught, I’ll get Bruno on the job. Either way, this is my contest for the taking. By God, it’ll feel good to break a few of his bones.
Magnus swiped with confidence, Collins dodged again. He swung so hard he lost his balance. He saw the disbelief in Collins’s eyes, an opportunity he couldn’t have dreamed up. Magnus felt something like a sharp stone hitting his Adam’s apple square on – Collins’s bony elbow, the closest part of his body. By the time it had happened it was too late to respond.
The no-brainer dropped from Magnus’s limp fingers. His left hand went to his throat. He could neither breathe nor swallow. The blockage there felt as hard as the stone of a plum. He tried to call for Bruno but was unable to make any sound. Words of fury and fear backed up in his mind but he could not speak them. He was suffocating while Collins looked on. He was vulnerable to any attack and yet Collins hadn’t moved.
This is it. The skinny bastard’s going to stand there and watch me die.
‘Perhaps now you’ll take me a little more seriously,’ said Collins.
Magnus could see Collins could barely believe his luck. He put his hands out to steady himself on something but there was nothing there. He sank to his knees, finally attempting to massage his throat with his fat fingers. It didn’t do anything except hurt more. Collins smiled and Magnus saw real relief there, a dispersal of tension.
‘Still, I’m glad we met.’
Collins stepped out of view towards the window and Magnus’s vision became black and starry.
Dino’s was a stockman’s shift-end paradise.
It was loud and smoky and served harsh grain vodka to loosen the minds and muscles of all MMP workers whether slaughtermen, dairymen or herders. The place was sawdust rough because of its clientele. However, their high wages and standing in the town made it difficult for others without the right connections to get in. Many of Abyrne’s unattached ladies came to Dino’s to look for a solvent husband. They were any age from sixteen to forty and some of them had been waiting that entire span of years. Stockmen called them spent milkers. They never gave up their search, though. It was that or die of hopelessness.
A band played danceable jigs with fiddle, guitar, whistle and a couple of rattling drums. The music had a stretched, laboured sound to it but it made the workers jump and twitch nevertheless. Musical instruments were hard to come by in Abyrne. Live, well-played music was even rarer. Within an hour of the shift end, most of the patrons were dancing, kicking up dirt or slamming their vodka. The rest were watching the floor for openings. Stockmen looked for a healthy young woman – another rarity – and the women looked for stockmen of any kind.
The dairy boys made sure to arrive before the Cathedral clock struck the hour. They didn’t know what patience Torrance would have with tardiness; even outside the plant. None of them wanted to find out.
They walked through the front doors with several minutes to spare, having showed their MMP cards to the massive doormen who didn’t recognise them. Inside they blinked at the smoke, the clamour of laughter and shouting, the cloud rising over the enormous dance floor. No one noticed them.
Unsure what to do, they followed Parfitt when he began to shoulder his way to the bar. Each of them felt like kids on the first day at school, nervous about what to expect, afraid of danger, excited at the possibilities. It was the final part of growing up and they were glad Torrance had ‘invited’ them.
Parfitt would have liked more time to view the minor selection of drinks behind the bar before ordering – none of them had drunk anything before – but one of the many barmen had already seen him. He didn’t try to speak over the commotion, he merely gave an upward flick of his head signalling that he knew they were waiting and what did they want? Parfitt had to make a decision and picked a label he liked the look of.
‘Four bullwhips,’ he shouted.
‘Where’s your bloody manners?’
Something wrong with the way the words sounded. Parfitt reddened anyway. No choice.
‘Please.’
The barman grinned. All his upper and lower front teeth were missing. He turned away and spilled the vodka into four bullet-shaped shooters. He placed them on the bar. The dairy boys reached out but he held up his hand.
‘A few words of advice to you, lads. If you want to drink in Dino’s, you’ve got to behave like stockmen – that means give respect and you’ll get it right back. Don’t ever come in here thinking you’re better than anyone else. Understand?’
They turned to one another and every pair of eyes said Do we really have to take this? No one knew the answer and it wasn’t worth risking a fight on their first visit. They might want to make a habit of it after all. Parfitt was thinking in particular about the surfeit of women in the bar.
Angry but contained, they all nodded.
‘Good lads. That’ll be a groat for the drinks.’
‘How much?’ said Parfitt, disbelieving.
The barman heaved a long-suffering sigh.
‘Listen, you pick the most expensive drink, you’ve got to pay for it, right? All booze is made by the grain bosses. All vodka is equally piss-like and the price makes little difference. Next time go for Prods.’
The barman gave a final smile, more of a taunt than a pleasantry, and wandered away to other customers. Roach slapped a hand onto Parfitt’s shoulder.
‘Forget it, mate. Let’s enjoy ourselves.’
He held his glass up and the others did likewise.
‘To the Chosen. Long may they give us their flesh.’
And together:
‘To the Chosen.’
They threw back the shots with a toss of their heads, the way everyone else did, and all of them regretted it. It tore each throat all the way to the stomach making their gorges rise and their eyes leak. Saliva flooded Parfitt’s mouth as he tried not to vomit. After a few moments he got himself under control. They caught each other’s eyes, saw each other’s faces and then they were laughing. The laughter felt good. The tension evaporated and they leaned back against the bar to survey their new territory.
Parfitt lost himself for a while in all the activity, let it wash over him, envelop him. This was what their work was all about. They worked the Chosen and gave the fruit of their labours to the people of Abyrne. They were paid well for their skill and appreciated for it too. Stockmen were respected members of every district and every quarter. Here in Dino’s their efforts came full circle, they drank, they relaxed, they danced and the women came looking for them. He smiled at no one in particular. Life was suddenly very good. The job made sense to him.