Dead of Winter Read online

  ‘Bad relationships, bad debts and a lot of bad business in between, will do that to a man once good.’ Karl began whispering into her ear. ‘What do you say we stay in bed all day and do nothing but dirty things to each other?’

  ‘What kind of dirty things, good sir?’ responded Naomi, merrily. ‘Do you want to cane me, Mister Kane?’

  ‘That can be arranged for later, you naughty girl, but right now I was thinking of that jar of honey in the kitchen. I would just love to put it–’

  The mobile phone suddenly screamed again on the bedside table.

  Karl ignored it.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  They both smiled.

  It rang again.

  ‘Shouldn’t you answer that, Sugar Kane?’ whispered Naomi, hoarsely, face slightly flushed. Her hands were cupping his balls, as if weighing them.

  ‘Answer what? I don’t hear a thing except the sound of someone playing Tubular Bells on my globular balls.’

  ‘Could be important.’

  ‘What’s more important than having sex with the woman I love?’ murmured Karl, ice-skating his nails over her left breast and nipple.

  ‘Business!’ said Naomi, swatting his hand away while reaching for the phone. ‘Hello? Oh…yes, one second, please.’ Making a face, Naomi mouthed, ‘Jemma Doyle…’

  Taking the phone, Karl said, ‘Hello? Yes, Jemma. No, you didn’t catch me at a bad time.’

  Naomi rolled her eyes.

  Less than a minute later, Karl clicked the phone off.

  ‘She has a few more photos of her uncle for me.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask for the fees?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I have to pee,’ stated Naomi huffily, getting out of bed.

  ‘Be quick, my dearest. I have a rocket for your pocket.’

  ‘Get stuffed,’ she pronounced, walking towards the bathroom, breasts bouncing seductively, small buttocks seesawing mischievously.

  ‘Hurry, my dearest…’

  She mumbled something nasty before scurrying into the bathroom, slamming the door loudly behind her. A few seconds later, Karl could hear the toilet seat falling, followed by familiar tinkling sounds.

  ‘I have something for youuuuuuuuuuuu,’ he sang out loudly. ‘It’s hot and getting bigger by the second.’

  ‘Really?’ shouted Naomi from the bathroom. ‘Well, until you get more money from Miss Jemma Doyle, you can put your tiny dick back in its matchbox. It’s not lighting my fire any time soon…’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BLOOD WORK

  ‘Oh! God! That bread should be so dear,

  And flesh and blood so cheap.’

  Thomas Hood, The Song of the Shirt

  ‘Hello, Tom? Karl,’ said Karl, holding the phone while guiding his car into a wasteland of grey buildings and mangled steel frames, three days later. ‘Listen, I think all those cop mutts are barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Really? And what tree should they be barking up?’

  ‘The tree where I’m heading, right at this moment. The only abattoir in Belfast.’

  ‘The abattoir? Are you serious?’

  ‘Why not? I don’t necessarily believe it has to be a doctor or medical student. A good butcher is as skilled at slicing meat as any surgeon. I was at the Continental Market yesterday, at the City Hall, and watched German butchers working on a pig. Horrible to look at, but they were brilliant, the way they did it. That’s when I got the idea.’

  Karl could hear Hicks making a grunt of scepticism. ‘I think you’re way off, Karl, and wasting your time.’

  ‘Admittedly, I’m thinking outside the box, but this was once owned by the Shank family.’

  ‘The Shank family? The name doesn’t immediately ring a bell.’

  ‘I’ll explain it all to you when I get back.’

  ‘Just be careful. Those sort of places have a terrible safety record,’ said Hicks. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got some news on the fingerprints on the hand found at your doorstep. His name is – or was, assuming he’s dead, of course – Billy Brown. A very bad boy, indeed, according to police and prison records.’

  ‘Oh? What did Bad Boy Billy Brown do time for?’

  ‘You name it, he’s done it. Rape, arson, attempted murder, to list a few.’

  ‘An impeccable CV. Anything else?’

  ‘He was originally from London, and a member of the neo-Nazi BNF.’

  ‘The British National Front?’

  ‘Yes, plus he was wanted in England for the attempted murder of a young black man in the London Underground, four years ago. Been on the run ever since, and was apparently hiding over here, sheltered by loyalist paramilitaries in Limavady, Coleraine and Ballymena, to name just a few small towns.’

  ‘As if we haven’t enough of our own locally grown scumbags, we’re now importing them,’ said Karl, bringing the car to a halt. ‘Perhaps someone within the paramilitaries killed Bad Boy Brown because he was bringing too much heat?’

  ‘We’ll never know unless we find the body – if there is a body to be found.’

  ‘Time will tell. Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m at the abattoir now. If all goes well, I’ll brass neck it, and ask for a few free steaks for you.’

  ‘Just watch yourself.’

  ‘I didn’t know you cared, Tom Hicks,’ replied Karl, blowing a kiss down the phone before snapping it shut.

  The abattoir was located near Duncrue Street, a desolate, so-called industrial area where men were men – and even some of the women, too. Shells of shuttered factories landscaped the grey-brick background, like shantytowns of desolation. Walls of putrid garbage did eerie slow-motion movements, caused by burrowing rats gnawing everything in sight. An abandoned train with dilapidated carriages sat glued with rust. Mountains of disused car tyres snaked in dark coils, resembling giant anacondas awaiting victims.

  Exiting the car, Karl could see, too late, that the women and men of the night had obviously been busy plying their trade. A minefield of used condoms were splattered everywhere, mimicking a post-paintball fight. To make matters worse, bloody spillage from the slaughterhouse mingled with the condoms and other unmentionables.

  ‘Shit!’ he uttered, accidentally walking into the collateral damage of dead sex and animal leakage. Gingerly, he began shaking away the sticky sheaths from the sole of his shoe. ‘What a fucking mess.’

  Outside the abattoir gate, he gazed over the building, taking in its Gothic-like appearance. It was a mammoth, grey cement structure begging to be demolished. Grim was an understatement. Dull lights peered dimly from behind numerous frosted-glass windows. The smell of rainy ozone on tarmac floated heavily in the air, at once familiar and strange, and for a very brief moment Karl felt the specific sensation of everything being unreal.

  ‘Creepy fucking place…’

  Dove-grey smoke drifted upward from a massive industrial chimney, like a ghost, formless yet controlled. There was something eerily unsettling and intimidating about the place, a chill that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. A sensation Karl always dreaded.

  Above, the evening sky had become menacing.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here…?’ he mumbled, seconds before entering a decrepit office furnished with a laminated table, two battered yellow chairs, one occupied by a middle-aged man, and a couple of metal cabinets diseased with rust spots. On the table sat a bust of a severed pig’s head, its languid tongue resting between yellow and bloody teeth. The place reeked of confinement, with the added unattractiveness of a post-war kitchen. Dying fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, spitting annoyingly.

  ‘Hello, there. Are you the owner?’ asked Karl, tapping at the door, looking directly at the man.

  The man had skinny streaks of grey hair, yellow moustache and the bluest eyes Karl had ever seen. He seemed engrossed in a newspaper. An ancient pipe rested in his mouth, despite the large ‘No Smoking’ sign spiked against the far wall. The stench of burning tobacco was everywhere.<
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  For a few seconds more, the man continued reading the newspaper, before placing the smouldering pipe in a filthy ashtray nailed to the table’s top.

  ‘No, I’m the manager. John Talbot’s the name. The owner, Geordie Goodman, is over at the pens, taking stock, and very busy right now, Mister…?’

  ‘Kane. Karl Kane,’ replied Karl extending his hand. Despite Talbot’s face being mottled with age, Karl quickly discerned that the old dog still retained a greatly part of a once-formidable build, and that his bite would be a hell of a lot worse than his bark. ‘Everyone calls me Karl.’

  ‘How can I help you, Karl?’ asked Talbot, standing, shaking Karl’s hand. Talbot’s grip felt like cold iron. He was Karl’s height, about 6-3 or so, but stooped. Across the shoulders, he was two of Karl.

  ‘I’m a film scout, looking for a good location for Channel Four. They’re making a horror movie, about zombies. I hope you’re not easily insulted, John, but this place looks perfect to use for the film.’

  ‘Zombies?’ Talbot suddenly released a howl of laughter. ‘You’ve come to the right place. Most of the so-called workers in here are zombies!’

  Karl joined in the laughter, some forced, some appreciative.

  ‘I’ll have to remember that one, John, when I go back to the studio and file my report.’

  ‘You’d have to see the boss for the final say, of course, but I can give you a quick tour of the place, until then. That’s if you’re up to it?’

  ‘Would you? That’s terrific.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. Here. Put this on,’ said Talbot, handing Karl a battered hardhat, red in colour. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’ Karl squeezed the hat on. It was a right fit.

  ‘Come on. This way,’ nodded Talbot, walking towards the door. ‘I should warn you, though: you better have a strong stomach. It can be a bloody horrible sight.’

  ‘A bit like my ex-wife.’

  A quick bark of a laugh burst through Talbot’s nose. ‘Yes, I have one of those myself. Axe-wife, I call her.’

  ‘I love your wit, John. There could be a part in this movie for you, if you’re interested. Wouldn’t be much, of course.’

  ‘You’re kidding? Me in a movie? Bloody hell!’

  ‘How did you know the title of the movie?’

  ‘What? Oh! Now you’re winding me up. Come on. Over beside those two doors.’

  The two enormous steel doors opened automatically, and a shiver touched Karl despite the freezing temperature already mounting throughout the building.

  The noise of skull-rattling machinery was suddenly everywhere. Karl could feel its strength tremble beneath him. It made him uncertain.

  ‘No point in standing there if you want to see inside,’ said Talbot, a rubbery smile on his face. ‘They won’t bite – at least not yet.’

  Tentatively, Karl entered, immediately feeling as if an invisible hand had slammed against his stomach. The place was massive and seemed to have no boundaries. It was breathtakingly horrible, like the Sistine Chapel bloodied by barbarians. Its dank coldness reeked with tension and void of all things human. The enormous floor was littered with sawdust chips speckled red with bloody imperfections. There was a sense of danger about the place; a sense that someone was going to be killed before the day was complete.

  To Karl’s left, gangs of sad-looking cows were being herded up a metal gangplank affair, led by a bizarre-looking creature.

  ‘Is that a goat?’ quizzed Karl, pointing at the scruffy animal with a head crowned by blonde curly locks.

  Talbot nodded gleefully. ‘That’s old Martin, the Judas Goat. He keeps the cows calm, as if on a picnic. Unbeknown to them, they’re following him obediently up the ramp to their doom. They haven’t a clue what’s waiting for them.’

  To Karl’s amazement and horror, old Martin suddenly slipped into a tiny hideout, leaving the cows alone and looking bewildered. Karl could have sworn the old goat was grinning from ear to ear just as it made its exit.

  ‘The cows can usually smell a trap, but like all good traps, they can’t escape it. After the trap comes that…’ said Talbot, pointing at the far wall.

  Suddenly, from behind hidden panelling, a group of young women appeared, stun guns in hands. Seconds later, they placed the stun guns behind each cow’s head and pulled the trigger, releasing a plunging bolt directly into the unfortunate creatures’ brains. The pneumatic hissing of the stun guns was everywhere, sounding like a million disturbed snakes.

  ‘Ten thousand volts of pure kick applied to the head renders each animal unconscious,’ continued Talbot. ‘The stun gun prevents adrenaline from entering the animal’s bloodstream, ruining the tenderness and beauty of the meat.’

  ‘Dear Lord…’ muttered Karl, feeling the violence of the act recoiling in his stomach.

  ‘Don’t worry too much, Karl. It’s all humanely done. They hardly feel a thing.’ Talbot winked. ‘At least that’s what we tell the public and the media.’

  Without warning, each cow went keeling over in a thunderous thud, as if on ice, shit, piss and blood rocketing from all natural cavities. Legs broke. Necks snapped. Eyes popped from their enclosures.

  Fuck the night…thought Karl, turning quickly away from the horrendous scene.

  ‘Come on, Karl. Down this way, into the butchering arena, where the real kings reign.’

  Seconds later, Karl entered the arena and almost immediately his nostrils began flooding with a stomach-churning smell of salty iron. The same stinking stench from outside the building was coming at him with force, but more powerful, more tangible in its taste of freshly slaughtered meat.

  Air. Need some fucking air, thought Karl, trying desperately to hold control of breath and stomach.

  Blood-splattered butchers were performing an opera of death, knives flowing fluently as conductors’ batons, cutting sinew and meaty parts expertly. With the animals’ hearts still capable of pumping blood, the legs were being removed from just below the shoulder by hydraulic shears.

  Karl steeled himself to watch, wondering which of these butchers wouldn’t think twice about slicing and dicing a human being?

  ‘The arteries are severed and the heart pumps most of the animal’s blood from the body in less than two minutes,’ said Talbot’s blasé voice, in what sounded like a well-rehearsed explanation. ‘The draining blood flows through that floor grate and into a collection system for final processing into fertilizer and other uneatable items.’

  The butchers continued hacking at the warm meat, ignoring Karl and Talbot. To Karl, the butchers’ faces seemed to be filled with hypnotic madness. Women saturated in blood began packing the hacked parts into plastic containers.

  ‘Those are the labourers,’ grinned Talbot, almost dismissively, pointing at the women. ‘Are you feeling okay, Karl? You look pale. You’re not going to be sick, are you?’

  ‘I’m fine…I think I’ve seen enough…’ His stomach suddenly felt like a springboard. A vile acid bile rose to his mouth. He forced it back down, and felt its kick in his stomach.

  ‘Actually, Karl, you lasted longer than most people do when they first come here and have a wee tour of–’

  ‘What on earth is that contraption?’ asked Karl, pointing at an enormous metal container stationed at the far side of the room. The huge device had all the appearances of a medieval torture chamber, with leather straps and numerous levers and buttons protruding outwards. It was caked in blood and rust, and to Karl, resembled something out of an Edgar Allan Poe nightmare on acid.

  ‘Oh, that’s the Slaughter Restraint,’ said Talbot.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Slaughter Restraint. That’s where the Jewish butchers do their kosher cleansing. Shechita they call it.’

  ‘Shechita?’

  ‘The ritual slaughter of animals according to Jewish dietary laws. They cut the cow’s throat with a great big bloody knife called a hallaf. God the night, you want to see the blood! Buckets of it. You’ve got to see it to believe it.’


  To Karl, Talbot seemed to be relishing the details a little too much. ‘Sounds absolutely horrific.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s quick and painless, but a lot of those interfering do-gooders and animal welfare organisations have disputed this. What the hell would they know? They’re not getting it done to them, are they? That’s logical.’

  Not wanting to argue with Talbot’s take on logic, Karl said, ‘Sounds awfully complicated just to eat a piece of meat.’

  ‘Well, these Jews are a complicated people. That’s how their God tells them to eat. If the hindquarters of the animal are to be eaten, they must be stripped of veins, fat, suet and sinews. Do you read the Bible?’

  ‘No…I mean not on a regular basis.’

  ‘Well, it’s all in there, if you ever feel that way inclined.’

  ‘Are any of your butchers specifically assigned to do this?’ said Karl, the gears in his brain moving nicely with suspicion.

  ‘Ha! They’re not even allowed touch the cow, never mind butchering it for them. Jews have strange customs. They think us Gentiles are unclean – though they’ll never say that to your face, of course. They’re afraid we’ll contaminate their grub. No, what they do is get one of their rabbis to do the killing. That keeps them right in the eyes of God. If you read the Bible, you’d know all that, just like me.’

  ‘What part does the Slaughter Restraint play in all this?’

  ‘The Slaughter Restraint is connected to that room above.’ Talbot pointed to a room directly above the Slaughter Restraint. ‘Once the animal – usually a cow – is forced into the Slaughter Restraint, it’s immediately clamped in tightly by two buffers, before being inverted by the turning mechanism inside the chamber. Then the cow’s upside down head pops over that half-moon ledge, exposing the lengthy neck.’ Talbot stretched out his own neck, and made a slicing motion across it. ‘That’s when the deed is done, slicing through to the jugular vein.’

  ‘I think I get the picture…’

  ‘You have to see it to believe it.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ replied Karl, quickly. ‘This chamber is used exclusively by the Jewish community?’