The Butcher's Husband and Other Stories

  Copyright 2019 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  First published: September 2019,

  except parts of The Seagull first published as

  At War With the Hamptons in 2012

  and parts of The Pessimist first published as

  The Dead and the Dying

  (short version) in 2012

  After her dog commits suicide, a lonely woman discovers her pet's hidden diary.

  A suspicious husband sets out to discover what his wife really does late at night in her shop.

  A man starts a new job guarding the entrance to a pier at night.

  An abandoned house hides a sinister – and disgusting – secret in its basement.

  A young girl waits for a message from her dead mother, and then she finds something stranger in the freezer.

  The Butcher's Husband and Other Stories features the new stories The Butcher's Husband, Tongue, The Pier, Larry and The Butcher's Husband II, as well as revised versions of The Seagull and A Perfect Death.

  Table of Contents

  The Butcher's Husband

  Previously unpublished

  Tongue

  Previously unpublished

  The Pier

  Previously unpublished

  Larry

  Previously unpublished

  The Seagull

  Revised version of

  At War With the Hamptons

  A Perfect Death

  Revised version of

  The Dead and the Dying

  (short version)

  The Butcher's Husband II

  Previously unpublished

  The Butcher's Husband

  and Other Strange Stories

  The Butcher's Husband

  I

  Tonight's the night.

  I'm finally going to find out what she does down here when she thinks I'm asleep.

  “Okay,” she says, with the same laborious sigh that she dishes out every night. It's a heavy sigh, a sigh that signifies exhaustion, but is it a real sigh? Or is it just for my benefit? It's almost a movie sigh, the kind of sigh someone sighs in a film. Or on stage. Yes, it's a stage sigh, the kind of sigh that's supposed to fill an entire theater, the kind of sigh you want people to be able to hear all the way on the back rows.

  It's a suspiciously loud sigh.

  “You might as well go up,” she adds. “I'll finish off down here.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, turning to her. I don't want to seem too keen. I have to act normal. “Why don't you let me help for once?”

  “That's sweet, honey, but you know I like to do it myself.” She sets a set of bloodied knives on the bench and smiles at me. It's a weary smile, but again... Is that just for show? “Get to bed, Martin. You've been up since six.”

  “You've been up since five,” I point out.

  “And I don't mind one bit,” she says, coming over and putting her hands on my shoulders. “It's more than a job for me, it's a vocation. Whereas for you it's just a job. That makes a big difference. Let me tidy up. You know I like to do things my way. You'd only end up putting things in the wrong places, and that'd slow me down in the morning.”

  Should I argue with her some more, or should I pretend that I understand? For a moment, as she stares into my eyes, I try to work out what response would seem the most genuine. The most convincing. The most normal.

  “Okay,” I say finally, before adding something to make me sound casual and relaxed. “Don't stay up too long, though.”

  She leans closer and gives me a peck on the cheek, and then she turns to head back over to the counter. Various chunks of pig and cow have been left from this evening's preparations. Is 'chunks' even the right word? I'm sure that Vanessa, being a proper certified butcher, knows the right terminology for everything down here. I'm just the help. Just a dogsbody who gives her a hand. Just her husband.

  “Go on,” she says, as she picks up a set of ribs and starts carrying them to the walk-in freezer. “I'll see you in bed.”

  “See you in bed,” I reply, and I watch as she disappears into the freezer.

  I swallow hard, before heading to the door and pulling it open. For a moment, I look up the dark staircase that leads to our flat above the shop. I could just traipse up there, the way I do every night. I could just accept not knowing what Vanessa really does. I could allow myself to go on living in blissful ignorance.

  But no.

  Not tonight.

  Tonight's the night.

  I hold the door open for a few seconds longer, and then I let it swing shut. The door rattles in its frame, and I quickly turn and sneak over to the far side of the room. As I crouch down behind the shelves, it occurs to me that Vanessa might notice the lack of footsteps heading up into the flat. That might be a dead giveaway, making her realize that I'm still down here. Then again, as I get myself into a semi-comfortable positions behind the shelves, I remind myself that Vanessa has always been a dazed kind of woman. She's not very observant at the best of times.

  She'll have no idea that I'm still here.

  Every night, the same thing happens. I go up and take a bath, and then I go to bed. Vanessa stays down here in the shop until two or three in the morning. She claims to be clearing up from the day's work, but over the months I've come to suspect that she's hiding something from me. For one thing, there's not that much cleaning that needs to be done. For another, she's always maddeningly vague when it comes to the details. And for another...

  I watch as she comes out of the freezer.

  She heads straight to the door, and then she stops and turns the key.

  Now that's the thing that really made me suspicious. It was about a month ago that I first realized she was locking herself in down here at night. Maybe I could understand that she's busy, that she's a workaholic butcher. But as soon as I realized that she was locking herself in, I couldn't help but wonder what she didn't want me to see. I tried casually asking, of course, but she remained as inscrutable as ever. We're man and wife, we should share everything. And if she won't tell me what she does here down among the carcasses every night, I reckon I have every right to find out for myself.

  I duck down a little more, while keeping my eyes on her.

  She's still at the door. She seems frozen in place, but her shoulders are a little rounded now, as if she's relaxing. She thinks that I'm upstairs, she thinks she's alone for the first time all day. And now she's just standing there as if she has nothing to do and nowhere to go. Is this it? Does she simply stand in silence? I've been imagining all sorts of bizarre things that she might be getting up to down here night after night. What if the truth is so much more mundane?

  Suddenly she turns and heads back to the freezer.

  I wait until she's disappeared back through the heavy metal door, and then I allow myself to take a deep breath. I've come too far to back out now. If Vanessa were to catch me skulking about like this, she'd probably be furious. She'd probably start shouting at me and complaining about privacy and all that stuff. The truth, though, is that I'm worried about her. She seems so tired these days, and so sad. If she won't tell me what's wrong, I have every right to find out for myself.

  After a moment, I realize that she's talking to someone in the freezer.

  My first thought is that she's on the phone, but then I remember that there's no signal in the freezer. Plus, I can see her mobile phone on
the counter at the far end of the room, which means she's definitely talking to someone in the freezer. Which is odd, seeing as how the freezer contains nothing but dead, frozen animal carcasses.

  “There's no need to look at me like that,” I hear her saying after a few seconds, as I strain to catch the words. “It's not my fault, not really. This is just how the world is, and you can't change the world. You just have to muddle through it as best you can.”

  Who is she talking to?

  “No, don't,” she says again, sounding even more agitated this time. “Please, I'm begging you, there's nothing I can do. These things take time, that's all. And I can't hurry it along.”

  Hurry what along?

  For a moment, I wonder whether she somehow managed to sneak someone into the freezer this evening. But why would she do that? No, I need to ignore crazy theories and focus on what's more likely. Is she talking to one of the carcasses? Is she chatting away to one of the frozen pigs? I guess it's not that weird for someone to talk out loud like that, so long as she's not hearing imaginary responses. Is that what my wife is doing down here every night? Is she talking to dead animals?

  Is this some kind of weird therapy for her?

  “You're right to believe in me,” she continues. “I know you must have your doubts, but I won't let you down, I promise. I never let anyone down, not ever. Not in all my life. When I give my word, I give my word. Even on the morning of my wedding, when I wanted to...”

  Her voice trails off.

  When she wanted to what?

  Why's she talking about our wedding day?

  “I'm reliable,” she says, “that's all. I want you to know that. But I know it's just words at the moment, the proof will be my actions. Just trust me for now. I wouldn't have started this if I wasn't going to finish it.”

  Suddenly I hear a thumping sound, and then a faint creak. I know exactly what the creak means: Vanessa must be opening the thaw-box at the far end of the freezer. I always wondered why she kept the thaw-box back there. I asked her plenty of times, and her answers were always very vague and non-committal. It just seems odd to me, to have a heated thaw-box at the back of a freezer. Even if you ignore the waste of electricity, the idea is just contradictory. Yet Vanessa has always persisted, and I guess I just grew tired of arguing with her.

  A moment later, I hear a scraping sound, as if Vanessa's dragging something across the floor. And then, as I crouch down even further and peer between two old pots, I see her pulling an entire dead pig out of the freezer.

  Huh.

  Okay.

  Maybe she's just going to cut off some pieces of meat.

  She starts hauling the pig up onto the main counter. She struggles at first, and I can't help wondering why she didn't ask me to help before I went upstairs. Is it really such a big secret? I watch as she tries to haul the pig into place, and I have to force myself to keep from stepping out and offering to give her a hand. I know she'd be furious, so I simply remain in my hiding place and watch as – for the next few minutes – Vanessa tries and tries to get the pig onto the counter. Finally, just when I'm starting to think that perhaps she might not manage at all, she somehow heaves the pig fully into place, and then she steps back and surveys her achievement.

  She's very short of breath.

  For the next few minutes, as she struggles to get her breath back, I start to wonder whether she's just going to do some ordinary work. If that's the case, I'm in for a very boring few hours, but I guess I can't blame anyone except myself. Maybe I should have been less inquisitive, but I'm pretty sure that anyone would have done the same thing in my situation. How can a man act like nothing's wrong, when his wife's being so mysterious? I had every right to hide here and find out what she's up to, and I don't regret my actions. No, in fact, I think I've been positively restrained.

  Now I just have to wait it out, until I get a chance to sneak back upstairs.

  And then, after several minutes of inactivity, Vanessa suddenly reaches up and pulls her jumper off, over her head. She sets the jumper aside, and then she unzips her trousers and pull them down.

  Okay, this is a little odd.

  I watch with a growing sense of concern as she strips completely, and finally she's left standing completely naked next to the counter. To be honest, it's been a while since I saw her like this, since our rare fumblings in bed tend to take place with the lights off. Now here she is, standing in the harsh bright light of the shop, and I find myself staring at the curves and contours of her body. It's quite odd, really, to see her like this, and I can't help wondering how she's not cold. After all, the shop isn't exactly warm.

  Is it odd that I'm slightly turned on?

  Wait...

  If I'm turned on, maybe she is too?

  Suddenly I'm struck by the most horrible idea. My wife isn't about to do something sexual is she? She's always been fairly vanilla in bed, but for a moment my mind's eye is filled with images of her doing all sorts of things down here that any sane person would find reprehensible. Has our love life become so staid, so boring, that she's resorted to something disgusting in order to satisfy her urges?

  As more and more of these sick thoughts fill my mind, she suddenly heads to the far bench and picks up one of the large cleavers, and then she returns to take another look at the pig. Except that, this time, she suddenly starts climbing up onto the counter, until she swings a leg over the leg's side and starts straddling the dead creature.

  My eyes widen with shock.

  My naked wife is sitting on a thawed dead pig, with a large knife in her right hand.

  This is not normal.

  “Maybe tonight's the night, huh?” she says suddenly, keeping her voice low as if she's worried about making too much noise. “It has to happen eventually. After all this time, I guess I've begun to feel like this thing is never going to end, but one night...”

  Her voice trails off, and for a moment she seems to be lost in a kind of daze.

  Finally, she reaches down and starts slicing straight through the pig's chest. I watch with a growing sense of concern as her hands become covered in blood, and then as she reaches deep into the freshly-cut wound and starts cutting some more. Vanessa is a master butcher, she knows every inch of the animals we prepare here, and in some ways it's a privilege to watch such a genius at work. At the same time, I've watched her plenty of times during the day, so doing it at night seems like a step too far. As she cuts at something inside the pig's body, I can't help but wonder whether all this fuss is strictly necessary.

  Suddenly she lets out a gasp, and I watch as she carefully lifts the pig's heart from its chest.

  Okay, this is getting seriously weird.

  She stares at the heart for a moment, before raising it up to her lips and taking a bite. I can't help but wince as I hear her teeth tearing through the muscle, and then I watch as blood pours down her neck and runs onto her chest.

  Is it weird that I'm just a little turned on by the sight of all that blood running over her breasts?

  Am I a bad person?

  I wince again as she continues to bite through the heart, and then I watch as she reaches up with her spare hand and uses a fingertip to start smearing the blood all across her chest and belly. At first, she seems to be working more or less randomly, but finally I begin to realize that she seems to be trying to make a very specific pattern. She wipes thick smears of blood straight across her nipples, and I swear I feel like a pervert as I begin to get an erection.

  I'm not weird, I swear.

  It's just that this whole scene is very provocative.

  Finally Vanessa gasps as she holds the heart out in her trembling hand. There's blood pouring between her fingers and dribbling down onto the pig's body, and more blood is smeared all around Vanessa's mouth. Her eyes are open wide, filled with a kind of intensity that I don't think I've ever seen before. She always looks so tired, but right now it's almost as if her soul is on fire.

  Okay, so this is getting a little stran
ge, to say the least.

  My naked wife is straddling a dead pig.

  She's covered in blood.

  She's holding the pig's heart in one hand and a large knife in the other.

  She seems lost in her own world.

  And I'm harder than I've been in years.

  Suddenly I hear a faint bumping sound, and I look over to the back door. Sure enough, the bumping sound returns, and after a moment I realize that someone's out there. Whoever they are, they're trying to knock very quietly, but they are knocking. And, sure enough, a moment later Vanessa climbs off the pig and heads over to answer.

  I almost call out to her, to remind her that she's stark naked, but at the last moment I catch myself.

  She unbolts the door and pulls it open, and to my surprise her best friend Leah slips into the room, wearing a large gray coat.

  This just got a thousand times weirder.

  “Sorry I'm late,” Leah says, sounding flustered as Vanessa shuts and bolts the door, “but Harry was -”

  “I think I might have found it,” Vanessa says. She locks the back door.

  Leah turns to her.

  “I think I've found it,” Vanessa continues, sounding utterly shocked. “I know I should have waited for you, but I just had this feeling. As soon as Martin went to bed, I had to get started, and...”

  Her voice trails off for a moment.

  “Well,” she adds finally, “maybe you should see for yourself.”

  “You're kidding, right?” Leah replies. “Vanessa, tell me this is some kind of joke.”

  Vanessa shakes her head. She seems very serious.

  Leah turns and looks over at the pig. For a moment she seems too stunned to react, as if the sight of the pig has sent her into some kind of coma. And then, with a faintly nervous expression on her face, she steps over to the head of the counter and stares down at the pig's carcass.

  I wait.