Bullfighting (13 page)

That was that.

Out of his system. He remembered – he saw himself – attacking the meat, hanging over the sink. He closed his eyes, snapped them shut – the idea, the thought, of being caught like that. By a child, by his wife. The end of his life.

He'd killed it – the urge. But it came back, days later. And he killed it again. The fridge again – lamb chops this time. He sent his hand in over the chops, and grabbed a packet of chicken breasts, one of those polystyrene trays, wrapped in cling-film. He put a finger through the film, pulled it away. He slid the breasts onto a plate – and drank the pink, the near-white blood. He downed it, off the tray. And vomited.

Cured. Sickened – revolted. Never again. He stayed home from work the next day. Vera felt his forehead.

—Maybe it's the swine flu.

—Chickenpox, he said.
You're such a messer
.

—You must have had the chickenpox when you were a boy, she said.—Did you?

—I think so, he said.

She looked worried.

—It can make adult males sterile, she said.

—I had a vasectomy, he told her.—Three years ago.

—I forgot, she said.

—I didn't.

But he was cured; he'd sorted himself out. The thought, the memory – the taste of the chicken blood, the polystyrene tray – it had him retching all day. He wouldn't let it go. He tortured himself until he knew he was fixed.

It was iron he was after. He decided that after he'd done a bit of googling when he went back to work. It made sense; it was fresh air across his face. Something about the taste, even the look, of the cow's deep red blood – it was metal, rusty. That was what he'd craved, the iron, the metal. He'd been looking pale; he'd been falling asleep in front of the telly, like an old man. Anaemia. Iron was all he needed. So he bought himself a carton of grapefruit juice – he knew the kids would never touch it – and he went into a chemist's on his way home from work, for iron tablets. He regretted it when the woman behind the counter looked at him over her specs and asked him if they were for his wife.

—We share them, he said.

She wasn't moving.

—I'd need to see a letter from your GP, she said.

—For iron?

—Yes.

He bought condoms and throat lozenges, and left. By the time he got home he knew his iron theory was shite and he'd pushed the grapefruit juice into a hedge, with the condoms. The kids were right: grapefruit juice was disgusting. There was nothing wrong with him, except he wanted to drink blood.

He had kids. That was the point. A boy and a girl. He had a family, a wife he loved, a job he tolerated. He worked in one of the banks, not high enough up to qualify for one of the mad bonuses they'd been handing out in the boom days, but high enough to have his family held hostage while he went to the bank with one of the bad guys and opened the safe – although that event had never occurred. The point was, he was normal. He was a forty-one-year-old heterosexual man who lived in Dublin and enjoyed the occasional pint with his friends – Guinness; loads of iron – played a game of indoor football once a week in a leaking school hall, had sex with his wife often enough to qualify as regularly, just about, and would like to have had sex with other women, many other women, but it was just a thought, never a real ambition or anything urgent or mad. He was normal.

He took a fillet steak into the gents' toilet at work, demolished it, and tried to flush the plastic bag down the toilet. But it stayed there like a parachute on top of the water. He fished it out and put it in his pocket. He checked his shirt and tie in the mirror, even though he'd been careful not to let himself get carried away as he went at the meat in the cubicle. He was clean, spotless, his normal self. He checked his teeth for strings of flesh, put his face right up to the mirror. He was grand. He went back to his desk and ate his lunch with his colleagues, a sandwich he'd made himself that morning, avocado and tomato – no recession in his fridge. He felt good, he felt great.

He was controlling it, feeding it. He was his own doctor, in very good hands. He'd soon be ironed up and back to his even more normal self.

So he was quite surprised when he went over the wall, even as he went over.
What the fuck am I doing?
He knew exactly what he was doing. He was going after the next-door neighbours' recession hens. At three in the morning. He was going to bite the head off one of them. He'd seen the hens – he wasn't sure if you called them hens or chickens – from one of the upstairs windows. He saw them every night when he was closing his daughter's curtains, after he'd read to her. (See? He's normal.) There were three of them, scrabbling around in the garden. He hated them, the whole idea of them. The world economy wobbled and the middle classes immediately started growing their own spuds and carrots, buying their own chickens, and denying they had property portfolios in Eastern Europe. And they stopped talking to him because he'd become the enemy, and evil, because he worked in a bank. The shiftless bitch next door could pretend she was busy all day looking after the hens. Well, she'd have one less to look after because he was over the wall. He'd landed neatly and quietly – he was fit; he played football – and he was homing in on the hens.

He knew what he was up to. He was hoping a light would go on, upstairs – or better, downstairs – or next door, in his own house. Frighten the shite out of him, send him scrambling back over the wall.
I was just looking to see if I could see the Space Shuttle. It's supposed to be coming over Ireland tonight
. He'd bluff his way out of it –
Although it won't be stopping
– while his heart thumped away at his ribs. It would sort him out for another few days, a week; it would get him over the weekend.

But no light went on.

And the chickens cluck-clucked.
We're over here
.

He grabbed one. It was easy, too easy. It was a lovely night; they were as clear there as they could have been, standing in a row, like a girl band, the Supremes. Shouldn't they have been cooped up – was that the phrase? – and let out again in the morning? The city's foxes were famous; everyone had seen one. He'd seen one himself, strolling down the street when he was walking home from the station a few months before.

He grabbed his hen, expected the protest, the pecks. But no, the hen settled into his arms like a fuckin' kitten. The little head in one hand, the hard, scrawny legs in the other, he stretched it out like a rubber band and brought it up to his mouth. And he bit – kind of. There was no burst of blood or even a clean snap. The neck was still in his mouth. He could feel a pulse on his tongue. The hen was terrified; he could feel that in the legs. But he didn't want to terrify the bird – he wasn't a cruel man. He just wanted to bite its head off and hold his mouth under its headless neck. But he knew: he didn't have it in him. He wasn't a vampire or a werewolf. And he needed a filling – he could feel that.
I was biting the head off a chicken, doctor
. He'd put the hen down now and get back over the wall.

But a light went on – and he bit. Downstairs, right in front of him – and the head came clean off. There was no blood, not really, just – well – bone, gristle, something wet. He wouldn't vomit. They'd be staring out at him, the neighbours, him or her or him
and
her – Jim and Barbara. But he was quick, he was calm. He knew they couldn't see him because the light was on in the kitchen and it was dark out here. Although, now that he thought of it – and he
was
thinking – they might have seen him before they turned on the light.

And now the chicken, the headless, dead chicken, decided to protest. A squawk came out of something that couldn't have been its beak, because the head, detached or at least semi-detached, was in one of his hands. He was holding the body by the neck and it was wriggling.
Let me down, let me down
.

He dropped the hen, heard it running away, and he charged. He ran at the wall. Not his own wall – he was
thinking
. The wall on the other side, two houses down from his own. He was up, no sweat, and he was over. He sat down for a while, to get his breath back, to work out his route home. He listened. He hadn't heard the kitchen door being opened and the hen seemed to have accepted that it was dead. The other two hadn't noticed, or they were in mourning. It was very quiet.

He was safe – he thought he was safe. He was stupid, exhilarated, appalled, ashamed, fuckin' delighted, and safe. He looked up at the sky. And he saw it, the Shuttle. The brightest star, moving steadily across the night. The
Endeavour
– he remembered the name.

He was back in the bed.

She woke – half woke. His cold feet, his weight on the mattress.

—What's wrong?

—Nothing, he said.—I got up to see the Shuttle.

—Great.

She was asleep already.

—It was amazing, he said, addressing her back.—Amazing.

He kissed her neck.

He actually slept. It was Friday night, Saturday morning. The bed was empty when he woke. It was a long time since that had happened, since she'd been awake before him. He felt good – he felt great. He'd flossed and brushed before he'd got back into bed, no trace of the hen between his teeth. He'd gargled quietly till his eyes watered. No bad taste, and no guilt. He shouldn't have done what he'd done, but a more important consideration quickly smothered any guilt. It was the thought he'd fallen asleep with, clutching it like a teddy bear, just after he'd kissed his wife's neck.

Necks.

It was as simple as that.

The blood was a red herring, so to speak, sent to distract him – by his psyche or whatever, his conscience – to stop him from seeing the much healthier obvious. It was necks he'd been craving, not blood. He didn't want to drink blood and he was no more anaemic than a cow's leg. The simple, dirty truth was he wanted to bite necks. It was one of those midlife things. And that was grand, it was fine, because he was in the middle of his life, give or take a few years.

Sex.

Simple.

He wanted to have sex with everything living. Not literally. He wanted to have sex with most things. Some things – most women. He was a normal man, slipping into middle age. His days were numbered. He knew this, but he didn't
think
it. A year was 365 days. Ten years was 3,650. Thirty years gave him 10,950.
You have 10,950 days to live. That's fine, thanks
. As he lay on the bed, he felt happy. The urge was gone, because he understood. His mind was fine, but something in him had been running amok. His biology, or something like that. Not long ago, only a few generations back, he'd have been dead already or at least drooling and toothless. Middle age and the autumn years were modern concepts. His brain understood them, but his biology – his manhood – didn't. He only had a few years of riding left: that was what biology thought. More to the point, a few years of reproducing. And maybe the vasectomy had made things worse, or more drastic, sent messages haywire – he didn't know.

The human mind was a funny thing. He'd been dying for a ride, so he bit the head off a neighbour's chicken.

He went downstairs.

—A fox got one of Barbara's hens last night, said Vera.

—Well, that was kind of inevitable, wasn't it?

—That's a bit heartless.

—It's what foxes do, he said.—When?

—What?

—When did the fox strike?

—Last night, she said.—Did you hear anything when you were looking at the Shuttle?

—Not a thing, he said.—Just the astronauts chatting. She smiled.
You're such a messer
.

—About what?

—Oh, just about how much they love Ireland. How's Barbara?

—In bits.

—Did she say she felt violated?

—She did, actually, but you're such a cynical bastard.

She was laughing. And he knew: he was home and dry.

 

It was later now, night again, and he kissed her neck. He bit her neck. They were a pair of kids for half an hour, and still giddy half an hour after that.

—Well, she said.—I'm ready for afters.

Her hand went exploring.

—Back in a minute, he said.

He went downstairs, went to the fridge – two mackerel on a plate. He looked in the freezer, pulled out a likely bag. A couple of pork chops. He put the bag under the hot tap, till the plastic loosened. Then he tore away the plastic and went at one of the chops. But it was too hard, too cold. He gave it thirty seconds in the microwave and hoped – and dreaded – that the ding would bring her downstairs. He stood at the kitchen window and nibbled at the edges of the chop and hoped – and dreaded – that she'd come in and see his reflection – the blind was up – before she saw him, that he'd turn and reveal himself, some kind of vampire having a snack, and she'd somehow find it sexy or at least reasonable, and forgive him, and put her hands through his hair, like she did, and maybe even join him in the chop, and he'd bring her over the wall so they could get Barbara's last two hens, one each.

He binned the rest of the chop, shook the bin so it would disappear under the other rubbish.

He'd wait for the right moment. The visuals were important; there was a huge difference between being caught devouring raw steak and licking a frozen pork chop, or inviting your life partner to do the same. There was no hurry, no mad rush. No madness at all; he was normal.

He went back upstairs.

She was waiting for him. But not in the bed, or
on
the bed. She was standing far away from the bed.