Just as well she never had a pony, I think. But, like a lot of things where Gretchen’s concerned, I keep that to myself. She’s gone quiet, and I swear I can feel what she’s going to say next.
‘Why don’t you come inside?’
‘No, thanks.’
She’s moved to make room for me to climb in. ‘It’ll be OK, nobody comes up to this room any more.’
The coffee’s still too hot but I take a drink anyway. ‘I’ll stay out here.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So why won’t you come in? Don’t you want to?’
‘I’m working.’
‘No, you aren’t. You’re drinking coffee.’
Her smile is both teasing and confident. There’s something about Gretchen that puts me in mind of a cat: sinuous and purring to be stroked, but capable of raking you with its claws if the mood takes it.
I’ve never been comfortable with cats.
‘I’m still working,’ I say. My head is thumping, the hangover back full force.
She goes to sit on the bed, one leg swinging. ‘Are you gay?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Saying no to a pretty girl’s invitation, I think perhaps you are gay.’
‘OK, I’m gay.’
She seems to have forgotten all about the scene with the photograph, but I’m not going to mention it if she isn’t. Her smile is mischievous as she lies back on the bed, crooking one knee and propping herself up on her elbows.
‘I don’t believe you. I think you’re just shy and need to relax.’ Gretchen leans further back on the bed. She raises an eyebrow, still smiling. ‘Well?’
‘Hey! You up there!’
Gretchen’s smile vanishes as Arnaud’s shout comes from the courtyard. Hoping she has the sense to stay quiet, I look down over the scaffold. Arnaud is glaring up at me from the cobbles. The spaniel is by his feet, ears cocked as it looks up as well.
‘What are you doing?’
I don’t know how much he can see or hear from where he’s standing. I resist the impulse to look over my shoulder.
‘Taking a break.’
‘You’ve only just started.’ He fixes me with an unfriendly stare and motions with his head. ‘Get down here.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve got another job for you.’
I don’t know whether to be relieved or not. ‘What sort of job?’
‘Slaughtering a pig. Unless you’re too squeamish?’
I hope he’s joking. But his eyes are bright and watchful, daring me to refuse. And I don’t want to stand around up here any longer than I have to: I don’t trust Gretchen not to do something stupid.
‘I’ll catch you up.’
I turn away before he can say anything else. In the instant before I look in the bedroom I have an image of Gretchen still lying on the bed, so vivid that I can almost see her tan skin against the faded blue stripes of the mattress.
The bed is empty. So is the room. On the floorboards is a faint tracery where her feet have disturbed the dust, running to and from the door.
I close the window as best I can and make my way over to the ladder.
Arnaud and Georges have already singled out one of the sanglochons. I can hear squeals and gruff shouts as I go along the path to the pens. When I reach the clearing Georges is herding the condemned animal towards the gate of the sows’ pen, which Arnaud is holding open. The rest of the pigs have, sensibly, made themselves scarce. They’re at the far end of the pen, milling about as far from the two men as they can get. In the smaller pen nearby the dark shape of the boar is stalking up and down along the fence, grunting excitedly.
The sow Georges is driving towards the gate is comparatively small, not much bigger than a Labrador, but still looks big enough to bowl him over. He clearly knows what he’s doing, though. He keeps it moving by slapping at it with a thin stick, steering it with a square of wooden board that he holds against its head. Neither he nor Arnaud acknowledges me as the pig is driven out of the pen. Arnaud follows closely behind as Georges directs the animal towards the small cinderblock hut that stands — ominously, it now seems — by itself.
‘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.