could slide through muscle and sinew.
‘You stupid c—’ The boner choked on the word, substituting: ‘Afternoon, Mr Flyte.’ His face was spotted with blood and little chunks of meat, but it wasn’t that which made Trish move even further back: it was the way his nostrils flared and his eyes bulged. After a tense moment he put the knife back on the table. She saw the scars on his hands and the strong, blunt fingers, and tried not to shudder.
To her relief, they moved on again and were soon watching nicely familiar joints of beef chugging along on a conveyor belt, monitored by a man in a pristine white coat and mesh hat. He even held a reassuring clipboard. Trish got her breath back and asked about the man with the knife in the boning room.
‘Bob Flesker?’ said Mr Flyte, nodding. ‘You mustn’t take that too seriously. He was just startled. It happens. He’s a good worker and he’s never hurt anyone.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Trish said, surprised at the casual way he’d offered his reassurance.
‘That’s not what I meant. There’s always a risk of fingers being cut in the boning room. It’s impossible to prevent it completely with the pace at which the men have to work. But Bob has never let his knife slip or stray in all the three years he’s been with us.’
‘He must be good,’ she said politely, fighting queasiness again.
‘He is, but then he’s had more experience than most,’ Flyte said.
‘His family had their own craft slaughterhouse for generations.’
‘What happened to it?’
There was a hint of a smile on Flyte’s face, as though something in the butcher’s past appealed to him. ‘Uneconomic these days, like most of the others of that size.’
‘Trish, I think we ought to be getting on,’ Will said, very brisk and stern.
She took the hint and kept the rest of her questions to herself, leaving Will to open the subject of Ivyleaf and their sausages. As she listened to him getting absolutely nowhere, she still couldn’t forget the sight of the razor-sharp knife pointing at his stomach. Or the sense of fury only just held in.
Emerging into the clean air outside was like being born again. The ordinary sounds of traffic and aeroplanes were as reassuring as the beat of the sea.
‘We need lunch,’ Will said, apparently unaffected by anything they had seen or heard. ‘There’s a really good pub I know about ten miles away. OK?’
‘Sure.’ Trish felt sick, and her ears were still ringing with the screams and the sounds of tearing, the clang of metal on metal and the swish of gumboots through viscous liquid. She didn’t think she’d be able to eat again for a week, but she wanted to sit somewhere dark and comfortable for a while.
The sight of the gold-and-green countryside washed across her eyes, and she gradually let her hands quieten against the steering wheel. But when she’d parked behind a small old brick and tile inn and tried to get out of the car, she found her legs were shaky. She leaned against the car door for a moment, breathing in the medicinal smell of the cow parsley that laced the hedges, and getting her mind and stomach in order.
Later, consuming half a pint of classic bitter and even nibbling at a little cheese, in a pub as dark as she’d wanted, Trish found her brain working again.
‘You were amazingly cool with that bloke who nearly stabbed you. I was impressed.’
Will looked at her with an unreadable expression. She searched for the usual fear and anger and couldn’t find either.
‘Enough to forgive me?’ he asked.
For a moment she couldn’t think what he was talking about. Her own rage seemed to have belonged to someone else, as though she really had been born again.
‘Yes,’ she said, remembering now. ‘But don’t lie to me again.’
‘OK. Then I’d better tell you that I didn’t feel at all cool,’ he said, smiling like a boy caught out. ‘More like a rabbit in the headlights. And a terrible coward for not doing
‘You stupid c—’ The boner choked on the word, substituting: ‘Afternoon, Mr Flyte.’ His face was spotted with blood and little chunks of meat, but it wasn’t that which made Trish move even further back: it was the way his nostrils flared and his eyes bulged. After a tense moment he put the knife back on the table. She saw the scars on his hands and the strong, blunt fingers, and tried not to shudder.
To her relief, they moved on again and were soon watching nicely familiar joints of beef chugging along on a conveyor belt, monitored by a man in a pristine white coat and mesh hat. He even held a reassuring clipboard. Trish got her breath back and asked about the man with the knife in the boning room.
‘Bob Flesker?’ said Mr Flyte, nodding. ‘You mustn’t take that too seriously. He was just startled. It happens. He’s a good worker and he’s never hurt anyone.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Trish said, surprised at the casual way he’d offered his reassurance.
‘That’s not what I meant. There’s always a risk of fingers being cut in the boning room. It’s impossible to prevent it completely with the pace at which the men have to work. But Bob has never let his knife slip or stray in all the three years he’s been with us.’
‘He must be good,’ she said politely, fighting queasiness again.
‘He is, but then he’s had more experience than most,’ Flyte said.
‘His family had their own craft slaughterhouse for generations.’
‘What happened to it?’
There was a hint of a smile on Flyte’s face, as though something in the butcher’s past appealed to him. ‘Uneconomic these days, like most of the others of that size.’
‘Trish, I think we ought to be getting on,’ Will said, very brisk and stern.
She took the hint and kept the rest of her questions to herself, leaving Will to open the subject of Ivyleaf and their sausages. As she listened to him getting absolutely nowhere, she still couldn’t forget the sight of the razor-sharp knife pointing at his stomach. Or the sense of fury only just held in.
Emerging into the clean air outside was like being born again. The ordinary sounds of traffic and aeroplanes were as reassuring as the beat of the sea.
‘We need lunch,’ Will said, apparently unaffected by anything they had seen or heard. ‘There’s a really good pub I know about ten miles away. OK?’
‘Sure.’ Trish felt sick, and her ears were still ringing with the screams and the sounds of tearing, the clang of metal on metal and the swish of gumboots through viscous liquid. She didn’t think she’d be able to eat again for a week, but she wanted to sit somewhere dark and comfortable for a while.
The sight of the gold-and-green countryside washed across her eyes, and she gradually let her hands quieten against the steering wheel. But when she’d parked behind a small old brick and tile inn and tried to get out of the car, she found her legs were shaky. She leaned against the car door for a moment, breathing in the medicinal smell of the cow parsley that laced the hedges, and getting her mind and stomach in order.
Later, consuming half a pint of classic bitter and even nibbling at a little cheese, in a pub as dark as she’d wanted, Trish found her brain working again.
‘You were amazingly cool with that bloke who nearly stabbed you. I was impressed.’
Will looked at her with an unreadable expression. She searched for the usual fear and anger and couldn’t find either.
‘Enough to forgive me?’ he asked.
For a moment she couldn’t think what he was talking about. Her own rage seemed to have belonged to someone else, as though she really had been born again.
‘Yes,’ she said, remembering now. ‘But don’t lie to me again.’
‘OK. Then I’d better tell you that I didn’t feel at all cool,’ he said, smiling like a boy caught out. ‘More like a rabbit in the headlights. And a terrible coward for not doing
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