The Butcher’s

Other Daughter
By Peter Caffrey

1
 THE BUTCHER’S OTHER
DAUGHTER
Ja
J acques Dupont is a pork butcher in the small town of Sain intte-
Marie
rie-su
sur-
r-A
Ariè
riège
ge.. On the surf
surfa
ace
ce,, he is an
an un
unrem
remark
rkaable
ble man,
but Ja
J acque
cquess ha
hass a se
secr
cre
et, a previ
previous
ous lliife he is despe
desperate
rate to
ensure remains forgotten.
When his two worlds collide, the outcome is cataclysmic,
throwing his life into a maelstrom of violence which threatens
to overwhelm everything he holds dear.
The
Th e Bu
Buttcher's Other Daughter is a tale of meat, mayhem
and murder.

OTHER BOOKS BY
BY PETER
CAFFREY
The Devil’s Hairball
Whores Versus Sex Robots (And Other Sordid Tales
of Erotic Automatons)

2
Banana Mind Trick!

3
 THE BUTCHER’S OTHER DAUGHTER
Copyright © 2020 Peter Caffrey
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This
Th is book is sold subjec
ject to the condit
itio
ion
n that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise
ise, be len
lent,
p ublisher’s prior consent in any form of
resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s
binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This
This is a work of fict
fictio
ion
n. Any
Any simila
imilarrity
ity between the characters and sit
itu
uatio
ion
ns with
ithin it
itss pages
and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

4
 Chapter 1: Gisèle Dupont
Mayor L ecl
cleerc llurche
urched
d towa
towards
rds me
me, his
his h
ha
ands outstretche
outstretched,
d,
groping at my breasts. I didn’t retreat; I let him feel me up and
paw at my body. It was only a matter of time until I ended his
urges,
urge s, so I allowed hihimm to eenj
njoy
oy the mome
oment. Bog-
Bog-eeye drunk
and drooling like a retard, he had no clue it wouldn’t be long
beffore I sn
be snuff
uffe
ed ou
outt his
his carna
carnall app
ppe
etite
tite..
Pulling me closer to his stinking flesh, I was thankful his
fat bel
belly pr
preeser
served som
some e di
dista
stance
nce betwee
between n us
us.. As
As he tr
triied to
force a kiss on me, his tongue flopping between his stained and
broken teeth like a slice of stale liver, I could smell the sugary
swee
swe et ani
anise
seeed al
alcohol on his
his bre
breaath. An
An e eve
veni
ning
ng of gu
guzzl
zzliing
Pastis fuelled his lust; nothing more. I didn’t delude myself; my
looks weren’t what attracted him. Neither beauty nor charm
fired his passion. In his blurred eyes I was just another drunken
fuck.
It took little effort to reel in the mayor. It started with a
chance encounter outside the café, just off the town square. He
was intoxicated, swaying on unsteady legs, trying and failing to
light a cigar. The street was empty. The men inside at the bar
only had eyes for the flickering television set, a football match
holding
I like to their
plan attention.
when I’m The opportunity
hunting, wasevery
to consider too good toand
detail ignore.
minimise the risks, but in an instant the potential offered by our
meeting was obvious.
All it took was a brief flirtation, a suggestive wink, a
lascivious lick of my lips, and without hesitation he followed
me home. To be truthful, his cock followed me home, dragging
his sad sack-of-shit body behind. His genitals were not
discriminatory; they merely sought an orgasmic release. I’m no
lithe and lissom object of desire for any man except, maybe, a
5
blind one. He saw me as nothing more than a piece of meat for
him to use. The irony made me smile.
I’d held him upright, pinned against the wall, while I
unlocked the back door. Once inside, away from prying eyes,
he stagge
staggerred around the
the base
basem
ment,
ent, gr
gra
abbing
bbing at m
me e, hi
hiss
advances unsubtle and clumsy. He was pathetic, his tongue
lolling out of his dribbling mouth like a dog sniffing around a
bitch on heat.
I teased and taunted him, encouraging his inflamed
ardour, goading him as his fat fingers fumbled with his belt
buckle. With it undone, he unzipped the fly and his trousers fell
around his ankles. At least he wouldn’t be able to run if he
realised what was happening.
His underwear was baggy and frayed, the cloth grey; not
dirty, butover
sagged oldhis
andgroin
tired, much
and likeithimself.
below protrudedA voluminous
a less than belly
impressive bulge in his underpants. It might have been
unnoteworthy in size, but he maintained his sexual arousal
despite all the alcohol he’d swilled down his fat gullet.
I allowed him to get me in his clutches, his hands moving
down from my breasts, snaking around my waist, trying to feel
between my thighs. Pushing him away in a playful manner, I
shook my head, chastising him, before flashing a flirtatious
smile. He stumbled, staggered forwards and, restricted by his
trousers,
mouth, adropped to his swinging
loop of spittle knees. A dribble
from hisoflips.
droolHishung from his
chubby
fingers grasped at his cock, pulling at it as he tried to focus on
me.
‘Look at yourself, you dirty pig,’ I laughed. ‘Are you my
little love pig, my cochon d’amour?’
The mayor sucked in his drool and made a grunting
The ing
noise, before laughing like an imbecile. His eyes swivelled in
his head, rolling upwards. For a moment I thought he was
going to pass out, but his hand kept rubbing at his groin, his
6
other waving around, trying to touch me.
As he struggle
struggled to concentrate
concentrate,, hi
hiss he
hea
ad jje
erk
rke
ed
backwards. I seized the opportunity, grabbing his nose, a finger
in each nostril. I pulled his face up so he was looking at me. He
stopped laughing. For a moment, his idiot grin melted into a
grimace of fear.
‘Grunt for me, my little love pig,’ I ordered. ‘Grunt and
I’ll let you stick your snout in my secret place.’
His face contorted into a twisted smile, and he grunt-
laughed like a fat old hog about to penetrate a sow. He was
disg
disgus
usti
ting
ng,, a vi
ville ca
cari
rica
cature
ture of a man. Le
L etti
tting
ng go o
off hi
hiss nose
nose,, I
slapped his face, the crack of my open palm on his cheek
echoing off the basement walls.
‘Are you trying to imagine me naked?’ I asked with

aggression.
unsure I could
whether seejoking
I was my approach
or aboutconfused
to attack.him, leaving him
His concern
only lasted a few seconds before he reached out again, trying to
fondle me. What did he care if his behaviour was
inappropr
nappropriiate? InIn hi
hiss m
miind, he was the
the master and
and wome
women were
objects for his pleasure.
I slapped him again, harder, but before he could react, I
pushed my face close to his and whispered, ‘Watch this, you
dirty love pig. Watch, but if you move, you’ll be getting
nothing from me.’
He made a guttural sound, a gurgle like a blocked drain.
That’s what he was: a dirty blocked drain filled with bubbling
shit.
I unbuttoned my dress, taking time to linger on each
button, my hesitancy intensifying his lust. He fixed his eyes on
me as
as he yank
yankeed down his
hi s unde
underrwea
wear,
r, hi
hiss hand
hand mass
massa
agi
ging
ng his
his
penis with ferocity. I held up a finger to signal he should wait.
Removing my scarf, I tied it around his head, covering his
eyes.
He knelt, jerking his cock, blindfolded, grunting like a
7
pig. His other hand waved around, trying to find me, to touch
me.
The
Th ere are ple
len
nty of women in Sain
intte-Ma
-Marrie-s
ie-su
ur-Ariè
-Arièg
ge
who know about Mayor Leclerc’s hands, having suffered his
groping and pinching, the grabs and grasps when he thought no
one was looking. Ask
Ask any of the ladies and they’ll tell you
about the mayor’s predatory predilections. Everyone knows;
even
ven hi
his wi
wiffe, Mada
dam
me L ecle
clerc. She knows ttoo
oo we
welll.
‘Open your mouth, little piggy, and see what you get,’ I
whispered.
He opened his mouth, his tongue out as if he were about
to receive holy communion. I leaned in and spat into his dank
maw. He slobbered my spittle down like a greedy dog. His
breathing grew short and rapid, excitement at the unknown
arousing
with mouth him. Stretching
open his neck,
and tongue pushing
flapping, his head
he wanted forward
more.
I placed my hand on his chin and steered his head into
position. His tongue was flickering, encouraging me to spit
again. With the captive bolt pistol lined up between his eyes, I
pulled the trigger. The detonation was deafening, filling the
basement with a sound so loud I could feel its reverberation in
my bel
belly. As the echo didie
ed a
away
way,, the Mayor dropped
dropped fforw
orwaards
like a stone, his fat face smacking off the tiled floor with an
echoing slap.

strugglGetting
struggle e. Ma him
M ayor L eoff
cl
cleethe floor
rc w
waas eand onto
endowe
ndowed the
th hook
d with
wi a
an
na was
abun
bundaa
dance
nce of fat
born of his excessive gluttony. Once he was hanging by his
feet, I cut off his clothes. The rolls of body fat quivered and
flopped to reveal an abundance of scabs and sores, weeping as
if they mourned his demise. His skin was mottled and yellow in
places, dotted with ulcerated lesions and cankerous boils
festering in the deep folds of his sagging flesh. He was a vile
example of humanity, a man decaying because of his excessive
ways.
8
 With a meta
With tall tra
tray lliined
ned up unde
underr hi
hiss hea
head, I pus
pushe
hed
d the
blade of my boning knife into his lard-laden neck, and with a
single flick severed the right-hand carotid artery. The initial
spray of gore dropped to a consistent trickle in seconds. With
the incision repeated on the left side, I let him bleed out. The
reward was five litres of blood.
Once drained, the bone saw made swift work of
removing his head, hands and feet, which went into the brine
barrel. An incision from his sternum to groin gave access to his
abdominal cavity, the spools of intestines and bloated stomach
pushing out through the cut as I paunched him. With his
kidneys, liver and any healthy parts of his intestines trimmed
out, the rest went into a bin for incineration. Working up to his
thoracic cavity, I plucked out his heart and lungs. With the offal
trimmed, the reserved parts of his intestines went into the salt
box.
Scrubbing his skin with scalding water was cathartic, as
if I were washing away his sins. With the skin softened, I
scrape
scrap ed a
away
way aass m
much
uch ha
hair as I coul
could
d be
beffore ssiinge
ngeiing of
offf wha
whatt
remained with a blowtorch. The smell of burning hair filled the
basement, masking the stench of his intestinal waste. Whatever
he’d eaten earlier in the day wasn’t fresh, the stink of rancid
decay rising like a gaseous tide from his discarded bowels.
‘You should be careful about what you eat, Mayor
Leclerc,’ I told the headless, gutless carcass. ‘A poor diet could
be the death
death of you.’

I didn’t kill the mayor because he was a womaniser, or to

avenge the humiliation he heaped upon his long-suffering wife,
Mada
dam
me L ecl
cle
erc
rc.. If you ask
ask m
me
e, she de
dese
serv
rve
ed his
his be
beha
havi
viour.
our.
For years she’d turned a blind eye to his carryings on. The
enormous house, the fancy clothes and the lavish lifestyle were
9
enough payment to quieten her tongue, even though speaking
out would have ended the torment for many other local women.
Some may think she was as much a victim as the girls the
mayor preyed on, but her silence granted him licence to molest.
I didn’t kill the mayor because of what he did to Sophie
Caron, my childhood friend. We were at school when he hired
Sophie
Sophi e as a wa
waiitress for M
Maada
dam
me L eclerc’s birthday party.
After the event she didn’t return home, and the next morning
they found her, naked and incoherent, wandering the grounds
of the mayoral residence. Sophie’s father, Pierre Caron,
dem
de manded
nded th
the
e arr
rre
est of Mayor L ecl
cleerc ffor
or m
mol
oleesta
statition.
on. A wee
week
k
later he withdrew his complaint and within days he was driving
around in a brand-new automobile, a bright red one with white
leather upholstery. Soon afterwards, the family moved away.
I didn’t
teenage girl inkill the mayor because he leered
Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège; over every
well, every girl except
me. My awkward gait, facial scars and unusual height made me
an unattractive child. By the time my body showed signs of
femininity, many years after others of my age had blossomed
into women, I’d left town to live with my grandparents.
I didn’t kill the mayor for any noble reason, or because
the world would be a better place without him. I didn’t kill him
out of revenge or to deliver justice. I did it because it was
conve
conveni
nieent
nt.. I ki
killled Mayor LLe
ecle
clerc be
beca
caus
usee I kne
knew
w I wou
woulld ge
get
awayAt with it. point, people will note his absence, but few will
some
be surprised. He has disappeared before. Some years back, a
travelling theatre company passed through town. Their farcical
drama didn’t get the critics raving, b ut the leading lady was
endowed with a magnificent bosom and she turned the mayor’s
head. When the company moved on, he followed those breasts.
Afte
terr severa
severall wee
weeks,
ks, Mada
dam
me L ecl
cleerc titirred of the sham
shame
of losing her husband to a travelling player. As the local
women sniggered behind her back, she sent her brother to find
10
the mayor and fetch him home. The gossips reported the
brother-in-law discovered him in a tawdry boarding house, in
flagran
grantete de
dellicto wi
with
th the
the actress.
ctress. A Affte
terr draggi
dragging the naked
naked
mayor into the street, he administered a beating before bringing
him back to face his angry wife.
Madadam
me Le Lecle
clerc de
demmande
anded d her
her husba
husband
nd tra
transfe
nsfer hi
hiss
assets into her name. His assertions he would not stray again
fell on deaf ears. The population of Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège
knew
kne w it
it was
was onl
onlyy a ma
matter
tter of titim
me. Mada damme L ecle
clerc kkne
new
w itit
wass onl
wa onlyyam ma atte
tterr of tim
time. I f he were to be hone honest,
st, even Mayor
L ecl
cleerc knew
knew iitt was only
only a matte tterr of tim
time. TTha
hatt ffa
act ma
made hihimm
easy to kill.
When the mayor doesn’t reappear, many will believe he’s
run off with another floozy. No one will care. As the period of
hissputting
hi
of abse
absence
nce grows
growsinllonge
poison onger,r, som
some
his supper.eThe
might su
suspe
spect
ct M
townsfolk Mad
willada
ameno
take L ecle
clerc
action; many will applaud the Madame for a killing she didn’t
commit.
She’ll inherit his estate and wealth, and will no doubt
take a lover. The people of Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège will elect a
new mayor, and life will continue. Even if anyone suspects foul
play, they will not voice their concerns. There is nothing to be
gained by doing so. For many, his disappearance will be a
blessing.
I can
missed.can sa
say wi
with
thou
outt d
dou
oubt
bt Mayor LLe
ecle
clerc wi
willl no
nott b
be
e

11
 Chapter 2: Jacques Dupont
I have never cared much for Gaston Roche. He is an oaf, an
uncou
uncouth
true hethisbe
bea
aaphilistine,
st wi
with
th noam anners
nners an
and
d ne
next
bottom-feeder, xt to no iinte
a parasitentelllige
gence
riding nce.
on.the
It iiss
underbelly of respectable society, but to call him such names
would elevate his status above his true position in the world.
L ike mysel
yself, he wawass b
born
orn in
in the worki
working-cla
ng-class babackstree
ckstreetsts of
Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège but lacked the ambition to pull
himself up the social ladder. He’s too idle to make any attempt
at bettering himself, and so he remains floating in the scum-
lined pool of inanity.
I doubt he has
has ever
ever re
read a book,
book, watche
watched d a the
thea
atr
triical
performance, or appreciated fine art. Beauty would be wasted
on him. He surrounds himself with the bland, the banal and the
bestial. Even his wife is a frightful sight, her teeth blackened
and her hair standing on end like a monster from a hellish
nightmare.
It may sound churlish, but he stinks. The stench which
cloaks him violates the atmosphere, his pervading reek driving
people out into the open in search of fresh air. The rank odour
of fish guts follows him around, sullying the air that others
must breathe.
had been thereYou can enter a room and know at once if Gaston
earlier.
He has argued because he is a fishmonger, the smell is a
part of his trade, but an application of soap and water would
make the stench less of an affront to the olfactory organs of
others. Working with fish is no excuse to be offensively
odoriferous. I’m a pork butcher, but I don’t smell like a pig
which has been rolling around in its own shit.
It isn’t just the smell of the man which offends; he is base
in so ma
many wa
ways.
ys. A
Alll Gaston R
Roche
oche ca
cares
res abou
aboutt iiss tha
thatt whi
which
ch
12
serves his own interests. In fact, all Gaston Roche cares about
is Gaston Roche.
When he sneaked into my shop, glancing around to make
sure we were a
allone
one,, I knew
new what he wante
wanted.
d.
‘Jacques, my good friend, how are you?’
‘I’m a good friend, am I?’ I asked with disdain. ‘What are
you after: a discount? Surely a man who squirrels away all his
money, not even sparing a few coins to buy his neighbours a
drink, can afford to pay the full price for his supper?’
He laughed, a fake and uncomfortable chortle, as I
sharpened the knife, the blade slashing off the steel.
‘But Jacques, we have been neighbours for many years.’
‘Neighbours are not the same as friends, Gaston. Friends
care about each other; they look out for one another.
Neighbours
thing come and neighbours go, but friends are a different
altogether.’
‘You do like your joke,’ he said with another fake laugh.
‘But if we can be serious for a moment, is Aurélie here?’
‘She’s gone for her lunch. When the bus ar rives from the
villages, we’ll be busy, so I sent her off early. Now tell me;
what is it you want to talk to my daughter about?’
‘It’s not Aurélie I wanted to talk to, but you. I wanted to
talk to you about Sebastian ... and Aurélie
Aurélie,, of course.’
Moving closer to the counter, he whispered in a
conspiratorial way.
‘Sebastian plans to call on you to seek your consent.’
I could smell the fish-stink off him, an encroaching
invisible cloud of foetid decay which left an unpleasant iron-
titinge
nged
d taste
taste in my
my m
mouth.
outh. I wante
wanted d to spi
spitt rra
athe
therr than
than swal
swallow
the saliva his odour had tainted.
‘Why does your son need my consent, Gaston?’ I asked,
leaning back against the cutting block to put some fresh air
between us.
‘He wants to ask Aurélie for her hand in marriage.’

13
 I didn’t respond. Silent, impassive, no emotion showing
on my ffaace
ce,, I conti
continue
nued sh
sha arpe
rpeni
ning
ng the knif
knife, ffllicki
cking
ng the bla
blade
up and down the steel, my eyes locked onto his. Gaston forced
a sm
smiile, atte
ttem
mpting
pting to ga
gaiin one from me in retu
return,
rn, but I kep
keptt a
blank expression.
Seba
Seb asti
stia
an a
and
ndA uré
uréllie ha
had
d bee
been courti
courting
ng ffor
or a whi
whille. She
loved him and if asked would accept his proposal. We both
knew that. The thought of having Gaston Roche in the family
was unpleasant, even sickening, but I would not stand in the
way of Aurélie’s happiness.
‘Well?’ Gaston asked.
‘Well
‘Well what?’
‘What do you think?’
‘What do I think, or what will I say? Which do you want

to know?’
‘What will you say when he asks?’
‘I shall tell him my answer at the appropriate time.’
Gaston nodded but made no attempt to leave. He wasn’t
finished. There was the inevitable question to be asked. Most
men would not enquire, but Gaston Roche was not most men.
‘Jacques, there is one more thing.’
I knew he wante
wantedd to tal
talk
k about the shop.
‘What is it? I don’t have time to play guessing games, so
speak up or let me get on with my work.’
‘I know you’ve talked about retiring, and once they’re
married they’ll need something, a little business to set them up
for the future. I would step back myself and let Sebastian run
the fishmonge
ongers,
rs, but I must al
also conside
considerr the ne
needs of hi
hiss
brothers. It wouldn’t
wouldn’t be right to favo
favour
ur one over the others.
others. You
only need to look after one child, so if you retired, Sebastian
andAurélie could take up the reins here, couldn’t they?’
I’d always inte
intende
ndedd to pa
pass
ss the busi
busine
ness
ss on to Aurél
uréliie
once she married, but I found Gaston’s blunt approach
irritating.
14
 ‘Butchery is a skilled profession, Gaston. It’s not a
simple case of putting on an apron and you’re ready to go. To
be successful, an apprentice needs to master the preparation of
a wide variety of animals and birds. Then they must learn the
art of the charcutier. Maybe you should aim lower for
Sebastian; buy the boy a barrow and send him off to sell fish in
the market.’
‘But Jacques, you must consider—’
‘Gaston, this conversation is premature
premature;; Aurélie hasn’t
yet accepted your son’s proposal. Indeed, he hasn’t had my
permiissi
perm ssion
on to ask
ask ffor
or he
herr ha
hand.
nd. Now
Now I ne
nee
ed to ge
gett on; the bus
will be here soon, and it will be bedlam if the ladies cannot buy
their charcuterie.’
‘Yes Jacques, but I was wondering, if you retired, would

A urél
urélie know your recipe
somewhere?’ recipes,
s, or do you have
have the
them
m wri
writte
tten
n down
‘Gaston, I’ll tell you what I tell everyone: my rec ipes are
a closely guarded secret.’

Aurél
urélie is m
my
y bel
beloved da
daugh
ughte
ter,
r, the appl
pple
e of my eye.
eye. She
possesses the beauty, grace and elegance of her mother Valérie,
God rest her soul. Hers was a tragic death which still haunts me
to this day.
sweat, At night of
her screams I awake
anguishwith the terrors,
echoing in mysoaked with
head. Not cold
that I
hea
heard he
herr screa
screamms. If I ha
had,
d, I would
would have
have bbe
een a
abl
ble
e to do
something, maybe even save her.
I often lie in bed and tremble, unable to sleep, trying to
make sense
sense of what happe
happenened.
d. Was ther
there some
somethi
thing
ng I coul
couldd
have done to save her, to free her from the circumstances which
ended her life? She was so young, so vibrant; she had much
more living to do, much more to give the world.
I lived through the sorrow for Aurélie, and Aurélie lived
15
through the pain for me. The days and months and years
following Valérie’s death were empty and joyless, but together
we struggled through. Balancing running the shop with caring
for my daughter was a challenge, one which nearly dragged me
over the edge into a hellish abyss of mental torment. When the
bla
blacknes
cknesss cl
close
osed
d iin
naand
nd thre
threa
ate
tene
ned
d to suff
suffocate me, Aurél
A uréliie was
the light that kept me going.
During the day I would run the shop, and at night I’d
work in the kitchen or the smokehouse, preparing saucissons
and h
ha
ams and
and pâ pâtés.
tés. Auré
Auréllie woul
wouldd sle
sleep iin
n a chai
chair, wra
wrappe
ppedd iin
n
my coat. She never complained, never demanded anything
from me
me. AAtt titim
mes she woul
would d awake
awake aand
nd ffiind m
mee wee
weepi
ping,
ng,
wretched and afraid of what the future would bring.
‘It will be all right, Papa,’ she would whisper as she

hugged me tight.
There were ‘I am when
days here for you.’ see how I’d find the
I couldn’t
strength to keep going. I’d question the reason for carrying on
with life. What was to stop me climbing onto the stone bridge
outside town and hurling myself into the turbulent waters? It
would end; the river’
river ’s torrent would wash away the sorrow and
loneliness and misery.
Only Aurélie stopped me from jumping, and that is why I
will do anything I can to ensure the happiness of my only child.

16
 Chapter 3: Gisèle Dupont
My fa
fathe
therr is
is JJa
acque
cques Dupon
Dupont,
t, the pork butch
butche
er. He
He is a su
sulllen,
miserable maniswith
time he smiles whenno he’s
empathy for those
counting moneyaround him. The only
or manipulating
others to do his bidding. During my childhood, he treated me
like shi
shit. I was a hindra
hindrance
nce,, a burde
burden,
n, a m
miista
stake
ke he reg
regrrette
tted
d
and couldn’t wait to be rid of.
When my mother was alive, he would leave the house
before dawn, often not returning home before midnight. When
he di
did
d come back ho
homme he was never
never sober and of
often
ten wore
wore the
acrid stink of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke on his clothes
and hair. The sounds of the late-night arguments as he berated
my mother would drown out my sobbing.
My mother died when I was thirteen years old, a tragic
death. Behind closed doors, away from the sight of family and
friends, my father was unconcerned, almost nonchalant, about
my mother’s demise. The only time he showed any trace of
sorrow was when he was out in public. If anyone asked how he
was feeling, he’d mimic grief and tell them he was numb with
shock; it was an e
excuse
xcuse for his
his utte
utterr de
deta
tachm
chme
ent. In
I n the pri
privacy
vacy
of our home, he dropped the charade, becoming cold and
without emotion.my mother’s death, I cooked his meals,
Following
washe
wash ed his
his cl
clothe
othess a
and
nd cle
cleane
ned
d the house
house.. I recei
ceived
ved n
no
o
gratitude or compassion in return. He put my education on hold
while I skivvied for him. The head teacher visited and told him
I had to return to school. He claimed the grief was
overwhelming him and he couldn’t cope. They suggested social
services might be able to help. Within days, he’d packed me off
to live with my maternal grandparents. I left with no farewell.
My Grand-Papa, Hugo Picard, was also a pork butcher.
17
Together with
To ith Grand-Maman, he’d founded the shop in Sainte-
Marie
rie-su
sur-
r-A
Ariè
riège
ge.. Whe
When
n my
my m
mothe
otherr m
ma
arr
rriied Ja
J acqu
cque
es, G
Gran
rand-
d-
Papa handed the keys to him. The first thing my idiot father did
was rip down the sign bearing the Picard name and replace it
with one which had Dupont’s emblazoned on it. He cared more
about people knowing he was in charge than he did about
producing quality products.
During the years I lived with my grandparents, my father
never once visited. At first I received cards on my birthday and
at Christmas, but after a few years they stopped arriving. We
rarely mentioned his name, although we often talked about my
mother.
Grand-Papa taught me how to slaughter and butcher
ani
nim
mals aand
nd trai
traine
ned
d me
me in th
thee ski
skillls of the charcuti
charcutie
er. Af
After
ter
school
When Iand during
finished the weekends,
school, I helped atcharcuterie,
I worked preparing the smallholding.
which
we sold at the local market.
Grand-Papa was skilled and resourceful, a master who
took a great pride in his work. He taught me so much without
me rea
realisi
sing
ng it. A
Affter
ter he di
die
ed, G
Gran
rand-
d-M
Maman andand I sta
staye
yed
d
together for a short while, until she moved away to live with
her sister in a small apartment close to the town centre. My
uncle and his family took over the smallholding. They had five
children, which meant there was no room for me. With
nowhere else
returned to to go, I did the only thing I could think of and
Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège.

I’d burned Mayor Leclerc’s clothes in the woods outside town.

On the way hom
home e, I took the back
back lane
ane, passing
passing a sm
smal
alll cottage
hidden in the trees. It was the first time I’d been t here since my
return, and I’d forgotten the little house existed. Monsieur
Petit, the dance teacher, was in his garden. It was obvious from
18
the way he struggled to move he hadn’t danced in a long time.
I walk
walked up the pa
pathway
thway and went
went thr
through
ough the ga
garrden
den
gate.
‘Monsieur Petit, how are you?’ I asked. He stood, staring
at me, unable to place me for a moment.
‘Gisèle Dupont?’ he said after studying me, uncertain if
he was cor
corrrect. My sc
scars
ars and awkw
awkward
ard statur
stature
e must have mad
adee
it obvi
obvious
ous who I wawas.
s. I nod
nodde
ded
d and
and smiled but he didn’t relax,
unsure of why I was there.
‘I was passing, Monsieur,
Monsieur, and spotted you in your
garden,’ I said as an explanation. ‘It’s been many years since I
last saw you and I thought I would say hello.’
He remained silent, uncertainty obvious in his
dem
demeanour
nour.. It was u
unl
nliikely
kely he re
rece
ceiived many call
callers and the
few that came would
confrontational probably
towards him. still be hostile or even
‘Do you still dance, Monsieur?’
‘I’m too old, too frail to dance. I’m too old for anything,’
he replied, almost as an apology.
‘But surely you still dance in your head?’
He seemed frightened, uncomfortable with my presence.
There was a tension in his body born of suspicion. It wouldn’t
matter if it had been someone else talking to him; the simple
presence of an outsider was causing him stress and anxiety, and
I knew‘What
why. do you want, Gisèle? I am old and tired and keep
myself to myself. It’s the best way.’
‘I don’t want anything, Monsieur Petit,’ I replied with a
placatory tone.
tone. ‘I moved awa
awayy from Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège
when I was thirteen and only returned last winter. Seeing you
was a surprise because I’d forgotten you lived out here. I
wanted to say hello; that’s all.’
He appeared to relax as I explained why I was there.
He’d feared I’d challenge him, a dding to the accusations that

19
drove him from the town to this isolated cottage many years
ago. There would be people in Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège still
clinging to the hysteria whipped up that summer when
Monsieur Petit’s existence became a catalyst for hate .
When he first arrived in town, no one asked why an
acclaimed dancer would move from Paris to Sainte-Marie-sur-
Ariè
riège,
ge, why he woul
wouldd lle
eave b
be
ehi
hind
nd fa
fame and the
the hi
high
gh lilife to
teach children in a rural two-bit town. Excited at the prospect
of a local dance school, people didn’t question his motives. As
time passed, a few considered why he’d moved away from the
bright lights of the city, and they reached a consensus.
He was a nonce, a child molester, a monster preying on
the young. No one knew how the rumours started, or who the
alleged victims were. Despite this, the townsfolk repeated the
lurid tales, embellishing
monstrosities. It becamethem further with
an accepted truth,new crimes andfact,
an undeniable
because everyone knew he was a nonce. He had to be guilty if
everyone was aware of his sickening behaviour.
The
Th e claim
laimss attracted repercussio
ionns. It started with
ith name
calling, snide comments, dirty looks and an accusing silence
whene
whe never
ver he appea
ppeared. Many shopk
shopkeeepe
perrs in
in the town refuse
used
d
to serve him, and the café manageress barred him after a group
of men refused to drink there if she allowed him inside.
Mothers cancelled dance lessons for their children, his work
disappearing
assaulted himovernight, andfor
as he waited onethe
morning a mob
bus. The of youths
final straw was
when someone set his house on fire. He moved out of the town.
Monsieur Petit never touched me, nor did he touch
anyone I knew. Nobody came forward as a victim or made any
accusations which were backed with evidence. Despite this, at
school we all talked about what a dirty pervert he was. We lied
to each other about things we’d seen him do. We invented
children who had disappeared after visiting for private lessons.
Many others did the same. Now, after many years of being
20
shunned by the community, he looked more pathetic than
predatory, a broken and fragile specimen, not the menace so
many people still hated and reviled.
He invited me into the cottage for coffee. As we sat in his
kitchen he ask
ske
ed ab
about
out w
whe
herre I had bee
been,
n, and what had brought
me ba
back to the town. When
hen I mentintione
oned
d the de
dea
ath of my
mother, he seemed to retreat into himself, his thoughts
scrambling to dredge up a memory. Then he smiled, a look of
familiarity washing across his face.
‘Your mother was extremely light on her feet, ele gant and
graceful in motion. You, Gisèle, sadly did not share those
qualities.’
We both laughed. It was true. As a child I’d been
awkward and clumsy. I struggled to control my limbs. Despite
that,as
me Monsieur Petit had always been encouraging and treated
if I had ability.
‘It’s shameful what happened to you,’ I said as I rose and
took my cup to the kitchen sink.
‘Gisèle, I still don’t know how it all started, or why. I
didn’t do anything wrong; not ever. Even today people still
targett me, but I’ve never found out how the lies started.’
targe
In the sink was a heavy cast-iron skillet with a wooden
handle. I picked it up and turned to face him.
‘The townsfolk pretty much killed you off, Monsieur
Petit. It’s a shame, because now I’m going to kill you again.’
Confused, he cocked his head as if he’d misheard, but as
I approached, the realisation hit home. Trembling, whimpering,
his eyes showed the depth of his panic. Struggling to stand, his
shock at the turn of events was obvious as he pleaded with me.
‘Please, Gisèle, why? I didn’t do anything. Think; did I
ever do anything to you?’
‘No, Monsieur, you didn’t do anything to me. You always
treated me with respect. Now please stop begging for mercy.
It’s so unbecoming in the elderly.’

21
 ‘Why do you wish to harm me?’ he s obbed.
‘It’s nothing personal, please understand that. I’d rather
dance than kill you, but you’re so easy to kill, too easy in fact,
it would be a sin not to take advantage of the situation. The
townsfolk aren’t going to care if a dirty pervert disappears.
They won’t even notice you’re gone, and the few that do won’t
speak out. If you want to be helpful, and I’m sure you do, then
retain some dignity and don’t struggle. If you put up a fight,
killing you will take longer; it will be more painful for you and
God alone knows you’ve suffered enough.’
‘Please Gisèle, please…’
I swung the skillet with all my strength, both hands
gripping the handle. Monsieur Petit tried to jump back away
from me but he wasn’t fast enough. The edge of the pan caught

his cheek,
of blood thesnot
and sound
andofspit
splintering
from hisbone
noseaccompanying
and mouth. Hea spray
dropped to his knees, screaming.
I hate it when my prey screams. I like to work in peace,
jusst me and my thoughts. When they scream, it detracts fr
ju fro
om
the pleasure of the task.
I brought the flat side of the skillet down hard on the
back of his head and he toppled forward, his wailing silenced.
The
Th ere was no movement, his body still and life lifele
lesss.
Searchi
Sea rching
ng th
the
e ki
kitche
tchen,
n, I checke
checked
d hi
hiss kni
knive
ves.
s. None
None we
were
re
sharp
killingsenough for my
is the lack needs.
of the rightOne drawback
tools. Finding with opportunistic
nothing suitable
for breaking the body down, I went outside. The door to the
shed was open and inside was a wooden bench. On top sat two
toolboxe
tool boxes.
s. C
Col
olllecti
cting
ng seve
several
ral buckets,
buckets, an axe and a ha
hack
cksa
saw
w, I
headed back to the house. A small puddle of blood marked the
spot on the floor where he had lain, but Monsieur Petit had
vanished.
He’d either hidden himself in the house or made a run for
it into the fields. If I searched the house and he was outside, I
22
wass gi
wa givi
ving
ng h
hiim titim
me to e
esca
scape
pe.. At
A t hi
hiss a
age
ge,, making
king a run ffor
or it
it
outdoors required too much effort. He’d more than likely
stayed inside, secreted away in a hole like a rat, where he felt
safe in familiar surroundings.
‘Monsieur Petit, you dirty bastard,’ I shouted, ‘it doesn’t
have to be like this. If you come out, I’ll make sure your death
is fast and painless. However, if I’m forced to waste my time
hunting you down, I will butcher you from your extremities
inwards, and your death will be slow and agonising. It’s your
choice, but please understand one thing: you will die.’
I locked the front door of the cottage, removing the key,
and dragged a heavy cupboard across the exit point. Back in
the ki
kitche
tchen,
n, I sm
sma
ashed
shed the di
dini
ning
ng chai
chairs agai
gainst the stone
flagged floor and made a pile of wood. Tearing down the
curtains,
a I draped
coal shovel them
full of overembers
glowing the broken
fromfurniture andOnce
the stove. collected
dropped on top of the heap, the smouldering fabric produced a
lot of smoke, grey and thick and acrid.
‘Your house is burning, Monsieur Petit,’ I shouted, ‘like
all those years ago. Run now, you perverted beast, before you
burn up in the flames
flames of justice.’ Then I went ou
outt the back door
door,,
locking it behind me.
There weren’t many hiding places in the garden. The
sheds were empty, and he wasn’t behind the water butt. Going
around to theinside
in the smoke front ofthe
thebuilding.
house, I heard him coughing, choking
I returned to the back door, unlocked and opened it, then
sat down to wait. I had nothing against Monsieur Petit; like the
mayor, he was easy to kill. However, his futile attempt to evade
death was an inconvenience. It’s true those who have nothing
to do with their time often forget the rest of the world has
duties and obligations.
From inside, the coughing intensified; he was getting
close. I was ready as he emerged from the cottage. Choking,
23
spewing, trying to suck in air as tears streamed from his eyes,
his soot-streaked face was contorted in terror. It would have
been easy to drive the axe through his neck, to sever his head
and end it in a swift and painless way. Instead, I lifted the
weapon above my head and, driving the blade down with all
my energy, hacked off his right foot. He fell, howling like a
demented baboon. His leg spasmed, a fine spray of blood
filling the air before slowing to a steady trickle of crimson
pooling around the twitching stump.
He roared, a strange guttural sound which raised in pitch
to a scr
screeam, as I ha
hack
cke
ed of
offf the other foot. The incision wasn’t
clean, his bone splintering, and it needed a second chop to
remove iit.t. An
A n axe
axe d
doe
oess not have
have th
the
e ba
ballance of a cle
cleaver;
ver; I
blame the tools for my poor workmanship.

but heHe was

kept upshrieking like a banshee.
his caterwauling I toldto
so I decided him tohim.
gag be quiet,
The
smoke in the kitchen was dense and the only suitable item I
could
coul d ffiind was
was a di
dish
sh cl
cloth.
oth. JJa
ammed inin h
hiis m
mouth
outh,, it
i t re
redu
duce
ced
d
the wailing to a muffled gurgle.
As Monsieur Petit bled to death, I sat back in the
afternoon sunshine and relaxed.

24
 Chapter 4: Aurélie Dupont
My fa
fathe
therr is JJa
acque
cques D
Dup
upont,
ont, the pork butch
butche
er. P
Pa
apa is a
generous man,He’s
than his own. kindalways
and caring, more
smiling, concerned
although withbehind
I know my needs
his
smile lurks a world of heartbreak, an inner pain he carries
alone. During my childhood he was my father and mother, my
friend and confidante, my rock and my protector. He
surrounded me with love.
Papa worked hard to ensure I wanted for nothing. He
would leave the house before dawn, and he’d return at night,
exhausted from the long hours spent running the shop. Often I
would lie awake, listening to the sound of his sobbing coming
through the bedroom wall as grief engulfed him.
My mother died when I was five years old. Although
those tim
times rem
remai
ain
n som
somewha
ewhatt bl
blur
urrred, I remember the house
house
being quiet after
after she’d passed. Papa and I would sit for hour
hourss in
silence, as if waiting for someone to arrive. A sadness pervaded
our lives, eating into our existence like an unwelcome guest. It
was the way we lived each day.
As I grew upup,, Papa ensur
nsured I ha
had
d anythi
anything
ng a
and
nd
everythi
verything
ng I ne
nee
ede
ded.
d. He doted
doted on m
mee; my happi
happine
ness
ss was hi
his
sole
and heconcern. His interest
took great pride in in
myeverything I did was
achievements. unwavering,
He always made
the time to tell me my mother was watching over me and
would be proud of me. It gave me strength in those bleak times.
When I was twelve years old, I asked Papa if I could help
him in the shop. At first, he refused, telling me I was destined
for better things. A butcher’
butcher’ss shop was no place for a young
lady, he said, and much as he loved me he didn’t want his only
daughter working there. The tools and equipment were
dangerous and he would never forgive himself if I were to be
25
hurt. I kept asking until one day he gave in and agreed I could
help, if it was what I wanted to do.
I sat at
at a wooden desk
desk at one end of the shop, betwee
between n
the butche
butcherry and the charcuteri
charcuteriee counters. As
A s custom
custome ers
selected their wares, they were given paper slips with the prices
scribbled in pencil. Once they had completed their shopping,
they
they gave the sl sliips to m
mee and
and I adde
ddedd up the figure
gures,
s, took the
theiir
money and counted out the change. I felt important, checking
the sums and counting the piles of coins, knowing any mistakes
would lose Papa money.
An elelderl
derlyy lla
ady,
dy, Mada
dam
me Roche,
Roche, he
hellpe
pedd in
in th
the
e sh
shop,
op,
managing the charcuterie counter. She was the mother of
Gaston, who ran the fishmongers a few doors away. She cursed
her son and said she preferred our company. We used to laugh
at theOne
stories
dayshe’d tell about
Madame how
Roche st upid
got Gaston
sick, a was.illness,
long-term
and we didn’t see her again. I took over running the charcuterie
counter.
counter. I wor
work
ked in
in the shop afteterr school,
school, on Satu
Saturdays
rdays and
and
during the holidays. It’s a strange coincidence, but many years
later, I ended up courting Madame Roche’s grandson,
Sebastian.
When I left school, I worked full time in the shop. Papa
urged me to go to college, to study music or art, but I wanted to
help him. He’d helped me all my life, s o it felt the right thing to
do. The shop trade was slow; sometimes we’d only see a
handful of customers all day. When it was quiet, Papa would
count and recount the money in the cash box, even if no one
had been in since he’d last checked. The lack of customers
stressed him and caused him worry, but he said nothing to me.
Saturdays were the busiest days. Not only was the market
held in Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège, but buses arrived in town
from all the outlying villages. Most people bought their
produce from the market, only coming to the shop once the
stalls had sold out and were closing. We were a last resort, an
26
after-thought for those visiting town.
Even with my limited knowledge of business, I struggled
to see how the shop would survive. Then, around a year ago,
jusst as the situ
ju ituation
ion appeared to be reaching ing breakin ing
g poin
intt,
things changed.
Papa expanded the choice of charcuterie on offer. The
formulations were different, more varied, and included
products which
which weren’t
weren’t available in the ma rket. Interest in our
market.
preparations grew, and it didn’t take long until a few customers
arrived earlier in the day, before the market stalls had sold out,
to buy
buy our cha
charcute
rcuteri
riee. I n th
the
e fol
olllowing
owing we
wee eks, thos
thosee few were
were
join
jo ine
ed by others, eager to visitisit the shop ju
jusst afte
fter the buses
arrived to ensure they had a full selection of products to choose
from. Soon our little shop became the first stop for many
visitorsout
queue to town,
of theand on a Saturday morning there would be a
door.
As the reputation of Dupont’s grew, people came into
town specifically to visit the shop, and not just on Saturdays.
Before opening time, it wasn’t unusual if a queue formed down
the street, customers eager to buy charcuterie before we sold
out of the popular products. Many said other saucissons and
cured meats lacked the taste and quality of our preparations.
Customers would quiz Papa about the formulations, trying to
guess at his recipes, but he revealed nothing.
A mandeal
an exclusive fromtoParis,
takeaall
restauranteur, came
the charcuterie weto town seeking
produced. Papa
refused, reluctant to enter into any long-term supply
agreements. The next day the man returned and tried to buy
Papa’s recipes, but again was sent away.
Papa wouldn’t even allow regular customers to place
orders; he insisted it was first come, first served. The
charcuterie options changed regularly, and as a result,
customers rushed to the shop to see what was on offer on any
given day. Those arriving early often tried to buy up all the
27
produce. Papa told me to be fair to all our customers. I didn’t
impose a limit on who could buy what, but I ensured there was
something left for those who couldn’t get into town at the crack
of dawn.
When the shop’s fortunes changed, so did Papa. Most
wouldn’t have spotted the signs, but I did. If anyone
people wouldn’t
asked about his recipes, he became tense and troubled. The
door be
betwee
tween
n the sh
shop
op and the cutting
cutting rroom
oom wa
wass always
always
locked; every time he passed it he’d check, shaking the handle.
One da
day y I asked
sked ffor
or the key and
and he
he flew iinto
nto a rage
rage.. It was a
short-lived moment of anger, and afterwards he apologised and
told me about the pressure he was under to keep his recipes
secret. He said they were our future. Even so, he made me
promise to never go into the back rooms of the shop.
Many enjoy
Papa didn’t customers waxedI’dlyrical
the praise. abouthim
expected ourtocharcuterie,
revel in thebut
recognition of his skills, but often he became distant, almost
depressed, as the compliments rained down on him.

Sebastian called at the house. It wasn’t unusual for him to visit,

but it was the first time he’d
he’d done so with
without
out arranging it with
me beforehand. It wasn’t a problem; for a moment I was
flattered he couldn’t
couldn’t wait to see me, and when I told him so, he
shrugged, an apologetic look on his face. It was Papa he’d
come to see
come see. I f his
his una
unannou
nnounce
ncedd vi
visi
sitt was u
unus
nusua
uall, the fact he
had an appointment with my father was a surprise. Papa
appeared in the hallway, ushered Sebastian into the front
parlour and asked me to bring a pot of coffee. Then he closed
the door.
When I took in the drinks, they both stopped talking and
stood in sil
silence.
nce. AAss I pu
putt the cups
cups down
down on the the ta
tabl
ble
e and lifte
ted
d
the cafetière from the tray, my hands shook. I wasn’t nervous,

28
but the awkwardness in the room made me uneasy. They
remained silent, but as I closed the door behind me, their
conversation resumed. The urge to eavesdrop was
overw
ove rwhe
hellming, but outout of respe
respect
ct for
for Papa I retu
returned
rned to the
kitchen. For a long time, I could hear the drone of their voices;
they both sounded solemn.
Afte
terr wha
whatt see
seemed a anne
eterni
ternity,
ty, the
the pa
parrlour doo
doorr ope
opene
ned
d
and Papa came into the kitchen. He winked at me, a gesture
more of reassurance than joy. Collecting his finest cognac and
two glasses, he turned to leave, hesitated, and then
backtracked. He put his good bottle back on the shelf and
instead took a bottle of the cheaper brand we used for cooking.
Afte
terr Seba
basti
stia
an ha
hadd gone hom
home e, Papa cam
camee ba
back
ck into the
kitchen. He emptied his almost full glass of cognac into the
sink and refilled
Sebastian the balloon
had called, but he from his best
just placed hisbottle.
extendedI asked why
index
finger on his lips to signal that I should be silent.
He sat, staring into space, lost in thought as he sipped his
cognac. Draining the last few drops, he rose from the chair,
kissed me on my forehead, and whispered, ‘Goodnight, my
darling child. Remember this: whoever you meet in life,
whatever you do with them, you are better than they will ever
be.’

29
 Chapter 5: Gisèle Dupont
Although m
my
y gr
gra
andpa
ndparrents ne
never
ver ba
bad-
d-m
mouthed
outhed m
my
y ffa
athe
therr in
front of me,when
behaviour I often overheard
they thoughtthem discussing
I was asleep. himclear
It was andthere
his
was no love lost between them, and they harboured a loathing
of how he’d disrespected my mother following her death. After
these hushed conversations there would be a period when their
attitude towards me was tinged with pity; it was as if the
discussions reminded them I was as much a victim of his as my
mother.
Thrrough eavesdroppin
Th ing
g on their talk
lkss I le
lea
arned my fat
father
had remarried, Grand-Papa raging how his doing so during the
period of mourning was contemptuous to the memory of my
mother. Grand-Maman said she’d heard his new wife was
pregnant and
and at an advance
advanced
d stage. At the time I didn’
didn’tt
understand this meant they’d been in a relationship before my
mother’s death.
Several months later, my father and his new wife had a
child, a daughter. They’d moved to a grander house in the
better part of town. She was from an upper-class family and
refused to raise her child in a working-class suburb. My
gra
grand
ndpa
paren
wealth rents
tspaying
while cursed
cursed nothing
Ja
J acqu
cque
estowards
ffor
or enj
njoyi
oying
my ngkeep.
the
the frui
fruits
ts of her
her
My father’s second marriage didn’t last more than a
handful of years, and he was once more made a widower. There
were rumours he’d inherited the new wife’s money, which ke pt
the gossips’ tongues wagging.
A few said he was out all hours, gambling and drinking
and keeping the company of whores. Others claimed he’d
become an opium fiend, spending his days dozing in a drug-
induced trance. There was even a story he’d sold the new
30
daughter to the gypsies.
Separating truth from fiction was difficult. The rumours
had been told and retold, passed from one person to the next,
with many adding details or embellishing the original stories.
The
Th e only constant ele
lem
ment was all reports were negative
ive; no
one had a good word to say about my father.
On my reluctant return to Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège, I
went to the shop; I had nowhere else to go. I didn’t know
where my father lived, or who he might be living with. It
wouldn’t have surprised me to find he’d married again, his
daughter from the second marriage packed off to relatives
much as I had been. It wouldn’t have shocked me to find the
shop closed and derelict. However, it was open, and inside,
scowling out from behind the counter, was his miserable face.
Either the stories
squandered of an inheritance were false, or he’d
the lot.
It was obvious business wasn’t good. The charcuterie
counter was empty, the glass streaked with grease, and the
butchery counter contained a few cuts, the meat sitting in
puddles of blood. The presentation was more like a run-down
market stall; it was evidence of his laziness and lack of care.
The
Th ere was none of the prid
ide
e and passion
ion Grand-Pa
-Papa had
taught me.
He glared at me as I stood in the doorway, suitcase in
hand. I’d been away for seventeen years and returned a grown
woman, but iin
woma n that
that mom
mome
ent I was once
once more
more a ssm
mall chi
chilld,
standing frightened and alone before her disgruntled father.
‘What do you want?’ he snapped, his expression making
it clear he was not pleased to see me.
‘Grand-Papa didie
ed a
and
nd G
Grand
rand--Maman move
moved
d away
away,, so I
have come home.’
‘There’s nothing for you here,’ he snarled, his hand
tracing through the air to highlight the half-empty cabinets and
run-down shop. ‘Why did you come back?’
31
 ‘I am your daughter; I have nowhere else to go.’
His face twisted with contempt, and I thought he was
about to spi
spitt a
att m
me
e. A
Allthough
though I knew he wa
wass a col
cold-
d-he
hea
art
rte
ed
bastard, his dismissive attitude shocked me.
‘Father, I only need to stay with you until I’ve made
other arrangements. Then I’ll move on.’
In that moment, his disdain turned to panic, to fear. The
thought of me being in his home, his new life, terrified him. He
wanted
wante d to pre
preserve
serve a di
distance
stance betw
betwe
een m
me
eaand
nd whoeve
whoeverr or
whatever was there. I could see he was wrestling with
uncertainty as I stood, still clutching my bag. As his terror
increased, I played my hand.
‘Father, if it’s not possible for me to stay with you, I
could always visit your friends and acquaintances. Some are
bound
until to remember
I can me
make other and might offer board and lodgings
plans.’
The threat was enough to push him int
The into actionion.
Adam
damant hehe woul
wouldd not
not aalllow m
mee into h hiis house
house,, he tol
toldd
me to set up my living quarters in an empty storeroom in the
shop’s basement. The terms for allowing me to live there were
sim
simple
ple: I was to work
work pre
prepa
pari
ring
ng the meat a and
nd chchaarcute
rcuteri
rie
e. I was
not to enter the shop, even when the business was closed, nor
allow pe
peopl
ople
e to be aware of my prese
presence
nce.. I f anyone - and he he
stressed this with force – found out I was there, he’d send me
away.I worked at night, making the formulations, curing and
salting and smoking the meats. Each morning I’d load metal
trays of produce onto a trolley which stood by the door
betwee
be tweenn the shop a
and
nd the ba
back
ck area. The
henn I woul
wouldd sle
sleep. W
Whe
hen
n
I awoke in the late afternoon, the trolley would be back in
place, the trays empty.
He always locked the door into the shop, a barrier
between his world and mine. He avoided me, and I was
thankful for that small mercy. The only person I saw with any
32
regula
regulari
rity
ty wa
was Albe
bert
rt fro
rom
m the sl
sla
augh
ughte
terhouse
rhouse.. He cam
came once
once a
wee
we ek, early
rly in
in the morning
orning,, of
ofte
ten
n bef
before da
dawn. As
As he ca
carr
rriied
the carcasses into the cold room, I’d make coffee and we’d
share bread and sausage. He didn’t talk much, and that suited
me. Sometimes he said nothing at all. Then, late one evening,
things changed.

I was preparing a brine mixture when there was a knock on the

back door. No one ever called in the evenings. Unsure of what
to do, I stopped working and stood in silence, hoping my
unwanted visitor would go away.
‘Gisèle, are you there?’
It was Albert’s voice, hissing from the other side of the
door.
‘What do you want, Albert?’ I asked through the door.
‘It’s late; go home.’
‘Let me in; I have something to ask you.’
‘But it’s late—’
‘Let me in, Gisèle, it’s important.’
With reluctance, I slid the bolt across and opened the
door. If my father found out I’d had a visitor, he’d have no
hesi
hesita
tatition
on in
in se
sendi
nding
ng me
me away.
way. Al
Albert
bert was
was a sim
simple
pleton, but one
one
wrongUnsteady
word fromonhim wasas
his legs allhe
it would take.in, Albert’s breath
staggered
was heavy with the smell of cheap brandy. Eyes glazed, mouth
twisted in an idiotic grin, he shuffled into the corridor using the
wall to steady himself. In the makeshift kitchen, he slumped
onto a wooden chair.
‘You’re the worst for wear,’ I said, annoyed he’d
interrupted my work. ‘I’ll make coffee.’
He grunted his appreciation as I filled the kettle and lit
the gas.
33
 ‘Gisèle, tell me, do you have a husband or a fiancé
somewhere?’ he slurred.
‘I don’t have time for that,’ I said, spooning coffee into
the cafetière. ‘There’s always so much work to do.’
‘What about before when you lived in the countryside?
Did you have someone then?’
‘I was too busy even then, working with Grand-Papa to
prepare p
prepar prroduce ffor
or the market. A
Anyw
nywa
ay, most
most m
me
en iin
n the
village were farmers: old, balding and stinking of shit. The
chance of meeting someone was limited, so I kept my own
company. I preferred it that way.’
‘And now?’ he asked, finishing the question with a belch.
‘Now, I don’t know Albert. I have only just returned to
Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège and I need to sort out my domestic
situation
As Ifirst.’
turned to bring the coffee to the table, Albert rose
and stood in front of me, blocking the way. His hands gripped
my arms,
arms, push
pushiing me babackw
ckwaards until
until I was agai
gainst th
the
e wal
walll.
‘Albert, be careful or I’ll spill the coffee. Now, sit down
and let me past.’
Still gripping my arms, he tried to kiss me, his tongue
snaki
snaking
ng be
betwe
tweeen hi
hiss lliips. Le
L eaning
ning into
into mme
e, he pres
presse
sed daaga
gaiinst
me and I dropped
dropped the cups, the hot cof cofffee sca
scallding
ding h
hiis lle
egs. As
he jumped back, I pushed past him, heading up the stairs into
the cutting
corner me. room. It was more open, giving him less chance to
By the time he struggled up the stairs his demeanour had
changed. The intoxicated buffoon had grown angry, a nasty
edge creeping into his mood.
‘Gisèle,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t fuck me around. You’ll be
sorry if you do.’
L urching
urching fforward,
orward, he wa
wass slow
slow e
enou
nough
gh ffor
or m
mee to si
side
deste
step
p
his grasp. I laughed, trying to defuse the situation, but he
became
becam e more
ore enr
enrage
aged.
d.
34
 ‘Don’t laugh at me, you bitch. Show some gratitude.
There’s not many men would look at you twice, you ugly cunt.’
Despite his lumbering drunken gait, Albert lashed out
with
wi th spe
speeed, hi
hiss open
open ha
hand
nd sl
sla
appi
pping
ng me
me ha
hard
rd across the fa
face
ce.. I
fell back against the block and he lurched towards me,
grabbing hold of my throat, pinning me down. It was a struggle
to breathe. I groped for something, anything I could use to fight
back. When I felt the wooden handle in my hand, I knew it was
the cleaver.
I wanted to knock him away, to get free; that was all. My
intention was to hit him on the head with the flat side of the
blade. As it connected, he jolted upright, his grip on me
releasing. He stood swaying, a fine red trickle appearing at his
nostrils and the sides of his mouth. The cleaver was buried in
his neck, bloodhe
‘Gisèle,’ spraying inWhat
gurgled. pulseshefrom
saidthe
nextwound.
was
indecipherable, the blood bubbling in his throat, his gasping
breath sucking in air and gore. Coughing, choking, he dropped
to his knees. Then he fell forward and the gurgling sound
stopped.
I was terrified, sickened with fear and revulsion. It was
an accident, an innocent mistake, a hellish trick of fate. A sense
of dread washed through my body, triggering uncontrollable
twitches in my limbs. I had killed him.
Would
Wouldaanyone
nyone bel
believe Albert
bert ca
came he
here
re uni
uninvite
nvited?
d?
People would think I was lying if I said he’d attacked me. My
father wouldn’t help. He’d let the police take me away and
would even testify against me if he thought it would lead to me
being incarcerated.
Albert was dead. I’d killed him; I’d murdered the
imbecile. Even if I pleaded a case of manslaughter, they would
imprison
prison me. Paninicc crawle
crawled through
through my core
core. I ha
had
d to hi
hide hi
hiss
body.. If no one knew he’d come here, if no one found his
body
corpse, maybe I could get away with it.
35
 Albert’s was the first human body I’d dismembered. It
wasn’tt that different to breaking down an animal. It took most
wasn’
of the night to process him, the task slower because I was in a
state of shock. I stripped away his flesh and sawed the bones
into short pie
pieces.
ces. Sweat
weat an
and
d tea
tears strea
streaked
ked my ffa
ace a
ass I
worked. I mixed Albert’s bones in with the animal waste for
incineration. The flesh I minced and used to prepare saucisson
à cuire pistaché.
As the da
days
ys passe
passed, my fe
fear of discov
discove
ery beca
becam
me an
obsession. Someone had to be looking for him; people don’t
jusst disa
ju isappear with
ith no one noticin
icing
g. Th
The
e polic
lice
e would come,
asking questions. I’d make a mistake and give myself away.
Because I’d stayed silent they’d accuse me of murder. Every
noise in the street caused me to flinch, every footstep in the
shop chilled
engulfed myme to the core. Sleep evaded me as nightmares
thinking.
I waited for the inevitable confrontation with the
authorities, day after day and night after night, but it never
came. With time, the terror receded. No one came looking for
Albe
bert.
rt. When
hen it
it was del
delive
very
ry day
day, anothe
nother dr
driive
verr broug
brought
ht the
the
meat. His face wore a scowl, and impatience flickered in his
brooding
broodi ng eeye
yes.
s. Whe
When n I asked a
about
bout A lbe
bert,
rt, he cursed hhiim as a
work-shy drunken retard, a layabout who didn’t give a shit
about others who had to cover his shifts.
The
Th
rid of theeevidence,
saucis
isssonso
à cIuloaded
ire
ire pis
isttthem
aché was rethe
onto adytrolley.
.I nne
eedThey
ed tosold
get
well, one of the few things in the shop which were popular.
Within days, people were coming back asking for more. I made
a second batch with pork, but the customers weren’t happy.
They turned on my fat
The father, accusing
ing him of tryin
ing
g to palm them
off with second-rate charcuterie. They demanded saucisson
made to the recipe of those they’d bought earlier in the week.
My father insisted I made more, the same as the previous
formulation.
36
 Grand-Papa once told me to excel as a charcutier, it was
important to have something special, something to elevate your
products aga
agaiinst thos
those
e of the compe
competititition.
on. It was what
what ke
kept the
customers coming back. Give them something they can’t get
elsewhere and never let them know how you’ve done it. He
told me when you find that something special, keep it secret. It
is the key to success.
Albe
bert
rt made a llousy
ousy sui
suitor,
tor, but he
he made excel
xcelllent
saucissons.

37
 Chapter 6: Jacques Dupont
Sebastian Roche came to see me, as Gaston said he would,
se
see
eki
king
When ngI looked
p
pe
erm
rmiiss
ssiat
ion to ask
him, aall
skIAAuré
uréllwas
saw ie for
forahe
her
r ha
lesshand
nd in
in m
ma
arr
rriversion
successful iage.
ge. of
his halfwit father, and given how unsuccessful his progenitor
was, it sucked the soul out of me to think my beautiful
daughter was besotted with the seed of Gaston’
Gaston’ss loins. Because
her happiness was my main concern, I allowed him in instead
of sending him away with loosened teeth.
Gaston is little more than a puffed-up slob, a man
overwhelmed by his own arrogance, a self-centred ignoramus
of the highest order, but that much is clear when you meet him.
He cannot hide his repulsive nature, no matter how hard he
tries. It relegates him to the company of other bastards and
ne’er-do-wells, and for the rest of us his inability to
masquerade as anything else is a blessing. It enables polite
society to minimise contact with him. The son, however, is a
different beast. He is conniving and duplicitous, weaselling his
way into situations where he does not belong. He is nothing
short of a snake-oil salesman.
Sebastian wittered on about how much he respected me
and
abouthowthehe envied
love he feltmy
forbusiness acumen.
my daughter. He waxed
He told me helyrical
was ready
to cherish her and adore her, to protect her from whatever trials
and tribulations the world would throw at her. It was like
watching a small boy pretending to be a man. His pitiful
displ
displaay ma
made me angry. I wanted
wanted to punch hi
him
m, repepeaate
tedl
dly,
y,
until his face was a pummelled mess.
When
hen he sa
saiid he inte
ntende
nded
d to k
ke
eep Aurél
uréliie in the manne
annerr
to which she had become accustomed, I couldn’t stay silent.
ell me, Sebastian, in terms of keeping my daughter in
‘Tell
‘T

38
the manner, as you say, to which she is accustomed, what
prospects do you have to achieve this? It is a fine thing to say
these words, to declare your bold intentions, but can your
actions live up to your claims? As I understand it, your father
intends to pass on the fishmongery business to your elder
brothe
bro therrs, so whe
wherre doe
doess that
that lle
eave you? Maybe yo
you
u iinte
ntend
nd to
buy a cart and sell fish door-to-door. I applaud your
entrepreneurial spirit, but I doubt such an endeavour would
allow you to do as you propose.’
A look of surprise crept over his idiot face. Was it the
news his father’s business would not be going to him, or was it
the fact I knew as much which disarmed him? I had little doubt
his father had suggested he try to manipulate me into an
agree
greemment ffor
or him
him and A urél
uréliie to take over the shop, and m
ma
ay
have even However,
were wed. said it would beI’d
after thechallenged
inevitable outcome once they
his intentions,
Sebastian seemed lost.
‘Well, Jacques—’
‘It’s Monsieur Dupont to you, Sebastian,’ I snapped.
‘Please do not be over familiar. We are not friends.’
‘Monsieur Dupont, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect
you.’
‘Apology accepted. Carry on, Sebastian. You were about
to tell me how a fishmonger’s assistant intends to make sure
sure
my daughter wants for nothing.’
‘It was my understanding…
understanding…’’
‘Yes, please continue. What was your understanding?’
Sebastian was uncomfortable. He knew I wasn’t about to
make things easy for him, nor would I accept him fobbing me
off with generalities.
‘I was told I would run your
y our business, Monsieur Dupont.’
I stood, my eyes locked on to his until the discomfort of
the situation forced him to look away, eyes downcast to the
floor.
39
 ‘Who told you such a thing, Sebastian? It could not have
been me, as we haven’t had such a discussion. Today is the first
time we’ve ever talked, aside from the general exchange of
pleasantriess on the rare occa
pleasantrie occasions
sions we meet. It wasn’t
wasn’t me who
told you such a thing, and no one else has any authority in my
business, so I’m at a loss where you gained this supposition.’
‘It was my father.’
‘Really? Gaston told you this?’ I feigned shock at his
answer, watching him wilt under my gaze.
‘Are you sure, Sebastian?’ I challenged him as I would a
small child caught out in a lie. ‘Your father has nothing to do
with my shop, so I think you’re mistaken. I run my business,
not my neighbours or others who’d wish to piggy-back my
success. I know this to be true because I and I alone am in the
shop every and
charcuterie morning before
cutting the sun
the meat. rises,
It is onlypreparing the the
me who opens
doors and works all day. When the bills come for electricity,
gass and me
ga meat, they are addresse
addressedd to me, an and
d I pa
pay
y themwith
with
my money. I never see Gaston paying my bills or cutting the
meat or cleaning the floors, so I don’t see how he would have
told you anything about my business.’
Sebastian’ss body trembled, his eyes still downcast.
Sebastian’
Relishing his unease, I continued.
‘I don’t understand why your father, or you for that
m atte
tter,
with r, think
helpthifrom
nk I nee
need a
anothe
nother
Aurélie, r mem
so why ber
ber ofI need
would staf
staff. you?
I run m
my
y shop
On
occasions I require the services of an errand boy, but even if I
were to appoint you, I don’t see how you can support my
daughter on the pittance such a role attracts.’
Sebastian squirmed; his eyes locked onto the floor. He
looked more like a child than ever; a chastised toddler who’d
had his
had his toy
toyss ta
tak
ken a
away
way.. I may have be
beeen pun
puniishi
shing
ng hi
him
m
because of the arrogance of his father, but even so there was a
presumption on his part that I would hand over the keys to the
40
shop because my daughter was willing to marry him.
‘Monsieur Dupont, with respect, I would not be an errand
boy.. I would run the b
boy business,’
usiness,’ he said, his voice tre
trembling.
mbling.
‘You would run the business? Hold on, Sebastian; now I
think I understand your intentions. Are you proposing to buy
my shop, to pay the market rate and buy me out? Such an idea
shows high ambition. Maybe I underestimated you. What price
did you have in mind?’
It was cruel, a crushing moment in the conversation as I
watched him wilt. I enjoyed it, wanting him to be
uncomffor
uncom ortab
tablle, embarr
barra
asse
ssed,
d, even asha
asham
med. I wante
wanted
d to hurt
his pride, to make him feel like a mockery of a man.
He shook his head and muttered, ‘I was not prop osing to
buy your business.’
‘Sebastian,
you claimed. The itreality
is clear youwant
is you cannotto support
use my my daughter
business, myas
reputation, my premises and tools and stock, with no
recompe
recom pense
nse to me,
me, to support Auré
Auréllie a
and
nd yourse
yoursellf. Tha
hatt means
it is I, and not you, who will keep my daughter, and seemingly
I will keep you as well. Isn’t that so?’
‘I was given to understand you were retiring, Monsieur.’
The
The conversatio
ion
n was dis isttressing
ing him,
im, so I pu
pushed harder.
‘Tell me Sebastian, what experience do you have in pork
butche
butchery and crea
creatiting
ng cha
charcuteri
rcuterie
e? Are
Are you trai
traine
ned
d for
for such an
an
undertaking? It’s more complex than you might think, a skill
you must learn over time. You will find it more advanced than
gutting fish. How do you intend to accumulate the necessary
skills?’
‘Maybe you should speak with my father,’ Sebastian
muttered, anguished at the way the conversation had veered
from his control to mine.
‘I think it would be more apt for you to speak to him,’ I
replied, softening my tone. ‘After all , we all want to understand
how you intend to earn a living and support your new family.’

41
 He looked defeated, and I let him wallow in the depth of
hiss se
hi self-pi
pity
ty.. Le
L eaving
ving him
him alone,
one, I went
went to ththe
e kitche
kitchennaand
nd
fetched
tched the che
chea ap cogna
cognac.
c. On returni
returning,
ng, I sa
saww tea
tearrs on his
his
cheeks.
‘Sebastian,’ I said as I poured the cognac, ‘I grant you
permission to ask Aurélie for her hand, but you will not marry
her until satisfactory arrangements for your future are in place.
Now, dry your eyes and at least pretend to be a man.’
Ju
J ust like
like his fat
father, he was a selfis
lfish
h scheming
ing bastard and
he smiled with a cock-sure grin as he took the glass.

I was dozing in front of the fire when Aurélie returned home

and woke me. Sebastian had proposed and she’d accepted.
Holding out her delicate hand, she displayed the ring with
pride
pri de.. It was chea
cheap a
and
nd na
nasty,
sty, but she was ha
happy so I he
helld m
my
y
tongue and ffe eigned
gned joy
joy at her
her news. SShe
he sat wi
with
th m
me
e and I
opened a bottle of champagne despite the late hour.
‘Aurélie, I want to talk to you about an important matter.’
She didn’t reply, but smiled at me, a warm and gracious
smile.
‘When you and Sebastian marry, you’ll need to build a
future for yourselves, and so I intend to pass the shop on to
you.
consiThere
der.’ is, however, something I would like you to
‘What is it, Papa? Do you want free saucissons during
your retirement?’ she asked, giggling as she spoke.
‘Aurélie, I am giving the business to you; not to both of
you and not to Sebastian, but to you alone. All decisions on its
future will be yours to make.’
Her smile faded, a puzzled look crossing her face.
‘But Papa, what if my decision is for Sebastian and I to
manage the business together?’

42
 ‘If it’s your choice, a decision made by you alone, then I
must accept it despite wishing it weren’t to be. I hope the two
of you will be happy together for the rest of your lives, but
things
thi ngs can
can happe
happen,
n, ci
circum
cumsta
stance
ncess ca
can
n cha
change
nge.. If the marr
rriiage
fails, for whatever reason, he might take the shop from you. If,
God forbid, he died, his family might claim ownership of the
business. I want you to think about these things, consider all
the outcomes, before making any final decision. We can talk
about it more once plans are in place for the wedding.’
The
Th e smile returned to her fac
face, glo
low
wing
ing and genuin
ine
e.
‘Thank you, Papa,’ she whispered before rising and
kissing me on the forehead. Then she went to her bed.
Alone by th
the
e fire, I fini
nish
she
ed th
the
e cha
cham
mpagn
pagnee. My
My m
mood
ood
grew darker as I considered Gaston and his idiot son taking
control of the
manipulate hershop. Unlessthe
and snatch Aurélie was from
business strong, they would
her.
Sebastian Roche would kill the business. He would kill it
without a doubt, unless a tragedy was to befall him before he
had the chance.

43
 Chapter 7: Gisèle Dupont
The
The loc
locked door between the shop and the cuttin
ing
g room
separated the two sides of my father’s life. His fear was the two
worlds colliding; it also was the only speck of power I held in
our relationship. In his small and twisted mind, me revealing
myself would be cataclysmic. This was made obvious as his
behaviour bordered on the obsessive when it came to keeping
the wor
worlld I inhabi
nhabite
tedd apa
apart
rt from
from th
the
e one he sha
shared
red with
with hi
hiss
other daughter. His paranoia told me one thing: those who
inhabited his new life knew nothing of the old.
Everything he did to me, every restriction and rule and
bullying tactic he used, was design
designed
ed to make sure I didn’t
didn’t
reveal myself in his present life. It was clear if I did, he would
punish me. I stood to lose everything, and the bastard would
enjoy making me pay that debt. Despite this, it was hard not to
be curious about that other place.
During the day, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d sit in the short
passageway which led between the front of the shop and the
cutting room and peep through the keyhole. There wasn’
wasn’tt a lot
to see: the back of the butchery counter and a small section of
the charcuterie counter. Occasionally I saw her, Aurélie, the
other child,
mother’s the daughter who was not sent away after her
demise.
Unlike me, she was graceful and elegant, pretty, maybe
even beautiful in the eyes of some men. She smiled and
laughed with ease; a joyous soul not burdened with the
darkness of an unsatisfactory childhood. Family and friends
shared her world while mine was lonely and bereft of comfort.
Maybe it was all I deserved.
Even before my birth, in my mother’s womb, I smothered
my twin and engulfed her foetus. The scars on my face served
44
as a reminder of her resorption. She made me stronger, taller
and broader than most women, but she also contributed to my
awkward clumsiness. The remaining fragments of her nervous
system sent conflicting signals to my brain, forcing me to
spa
sp asmand llurch,
urch, una
unabl
ble
e to control ce
certai
rtain
nmmotor
otor act
actiions.
ons. L ike
little physical ticks, her impulses still jarred me on occasions.
Even without being born, she had the ability to remind me of
how crue
cruellly I ha
had
d despa
despatche
tchedd he
her.
r.
At night, in my solitude, I’d touch the chimeric scars on
my face and neck, those fragments of my vanished twin
embedded in my murderous body for all to see. The people in
the outside world used those scars to judge me, to pick me out
as the one who’d slain her own twin.
What would she have been like, my dead sister? How
might
become shea have changed
destructive partmy life had she survived and not
of me?
Aurél
urélie ha
hadd no such marks of sha
sham
me, no reminde
nders
rs of he
herr
solitude, because she was never alone. Her father, my father,
supported and cherished her, doted on her. I’d heard them
talking, laughing, discussing their futures and her unending
happiness. The customers sometimes joined in, echoing the
praise: so pretty, so graceful, so smart, so lucky.
When the news of Aurélie’s betrothal to Sebastian Roche
became public knowledge, the chatter in the shop grew banal.
Th
The
theediscussion
loc
local wombestowed
en talklkeed oon
f dthem
ressessome
and flo
flowwersofainvolvement
sliver nd cake as if in
the whole sordid mess. The old bitches offered advice, gushing
as if they alone knew the secret to a happy and fulfilled life.
The
Th ey ins
instructed her in how to keep her husband, these women
who struggled to keep their own teeth. The world revolved
around Aurélie, and she gloried in that fact.
All the while I listened and watched, absorbing the
injustice of our differences.

45
 As evening crept into night, the streets of Sainte-Marie-
sur-
sur-A
Ariè
riège fell si
sillent. M
Most
ost pe
peopl
ople
e we
went
nt h
hom
ome
e early
rl y be
beca
caus
use
e
there wa sn’t a lot for them to do. Long before midnight struck
on the church clock, the town would fall asleep. The café
emptied and the lights went off, the restaurant pulled down its
blinds, and the projectionist at the cinema locked up and set off
home on his bicycle. A cloak of silence smothered the market
square, the side roads empty aside from a few prowling cats
and scurrying mice.
The
Th e nig
igh
ht was my timimee. I cco
ould walk the streets with
ithout
being seen. If I heard approaching voices or the click-clack of
hee
he els on the cobble
cobbles, I disa
disappe
ppeaared into
into the sha
shadows
dows and
became invisible.
It was an ideal time to hunt. After I killed Albert and used
his flesh to make produce, demand for my saucissons grew.
The customers couldn’t identify what set them apart from other
cured sausages, but that didn’t matter. Interest in the products
went through the roof.
My father knew nothing of the formulation. The arts of
the cha
charrcuti
cutie
er we
were beyond
beyond his
his grasp.
grasp. A
Alll he knew wa
wass how to
split pig carcasses and chop cutlets. Anything requiring skill,
knowledge,
He hadpassion
no clueand a gentle
why touch evaded
the saucissons him.
were so popular, nor
could he taste what made them different: the richness of the
fl avour which pork couldn’t match. A
meat, the depth of flavour Alll he
wanted was more products. I tried alternative recipes, but
saucissons made with pork, veal or game weren’t as popular. I
had no choice but to harvest more flesh.
The
Th e fe
fea
ar I fe
felt
lt afte
fter killing
illing Alb
Albe
ert fo
foccused my thin
ink
kin
ing
g. I
became alert to the inherent risks of my task. While no one
aside from my father and the abattoir delivery men knew I’d

46
returned to Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège, it was critical no one saw
me. I visited villages outside town disguised as a man, wearing
clothes I’d stolen from washing lines. Not all my hunting trips
were fruitful. On occasions I’d be out all night, returning home
exhausted and empty pty--hande
handed.
d.
I needed to hunt regularly to maintain production, but I
knew
kne w a spa
spate
te of disa
disappe
ppea arance
rancess would
would al
alert the a
authori
uthorititie
es. I
sought victims who might not be missed: those who were alone
or chose a solitary existence, the shunned and shamed, people
who others would assume had gone away if they disappeared.
Sometimes I got lucky: a woman in a bar celebrating
with a small crowd, her friends wishing her well and telling her
things wouldn’t be as much fun once she’d moved away. I
followed her home from the farewell party and knocked on her
door.usher
she Feirgning
ushe gni
edngmean
meainnsi
e
em
m ergency,
erge
nside. Onncy,
de. I asked
anothe
another r occto
occa siuse
on Iher
asion hesaw
r te
tellaephone
youngama
nd
man
with a backpack, hitch-hiking. After a quick flirtation, he
followed me into the woods.
While the random nature of these encounters made it
easier for my hunting sessions to pass undetected
undetected,, it wasn’
wasn’tt
efficient in terms of my time. I needed to make my trips more
efficient.
I atten
ttende
ded
d events
events whi
which
ch aattr
ttra
acted the lone
onelly, the
friendless, or temporary visitors to the area. By selecting
victims based
explained, on theme
it allowed likelihood
to hunttheir disappearance
closer could be
to the town, sometimes
even on the streets surrounding the shop.
I got no thrill or excitement from the killings; it was a
process of manufacturing. For those being hunted, my cold
detachment was often more distressing. People wanted to think
badly of the person who was about to kill them. They needed
me to be a monster rather than someone dispassionately
slaughtering them to harvest their meat and offal. Playing the
part of a bogeyman was the least I could do, giving them
47
someone to blame as they exhaled their final breath. No one
wanted to die because they were a commodity, so on occasions
I overplayed my part, performing as the tormented soul with
voices in her head, or a disgruntled unknown enemy with an
axe to grind. In truth, I cared not.
I spent hours scouring the local newspaper, looking at
obituaries, house sales, events in outlying villages, anything
which might identify those who were alone.
It was through the newspaper I found the widow Moline.
She lived in the more affluent part of town. An obituary notice
for her husband reported he left behind the widow and a
daughter. His age, 93, told me the daughter was an adult and
unlikely to live at home.
The
Th e street was well-t
ll-to
o-d
-do
o, a litt
little square outsid
ide
e dotted
with
e trees
xpect a mand bushes,
urder not m
to be comm
com the type
itted. I of
tted. place
visi
visite
ted people
d the would
house
house,
,
pretending to be there in response to an advertisement for a
cleaning job. The widow was pleasant enough, even
apologising to me because I’d called at the wrong house. I
acted embarrassed for incorrectly noting down the address and
left. Old and frail without enough meat on her bones for my
needs, I let her live.
Thrree months la
Th latter, I n
no
otic
ice
ed her house was up fo
forr sale.
le.
The widow had joined her late husband in the town’s cemetery.
Th
Thee attendawho
pensioners nce aattended
t her fun
funeburials
ral wasofsparsfriendless
the e. Mo
Mosst wto
eresnap
lo
loccaup
ls
ls,, a
free buffet lunch. From my gloomy corner of the church I
spotted a middle-aged woman: the widow’s daughter. I
overheard her tell the priest she was leaving town once her
mother’s affairs were in order. He called her Mademoiselle
Moline, which hinted she wasn’t married. Single and far from
home, she was an ideal target.
I kept track of the Moline woman until the house was
sold. The neighbours wouldn’t expect to see her again. No one

48
would miss her or think it suspicious she’d disappeared. They
expected her to leave and not return.
Evening fell and the town drifted into its slumber. I went
to the Moline house. Despite the late hour, a light shone at the
living room window. Heading up the stone stairs, cautious in
case
cas e she was nnot
ot alone
alone,, I raise
sed
dmmyy han
handd to the door knoc
knockerker
but a sound behind me, a whispering male voice, made me
freeze. Someone was in the square.
Moving sideways into the shadows, I watched. No one
was visible. Another whispered voice, this one female, was
followed by a giggle. Was it an illicit liaison, lovers in the dark
who were wary of being seen together? Thinking they were
alone, fixated on their activity, a slow rhythmic moaning
driffted
dri ted from the bush
bushees. LLiike anim
nimals, the
theyy fforni
ornica
cate
ted
d in tthe
heiir
hiding place,
listening, unableby
unnoticed tothem,
suppress
mytheir groans
fingers curled ofaround
passion.the I stood
handle of the boning knife in my pocket.
A whimper of release signalled an end to their activities
and shortly afterwards a young lady emerged, her skirt pulled
up around
around he
her wa
waiist as
as she wi
wipe
ped
d herse
hersellf wi
with
th a tissu
tissue e. Af
A fte
terr
straightening her clothing, she whispered something into the
bushes and hurried down the street. Then he emerged, pulling
up hi
hiss trouse
trousers.
rs. A
Ass h
he
e adj
djus
uste
ted
dhhiis cl
cloth
othiing
ng,, I sa
saw
w hi
hiss ffa
ace.
ce. I
recognised him.
It was Sebastian Roche, the fishmonger’
fishmonger’ss son.

49
 Chapter 8: Aurélie Dupont
‘Papa intends to pass the business on to me once we are
married,’ I told Sebastian as we stood in the storeroom at the
fishmongers. He looked at me with a puzzled expression, as if
he couldn’t understand what I was saying.
‘To you?’ he asked, surprised at the idea. ‘Don’t you
mean to me?’
I paused for a moment. He hadn’t said ‘us’; he’d said
s aid
‘me’. He not only wanted to be handed Papa’s business on a
plate, but it appeared he also believed he should have full
control of it.
‘No. Papa has urged me to consider running the shop
myself. He asked me to weigh up the pros and cons of allowing
others to have a say in how the business operates.’
Agitated by the news, Sebastian’s face contorted with
anger and his tone flipped to aggressive.
‘Others? Am I to be classed as others?’ he snapped.
‘I suppose, yes, you are. After all, you’re not a Dupont.’
His face curled into a scowl as he spat out his response.
‘I am not a Dupont; I am a Roche, and as my wife you’ll
be a Roche too. As
As such,
such, do you thi
think
nk iitt prope
properr to ha
have
ve your
own business
the beck andofmoney,
and call while
my father I – brothers
and your husband
in this-shit-
remain at
hole?’
The
The dis
isccussio
ion
n was upsetting
ing him,
im, so I tr
trie
ied
d to use a
more placatory tone.
‘Sebastian, we won’t be apart. You need not stay here;
you can work at the shop with me.’
‘So, it will be your shop, not my shop, and I will be your
errand boy?’ he asked with incredulity. ‘How can this be right,
a man employed by his wife? That’s like being a servant, a
slave, a lackey fetching and carrying with no rights or
50
authority, having to ask permission for everything. I will not
allow it; no man would.’
I wanted the conversation to be civil, respectful, but
something inside me snapped, a disgust at his attitude and
contempt for me as his equal.
‘What are saying, Sebastian? Do you mean you should
run the business and I should be your servant and slave, your
lackey
ckey, havi
having
ng to ask
ask pe
perm
rmiiss
ssiion for
for eve
very
rythi
thing
ng?? IIss tha
thatt wha
whatt
being your wife
wife entails?’
He paused and shook his head, but in that moment we
both knew it was what he was trying to say.
‘Sebastian, it will never be your shop; it will be our shop.
At worst ..
... ne
neve
verr mi
mind that
that right
right now
now.. I ha
have
ve pl
pla
ans to expa
xpand
nd
what Dupont’s offers, and you’ll need to train before you take

up
thethe wor
workl
kload
business oad fr
from
while youPlearn
apa.
pa. Iabout
t ma
makes se
sense
nse for
butchery andmcharcuterie.’
e to ma
mana
nage
ge
‘Your father has put you up to this; he tol
olddm
mee I ne
nee
ede
ded
d to
learn, and now you’re echoing his words like a puppet,’ he
spat. ‘Am I to be your apprentice? People will laugh behind my
back, sneering at me, the man forced to hang onto his wife’s
apron strings to get by. Is that what you and your father want:
to humiliate me?’
Gaston emerged in the doorway, his finger pointing at
me. He’d been eavesdropping and had decided it was time to
inject ‘Aurélie,
his thoughts.
I can’t help but overhear, and I’m sorry to be
blunt. Your father is mean-spirited. He thinks he’s better than
us because he has an inheritance to fall back on. If it wasn’t for
the wealth of your mother, the Dupont business would be
bankrupt now, gone, flushed away like a turd. I t’s not Jacques’
business but yours, through the gift of your poor mother, God
rest her soul. Your father wants to humiliate Sebastian, and you
with him.’
‘Monsieur Roche,’ I said, trying to stay respectful despite

51
his personal attack on Papa, ‘I can assure you my father wants
nothing more than to protect me. When all is said and done, it’s
his business, and so the choice of who runs it is his alone.
Traditionally, a man provides for his wife. You’re not passing
on your business to Sebastian and therefore he can’t fulfil his
obligations. Given the circumstances, Papa is being more than
generous—’
‘Generous?’ Gaston roared. ‘The man’s generosity ends
with himself. If he were truly generous, he’d sign the shop over
to Sebastian today, along with his recipes and formulations, so
the boy could learn the ropes. His reluctance to do so is an
obvious sign he wants nothing more than to humiliate us.’
I told Gaston in no uncertain terms I thought his demands
were unreasonable, considering Papa was, with good grace,
handing over
Sebastian a profitable
became business.
vocal once more,Instead
accusingof backing me,
me of belittling
the hard work his father and brothers had put into the
fishmongers.
The
Th e argument grew more vitr itrio
iolic
lic,, so I excused myself
and left, their barking echoing in the street as I hurried away. I
hoped Gaston’s presence was what provoked Sebastian into
being curt; the alternative was he had no respect for me.
When
hen I got hom
home e, Papa made cof
cofffee and we sat
sat iin
n the
kitchen. He asked several times if I was all right, sensing my
mood was off. I didn’t mention Gaston’s demands or the fact
I’d quarrelled with Sebastian. It would have only upset him, so
I said I was tired. For the rest of the evening, I couldn’t stop
rerunning the argument in my head. I thought Sebastian would
have taken my side, but he’d agreed with Gaston. He seemed
more concerned with taking control of the shop than thinking
about my future happiness.

52
Even though my mother died fifteen years ago, the tragedy of
her passing still haunted Papa every day. The sorrowful burden
he carried was obvious to me. It wore him down, depriving him
of the ability to be happy. Whenever I saw him slipping
towards his inner darkness, I tried to bring him back to the
light.
My mem
memoryory o
off he
herr de
death
ath was vague
vague,, more
ore ba
based
sed on what
what
Papa had told me over the years. It was a bitter day, snow
falling thick in the morning half-light. The abattoir had called,
saying the lorries couldn’t get out because of the weather.
Complaining he had orders to fill and couldn’t let cu stomers
down, Papa took the van and drove to the slaughterhouse
himself. My mother told him people would understand if
deliveries were late, but he insisted the business wouldn’t fare

well ifPapa
the townsfolk
didn’t make thought
it backhim unreliable.
f rom the abattoir in time to
open the shop. The roads were so bad the town was cut off. He
telephoned at lunch time and said he hoped to get back soon.
As dar
darkneness
ss fe
fell, he te
tellephoned
phoned a aga
gaiin aand
nd a
asked
sked mmyym mothe
otherr tto
o
go to the shop. Monsi
M onsie eur R
Rousse
oussea au ffro
romm the hotel ne
neeede
ded
d to
collect a batch of sausages. She wasn’t best pleased at the
thought
thoug ht of goi
going
ng out
out iin
n the snow bu butt agree
agreed.
d. LLe
eaving
ving mme
e wi
with th a
neighbour, she set off into town.
It was the last time I’d ever see her.
The
Th e evthe
understand enin
ing
g was unrem
significance arkable
it wouldle,
, buton
have at tmy
he tim
imeeI d did
id not
life. I can’t
remember what I did, but I’d guess I played with the
remember
neighbour’ss children, in the kitchen around the stove, while the
neighbour’
snow swirled outside in the cold grey sky.
By supper time, neither my mother nor Papa had
returned. The neighbour telephoned the shop but there was no
reply. She made dinner for her children and fed me too, then
put all of us to bed.
Papa knocked on the neighbour’s door at around

53
midn
dniight.
ght. He asked
sked whe
wherere M
Mothe
otherr and I we
were.
re. O
Onn be
beiing ttol
oldd
my mother had not returned, he set off to search for her. For the
entire night he walked between our house and the shop, back
and forth, trying to find her.
The
Th e next morninging, several townsfolk
folk jo
join
ine
ed the search.
Others looked in sheds and garages in case she had taken
shelter from the weather. By afternoon, more people joined in
the hunt, and as night fell they seemed downcast, their hopes of
finding
nding her
her fadiding.
ng. A
Ass ea
each da
dayy passe
passed,
d, fewe
werr peopl
peopleeg ga
athe
thered
red
to take part in the search.
Afte
terr a wee
week, the sn
snow
ow had
had me
melte
ted
da away
way,, as ha
hadd the other
other
members of the search-party. The police told Papa they
couldn’t dedicate further resources to looking for my mother.
He complained, but they pointed out she was an adult, adding
maybeWith
she reluctance,
didn’t wantPapa found. to the shop. Setting up for
to bereturned
the day, he went to the walk-in freezer and opened the door.
Inside was the body of my mother, frozen solid.
The
Th e polic
lice
e in
inv
vestig
iga
ated her death. The
They asked why she
couldn’t open the door from the inside, and Papa explained the
latch stuck on occasions. He’d intended to fix it, but as he
worked alone, it hadn’t been something he’d considered urgent.
They asked why she had been in the shop. He explained he’d
been trapped by the snowstorm. They even quizzed him about
why the body wasn’t found sooner. He told them he’d been
searching the streets alongside their own officers. He’d
checked the shop, but she had no reason to go inside the freezer
so he hadn’t looked there.
Unable to attribute blame for her death, the police
declared it accidental, but Papa blamed himself. He agonised
over why he hadn’t fixed the latch. He fretted over his decision
to go to the
the sl
sla
aughte
ughterhouse
rhouse in the snow
snow.. If onl
only,
y, he woul
wouldd
mutter; if only.
One thing was certain: the death of my mother left Papa a
54
broken man. Time did not heal his grief.

55
 Chapter 9: Gisèle Dupont
I’d planned the slaughter of the Moline woman, gone over

things
thi
forngs in d
de
eta
taiwell,
anything; il andnearly
conside
considered
red every
anything. e
eve
Theventua
ntuallity.
people I wa
was
in the s rea
ready
square
weren’tt an issue. People have got in the way before and I’ve
weren’
waited
waite d them
them out. I ha
have
ve mor
moree pa
patitie
ence th
tha
an most.
most. Howeve
owever,
r,
when I realised one of them was Sebastian Roche, the
betrothe
be trothedd of Auré
uréllie, it distra
distracte
cted
dm meea
and
nd I struggl
struggle
ed to pus
push
h
the information out of my head.
I remained concealed in the shadows until long after the
Roche boy and his floozy had departed. The night was silent,
so quiet I could hear furniture being moved inside the Moline
house. A radio played in the background, nondescript jazz, as
nondescript as the woman I intended to kill. There was no
conversation, no noise to indicate my prey was not alone.
Putting aside my thoughts of Sebastian Roche, I went to the
front door and knocked.
‘Mademoiselle Moline?’ I asked as she answered the
door, and she nodded. Her skin had a sheen of perspiration, the
scent of wine heavy on her breath. She wasn’t drunk, but she
looked tired, her eyes dark and craving rest.
‘I knew
removing your for
the need mother well,’ I said, my
any introduction. directness
‘Before her death she
entrusted
ntrusted me wi
with
th a message
ssage.. I thought y
you
ou mi
might be intereste
nterested
d
in what she told me.’
Given that her mother wasn’t long in the ground, she
didn’t seem too interested. She looked me up and down before
asking, ‘What is it, this mysterious message?
message?’’
She lacked the warmth shown by her mother when I’d
called months earlier. It wasn’t fair to judge her on one meeting
during a time of grief, but there was something aloof about the
56
woman which I found offensive. Her disinterest made the
thought of killing her more appealing.
‘May I come inside?’
The Mo
The Molin
line
e woman sigh
ighed and opened the door wideider,
stepping back to allow me to enter. I got the feeling she found
my visit an irritation. I’d expected her to be curious about a
message from her late mother, but she acted as though even
listening to me was a waste of her time.
The
Th e liv
livin
ingg room was lit
litttered with
ith boxes, some of which
ich
were open and half-filled with ornaments. Books were piled on
the sofa and a glass cabinet stood in the corner, doors open,
many of the shelves empty. On the fireplace stood a photograph
of the widow Moline. Picking it up, I noticed the quality of the
silver engraved frame. It had style, much like the widow; it was
something
woman no one
walked overwould say of herthe
and snatched daughter. Theme.
photo from Moline
‘So, what’s this message?’ she asked, impatience clear in
her tone.
‘What’s your name, Mademoiselle?’
‘Jeanne, not that it’s any of your concern. Who are you?’
She did not try to hide her indifference towards me.
‘I’m Gisèle Dupont,’ I replied, ‘and I must ap ologise to
you.’
‘Apologise? For what?’
‘For lying to you,’ I said, smiling at the confused woman.
‘I’ve only just met you and I’m sorry to say I’ve lied to you
twice.’
‘Twice?’
‘The first lie was when I told you I knew your mother
well, but I’d only met h er once. She was nice to me, nicer than
you have been, but she was a better person. The second lie was
that I had a message for you.’
I watched the Moline woman’s mood change from
indifference to anger. Her face became flushed and the tendons
57
in her neck tensed, the sinews tightening like wires as she drew
herself up.
‘What do you want?’ she snapped, her displeasure at my
game pushing her to the limit of patience.
‘It’s silly,’ I replied with a smile, ‘but when I met your
mother, I came here with a specific purpose in mind but left
without completing my task. Now I’m here again, to see you. I
have the same job to do, but this time I won’t be leaving
without doing it.’
The
Th e Mo
Molin
line
e woman yawned, fak fake and with
ith enough
theatre to make her point. She wasn’t tired. She wanted to
make the point
point I was bor
boriing her
her wi
with
th m
myy game.
‘So, what’s this purpose of yours?’ she asked, humouring
me.
‘I’ve
Th
The e Mocome
Molin etowkill
line omayou.’
n didn’t react. I didn’t expect her to
crumble, but I had anticipated some degree of surprise. Her
confidence was unabashed as she smirked at me, a patronising
grin as if I were a small child engaged in a prank.
‘Is there any reason you want to kill me?’
‘Yes, Jeanne. You don’t mind if I call you Jeanne, do
you?’
She sighed and said, ‘Given your intention to kill me, I
don’t think manners are a top priority. What’s the reason?’
‘No one will miss you,’ I replied. ‘People expect you to
vanish, and when you do, it won’t raise any concerns. You’re
easy to kill, and for me, it’s enough. The fact you’re an
unfeeling bitch helps, but it’s not why I’m here. I will kill you
because no one will miss you.’
‘People in this backwater might not miss me, but what
about my friends back home? What will they think when I
don’t come back?’
She had
had a smugness
smugness about her. It was obvious she didn’t
believe she was about to die.
58
 ‘Maybe they’ll think you stayed, or you took your
inheritance and went away on a trip. I don’t care, becaus e by
the time they realise you’re missing, there will be nothing to
link you and I.’
The Mo
The Molin
line
e woman stepped for
forward and la
lasshed out,
landing a hefty slap across my face.
‘Get out of my house, you lunatic,’ she snarled, pointing
towards the door.
‘Oh Jeanne, you shouldn’t have done that,’ I said, taking
the knife from my pocket.
I grabbed
grabbed a handf
handfuul of the Moline woman’s hair and
pullled he
pu herr towa
towards
rds me
me. As
A s I di
did,
d, I drove the
the bl
bla
ade up
upwa
wards
rds
under her chin. She struggled, pushing me off balance, and the
blade hit her jawbone. She suffered little more than a gash, but
it was enough
bravado tofear
waned, rob her of theinto
creeping cocksure confidence.
her mind. Her time,
For the first
she believed she might die.
‘What do you want?’ Her voice gave away the panic
welling up inside her. ‘Money, jewellery, the photo frame, I
don’t care; just take it. Tomorrow I’ll leave and—’
‘Tomorrow isn’t a choice for you, Jeanne,’ I giggled.
Stepping forward, I plunged the knife into her ribs before
back out. I didn’t want to stab her; I hate messy kills,
jerking it back
but I knew she’d
she’d expect anothe
anotherr lunge at her throat. I prefer the
throat.
simple severance of an artery. It’s enough to send the victim
into a state of shock, but the Moline woman had fought back,
desperate to feel she had a tiny glimmer of hope. She left me
no option but to stab her.
Her hand instinctively went to the wound and after
touching it, she glanced at her fingers, the blood crimson on
her pale skin. People do that when you stab them. When they
see their own blood, it weakens them. When the Moline
woman saw her bloody hands, she slumped, the fight drained
out of her.
59
 In that moment I struck again, trying to force the blade
into her neck to sever the artery. In reaction, she ducked and
the knife point hit her cheek, slicing upwards before sliding
through her eyeball and into the socket. I pushed the blade in as
far as it would go, twisting it, shaking the handle so the knife
did maximum damage to her brain. Blood sprayed out, hot and
viscous, and as she convulsed my hand slipped off the handle.
The
Th e Mo
Molin
linee woman reached out her arms, hands open,
ready to gra
grab atat mmee. I doubted
doubted she was conscious
conscious of what sh
she
e
was doing, her motor functions being driven by haywire brain
activity. It was one last flurry of electrical impulses before her
nervous system shut down. She took a lurching step forwards,
herr good e
he eye
ye ffiixed
xed on me
me. Then
hen she took another
nother step.
step. Midwa
dwayy
through a third, she hesitated, a surreal pause as her brain
reallised
rea
face se d iittthe
first, wa
wassimpact
de
destroy
stroye
ed, and
drove theshe cr
cra
ashed
knife she d to into
further th
the
e fher
loor.skull.
LLa
anding
nding
She didn’t move again until I turned her over.
‘You bitch,’ I muttered. ‘Your thick lump of a head has
broken my fucking
fucking knife.’

It took most of the night to butcher the Moline woman and

clean up the mess in the house. Returning to the shop, I could
not sleep,toagitated
attention by thetroubled
detail, which clumsy despatch. It lacked
me. I’d planned forskill
theand
slaughter, worked out a careful and considered method which
suited my process, but had deviated
deviated from it as soon as I’d
knocked on the door. The critical moment, the point of
distraction that led to the ensuing chaos, was seeing the Roche
boy and his strumpet.
Sitting in the small corridor between the shop and the
cutting room, my back against the locked door, I listened to the
burble of conversation from that other world: customers
60
making requests, bills being added up, queries about the
ava
vaiilabil
bility of certa
certaiin p
produ
roducts
cts.. Kni
K nive
vess sl
slash
shiing aga
gaiins
nstt ste
steels
and the crack of a cleaver splitting bone punctuated the chatter.
The
Th e boudin noir had been popula larr. A steady stream of
customers asked when more would be available, and my father
replied, ‘Soon; very soon.’ I would need to harvest more blood
in the next few nights.
On occasions, the inane babble strayed onto Aurélie’s
wedding. Was the wedding all arranged? A wedding planner
had
ha d bee
been engage
engaged;
d; the wo
womman was
was handl
handliing m
many
any of the
details. Where would the ceremony take place? The local
church was the choice, with a reception at Hotel Rousseau.
Where was the honeymoon? Sebastian was arranging it. What
was her dress like? That would stay a surprise for the big day.

turnedMout
turned any
anytocom
cbe
omm
be..m
Ye nted
Y es, on what
I thougwh
ht,athe
thought, a fwas
ine m
a fan
ineSe
mbastian
bastianffiihad
an: a ne man
who fucked sluts in the bushes. A cheat and fornicator, an
adulterer in the making, an exceptionally fine man.
The
There was a lulullll in trade, and they were alon lone, Au
Aurrélie
and my father.
‘Papa,’ she said, her voice taking on a serious tone.
‘Regarding what we talked about, the future of the shop.
shop. I ha
have
ve
made my decision.’
Her words hooked me, not with excitement, but fear, a
crawling
bititing
bi uneasiness
ng ants. B
Be spreading
efore sshe
he sa theacross
saiid the words,my
words, skin
I kne
knew like an
w what shearmy
wasof
was
about to tell him. I sat on the other side of the door in silence
whille she passe
whi passedd se
sente
ntence
nce on me, unaware
unaware I existe
xisted,
d, ignorant
of the fact I was listening. She was oblivious to my fate,
uncaring about the finality with which she pushed me into the
cruellest of situations.
I f he
herr decla
declaration
ration ha
hadd pl
pla
aced
ced a noose around my my neck,
neck, hi
hiss
reaction pulled the lever to open the trap door beneath my feet.
He listened to her explain her decision and why she had
61
reached it. Following a moment of silence, he made me drop
into the void, completing my execution.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘If it’s your wish, it’s how it shall
be.’
She didn’t know what her decision meant for me, but he
did. He knew and still agreed. My anger was building faster
than
tha nmmy
y ffe
ear for the future.
uture. Maybe I shoushoulld ham
hammer on the
door, scream out about my existence, assert my rights as his
first born. However, I knew such actions would only accelerate
my displacement from the world in which I existed.
An exci
excite
ted
d conversati
conversation
on on th the
e othe
otherr si
side
de of the door
interr
nterrupte
upteddmmyy thoughts
thoughts.. Taking
Taking cacarre to be qqui
uieet, I turne
turned
d and
and
pee
pe ered through the kekeyhol
yhole e. A
Auré
uréllie was
was hugg
huggiing somsomeeone
one,,
another woman, their embrace underlining a deep friendship. I
heard my father speak, his greeting rich with warmth and
friendliness.
‘Hello Elodie; how are you? Aurélie tells me you have
agreed to be her maid of honour.’
Brea
reaki
king
ng free fro
rom
m the embrace wiwithth Auré
uréllie, th
the
e wom
woma
an
turned to gre
greet m
my y fa
fathe
ther,
r, and as
as she di
did,
d, I saw he
herr face.
I knew her.
She was Sebastian Roche’s fuck -piece.

62
 Chapter 10: Aurélie Dup
Dupont
ont
The
The shop was busy all morning, so I didn’t have time to speak
to Papa
Papa.. Af
Afte
opportunity,terIrtold
lun
l unch
ch,, the
him thIewanted
re wa
wass atolull
ulshare
l in tra
trade
de.. Se
Seiiof
control zing
zing
theth
the
e
shop
with Sebastian. I didn’t mention I’d argued with Sebastian
about the business, nor about Gaston’
Gaston’ss disparaging remarks,
beca
because
use I kne
knew
w iitt would
would upse
upsett hi
him
m.
Althou
though
gh I was
was su
sure
re we woul
wouldd patch
patch th
thiing
ngss up
up,, I ha
had
d no
no
intention of telling Sebastian my decision until we’d discussed
his attitude. I hoped his outburst had been a case of
exagge
xaggerrateted
d bravad
bravado
o iin
n front
front of hi
hiss fa
father,
ther, but I ha
had
d to be sure
sure..
Papa accepted my decision without argument, which
surprised me. When he’d first raised the matter
matter,, he was
adamant I should keep full control.
Before we could talk any further, Elodie popped into the
shop. After Sebastian proposed, she was the first person I’d
told, and she’d agreed at once when I asked her to be my maid-
of-honour. We’d been close friends since school, and she was
the only choice for the role. I couldn’t imagine getting married
without her at my side.
She asked me to come to the café to discuss my hen
party, but
butt I refus
bu ref eId.
use explained
I wantedI to
wanted was still
ffiinishworking.
nish ta king toPapa
tallking him atold
him boume
boutt theto go,
business, so arranged to meet her after the shop closed.
Gaston had mentioned the recipes and formulations
during his rant, but Papa hadn’t spoken about them to me. Fo r
years, his charcuterie products had been unremarkable, but in
recent times they’d changed, and as a result the demand had
rocketed.
I had no idea how he’d developed the new products, and
although
though I was afrai
raid
d to as
ask,
k, we n
ne
eede
ded
d to ha
have
ve th
the
e di
discuss
scussiion.
63
Papa had been defensive in the past when customers asked,
reacting to queries as if being attacked. Rather than enjoying
the flattery and praise, the questions irritated him, often leaving
him distant and withdrawn.
Wary of his potential reaction, it was a relief when a
customer came in, allowing me to delay the conversation. A
few tim
times duri
during
ng th
the
e afternoon
ternoon I cam
came clclose
ose to as
aski
king,
ng, but e
ea
ach
time I lost my nerve. When the shop was closed and we were
cleaning down, I put my reluctance to one side.
‘Papa, when Sebastian and I are running the business,
we’ll need recipes and formulations for the charcuterie
products. Neither of us would know where to start, and you
already have an entire range of fantastic products.’
For a moment he froze, his focus locked onto the wooden
block he was
concerned, notscrubbing. Heanxious,
stressed or looked trapped; not confused or
but trapped.
‘Do you have a book of recipes?’ I asked, hoping by
simplifying the question he’d give me an answer. His eyes
flicked around the shop, looking at everything but me. He had
an air of someone caught out; not in an act of dishonesty, but
instead ashamed at the situation which enveloped him. I didn’t
like the fact I’d made him uncomfortable, but the question
needed
needed a
an
n answ
answer.
er.
‘Well
‘Well Papa?’
I didn’t want to push, but he would have stood there all
night if I didn’t.
‘Have you written down your recipes over the years?’
‘The preparation of charcuterie is instinctive,’ he
muttered, still refusing to make eye contact with me. ‘There are
basic principles for salting, seasoning, smoking and air drying,
but be
beyond
yond those
those you must
must do
do what
what ffe
eels ri
right.
ght. A llow the
ingredients to guide you; it’s often the best path. You must
learn the ratios of saltpetre, nitrates, nitrites and salts, and
always adhere to these, but the rest is the art of the charcutier.
64
The
The additio
ition
n of herbs, spice
ices, fa
fatt and aromatic
icss are added
based upon intuition.
intuition. Y
You
ou will learn in time
time.’
.’
His answer was vague, his tone dismissive, and he went
back to scrubbing the block behind the butchery counter. He
saiid nothi
sa nothing
ng else
se;; it was
was cl
cle
ear the conversa
conversatition
on had
had e
ende
nded.d. I
knew I would not get any more from him, despite the fact he
hadn’t given me anything of substance.
The
Th e shop had teetered on the brin ink
k of fina
financial
ial in
insstabilit
ility
y
for many y yeears. It ha
hadd bee
been a struggl
struggle
e to bal
bala ance the book
books,s, and
the business only became sustainable in the past year when the
charcuterie offering changed. Without recipes and
formulations, keeping the shop profitable would be a struggle,
and any period of change could result in losses which might
risk our long-term success. The subject would have to be
revisited at another
I couldn’t time.Papa would hand over the business but
believe
reffuse
re use to gi
give
ve me hi
hiss rec
reciipes.
pes. Was
Was I allowi
owing
ng p
pa
aran
ranoi
oiaa to cree
creep
p
into my thinking, my doubts fuelled by Gaston’s
Gaston’s claims? Papa
wasn’t small-minded; when the time was right, he'd share the
recipes with me, or at least teach me how to make the products.

Elodie was waiting in the café when I arrived, a glass of wine

on the expression
glazed table. I ordered a coffee;
and relaxed it was
smile toome
gave early
thefor alcohol. Her
impression
she’d been drinking all afternoon, but she was still capable of
carrying out a sensible conversation.
The
Th e topic to be dis
isccussed, she decla
larred, was my hen
party. Until then, I hadn’t thought about it. The future of the
shop had been my prime concern, along with trying to
understand Sebastian’s attitude. I told Elodie whatever she
arranged would be fine.
Pulling a scrap of paper from her jacket pocket, she read
65
the planned itinerary.
‘I thought we could start off at the Café des Illusions for
cocktails. I know it can be expensive, but it is your hen party
and it’ll be ni
nice
ce to start
start some
somewhere
where cl
claassy
ssy.. A
Affte
terw
rwa
ards I thoug
thought
ht
we could go to Renard’s for dinner, before heading to L a
Maison Starlight to dance until they throw us into the street.
What do you think?’
‘I don’t want to be out too late—’
‘Aurélie, please, don’t be such a killjoy! It’s your last
night out with the girls as a single woman, so of course we’ll
be up late. In fact, we shouldn’t even consider going home until
the sun is high in the sky.’
‘But Elodie—’
‘But Elodie nothing,’ she giggled before draining her

glass. ‘Not
‘Nowfor
I’m going
me,’ to order two vodka and tonics.’
I said.
‘Yes for you, especially for you, and then you can tell me
how the wedding plans are progressing.’
As we si sipp
ppeed our drinks,
drinks, I struggl
struggle
ed to mmaake g
ge
ene
neral
ral
conversa
conversatition;
on; Elodi
odie
e spotte
spotted
dmmy ymmood.
ood. A
Affter
ter asking
sking wha
whatt was
bothering me several
several times, she said unless I told her
her,, we’d
have to sit there all night until the bar ran out of vodka.
‘When Sebastian and I are married, Papa has said he’ll
give the business to me.’
She raised her glass in a celebratory manner.
‘Let’s drink to that: little Aurélie, a businesswoman. It’s
wonderful news, so why are you glum?’
‘Papa suggested I manage the business; me, on my own,
without Sebastian. We’d work together, but the shop would be
mine. When I told Sebastian, he didn’t react well. He thought
he should be in charge and I’d work for him.’
‘That’s men for you,’ Elodie said in a dismissive way. ‘It
dented his ego, the thought of working for his wife. Men will
tell you they’re strong, physically and mentally, but inside

66
they’re all like little babies.’
‘Maybe, but he said working for me meant he was a slave
with no rights, having to seek my permission for everything he
did. However, he was okay for the business to be in his name,
meaning I would be the slave, seeking his permission with no
rights. I tried to make my point, but he only grew angrier. Why
is it okay for him to be in charge but not me?’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it. Really, it’s just his wounded
pride. He loves you, you lucky thing. He wants to take care of
you and support you. I wish someone
s omeone would do that for me.’
‘But he mustn’t think a lot of me if he won’t accept me
running the business.’
‘I doubt it’s
it’s the case. For men, business is a cock
measuring contest: mine is bigger than yours. He wants to be
the
ableman running
to stand the business,
shoulder providing
to shoulder with hisfor his wife
father andand being
brothers,
not to mention the other men in town. Imagine how his family
would mock him for being kept by his wife.’
‘Okay, it’s a fair point, but even so I expected him to take
my side instead of playing up to Gaston.’
Elodie sighed and looked at me as if I was an idiot.
‘You told him this in front of Gaston?’ she asked,
incredulous at my stupidity.
‘Gaston was in the shop and he overheard us.’
‘What do you expect, Aurélie? Gaston is a bastard and
would make his life a misery if he’d given in to you. Poor
Sebastian was probably more concerned with saving face in
front of his father than putting you in your place. Talk to him
when he’s on his own and I’m sure his attitude will have
changed.’
Everythi
verything
ng she said
said made
made sense
sense.. I was on e
edge
dge beca
because
use
of the stress of the wedding and the future arrangements for the
business. I hadn’t
hadn’t considered Seba
Sebastian’
stian’ss need to save face iin
n
front of his father. Draining my glass, I got up to go, and as I
67
did Elodie said something strange, something which made the
hair on the back of my neck bristle.
‘The shop isn’t important anyway,’ she said. ‘The real
value lies in the recipes.’

68
 Chapter 11: Jacques Dupont
After Aurélie left to meet Elodie, I scribbled a note instructing
Gisèle to write
telling her down
it was the recipes
necessary and formulations
to ensure continuity ofshe used,I put
quality.
it on top of the empty trays and pushed the trolley into the
cutting room. It would have been better to talk to her, but I
didn’t have the stomach for such a conversation.
I locked the connecting door and was about to leave, but
beffore I coul
be could
dgge
et out of the shop,
shop, Ga
Gaston darted
darted in lliike a rat
rat..
‘Jacques, we need to talk,’ he said, out of breath and
agitated. ‘I suppose she has told you what I said.’
‘You suppose who has told me what?’ I replied, putting
the key into the lock of the front door. I was determined to not
allow him to delay me.
‘Aurélie,’ he said, surprised I’d even asked what he was
blathering about.
about. ‘Has she told you w what
hat I said? She must ha
have
ve
done
done.. L isten
sten Ja
J acq
cque
ues,
s, I would
would sa
say not
nothi
hing
ng be
behi
hind
nd your ba
back
ck I
wouldn’t say to your face.’
I manoeuvred him out and pulling the door closed behind
me, turned the key. If he wanted to talk, he would have to do it
in the street.
‘I don’t
be honest, know
I don’t
don’ whatI replied,
t care,’ you’re talking
pushingabout
th Gaston,
thee keys my to
intoand
pocket. ‘I’m tired and don’t wwant
ant to play gam
gameses with you.
Either say what you need to say or let me go home.’
He moved close to me, too close, his breath reeking of
brandy and cigarettes.
‘Sebastian and Aurélie had words about the future,’ he
hissed. ‘Your selfish attitude was the catalyst for their
disagreement.’
‘Again, Gaston, I don’t know what you’re talking about,

69
nor do I care. Now, please excuse me as I must get home.’
‘Come to my shop,’ he suggested. ‘We can talk this out.’
I shook my head. I had no wish to spend any time in his
compa
com pany
ny,, not si
since
nce discove
discoveri
ring
ngAurél
uréliie wan
wante
ted
d Seba
Sebasti
stia
an to be
on an equal footing with her in the business.
‘Okay Jacques, join me for a drink at the café. I’m
paying.’
I agreed, somewhat reluctantly, concerned if he did not
have his way he might show up at my house later. Seated at a
small table, balloons of cognac before us, he enlightened me
about what he’d said.
‘Aurélie and Sebastian were discussing the shop, your
shop, and who woul
shop, wouldd run it
it once they
they were we
wed.
d. A
Auré
uréllie ha
had
d
the strange notion she would be in charge. Sebastian disagreed,
as he rightly
suggested should,
such and she claimed it was you who’d
an arrangement.’
I took a sip of my drink and said, ‘I did suggest it. It is
my shop, and she is m
myy daughte
daughter.
r. I f you passe
passed d on your
busi
busine
ness
ss to Seba
Sebasti
stia
an, woul
wouldd you be
be ha
happ
ppyy iiff A
Auré
uréllie took over
the management role?’
‘Jacques, I’ll say to you now what I said to her. You are
mean-spirited. I am sure she’s told you I said that, but I want to
explain why I said it. If you handed over the business today,
Sebastian would be able to get stuck in and learn the trade
faster. If younow,
charcuterie gavesohim your
when recipes,
they he could
are married perfect
they the art of
can start
strongly. They can make a success of the shop.’
‘The shop is already a success, Gaston. That’
That’ss why you
and your son are so eager to snatch it away from Aurélie
Aurélie.’
.’
He wanted to respond, the flush of anger clear on his
face, but then he bit his tongue. There had to be truth in what
I’d said.
As I watch
watche ed hi
him swa
swalllow back
back the wor
wordsds he
he want
wanteed to
spit at me, I realised the best result for Aurélie, and for me,
70
would be if the wedding didn’t go ahead. I couldn’t forbid her
to marry; she’d not take notice of such a demand. My only
hope was if fate played a role in derailing the marriage. If
Sebastian became ill, had an accident, or suffered a setback
which altered the situation, maybe the whole sorry affair could
be forgotten.
Would I be able to engineer such an outcome? Was I
brave enough, resourceful enough, to create a danger into
which Sebastian would blunder? It would be better if Sebastian
wass the engi
wa ngine
neeer of hi
hiss own dem
demise.
se. A
Alll I ne
nee
ede
ded
d to do was
was
give him enough rope.
‘Gaston, thank you for the drink,’ I said before draining
my glass. ‘I must be going, but before I do, let me say one
thing:
thing: maybe
maybe you are right. M
Maaybe I am mean-spirited.’
I stood andwas
the conversation put on my coat. He waited, unsure of where
going.
‘I’ll tell what I’ll do,’ I said. ‘Send Sebastian to see me on
the first of next month and I’ll start his training. As you are
keen to see him learning the ropes, you’ll pay his wages until
he ca
cann contribute
contribute to the busi
busine
ness
ss in
in a producti
productive ve way
way.. I f the
arrangement is not satisfactory for either your good self or your
son, I ca
can
n only
only acce
accept
pt the boy has
has no inte
interes
restt iin
n runni
running
ng my
business and I’ll delay
delay my retirement. I ca
can’t
n’t be faire
fairerr in this
matter.’
With that, I turned and left.

I sat at home, sipping a glass of calvados and trying to think of

ways in which the planned wedding could be aborted. Every
idea soon became over-complicated and difficult to manage,
except
xcept on
one
e. I f I coul
could
d iini
nititia
ate the dem
demise of Seba
Sebasti
stia
an R
Roche
oche,,
the sol
soluti
ution
on would
would be si sim
mple ple. A
Auré
uréllie migh
ghtt not th
tha
ank me
me, not
straight away, but in time she would find someone more fitting
71
to marry. There was no need for her to know his downfall had
involved me.
I f Seba
Sebasti
stia
an di
die
ed, there
there wou
woulld be no we
wedd
ddiing
ng.. It was the
perfect outcome,
outcome, but it wouldn’
wouldn’tt be easy to achieve.
achieve.
Discre
scredi
dititing
ng hhiim was
was aanoth
nothe
er opti
option.
on. If
I f sh
sha
ame a
and
nd sca
scanda
ndal
were
we re to de
desce
scendnd on the Roche family, m ma aybeAurél
uréliie woul
would d
think twice about the union.
The
Th e more I mused, and the more calv lva
ados I d
drrank, the
more I realised the best outcome for everyone would be
Sebastian’s death. The riddle was how to engineer his demise
and ensure people thought it an accident. Butchery presented
many ririsks.
sks. IIff Seba
Sebasti
stia
an suf
suffered a se
seri
rious
ous cut whil
whilst aallone,
one, he
could bleed out in next to no time. When he panicked, as he
inevitably would, his heart rate would spike, draining his body
faster. Given thewas
exsanguination potential for injury and his inexperience,
an option.
The
Th e ris
isk
ks would be in inccreased if Sebastian
ian was
intoxicated. If I spiked his coffee with alcohol or laudanum, he
would be more likely to have an accident. The odds of him
cutting himself and being unable to deal with the injury would
increa
ncrease.
se. A
Affte
terr his
his de
dea
ath, w
whe
henn it
it was discovere
discovered
d he ha
had
d high
high
levels of alcohol or opiates in his blood, I could nod towards
his father and mention how the apple doesn’t fall far from the
tree.
Even if he didn’t die, would the shame of his addictions
be enough
nough to drive
dri ve a we
wedge
dge be
betwee
tween
n hi
him
m and Aurél
uréliie? W
Wha
hatt if
if
she decided to stand by him, to support him through
rehabilitation? It might even make their bond stronger. I didn’t
want to kill him, but I couldn’t see another way.
In the grand scheme of things, the death of Sebastian
Roche would be best for all concerned.

72
 Chapter 12: Gisèle Dupont
I struggled to consider the situation without my rage
overflowing
Sebastian were likemarried,
a volcano ofwould
they spite. take
Onceover
Aurélie
and and
manage the
shop. My father would retire, leaving me with nothing. I would
have to find another place to live. I deserved more; he owed me
much more.
It was clear my father had no intention of considering my
well-being. He saw me as little more than a servant, bereft of
digni
dignity,
ty, treate
treatedd without
without a shred
shred of humanity.
nity. I woul
wouldd be
be ca
cast
st
aside to suit the whims and fancies of his other daughter and
her unfaithful fuckwit of a spouse.
My father had left a note asking me to write down my
formulations. He said it was to preserve quality, as if he knew
anything about quality, but now I understood why he’d made
his reque
his request.
st. Withou
Wi thoutt re
reci
cipe
pess or gu
guiidance
dance,, Auré
A uréllie and
and Se
Seba
basti
stia
an
couldn’t recreate the products which were so popular with the
townsfolk. The customers didn’t queue down the road for pig
meat; it was the charcuterie that made the shop profitable.
My father couldn’t make the products, nor could Aurélie.
As for
for S
Se
eba
basti
stia
an, he wa
wass a cl
clue
uelless re
reta
tard
rd ridi
ri ding
ng on the coa
coat-
t-
tails of hisher
betrayed soon-to-
beforebe wife,even
they’d the woman
woman he
reached theloved
altar.so muc
much
Even h Ihe’d
if
committed my recipes to the page, they’d shit in their pants
before they’d have the stomach for harvesting the ingredients.
I wasn’t looking for special treatment or favours. I
understood my father would never see me as his daughter, at
least not one he would acknowledge. Even when my mother
was alive, he cared not a jot for either of us. His feelings were
unlikely to change. All I wanted was somewhere to work, to
create charcuterie of the finest quality, and a place to sleep. I
73
didn’t care if I was away from the world. That didn’t matter.
All I wanted was somewhere I belonged.
Aurélie knew nothing of my existence and was unlikely
to find out. He’d make sure of that. He’d
H e’d sent me away when I
was a child, alone and vulnerable and grieving the passing of
my mother. This other daughter wouldn’t be aware of the pain
I’d suffered or of the loss still blackenin
blackening
g my heart. He
He’d
’d send
me away again, for good, rather than allow the two parts of his
life to ccoll
olliide.
Hating him, hating her, and hating her betrothed was
pointless. Unless I took matters into my own hands, the
outcome would be the same: I’d be sent away from everything
I knew. I’d become a husk of a woman, blown on a breeze of
solitude and misery, a nothing drifting in a void of darkness.

weddiiTh
wedd The
ng;ernot
ng; e wdaesla
de oynly
oropostpo
netpone
poschone
ice
iceitobut
penstop
sttop
o mit
iet.a
alIltoge
hadethe
tog to sr.toI pcoul
ther. thed
could
not allow it to happen.

I foll
ollowed
owed Se
Seba
bast
stiian R
Roch
oche
e. A
Affte
terr the fish
shm
monge
ongers
rs clos
close
ed ffor
or
the day, his father and two brothers would head off home,
laughing and chatting, an obvious camaraderie between them.
Sebastian was always left behind, cleaning down, scrubbing the
floors,
bins. washing out the display cabinets, emptying the guts
Once finished, he’d lock up and walk home alone. His
demeanour was sullen and miserable. He lacked the vibrancy
of the other members of his family. In the street, Gaston and
the Roche brothers would constantly greet friends and
neighbours as they passed by, but Sebastian moved in silent
solitude, alone, his face cast down to the ground.
He lived in the family house. It was a small terraced
cottage, the type of dwelling we’d lived in before my father
74
sent me away, before his new wife insisted on living
somewhere more befitting her elevated status.
A few hours after arriving home, Sebastian would
reappear and walk back into town. There were only a few
places he’d go if he didn’t mee
meett Aurélie: the ccafé
afé near the train
station or the bar by the market. He’d sit alone, nursing one
beer all evening. A few times he met with another man, tall
with auburn hair and a bushy beard. They reminded me of an
old married couple: they’d talk, but spent more time in silence,
looking past each other.
If he met Aurélie, they’d head for the jazz club or drift
between cafés and bars as they chatted with friends. In truth,
Aurélie chatted with her friends while Sebastian stood close by,
grinning like an idiot. Uncomfortable with the carefree
socialising,
them morehis body language
obvious. When themade theended,
evening difference between
he never walked
her home.
One evening, after leaving his house, he walked into
town. His going out might have been usual, but there was
something different, a touch more purpose in his stride, a focus
which
whi ch wa
wass of
ofte
ten
n lla
acki
cking
ng.. A
App
pproa
roach
chiing h
hiis regu
regullar bar,
bar, I kne
knew
w
he wasn’t going inside. He didn’t, walking past without so
much as
as a gl
glance through the wi
window
ndow.. At
A t the e
end
nd of the road h
he
e
crossed the junction, again not looking around, just staring
ahead,From
determined
there heastook
he paced
a streetforward.
leading to one of the more
salubrious parts of town. His journey was at odds with
everything I’d seen him do before. I was questioning his
motive until I remembered seeing him in this area before, on
the night I slaughtered the Moline woman.
Hesitating outside a small café, he looked around before
disappearing inside. I paused for a while in a nearby doorway,
concealed by shadows, before strolling past. As I glanced
through the window, I spotted him seated at a small side table.
75
Opposite him was Elodie, Aurélie’s maid of honour. Under the
table they held hands, fingers entwined as they spoke and
smiled at each other like simpering lovers.
Concealed by the darkness, I waited.
The
Th e evenin
ingg ended, people driftin
ifting
g away, and Elo
Eloddie and
Seba
Seb astia
stian wer
were th
the
e on
onlly rema
remainining
ng customers. Af
A fter
ter some
some titim
me,
Elodie left. Glancing around, she set off towards the small
secluded square opposite the Moline house. A few minutes
later, Sebastian emerged and followed her.
I kept my distance. I knew where they were going and by
the titim
me I reache
achedd the squa
squarre, the
they
ywweere in the bushe
bushes.
s. Duck
uckiing
into the garden of the Moline house, I waited. I could hear
moaning. They were fucking like animals, their lust
overflowing. Reaching into my pocket, I removed my knife
and slipped
The
Th e soitufrom
nds othe
f thenewspaper
ir passio
ion wrapping.
n fad
faded and they emerged.
Sebastian adjusted his trousers while Elodie cleaned herself off.
A snatched kiss signalled they were parting. I prepared myself,
ready to follow Sebastian, but he started to jog before breaking
into a sprint, heading towards his home. There was no way I’d
be able to catch him. I only had a few seconds to decide what
to do, so I followed her.
Away from the square, her pace slowed as she fished in
her handbag. Pausing under a streetlight, she checked her
make-up, retouching
liaison. Then she washer lips to turning
off again, removeinto
anyan
signs of the illicit
alleyway
between streets. Quickening my stride, I caught up with her.
‘Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I am sorry to interrupt you.’
Elodie turned and looked me up and down, her curiosity
turning to scorn as she took in my shabby attire, unkempt hair
and clumsy gait. Not only was she a slut, but she had an
arrogance which was unflattering. Confidence and self-belief
can be positive qualities, but she adopted them with a layer of
pomposity.
76
 ‘What do you want?’ she asked with disgust.
Her attitude would have offended me, were it not for the
fact I found h
he er a repugna
repugnant
nt e
enti
ntity,
ty, an empty shel
shell of a hum
human
an
being.
‘May I ask, was that Sebastian Roche you were fucking
in the bushes like a dirty whore?’
I could
could se
see
e the questi
question
on had
had put he
herr on
on edge
edge..
‘Who the fuck are you?’ she snapped.
‘You needn’t worry about who I am. You should be more
concerned about your friend Aurélie. You’re
You’re hher
er maid of
honour, aren’t you?’
Elodie’s hard and confrontational attitude melted into
insecurity, her hands fidgeting as she spoke.
‘What is it you want?’

‘Well,’
declare I replied, ‘you
your nocturnal have
liaisons two
with choices. The
Sebastian first isso
to Aurélie you
she’s aware of his infidelity.’
‘And the second choice?’
‘It’s better you take the first option,’ I repl ied with a
smile, one which told her she couldn’t negotiate
negotiate..
From somewhere, Elodie summoned up a shred of
defiance.
‘Fuck you; if you try to stir things up, you’ll regret it. I
have many friends in this town, and they’ll come after you. Be
warned.
friend orWho do youillthink
a mentally Aurélie
vagrant? will fuck
Now, believe: her dearest
off while you still
can.’
With that, she turned to walk away, but I grabbed at her
hair, tugging it with force. Her head snapped back towards me,
herr mouth open,
he open, but be
beffor
ore
e she coul
couldd scr
scre
eam I ran the bl
bla
ade
around her throat. It severed the carotid arteries, jugular veins
and trachea in a single motion, a well-executed slaughtering
cut. Blood sprayed out, pulsing into the night air. She twitched
a few times before going into shock, then her body slumped
77
and stop
stoppe
pedd movi
moving
ng.. A
Ass I let go of her
her hai
hair, she fell to th
the
e
ground, her head hitting the pavement with a hollow smack
like an apple being dropped onto concrete. She was silent, save
for a single gurgle as her sliced windpipe bubbled, air escaping
through the spreading slick of blood.
If I’d managed to kill Sebastian, I would hav e ensured his
body wasn’t
wasn’t found. His disappeara
disappearance
nce would hav
havee served my
purpose, but this was
was differen
different.
t. I’d had to improvise, an
and
d now I
nee
neede
ded
d to ensure
ensure thi
thiss m
murder
urder wor
worked to achi
achieeve m
my
y goal
goal.. It
didn’t make sense to hide the corpse. If people knew Elodie
had been slaughtered, her death would impact on the planned
wedding. It would cause fear, panic, disruption; it might be a
catalyst which brought about the end of Sebastian’s
relationship with Aurélie.
As Ineat.
were too stoodCutting
over the
thebody,
throatI realised
to severmy
the mistake. Things
arteries, veins and
trachea in a single cut was a skill few people possessed. It was
the mark of someone well versed with slaughter, rather than the
actions of a frantic person driven to murder. The killing needed
to be messier, clumsier, the work of an unstable individual.
Slashing at her throat, I added numerous cuts, ensuring
the injuri
njuriees we
were
re ragge
ragged
daand
nd awk
wkward.
ward. Kne
K nee
eling b
beeside
side he
herr
corpse, I plunged the knife into her stomach, stabbing as if
angry and frustrated, over and over until her belly was a mess
of pulpy
cuts blood.
which
which reseSlashing
resemble defat
bled de the wounds.
fence palms of. Iher
wounds hands,
toye
toyed
d wi thI created
with the ide
dea
a of
removing her eyes but decided it might be a bridge too far. A
messy murder was one thing, but if the police believed a
deranged
deranged serial killer was on the loose, they’d deploy more
resources in the hunt.
As a final touch, I took her handbag, watch and rings.
Satisfied her death appeared to result from a frantic attack,
maybe a robbe
obberry gone wrwrong,
ong, I he
hea
ade
ded
d back
back to tthe
he shop.

78
 Chapter 13: Aurélie Dup
Dupont
ont
The
The morning
ing had been busy, so I wa
was ple
lea
ased to get home fo
forr a
sand
sandwi
wich
chtoa
returned and
nd
thetoshop,
put
put m
myy fe
twofemen
et upwere
for awaiting.
whi
while. A
Af fte
terr lun
Dressedl unch,
ch, whe
whennI
in suits,
they bore an officious air; I knew straight away they weren’t
custome
custom ers. Pap
Papa a look
ookeed a
anxi
nxious,
ous, and as I wal
walk
ked iin n he ga
gave
ve me
a supportive smile.
‘Aurélie, these men are from the police. They want to
speak to you.’
The men int
The introduced themselvelves. One was clea
learly the
superior and did the talking while the other made notes in a
dogeared little book.
‘Mademoiselle Dupont, do you know a lady by the name
of Elodie Lloris?’
‘Yes Monsieur, Elodie and I are friends, close friends.
Why do you ask? Has something happened?’
The
The polic
lice
eman ign
ignored my question
ion, which
ich concerned
me.
‘Can you tell me when you last saw her?’
‘It was yesterday or ... no, it was the day before. Usually
I see
see her
her every da
day,
y, but ye
yeste
sterrday
day she was busy
busy wi
with
th
something.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Yes, she did. We talked the other night, after work; she
sometimes helps her Aunt
Aunt who has a small dressmaker
dressmaker’’s shop.
It’s up the street on the other side of the road, close to the
bakery.’
bakery .’
‘I’m aware of her Aunt’s shop and its location,’ he said,
his tone cautioning me against any digression from answering
his questions. ‘I’m more interested in when you saw her and
what she said.’

79
 The
The polic
lice
eman was straig
igh
ht to the poin
intt, and the way he
directed the conversation made me uneasy. I didn’t want to say
something which might land Elodie in trouble, although I
couldn’t believe she’d have done anything of interest to the
police.
‘We finish work at around the same time. I was on my
way home
home whe
whenn I sa
saw
w her
her.. I ask
ske
ed iiff she wante
wanted
d to co
com
me
around the next evening – that would have been yesterday - to
look at wedding magazines ... I’m getting married and she’s my
maid of honour ... and she said she was meeting someone. Then
she made a face, a fake grimace as if she were in pain. She
clearly thought whoever she was meeting was a bore.’
The
Th e two police
licemen loo
looked at each other, and then back at
me.
‘Whodidn’t
‘She was she meeting?’ the senior officer asked.
say.’
‘And you didn’t ask?’
I thought for a moment. I hadn’t asked because … why
woul
wouldd I have asked? WWhat
hat mad
madee themthink I’d have
questioned her about who she was seeing?
‘No; why would I ask?’
‘Well, you’re clearly good friends, so maybe you knew
whoever she was meeting.’
‘I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say, Monsieur.’
The
Theand
notebook sile
ilen
nshowed
t one ofitthtoe the
twoother
scribb
ibbpoliceman
le
led
d somethwho
ing
ing in the
asked,
‘Was she meeting her boyfriend?’
‘Oh no, Monsieur. Elodie doesn’t have a boyfriend.’
Agai
gain, the two pol
poliicem
cemen e
excha
xchange
nged
d gl
gla
ance
nces.
s.
‘Are you sure?’ asked the one with the notebook.
‘Quite sure. When Sebastian proposed, Elodie told me
how much she wanted to be a bride but couldn’t find anyone
who was interested in her. I think most of the local boys feel
intimidated by her independence. Now, please, can you tell me
80
what this is about.’
The two again lo
The loo
oked at each other, and the one with
ith
notebook shrugged.
‘I am sorry to have to tell you, Mademoiselle Dupont,
thatt E
tha Ellodie
odie L lori
oriss is
is dea
dead. We be
bellieve sshe
he was murder
urdered a
and
nd
our prime suspect, at this moment, is her boyfriend or lover
lover.’
.’
The
The shock was pulsin
lsing
g through me, a tin
ing
glin
ling
g sensation
ion
that made me feel as if I was about to fall. Elodie couldn’t be
dead. It made little sense.
‘Once more, Mademoiselle Dupont, was Elodie Lloris
meeting her boyfriend?’
‘She had no boyfriend,’ I muttered. ‘Trust me; if she had,
she would have told me. We talked about everything; we had
no secrets.’

‘Well,
attacked andthe lineby
killed ofher
enquiry we’re
boyfriend orfollowing
lover.’ is she was
I gripped the counter, all strength draining from my body,
a wa
wave
ve of na
nause
useaa flooding
ooding through my stoma
stomach as
as I tri
trieed to
comprehend the situation.
‘Whoever killed her,’ I said, my voice trembling, ‘you
must catch them, but you’ll be wasting your time looking for a
boyfriend. Anyone will tell y
you
ou that.’
The quie
The ietter of the polic
lice
emen clo
lossed his notebook and as
he pushed it into his jacket pocket, he said something which
made‘People
no sense.
sense.can tell us she had no boyfriend or lover
lover,, but the
pathologist’s report tells us something else. It is a fact
Madedem
moise
oisellle L loris
oris had
had sex
sex wi
with
th a man not
not long
long be
beffore sshe
he
died, and the act was - as far as we can tell - consensual. My
guess is when we find the individual who she had sex with, we
will have found her killer.’

81
Gaston and Sebastian’s brothers had left the shop and headed
home, so I knew Sebastian was alone. When he saw I’d been
crying, my eyes red and swollen, my nose running, he seemed
irritated more than concerned. He didn’t comfort me, instead
throwing annoyed glances in my direction as he poured
crushed ice into the trays of fish. I felt alone despite being with
the man I wante
wantedd to m
marr
arry.
y.
Once he’d loaded the fish into the fridges, he washed
down the work surfaces. It was only when I went to the back
door to leave that he spoke.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he snapped. ‘Are you upset
because your future husband won
won’t
’t cower be
before
fore you and beg
for work, because I won’t plead for permission to serve as your
errand boy, fetching and carrying while you lord it over me?

cAare
n’tyou blubb
blubbe
think eri
ring
ng be
of anotherbecau
cause
wayse
toyou and
and your
humiliate me,pi
pig-
g-he
to hea
aded
rub de
myd nose
ffa
athe
therrin
the dirt? Save your tears because I can see through you.’
‘It has nothing to do with you or the shop,’ I said. My
voice sounded odd, whimpering, as I tried to hold back another
wave of grief.
‘Have you heard what he said to my father.’ Sebastian
asked, pointing at me with a scrubbing brush. ‘He said I should
work for him as a trainee, but until I can contribute to the
business, he won’t pay me. A trainee; can you believe his
arrogance?’
I didn’t want to talk about the shop. Every time we
discussed it, the conversation descended into an argument. I
understood Sebastian’s
Sebastian’s frustration, but he refused to consider
Papa’s point of view. Sebastian felt humiliated, as Elodie had
said, but … Elodie. The tears cascade
cascadedd down my chee
cheekks a
ass I
sobbed again.
‘For fuck’s sake, Aurélie, stop crying. Anyone would
think it was you being shamed. He thinks I should be his
apprentice? Who does he think he is?’
82
 Wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I muttered, ‘You will need
to learn butchery; it’s
it’s not simple and—’
‘It’ss nonsense and you know it. The shop has no future.
‘It’
Why would I want to get up at the crack of dawn and chop
meat to scrape together a few Francs? The future lies in the
reci
cipe
pes.
s. I f he ha
hande
nded
d them
them over, we coul
could
dmma
ake pl
plaans to m
move
ove
forward. But he won’t hand them over because he’s too pig -
headed ... and you; you’re only ever thinking of yourself.’
‘Sebastian, please shut up. This has nothing to d o with
the shop, or with you. I’ve had news, terrible news.’
He stopped scrubbing the cutting boards and stood
staring at me. There was still no sign of compassion, no move
to comfort me.
‘Are you sick, Aurélie?
Aurélie?’’

I struggled
the words to hold
out before back of
a deluge another flood ofthem
grief washed tears,away.
forcing
‘It’s not me, it’s … Elodie.’
He threw the brush onto the work surface and came over
to me, his arms wrapping around my shoulders as he drew me
close.
‘What is it?’ he asked, a slight tremor in his voice. ‘What
has Elodie said?’
I could feel myself shaking, and so could he.
‘Aurélie, please, tell me what she has said.’
‘Nothing. She has said nothing. She’s dead.’
His grip on me loosened, and he stepped back, a look of
shock on his face.
‘What? No; it’s not true.’
‘Sebastian, it’s true. Today the police came to the shop,
asking when I had last seen her. They told me she’d been
murdered. They asked if she had a lover. I told them she didn’t,
but they seem to think she was seeing someone.’
someone.’
The colour drained from Sebastian’s face as he listened.
‘Why do they care … if she had a lover?’ he asked. ‘Does

83
it matter?’
‘I don’t know. They said she’d had sex with someone
before she was
was killed.’
‘Do they think someone raped her?’ he asked, a hint of
shock in his voice.
‘I don’t think so. The police believe it was consensual,
but they said if they
they find who she ha
hadd sex with, they’ll have
found her killer.’
Sebastian seemed to buckle, his legs shaking, then he
turned away from me and vomited on the floor.

84
 Chapter 14: Gisèle Dupont
Sebastian Roche had gone to ground. The death of his fuck-
piece
reve
revea aleElodie, combined
d to Auré
uréllie, had with
had the
scared
scared hirisksh
him
m shihis
tleinfidelity
itle ss. H mmight
Hiis murde bes
urderr was
wa
still my primary goal, so I needed him to return to his routine.
He’d only do that once he felt less vulnerable. To flush the
cheating bastard out, I had to shift the spotlight away from his
indiscretions. Another killing, one which had nothing to do
with him, was called for. It would also be useful to further
disrupt the wedding.
It was vital the police would not link the next death with
the slsla
augh
ughte
terr of the maid of honou
honour.
r. I f the
theyy suspecte
suspectedd the
attacks were the work of a serial killer, they’d draft in extra
men and resources from Paris, making my task more difficult.
It would be best if the local force blundered through each case
without realising there was a connection.
Aurél
urélie and Seba
Sebasti
stia
an we
were
re a
allrea
ready
dy fri
frigh
ghte
tene
ned,
d, so I
needed to pick a victim who would serve to intensify the ripple
of fear. Whoe
Whoever
ver I se
sellecte
cted
dhha
ad to b
bee linke
nkedd to the
the we
weddi
dding,
ng, but
not directly associated with Sebastian Roche. It was also
critical they didn’t have a connection to Elodie Lloris. It didn’t

take longtarget.
an ideal to comeSheuphad
withnothe answer:
family ties the wedding planner
or friendship with was
anyone in the Dupont or Roche families. However, her death
would impact on them all.
Tw
T wo murders in a small town like like Sain
intte-Ma
-Marrie-s
ie-su
ur-
Ariège would be unusual. Even the dimwits in the local police
station would question if there was a connection, so I decided
to make the wedding planner’s untimely end appear to be
suicide. Some might think it a sad coincidence the wedding
preparations had been marred by two deaths, but few would be
85
suspicious if a stranger engaged to organise the event took her
own life.
The
Th e kill needed to be cle
lea
an, with
ithout sign
igns of a struggle or
any reason to suspect the woman had not been alone. Selecting
the right suicide method would be critical to the success of my
plan. I considered slashing her wrists and letting her bleed out,
butt the proce
bu process
ss wou
woulld be too slow
slow.. A
Allso, any
any doctor or
pathologist worth their salt would know few people die from
such attempts; cutting wrists is usually an attention-seeking
ploy.
Following Elodie’s murder, a suicide which did not
involve a blade would create a greater degree of separation
betwee
be tweenn the two dea
deaths. A
Anythi
nything
ng unu
unusua
suall might push ththe
e
police into an investigation, so I opted for a tried and tested
favourite of those
Hanging wasseeking to end
a common theirmethod,
suicide lives: hanging.
although rarely
done in the right way. Calculating the rope length and drop
required to break the neck is a skill in itself. Despite this, I
needed to ensure the woman’s death had all the hallmarks of a
bodged attempt. Most hanging victims die of asphyxiation, a
protracted death which usually indicates the victim was alone.
The
Th ey step off the chair,
ir, the noose tig
igh
htens, and as regret fills
their heart, they can’t free themselves. They are slowly
strangled, turning purple while filled with self-loathing.

Mada Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège
dam
m eArnette
rnette,, so she was e only
ea had
asy enough
enoughonetowedding
ffiind. Sheplanner,
She wor
work ked
from her home, which meant we would be undisturbed. I
watched her for a few days to familiarise myself with her
routine. The woman was slight and dainty, almost fragile.
Physically she would be no problem for me.
I obtained a pig carcass of roughly the same weight as the
woman and used a length of electrical cord to suspend it from
its neck.
neck. A
Affte
terr esta
stabl
bliishi
shing th
the
e cord wa
wass strong enou
enough
gh,, I ha
had
d to
make certain I could strangle her with it too. I wrapped the flex
86
around the pig’s neck and jerked it with force to be sure it
wouldn’t snap.
As I hung the pig back in the walk-in fridge, I noticed
something: there were two separate marks on its neck from the
flex. The indentation caused by strangulation was lower, while
the mark from the hanging was higher, under the jaw and
trave
travellling upwa
upwards
rds be
behi
hind
nd tthe
he he
heaad. IIff a pa
pathol
thologi
ogist
st ffoun
oundd two
separate injuries, it would be obvious the cause of death wasn’t
suicide. When I strangled her, I’d need to d o it by pulling the
flex upwards. Balancing the pig carcass on a chair, I practiced
until there was only one indentation.
With
Wi th m
my
y pla
plan fi
fina
nallise
sed,
d, I tel
teleph
phone
oned d Ma
Mada
dam
meA rne rnette
tte
and aarr
rra
ange
ngeddaan
naappoi
ppointm
ntme ent. I tol
toldd her
her I wa
wass M
Maargaux
rgaux Pa Parran,
due to marry in six months’ time. She agreed to see me.

Mada
dam
meArnette showed me into the ha
halllway
way,, he
herr face weari
wearing
ng
a broad smile as if she had known me for years. She didn’t
hesitate for a moment, as most do, when she saw my physical
appearance.
‘You
‘Y mus t be Margaux,’ she said with genuine warmth.
ou must
‘Come in, please, follow me.’
Afte
terr sea
seatiting
ng me in h
he
er lliiving
ving ro
room
om,, she di
disa
sappe
ppea
ared to
make
Abovecoffee.
the fireHer
pla house
place hungwas
hung a blplain;
bla
ack andclean
whiand
white tidy but
te photog
photograp dull.
raph
h of a
couple on their wedding day, her parents I guessed.
When she returned we sat side by side on the sofa and
she asked about
about tthe
he weddi
wedding:
ng: ha
had
d a date
date be
bee
en se
set,
t, did
did I ha
hav
ve a
venue in mind, how many guests was I inviting? After I’d
answered her questions, she paused, and then spoke quietly but
with sincerity.
‘Margaux, if I might speak freely?’
I nodded
nodded a
and
nd sh
she
e conti
continue
nued.
d.
87
 ‘I have met many brides; I meet them every day. Usually
I nee
need not ask about the
theiir pl
pla
ans be
becau
cause
se they
they enthuse over
every detail. They gush with excitement about their ideas and
dreams. You, however, seem subdued, as if a sorrow is hanging
over you.’
I looked her in the eye, summoning up all the emotions I
had ever experienced to appear genuine.
‘You
‘Y ou are right, Mada
dam
me Arne
rnette
tte.. Y
You
ou can se
see
e into
into mmyy
soul. I should be happy, but alas a black cloud is smothering
me, a gl
gloom
oomy y shadow
shadow thre
threa
ate
teni
ning
ng to spoi
spoill my ffuture
uture.. I lack the
experience to deal with this blot which will impinge on my
special day.’
She reached out and took my hand, giving it a gentle and
reassuring squeeze.
‘Margaux,
if I understand please
what the call me Yvonne.
problem is.’ Maybe I can help you
I hesitated long enough to create the illusion of shyness,
then
then spoke, ensuri
ensuring
ng I sounded
sounded vul
vulne
nerrable
ble, maybe even
even di
dim
m-
witted.
‘There was another man, many years ago, who said he
loved me. His name was Martin. I was not in love with him,
but because of my ... ugliness, my scars and my awkwardness,
I believed I would find no one else to love me. Martin wasn’t a
good man. He drank and gambled and was spiteful to me,
some
som
the etitim
only mes vi
viol
personole
ewho
nt. I sta
stayed
yedlove
would wi
with
thme,
hi
him
mand
be
beca
cause
Iuse
toldI myself
be
bellieve
ved
d he wa
he wass
treated me the way he did because I was so ugly.’
I felt her hand tighten on mine, a comforting grip. The
silly bitch was lapping up the sob-story.
‘After some time, I learned he was not only bad to me.
He was arrested for fraud and sent to prison. He made me
promise I would wait for him and wait I did. When they
released him, it was only a matter of days before he got into
trouble again and ended up back in jail.
88
 ‘While he was serving his sentence, a man in my village,
Henri, helped me out, doing repairs on the house and taking me
to the market. He was a widower, a kind man, and we
developed a friendship, a close friendship. It wasn’t
w asn’t ...
physical; it was more spiritual, based on companionship, trust
and compassion. It is Henri I wish to marry.’
Yvo
Yvonne gave me a smile,
ile, tender and warm.
‘This is good, surely Margaux? I don’t see what the
problem is.’
‘Yvonne, I know Henri is a good man, a better human
altogethe
together,
r, an
and
d I love hi
him
m, but I made a prom
promiise to Ma
Marti
rtinn to
wait for him. I waited, but he went straight back to prison. I
know I owe him nothing, but I cannot move forwards until I
have told him our relationship has ended.’
‘Then t ell him,’
tell
‘I cannot,’ Yvonnedropping
I mumbled, aid withmy
ssaid authority.
gaze to the floor as if
ashamed. ‘If I visit him in prison, he will bully and cajole me
into agreeing to wait. He will force me into a commitment.’
‘Then write to him,’ she declared.
I pulled my hand away from hers, feigning discomfort,
and stood.
‘Maybe it’s best that I leave. I shouldn’t have wasted
your time. I’m sorry, Madame Arnette.’
‘Wait,’ she said, almost pleading with me. ‘Why can’t
you write to him?’
I looked past her at the photograph on the wall, ensuring
I appeared distracted by my secret failing.
‘Madame Arnette, I cannot read or write.’
There was a moment of silence, before she declared, ‘I
have the answer. I will write the letter for you.’
‘But if you write the letter, he’ll know it’s not my words.’
‘Nonsense,’ she declared. Taking my hand, she led me
out of the living room, across the hallway and into a small
office. Sitting at the desk, she produced a pen and writing
89
paper.
‘Shall I start it, Dear Martin?’
‘No; I wouldn’t write that.’
‘Well, you dictate, and I shall write whatever you wish.’
Standing behind her, watching over her shoulder, I
dictated her suicide note.
‘My dearest, I am sorry, so deeply sorry, but I cannot
continue. I do not have the strength to explain, but it is
important you know this is my choice, an important decision
which I need to make, no matter how painful the outcome
might be. I will be happy when it is over, when all my
problems, fears and sorrows have ended. My action now will
lead me to happiness, to peace, to an escape from all of my
miseries.’

I watched
sentence
sente watche
nce, remdoved
, I rem over
ove the
herrcoi
d the shoul
shoulde
coill ofder,
elr,ectri
andcalas
alsfshe
ctrica wr
wrote
otemthe
lex ffrom
rom last t.
y pocke
pocket.
Standing above her, I considered how the flex would tighten
upwards if her body was hanging from the ceiling.
She sat, her back towards me, the pen poised above the
paper.
‘Yes; go on.’
I looped the electrical cord around her throat and pulled.
As it
it tighte
tightene
ned
d I mainta
ntaiine
ned
d the te
tensi
nsion,
on, exe
exerti
rting
ng a con
consta
stant
nt
pressure to block her breathing and the blood flow to the brain.
With the
chair, so Iupwards
placed myforce on the
elbows onwire, she tried
her head, tomy
using riseweight
from theto
keep her seated. The temptation to punch her in the head to
stop her wriggling was overwhelming, but I resisted. Any signs
of a physical struggle might cause suspicion when the body
was found.
She struggled for longer than I thought she would,
jerrkin
je ing
g with
ith for
force as she tried
ied to escape the pressure
compressing her throat. My arms were tiring, pulling the cable
taut.
taut. Af
Afte
terr thre
three or four minute
minutes,s, she stopp
stoppeed m
movi
oving,
ng, her
her body
90
slumping in the chair. I didn’t relax, keeping the tension on the
flex for a few minutes more. When I released my grip on the
cord, she toppled forwards onto the desk.
Arnette ’s be
Madame Arnette’ bedroom
droom fa faced
ced onto the stree
street. A
Affter
ter
pulling the curtains, I looked for something to use as a ligature
point. The curtain pole bracket was central in the window and
would
woul d ta
take
ke he
her w
we
eight. I ca
carr
rriied the
the cor
corpse
pse ups
upsta
taiirs a
and
nd
undressed her, folding her clothes and putting them away.
During the strangulation she’d soiled her underwear, so I put it
into a bag to take away and burn.
Her body was thin, almost skeletal, and her skin was
mottled with yellowing bruises and red marks where she’d
scratched at herself. Naked, she looked like somebody who’d
take her own life, a pathetic specimen of humanity.
Hoisting
and didn’t the corpse
represent up waschallenge.
a strenuous easy; her frame
Placingwas
the slight
note on
the pillow of her bed, I opened the curtains so passers-by
would see her body, and went back downstairs, letting myself
out through the back door.

91
 Chapter 15: Aurélie Dup
Dupont
ont
After Elodie’s
Elodie’s death, planning for the wedding ground to a halt.

W hene
henever
more ver I tr
triiedfortowhich
questions m
maakeIsense
senseno
had ofanswers.
what had
hadThe
happe
happene
ned,
d,seemed
police I found
convinced she had a boyfriend or lover, but I struggled to
believe it. More than once she’d told me how she envie
envied
d my
relationship, and how desperate she was to meet someone
who’d care for her. I sen sed my wedding reminded her of the
loneliness she faced. Despite appearing upbeat and being
happy for me, on occasions her eyes gave away a hint of
sorrow.
It didn’t ring true she was in a relationship, no more than
I believed the claim she’d had sex befor e she was killed.
Something was wrong; I knew Elodie better than they did, and
the circumstances of her death didn’t reflect the friend who I’d
trusted more than anyone else in the world, aside from Papa.
It had
had surpri
surprise
sed
dmme
e how Se
Seba
basti
stiaan rea
reacted
cted to the ne
news
ws of
Elodie’s death as he’d only met her a few times, until I realised
his shock was probably due to something so terrible happening
in Sai
Sainte
nte-Marie
rie-su
sur-
r-A
Ariè
riège
ge.. Li
L ike many oth
othe
er pe
peopl
ople
e in town,
town,
he became withdrawn and stopped going out, not just with me
but with his friends
I struggled too. my feelings with Sebastian, and he
to discuss
became uncommunicative if I talked about the wedding. He
avoided any involvement in the planning, but when I suggested
we postpone the big day he flew into a rage, accusing me of
exploiting my friend’s death to push him away. Whatever I did
seemed wrong, although he offered no guidance on what he
thought was the right thing for me to do.
When I spoke with Papa about my inner conflict, he
listened, his eyes glazing over as the whole sorry affair brought
92
back memories
memories of my mother’
mother’ss death. Howeve
Howeverr, his advice
didn’t address the inner conflicts I was battling. Instead what
he suggested was an almost too simple solution.
‘Aurélie, if you’re having concerns, it may be prudent to
wait until you are certain what to do, rather than following a
path you might come
come to regre
regret.’
t.’
With no one to offer support, I decided to consult
Madame Arnette, my wedding planner. I couldn’t be the first
person to lose someone close in the run-up to the big day.
She’d understand the pressure I was under to push on with the
nuptials while all I really wanted to do was crawl into a dark
space and hide.
I telephoned her several times but got no answer. Unable
to thi
think of a be
bette
tterr iide
dea
a, I set
set of
offf to visi
visitt he
herr hous
house
e on tthe
he of
offf
chance shelost
I was might
in abemental
free tofog
talk.as I walked through the town.
Nothing happening around me registered in my mind. It was as
if I’d left home and was thent hen standing on her doorstep. In
between
betwee n … I don’t kno
knoww what happened in between, except the
overwhelming urge to weep grew heavier with every step.
I knocke
knocked on he herr door, but I knew sh she
e was not at
at home
home. I
could sense a void on the other side of the door, an emptiness
which was haunting. The morning was bright, the sun shining,
but her house was dark and silent. Stepping back, I noticed
every
e cucurtain
The
Th ins cwas
rtains reatedrawn,
d a senas
se oiffdenying
fin
fina
ality,entry
lity of cloto
lossuthe
re, adaylight.
nd a
sensation inside my guts, a fast-spreading sense of dread, told
me she was dead.
dead.
With my heart thundering, I ran to her neighbour’s door
and knocked. Someone shuffled down the hallway and an
elderly lady answered.
‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ I said, my voice trembling,
‘but I was tryi
trying to llocate
ocate Mada
dammeArne
nette.
tte. He
Her house se
see
ems
to be closed up, as if she’s gone away for a while.’

93
 The neigh
The ighbour made the sign ign of the cross and bowed her
hea
head. My
M y iins
nstitinct
nct was
was righ
right.
t. Y
Yvonn
vonneeA rne
rnette
tte wa
wass dea
dead.
‘Please, Madame,’ I asked, ‘do you know w hat
happened?’
‘Who are you?’ the neighbour enquired, her approach
more cautious than challenging.
‘I’m Aurélie
Aurélie Dupont. Madame Arnette was arranging my
wedding.’
The woman seemed to relax a touch, thankful she wasn’t
breaking the terrible news to a family member or close friend.
‘Madame Arnette is dead,’ she said with solemnity.
‘What happened? How did she die?’
‘It’s strange,’ the woman said with a puzzled expression
creeping across her face. ‘The police say she hanged herself.’

‘I don’t
‘No, norbelieve it.’
do I. However, it seems to be the truth. Maybe
she had
had her
her own innennerr de
dem
mons. Whene
henever
ver I sa
saw
w her, she was
happy and positive; some might say too happy. I thought it was
the nature of her job, surrounded as she was by people with a
passion for their futures together. She always had a few
minutes for a chat and was never too busy to help me out. Who
knows what was happening inside her head when she sank into
her solitude? It’s a lesson for us all.’
‘Are they sure it was suicide?’
‘The police seem certain she killed herself. She was
alone, there was no sign anyone else had been there, no forced
entry, and she’d left a note. It’s conclusive, despite how
unbelievable it may seem. She was a private woman, but she
hanged herself in the bedroom window, naked, so all the world
could see her shame. Someone walking past spotted her and
called the police. They broke into the house and cut her body
down.’
I thought I would faint and had to grip the door frame to
stop myself crumpling to the floor. The tears started rolling
94
down my che
chee
eks, for E
Ellodie
odie, for Ma
M ada
dam
meA rne
rnette
tte and for
myself. The neighbour touched my hand, a reassuring gesture.
‘I’m making coffee; would you like to come in and rest?’
I couldn’t speak. Instead, I shook my head and staggered
away. I felt numb, disconnected from the world, like a ghost
drifting through a sea of strangers. I didn’t believe Madame
Arnette had killed herself any more than I believed Elodie’s
secret lover had murdered her, but these were the facts, and
those wi
with
th m
mor
ore
e know
knowlledge of such things
things tha
than
n I as
asse
sert
rte
ed them
them
as truths.
With nowhere to turn, no one to confide in, I was alone.
Every passing stranger seemed to be content with their lot.
Nobody else carried the burden I had to bear. No one was
weighed down with the misery I suffered. No one understood,
least of all the man who said he loved me.

Papa had agreed to train Sebastian in the art of butchery and

preparing charcuterie. Sulking and with a smouldering attitude
of resentment, he marched into the shop on his first morning
bristling with aggression. There was no humility, no gratitude,
jusst an obvio
ju iou
us dis
isg
gust towards his positio
ition
n. I trie
ied
d to keep
myself busy to avoid any confrontation, but his first move was
an
quickattempt tohim.
to stop bicker with me about the situation. Papa was
‘Sebastian,’ he snapped, ‘remember you are here to learn,
and so I must insist you apply yourself at all times. Aurélie is
employed to deal with customers, not to talk with you. You
may have come to us from an environment where slapdash is
good enough, but it’s it’s not the case at Du pont’ss. Unless you do
Dupont’
as iins
nstructe
tructedd and
and allow AAuré
uréllie to ca
carr
rry
y on with
with h he
er bu
busi
sine
ness
ss
unhindered, I will have no choice but to send you back to your
father. I will not warn you again.’

95
 Sebastian’s rage was building up inside him. His neck
flushed
ushed red aand
nd I could
could se
see
e he wante
wantedd to sna
snap
p ba
back
ck at Pa
Papa
pa,, but
he also knew any dissent would result in him being sent back to
the fishmongers. His father and brothers would never let him
hear the end of it if he failed, so he sulked in silence. I was glad
of the quiet, to be honest; since the death of Elodie he’d grown
more distant, but when he spoke to me it was often with anger
and spite.
For the rest of the day, Papa gave Sebastian a string of
menial tasks: sweeping the floor, washing the knives, scrapping
the cutting blocks and moving the bins of fat and bone to the
doorway which linked the shop area to the cutting rooms.
At one poi
point,
nt, he asked Papa why the door
door to the ba
back
ck
area was locked.
‘Sebastian,’
with the tasks I askPapa
yousaid without.
to carry authority, ‘concern
It is wise to learnyours elf
to walk
before you run. Cleanliness and discipline are two important
skills in our trade, and until these are second nature, you’ll do
well to think of nothing else. Of course, if you’d prefer to not
focus on these key points, I can always send you back to your
father. Maybe he might give you jobs which are more suited to
your skills.’
Despite giving Sebastian basic tasks to do, Papa insisted
on making coffee for us, which wasn’t normal. I was pleased
he was trying to welcome Sebastian into the business. By the
middle of the afternoon, I noticed Sebastian’s mood had
changed.
changed. He still seemed withdrawn and ill at ease, but he’d
become less feisty, almost accepting of his lot. The edge had
been taken off his anger. His jobs were completed without
comment or argument, no matter how boring they were.
When the working day ended and Papa told him to go
home, he nodded a farewell and left with no word to either of
us. As he wen
wentt out th
the
e door, I thought
thought I sa
saw
w the be
begi
ginni
nning
ng of a
smile on his face. It wasn’t happiness at the working day
96
ending, but more like contentment with his lot.
Considering his recent mood swings and sullen attitude,
it was the first time I’d seen him smile in a while. Maybe,
despite all that had happened, he was changing back into the
old Sebastian once more.

97
 Chapter 16: Gisèle Dupont
I’d visited the church of Saint Mary many times as a child, but

it was my
gloomy first
and visit
cold sincethe
despite returning to town.
sun shining on aThe interior
warm day.was
A few
votive candles burned in a rack close to the altar. Even though
a mass hadn’t taken place that morning, the scent of incense
hung in the air. The hubbub of everyday life in the town’s
streets barely penetrated the walls, casting a hush through the
building.
I sat in a pew close to the sacristy. Alone in the silence, I
had time to run through my plan. Confession started at eleven
o’clock; a few of the elderly parishioners might arrive five
minutes before that, wanting to be forgiven their sins in time
for lunch. Father Chenevert would arrive at half past ten to
prepare for the sacrament, giving me a short but acceptable
wind
wi ndow
ow of opp
opportuni
ortunity
ty.. I had
had conte
contem
mpla
plate
ted
d confronti
confronting
ng h
hiim at
his house, but I couldn’t be sure he’d be alone.
Often his housekeeper would go with him to the church
for masses to act as his sacristan, but from my observations of
his movements, she didn’t attend confession.
Father Chenevert was old and frail, lacking the build to
be a gtarget
gr for
reat de
deaal my hunting
of usabl
usa ble trips
e me . His
at on hissage
hi bonemeant
bones.
s. A therer nega
Anothe
nother wouldn’t
ne gatitive
ve
was he would be missed. Much loved by his parishioners, the
moral outrage which would follow any foul play made him too
high a risk to kill. However, now things were different. I didn’t
want his flesh; I wanted an impact. His popularity made him an
ideal target in my attempt to cast an ominous shadow over the
marri
rriage of Auré
uréllie and Seba
Sebasti
stia
an.
In aski
asking
ng FFa
athe
therr Che
hene
nevert
vert to be the cel
celeebrant aatt the
wedding, Aurélie had made a popular choice. She’d brought in
98
a figure familiar to all the guests, and one who the community
respected. Slaughtering the clergyman in his own church would
result in a manhunt, and the ripples created by the murder
would spread far outside of Sainte-Marie-sur-Ariège. His death
would create the most significant impact on those involved
with
wi th th
the
e we
weddi
dding.
ng. In
In a way,
way, I could
could h
ha
ave argued
rgued hi
hiss iim
mmine
nent
nt
death should be a matter for celebration: he’d had a long life,
and much like his beloved Christ, he would die for the benefit
of others.
Even as I sat in silence, awaiting his arrival, part of me
wanted to walk away. If Sebastian hadn’t abandoned his
routine and gone into hiding, I wouldn’t be forced to take this
drastic action. I could have killed the Roche boy instead of the
reverrend. If
reve If A
Aurél
uréliie abandone
bandonedd he
herr pl
plaans to ma
marr
rry
y Se
Seba
basti
stia
an,
then Father
natural death.Chenevert could for
Unfortunately livethe
a few more
priest, yearsof
neither andthedie a
alternatives were realistic options. In truth, the death of the
prie
priest wa
wass th
the
e re
resp
spons
onsiibi
billity of Seba
Sebaststiian a
and
ndA uré
uréllie.
I put
put mmyy re
rese
serv
rva
atitions
ons asi
aside
de by remind ndiing myse
ysellf I wa
wass
doing Father Chenevert a favour. He would soon discover
whether the dogma he preached was truth or a nonsense.
From inside the sacristy, I heard noises: the priest had
arrived. Picking up my bag, one of the large canvas ones the
locals
ocals use
usedd on market
market day
day,, I rose ffrrom the p pe
ew and m ma ade my
way
wa
of ylto
si
sil the, adoor.
ence,
nce he
hesi A
Afftion,
sita
tatite
ter
r knocki
on,kbef
nocking,
beforeng, Ia
I hewai
waite
heard ted.
d.bol
the The
There
t re
bolt wi was
wa
withd sraw
a mand
thdraw aom
ome
ndent
the door opened.
‘How can I help you?’ he asked, making no attempt to
stop me
me as I ste
steppe
pped
d insi
inside
de and close
closed
d the door be
behi
hind
nd me
me.
‘Father, I appreciate confession does not start until eleven
o’clock, but I was hoping, please God, you’d be agree
agreeabl
ablee to
fitting in a confession before then.’
‘Give me a moment to prepare and I’ll be with you,’ he
said with no indication I was being a nuisance. ‘Wait in the

99
confessional box; I won’t be long.’
confessional
‘I’d rather do it here, Father, if you don’t mind.’
‘Fine, fine,’ he muttered, pulling a chair into the centre of
the room. Next to it he placed a cushion and pointed, indicating
I should kneel. Once I was on my knees, he placed the purple
stole around his neck and made the sign of the cross, before
settling in the chair.
‘Go ahead, my child’ he said, his voice soft and kind.
For a moment I considered rising, apologising for the
interruption, and leaving. This man had done nothing; he was
not involved in the duplicity of my father, nor did he have
anything to do with the manipulative actions of Sebastian
Roche
oche.. He wa
wass bl
bla
ameless, but Ma
Mada
dammeA rne
rnette
tte was
was al
also
blameless, as was the Moline woman and countless others. I,
too, was blameless,
blameless but
are forced that
into didn’t
the protect
role of me.and
victims, Sometimes
that will the
never change, so I didn’t rise.
‘Sorry Father; there seems to be a misunderstanding,’ I
said. ‘It was your confession I was hoping to hear.’
He was silent for a moment, but his eyes gave away the
confusion.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, ‘but I don’t understand.’
‘I want to hear your confession, your last reconciliation
with God,’ I said. ‘Tell me, is it little boys or little girls you
prefer,, Father?’
prefer
He shifted in the chair, his discomfort obvious.
‘I don’t know what you want, but your actions aren’t
appropriate. Now, it would best if you left—’
‘When you’re alone, Father,
Father, in your darkest moments,
who do you fantasise about when you’re masturbating? Boys
or girls?’
He rose from his chair, but I was up faster, pushing him
back down into the seat. He didn’t panic; there was no sign of
fear, just confusion. I reached into my bag and produced the
100
cleaver.
He prayed, not aloud, but mumbled beseechments to the
Lord. He wasn’t praying for me to stop, or for him to survive
the ordeal; he was praying for forgiveness. It was as if his
impending violent death was no surprise, as if it was obvious
and unavoidable, ordained by his God.
‘It’s boys, isn’t it?’ I hissed, stooping so my face was
closer to his. He closed his eyes, his lips still moving as the
almost silent prayer continued. He would not allow my taunts
to interrupt his supplication, so I didn’t waste my energy
trying.
I took hold of the handle in both hands and, bracing my
weight onto my heels for a more stable stance, swung the
cleaver sideways into his old wizened throat. There was a spray
of pulsing
blood ran crimson andinhaling
in, his lungs his severed
andoesophagus
exhaling in abubbled as the
vain attempt
to keep him alive. The cleaver blade stuck in his vertebrae and
it took a hefty yank to get it free.
His head wobbled, held on only by a fragment of bone
and hi
hiss ne
neck
ck muscle
uscles. It was a matter of se
seconds
conds be
beffor
ore
e he
toppled to the floor, a pool of dark red spreading around him. I
turned him over, so the back of his neck was uppermost, and
with one more swing removed the head from the torso.
Father Chenevert’s tongue protruded between his
crooked teeth. I didn’t remember them sitting at such an odd
angle in his mouth, and as I lifted the head from the floor they
moved. I pulled his dentures free. A string of blood-flecked
saliva hung from them, the teeth appearing more yellow in the
bright sunlight streaming through the sacristy window. It was
odd how he looke
ooked olde
olderr and mor
ore
e tir
tired once I ha
had
d removed
removed
his head.
Usi
sing
ng h
hiis bl
blood,
ood, I daube
daubedd a penta
pentagram
gramon the sasacr
criisty
wall. I didn’t think the police would restrict their investigation
to Satanists and occultists, but it added another aspect which
101
misled them.
At the far end of the sacri
sacristy
sty,, in a dark
dark wooden
wooden cupboa
cupboard,
rd,
was the church safe. Working my way through the priest’s
keys, I soon ha
hadd iitt ope
open.
n. Into m
myy bag
bag wewentnt a meta
tall ca
cash
sh tin,
tin, a
gold chalice and an ornate silver and gold monstrance. My
actions would further mislead the police by adding robbery as a
motive, plus it gave me an opportunity to plant evidence should
I need to implicate Sebastian in the priest's death.
Changing my clothes, I pushed the soiled garments into
my bag, along with the severed head, and left through the
sacristy’s side door.

During the afternoon I couldn’t sleep. The sounds coming from

the shop were not typical of a day’s trade. My father’s voice
had an unfamiliar tone, more authoritative than usual. There
was an edge to it, cruel and mocking. It was reminiscent of
how he spoke to the younger me many years ago.
I went
went up the sta
staiirs and settl
settleed down besi
beside
de the door,
listening. For a while it was quiet, just the typical sounds of the
shop operating as normal. Then I heard my father speak, the
condescending tone so familiar.
‘Are you an imbecile? Are you? If not, then you must be

blind.
a Can’ttoyou
sked you cl
cle
see this smear of fat on the cutting block? I
ean it
it a
and
nd wha
whatt ha
have
ve you done
done?? N
Nothi
othing.
ng. I
might as well have left it covered with filth and welcomed in
the flies to gorge on it, to trample their excrement-caked filthy
feet into it, before I laid a piece of fresh meat on top. Clean it
again.’
‘But Monsieur Dupont, the speck of fat is so small—’
Another man had replied. The voice was familiar, but
why was he working in the shop? A wave of nausea swept
through me, my guts churning. Without peeping through the
102
keyhole, I knew. After searching for him, waiting for him to
return to his routine, I had abandoned plans to murder
Sebastian Roche, yet here he was, right next to me with only a
wooden door between us.
I wanted to vomit. Had I killed Father Chenevert in vain?
Had I beheaded a good and kind man for no reason? If I’d
waited another day, even just a few hours more, my prey would
have presented itself to me. The death of the priest would draw
attention from the entire country. The police would draft in
detectives and forensic experts from Paris. I knew it would
si
sign
gniifica
cantl
ntly
y incre
increaase the risk
risk of ca
captu
pture
re when
when I sla
slaug
ughte
htere
red
d the
the
cl
cleergyma
rgyman, but had
had I allowed it to happe
happen
n ffor
or the sa
sake
ke of a few
hours? I wan
wanteted
d to weep.
weep.
Behind me, through the door, the burble of my father
castigating
passed overthe
passed mewretched
. I neededRoche
needed boy
to adapt
adapt continued,
my pl
plan
an andbut
and usethe
thewords
proximity of Sebastian to my advantage. I knew where he
would be, every day, but he didn’t know where I was. He didn’t
know I even existed.
I coul
could h
ha
ave avoide
voided
d the
the de
dea
ath
thss of Elod
odiie L lori
oris,
s, Yvonn
Yvonne
e
Arnette and Father Chenevert. I’d gained nothing from their
murders. Their deaths were a problem, an inconvenience, but
there was nothing I could do to change the situation. The past
was gone.
The
Th
the shop,ewas
solu
lutsimple.
tio
ion
n to tThere
he big
igg
ger is
was iss
sueneed
no , the for
fu
futtuplotting
re owneor
rship of
scheming, no need to create elaborate situations or manipulate
the emotions of other people. The answer was straightforward.
I had to wait, bide my time, until an opportunity
presented itself. Then I would act.
Sebastian Roche had to die.

103
 Chapter 17: Jacques Dupont
Seba
Sebastia
stian Roche
Roche had
had to die
die. IItt wa
wass the
the onl
only
y way I coul
could
d preve
prevent
nt
A urél
urélie fof
mistake romhermlife.
aking
ki ng a colossa
colossal
Marrying l mistake,
stake,
Gaston’s ma
maybe the
offspring wasbigge
binot
ggest
insther
best interests. Sebastian
Sebastian didn’t love her; his focus was on
taking control of my business, of Auré
Aurélie’
lie’ss business, and
exploiting it for his own gain.
The
The boy was fixfixaated with
ith obtainin
ining
g the recip
ipe
es, no doubt
spurred on by his pig of a father. While he was cleaning up one
eveni
vening, a
affte
terr Aurél
Auréliie ha
had
d lle
eft, he asked about the
them
m, whi
whini
ning
ng
like a petulant child.
‘Monsieur Dupont, I have been thinking. I believe it
would help my training if I could study your charcuterie
recipe
recipes. s. Whe
Whenn A urél
urélie and I are runn
runniing the busi
busine
ness,
ss, the
transition will be smoother if we understand the various
prepa
pre parati
rations
ons a
and
nd processe
processess iinvol
nvolve
ved.
d. It
I t woul
would
d he
help m
mee – well,
it will help us both - to hit the ground running when the time
comes to take over the shop.’
I could hear the meddling of Gaston in his words. The
stinking oaf had doubtless urged his half-wit son to manipulate
the situation. One thing which played in my favour was
between
anyone. Itthe father
was and son,their
confirmation theygoal
lacked
was enough
not to guile
createtoafool
long-
lasting
sting and
and ha
happy
ppy un
uniion be
betwe
tweeen Seba
Sebasti
stia
an a
and
nd A uré
uréllie, but to
profit from my hard work.
‘Sebastian,’ I muttered as I scrubbed the cutting block,
ensuring I promised nothing but also didn’t
didn’t reve
reveal
al my
intentions, ‘it will be a long time before you’re ready to
sharpen knives or cut chops, let alone produce the quality of
charcuterie for which this shop is famed. What will enhance
your training is a focus on the basics, the building blocks which
104
are essential for success.’
He si
sigh
ghe
ed and
and carr
carriied o
on
n cle
cleani
ning
ng.. LLiittl
ttle
e di
did
dhhe
e know
he’d never see the recipes. Once Gisèle had provided me with
her formulations, I had no intention of passing them on to
Sebastian or his pig of a father. They would be my leverage to
be sure Aurél
uréliie was protected,
protected, and to ma
make ce
cerrtai
tain
nmmy
y
retirement would be a comfortable one. Whatever secrets
Gisèle revealed would stay mine until someone met my asking
price.
I had a plan of how Sebastian would meet his demise,
and I’d taken steps to ensure his death would be attributed to
misadventure. I’d been lacing his coffee with laudanum and
absinthe, giving him regular doses. In the mornings, he arrived
in an agitated and surly mood until he had a few cups inside
him. Throughout
his pace the day,
slowing until as he consumed
he teetered more,
into general he’d mellow,
lethargy. By the
end of the day he was little more than a grinning idiot, drifting
in his own personal haze. He suspected nothing.
The
Th e next step of the pla lan
n was to make sure he vis isit
ite
ed the
doctor
doct or ffor
or a blood
blood te
test. If
I f the poli
police inve
nvesti
stiga
gate
ted
d hi
his dde
eath, hi
hiss
consumption of drugs and alcohol had to be obvious.
Tra
Tr ade was alwa
lways slo loww on hot afte
fternoons. As the sun
burned
burne d down, A Auré
uréllie prep
prepa ared to go hom
home e for her
her lunch and I
persua
pe rsuade
dedd her
her to take tthe
he afternoon
ternoon off
off. As
As soon a ass she
she left, I
set Sebastian
In betwe
betwee en thetoba
work
tchesschopping
batche of bay leherbs
bay le aves a and
and
nd p spices
pa
arsl
rsleey,forslsaucissons.
I sli
ippe
pped
d iin
n
several stalks of giant hogweed. Once his hands glistened with
its sap, I sent him out on an errand, knowing the sunlight would
trigger its phototoxic qualities.
As we clcleeane
nedd down tha
thatt even
eveniing, S
Seeba
basti
stiaan stoppe
stoppedd to
examine his hands. Bleary-eyed from the laudanum and
absinthe, he was staring at the red swollen lumps and blisters
which dotted his skin.
‘What’s wrong, Sebastian?’ I asked, feigning concern.

105
‘Have you cut yourself?’
‘No, I haven’t cut myself, Monsieur Dupont; it’s
something else,’ he muttered. ‘I think I’m having a reaction.
The
There are blisters on the backs of my hands.’
I walked over and looked at the rash.
‘Go home now,’ I said, ‘and tomorrow morning, first
thing, I want you to visit the doctor and request a blood test.
Even if the blisters go down, you must have the test, because if
you have an allergy to something we need to know.’
‘It’s okay, Monsieur; I’m sure it’s nothing.’
I hadn’t expected
expected him to turn down the opportunity to go
home early, but his rolling eyes signalled he was drifting in a
cloud of alcohol and opiates. I needed to press him harder.
‘Sebastian, if something in the shop is making you sick
s ick

and wefirst
health cannot
andfind
sendout
youwhat,
backI’ll have
to the no choice but to put your
fishmongers.’
I waited for my words to filter through his muddled mind
and saw a moment of understanding flicker across his face.
‘Thank you, Monsieur Dupont; I will see you in the
morning, once I’ve visited the doctor.’
Afte
terr he left, I cl
cleeaned
ned away
away th
the
e remnants
nants of the
hogweed and scrubbed the board and knife he’d used with
boiling water. The results of his blood test would take at least a
week to come back, by which time he’d be dead.
I’d decided it would be for the best if
i f he didn’t die in the
shop. My plan was for him to drive to the slaughterhouse. In
his intoxicated state, the van could swerve off the road and hit a
tree.. A he
tree hea
ad tra
traum
umaa woul
wouldd be
be enough
nough to ki
killl hi
him
m. If
I f ne
nece
cessa
ssary,
ry,
I’d add to the impact to be certain the injury was fatal.
The polic
The lice
e would no doubt inv
investig
iga
ate, but once the
doctor released his report, the reason behind the tragedy would
become all too clear. The scale of his addictions would shock
us al
all. A
Auré
uréllie coul
could pu
putt the whol
whole
e sorry mess b be
ehi
hind
nd he
her, and
Gaston would be forced to live with the shame of his son’s

106
problems.
I had my plan. Once the blood test was completed, we
would take a trip to the slaughterhouse.

Aurél
urélie was
was si
sitti
tting
ng at the ki
kitche
tchen
n tabl
table
e whe
when
n I arr
rriive
ved
d hom
home
e.
She’d been crying, her eyes swollen and red. Settling next to
her, I took her hand in mine and tried to offer what little
comfort I could.
‘Aurélie, what happened to Elodie was a tragedy. It’s a
senseless loss of life, and while I understand your pain, the
worlld keeps
wor keeps on turni
turning
ng a
and
nd you n ne
eed to ffocus
ocus on th
the
e future
uture.. As
As
for Madame Arnette, it’s clear she had mental issue s and
anyone with empathy will feel sadness that she couldn’t reach
out for help. She chose a path we cannot comprehend, but now
she is at peace. You’re risking your own health unless you pull
yourself from this depression. I know it’s hard, but for your
own sake you must be strong.’
She looked at me, her trembling lip a sign she was
fighting to hold back another wave of tears.
‘My wedding ... Papa ... it’s cursed.’
‘Please, Aurélie,
Aurélie, you mustn’t think these tragic events
have anything to do with your wedding.’
‘But Papa, the priest, Father Chenevert, is dead.’
The news surprised me; he wasn’t young but he seemed
to be in good health whenever I saw him.
‘He was old; it comes to us all.’
‘Papa, someone murdered him,’ she sobbed as the tears
cascaded down her cheeks. ‘They butchered him, right there in
the church, decapitated him and defiled the sacristy. Whoever
killed him stole religious artefacts and ... and they took his
head.’
For a second, I felt a cold shiver go through me, tingling
107
and icy yet fiery at the same time. With my plans for Sebastian,
would I be adding the last bit of pressure which might push her
over the edge? Could she cope with yet another death, the
death of her betrothed?
I held her close, feeling her body shudder as the sorrow
and emotion flooded out.
‘Aurélie, sometimes, when tragedy strikes, it leaves a
cloud from which it can be impossible to escape. Everything is
stained by its misery. When your poor mother passed, the
darkness which followed was too much to bear, and had I not
nee
ne ede
ded
d to look
look af
afte
terr y
you,
ou, I may wel
welll ha
have
ve cli
climbed
bed onto th
the
e
bridge and thrown
thrown myself into the rive
riverr. It wasn’t just missing
your mother; the cloud of tragedy made every little setback
see
seem insurm
nsurmounta
ountablble
e. M
Maaybe it woul
would
d be be
best
st to cal
call of
offf the
wedding until you
‘I cannot, can be
Papa,’ shehappy again.’ the tears. ‘I must carry
said through
on for Elodie. She wouldn’t have wanted to ruin the big day.’
‘Are you sure? People will understand if you cancel.’
‘Yes Papa, I am sure.’
I took out my handkerchief and gently dabbed at her
eyes, drying her tears.
As I did I whispered, ‘Tomorrow, I want you to rest.
Don’t get up in the morning. The shop will be closed because I
have business at the abattoir, and I’m taking Sebastian with
me.’

108
 Chapter 18: Aurélie Dup
Dupont
ont
Papa had been right about the oppressive cloud of tragedy. It
enveloped
polluting mymy thoughts,As
emotions. a brooding sense
I lay in bed, myofmind
foreboding
was in
turmoil, deluged with a cascading torment of misery. I felt the
negativity suffocating me, dragging me down, draining me of
any inner strength. It was overwhelming.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Elodie’s murder. The
police remained convinced her secret lover had killed her. It
still made little sense; why would a lover kill her in such a
brutal way, moments after they’d been intimate? Why would he
stab her repeatedly after their act of passion? How many times
had he plunged the knife into her body? What did she think
when he drove the blade into her flesh? It was saddening
someone close had betrayed her trust.
I tried to block out the mental image of her death, but
instea
nstead I sasaw
wM Maada
dam
meArnenette
tte,, her
her fragi
ragille ha
hands
nds tying
tying a noose
noose..
How did she feel, making the knot, knowing she’d place it
around her neck and step off a chair? What inner demons
possessed her; what voices commanded her to end it all? I
couldn’tt imagine how desperate she must have been to string
couldn’

herself up ather
What drove thetowindow so everyone could witness her pain.
such darkness?
I thought about Father Chenevert and his placid
demeanour, his peaceful aura. Did he pray when faced with a
Satanic beast wielding an axe? Did he plead with God to save
himself, or did he suffer the consequences with humility?
Coul
ould
d he ha
haveve be
been rea
ready
dy to fa
face his
his Lor
L ord
d without
without a hea
head?
The
Th e bla
lacckness clos
losed in on me, and as I ffe
elt myself
sliipping
sl pping de
deeepe
perr into
into de
depressi
pression,
on, I acted.
cted. I ne
nee
ede
dedd to g
ge
et outsi
outside
de,,
to do something. If work occupied my mind, it might block out
109
the constant waves of sorrow and misery.
Papa was going to the abattoir with Sebastian, and
because he wanted
wanted mmee to rest, he’d closed the shop for the day.
However,
owever, it mma
ade no se
sense
nse to llose
ose out on tr
tra
ade
de,, so I ba
bathe
thed,
d,
dressed and decided to go to work. Dealing with customers
would take me away from the chaos swirling in my head.
I had keys to the shop, but as I left the house, something
dawned on me. The meat and charcuterie products would be in
the fridges, which were in the cutting room. The door would be
locked. Papa had the key and never let me go out there. He said
it was no
no pl
pla
ace for his
his daugh
daughte
ter.r. At
At tim
times he was
was a tou
touch
ch
obsessive about ensuring he kept the door locked. I put his
paranoia down to the fact his formulations were secret. Most of
our business came from the demand for charcuterie, and so it
was only reasonable
I checked he wanted
the pockets tojacket
of his protectwhich
his recipes.
hung on the
back
back of the ki
kitche
tchen
n door, but th
the
ey w
weere e
em
mpty.
pty. I coul
couldd see
see no
point in opening the
the shop if I couldn’t
couldn’t get to the fridges, so I
went upstairs, into his bedroom. It felt strange being in there
alone. I often took him coffee on a Sunday morning as he laid
in bed, reading or listening to the radio. This was different, a
little invasive, and the thought of going through his things
made me uncomfortable.
I was about to stop, to go back downstairs and abandon
my idea of working, when a realisation struck me. Once I was
married, he’d hand the business over to me. It would be
necessary for me to use the fridges, the cutting room and the
curing
curi ng cabi
cabine
nets.
ts. If
I f anythi
nything
ng,, toda
today y wa
wass an
an opportun
opportuniity to try
out my future role and run the shop.
Opening his wardrobe, I went through his jacket pockets,
but all were empty. A pair of his work trousers were folded on a
chaiir, but a
cha aga
gaiin I found no ke key.y. I ope
opene
nedd the drawe
drawerr on hi
hiss
bedside cabinet. It was a bit of a mess: pens and pencils, a dog-
eared notebook, a tin of cough sweets, glasses, a handkerchief,
110
shoelaces, everything except the missing key.
I moved on to the chest of drawers. Opening each drawer,
I tried to feel for the key without disturbing his clothes, but I
couldn’t find it. Maybe he’d taken it to market, but why would
he? Unless it was still in the jacket he was wearing, he
wouldn’t risk losing it. He was fastidious about keys. Every
wouldn’t
evening when he returned home from work, he’d lock the front
door and put the keys in a bowl in the kitchen. He used to joke
if there was a fire in the night, he’d know where to find them.
I went back down to the kitchen, but the bowl was empty.
In the livi
ving
ng room was
was an
an old
old bure
burea
au whe
wherre he kept pa
pape
perrs a
and
nd
documents. Opening the top drawer, amongst the papers, was a
single key, old and spotted with rust. It was tied to a small
metal hook; the ones we used when drying and curing
sausages. It was the key to the cutting room.

The firs
The first task of the day was to wipe
ipe out the cabin
ine
ets. I u
ussually
did this while Papa unloaded the meat and charcuterie from the
trolley. He’d be in the shop earlier than me, preparing for the
day. As I cleaned, it dawned on me I’d have to prepare the meat
and charcuterie. I cursed myself for not thinking ahead; I’d
need an hour or so to get everything ready.
I went
nervous
nervous exciito
exc temthe
temeentdoor into
washed
washe theerback
d ove
ov ofIthe
me as tur shop.
turne
nedd theAktinge of
ey, tthe
he
lock opening with a barely audible click. Swinging the door
open, it surprised me to see a trolley waiting, already loaded
with charcuterie and meat. The metal trays were cold to the
touch; they hadn’t
hadn’t been out of the fridge for long.
Confusion washed over me, an uncomfortable sensation
which made my skin crawl. Something wasn’t right. Had Papa
prepared for
for the day’
day’ss trade? If he had, why? He didn’t expect
me to open the shop, and he wouldn’t be back from the

111
slaughterhouse until mid-afternoon at the earliest. He’d set off
a few hours earlier, so the trolley of meat didn’t make sense.
As I loaded the charcuterie into the cabinets, I couldn’t
shake off the unease which crept up and down my spine. Who
had laid the produce out on the trolley? Had Papa asked
someone else to open the shop, and if he did, where were they?
Someone had loaded the trolley, but who?
As I finished dressing the cabinet with saucissons, patés,
cured meats, pies and pithiviers, I tried to calm my growing
stress. Taking deep breaths, slowing the internal babble
echoing in my head, I told myself I was making too much of
this.
Papa had gone to the slaughterhouse with Sebastian, no
doubt to teach him about buying stock. He’d expected me to

take thebyday
served off and rest.
a weeping No onewoman,
miserable wantedbut
to visit
if theashop
shopwas
and be
closed, it would be inconvenient for the regular customers.
Papa wouldn’t allow that to happen. He would have arranged
for someone to cover for me, another local shopkeeper, and
they must have called away to deal with their own business.
Whoever it was would return, and I could explain I’d
decided to work. The stress of the wedding and the deaths
weighed heavily on me, too heavily. I was letting paranoia take
over, and that wasn’t good for me.

sellingTr
Tra
adeand
well, was by
swift all mornIing
lunchtime ing, thsold
had e samost
uciss
issoof
nsthe
and patés
charcuterie. On a normal working day, I’d go home to eat and
return with a sandwich for Papa, who would stay to replenish
the cabinets and window. As he was away, I realised I’d have to
stock up myself.
Whoever Papa had asked to look after the shop had let
him down. They hadn’t returned, and I was glad I’d made the
effort to open for the day. I wondered if he’d asked Gaston to
help. Papa already disliked him, so this would strengthen his
112
opinion that the Roche family were work-shy and not
trustworthy.
Making my way into the back of the shop, a creeping
sensation of dread crawled up the back of my neck. The trolley
had been moved. When I’d loaded the cabinets in the morning,
I’d put the empty trays back where I’d found t hem, intending to
wash them once things got quiet, but now they were gone and
the trolley was on the other side of the room. Determined to not
work myself up into a panic, I headed for the walk-in fridge.
The
Th e door was open.
Some
omeone was in the
therre; I coul
couldd he
hea
ar themmoving
ovi ng a
arround,
along with the sound of meat being dropped onto the metal
tra
trays. My shock turned to ang
ange er. W
Whoe
hoever
ver Pa
Papa ha
had
d asked
asked to
help must have known I was in the shop, so why hadn’t they

made their
to Elodie, presence
the thoughtknown to me?sneaking
of someone Given what had behind
around happenedmy
back
back enrage
enraged d me
me. I strode into the wal
walk-in, rre
eady to gi
give
ve th
the
e
unknown helper a piece of my mind.
As the icy air hit me, I froze, not from the chill but
because of what I saw. Inside the fridge was a lady, a bulky
woman dressed in a bloodied white coat. Her eyes locked onto
mine and burned with indignation as if I had no right to be
there. But it wasn’t the woman who made me freeze. Behind
her, hanging from a rail on a metal hook, was the head of
Father Chenevert.

113
 Chapter 19: Gisèle Dupont
My father usually collected the meat and charcuterie from the
cutting room at around seven o’clock each morning, but it was
past nine o’clock
o’clock before he move
moved d the trolley
trolley.. It surprised me,
because for all my father’s faults - and there were many of
them - tardiness was not something he suffered from. Curious
about his lateness, I crept to the shop door and listened. No one
was talking, but I could hear someone working. Why he was
alone, and why he’d started work so late?
Perhaps a cruel twist of fate had befallen Sebastian or
Aurélie, a tragic event which drew a veil over their nuptials and
the uncertainty tainting my future. I could hope, but inside my
guts I knew it wouldn’t be the case. Luck had deserted me in
childhood; it had turned its back on me and waltzed away with
a mocking laugh even before my mother died.
I knelt and looked through the keyhole, but I couldn’t see
anything. The key was in the lock, blocking my view. He never
left the key in the door. How could he explain my presence if
anyone wandered into the cutting room? What excuse would
explain this whole other world he’d been keeping hidden away
from public scrutiny? I sat, trying to breathe in shallow and
quiet breaths, listening out for any clues about what was
happening.
When
hen a custome
customer cacame in, I hea
heard Auré
Auréllie spe
spea
ak. It
wasn’t unusual for her to be in the shop alone, but why was the
wasn’t
key in the door? I couldn’t believe my father had given her
access to the back of the shop … unless something had
happened to him.
Panic swept into my core, a gnawing ache of fear and
uncertainty. There were two possibilities. Either he’d suffered
an illness, or something had changed and she’d taken over the

114
shop earlier than planned. It wasn’t credible to think he had
passed the business on to her without so much as a word to me.
My father would take the greatest of pleasure in sending me
away. It would be his final insult, the last slap to my face. He
wouldn’t miss the opportunity to deliver the cruellest blow.
Aurélie couldn’t know about me. Our father was too
chickenshit to tell her about the two sides of his life. He had
too much to lose and nothing to gain. If she knew her half-
sister was working in the shop, would she not try to find me?
The
The key in the lo
locck meant she could come in intto the back
of the shop. She could walk in at any moment if stock ran low.
It was too great of a risk; I couldn’t allow her to discover me. I
decided to refill the trays and leave for the rest of the day,
staying away until I found out what was happening.
AstIhad
and wha
what rep
replha
lenishe
nippene
happe shed
ddthe
ned to trays,
him therlquesti
him whir
whi que stions
ed iin
nm ons
my about
about
y head. Mmy
head. mayybe
ffa
athe
ther
her
was ill. He couldn’t have died; she wouldn’t open up if he’d
passed away,
away, not that the bastard
bastard didn’t deserv
deservee a slow and
painful death. It was vital I restocked the trolley, got out of the
shop, and found out what was happening.
I didn’t want to venture outside during the day. Too many
people would see me; a few of the older folks might recognise
me. I’d been away for many years, but there weren’t a lot of
awkward, gangly girls with facial scars who came from Sainte-
Marie-sur- Ariège. People didn’t know I’d returned and most
would have pushed me from their memories many years ago,
but even a fleeting glance could set off a spark of recognition.
It would lead to the inevitable questions. People can be so
fucking nosey.
I didn’t want to go out, but the alternative was too terrible
to think about. I’d killed to keep my position in the world, but I
could lose it all through a simple mistake.
As I piled the pork cuts onto the trays, a feeling of
tre
trepi
pida
datition
on overwhel
overwhelmmed mmee. I pause
paused
d ffor
or a m
mom
ome
ent, tthe
he ha
haiirs
115
on the back of my neck tingling. My senses screamed
some
som ethi
thing
ng wa
wass wrong
wrong.. I was
was n
not
ot a
allone.
one. I kne
knew
w if
if I turne
turned
d
around, someone would be standing in the doorway, watching
me.

Aurélie stood, opened mouthed, petrified with shock. At first it

surprised me she’d be so terrified by my appearance, until I
remembered the priest’s head hanging behind me, his mouth
open and tongue lolling out as if he was laughing at her
weakness. While she was trapped in her moment of
unconscious paralysis, I acted.
Stepping forward, I drove my fist into her guts, the punch
as ha
hard
rd an
and
d powe
powerrful as I could
could mmaanage
nage.. Her body cr
crum
umpl
ple
ed.
Dropping to her knees, her eyes rolled as she sucked in
mouthfuls of air. From the rail, I grabbed a large metal hook
and hit her on the side of the head. The impact echoed inside
the fridge, a loud crack of steel against bone. Flopping over
onto her side, her eyes swivelled in her head as she struggled to
focus. Disoriented by my assault, she crawled back towards the
door.
Using the racking for support, Aurélie got to her knees
and tried to stand, her legs wobbling before buckling under her
weight. I waited; she wouldn’t get away. If only all my victims
were so easy to subdue.
‘Who are you?’ she gasped. ‘What’s going on?’
Ignoring her question, I stepped towards her and,
dropping the hook, grabbed hold of the lapels of her pristine
white coat.
‘Who are you?’ she repeated, her voice trembling. ‘What
are you doing in Papa’s shop?’
I ’d heard her calling the bastard Papa on previous
occasi
occasions.
ons. As
As she sa
saiid the wor
words
ds to me
me, I wan
wante
ted
d to crush
crush h
he
er
116
skull, collapse it in on the fluffy shit polluting her brain. He
was undeserving of a name which implied fatherliness, a term
carrying a hint of respect and admiration. He was a brute, an
oaf, a maggot with a stony heart and a streak of malevolence
that ran through his entire being. He was not worthy of being
called Papa.
Pushing her against the wall, I gripped her throat. The
difference between us was significant: her pale and smooth
neck, so fragile and flawless; my hand, heavy and clumsy and
riddled with tiny scars from knife nicks. I could have closed
my fist and snapped her delicate neck with little effort.
She was everything our bastard father wanted, feminine
and frail and willing to adore him. If she died, he would suffer.
The
Th e grie
ieff of los
losin
ing
g his prin
inccess would hurt him with
ith an
emotional
be agony
engulfed he’d
in grief, never yet
knowing come
I, the close to
daughter hesuffering.
hated, hadHe’d
robbed him of the daughter he cherished.
Distraction is a weakness, and in my moment of
introspection I’d switched off from Aurélie. Bringing her knee
up ha
hard
rd into
into m
my
y groin,
groi n, she fough
oughtt back.
back. I let go of he
herr as the
pain surged through my guts. Free from my grip, she flew at
me, a whirling dervish of violence. Slashing nails and jabbing
fingers battered my face, a surge of energy driving her attempt
at self-preservation.

swungStepping back, I bentwith

it hard, connecting andherpicked upas
throat the metal
she lungedhook and
towards me. Her frenzied attack died out as she sank to the
floor, coughi
coughing a and
nd sspl
plutte
utteri
ring
ng,, ha
hand
ndss gra
grasp
spiing a
att he
herr ne
neck.
ck. I
wouldn’t switch off again, not until she was dead.
Dragging her by the hair, I pulled her out of the fridge
and towards the cutting block. I jerked her body, banging her
head off one of the block’s legs to keep her in a dazed state.
Eyes rolling like a drunkard, a string of drool hanging from her
lips, it was easy to see why my father preferred his other
117
daughte
daugh ter.
r. Li
L ike hi
him
m, she was
was wea
weak,
k, a p
paatheti
theticc spe
speci
cim
men of
humanity.
Her body was so frail and light, she was easy to lift. As I
dropped her onto the block, the impact pushed the air out of her
lungs, an exhalation of despair. It was as if she’d already given
up on life. In that
that mom
momeent I hate
hated
d her,
her, despi
despisesedd he
herr for he
herr
irrelevance. Had this nothing of a person been so close to
destroying my world?
With my hands around her throat, thumbs pressing down
on her windpipe, I started to crush the last fragments of life
from her body. Her eyes opened, fixed on mine, pleading for
what I thought was mercy. She had no fight, no struggle left …
and then I realised. It wasn’t mercy she wanted; it was death.
She was letting me kill her, allowing me to end her existence. It
washalf-sister.
her as if she wanted to die in that miserable shop, strangled by
She wouldn’t be the first sibling I’d murdered. Even in
the womb I’d killed my twin, smothered her and digested her
body to strengthen myself, and now I was doing it again,
killing another sister to make sure I survived.
My twin
twi n h
ha
ad su
succum
ccumbe
bed
d to my
my pr
preeda
dator
tory
y natur
nature e wi
without
thout
a struggle, and now my half-sister was doing the same. I didn’t
relax my grip on her throat, but I didn’t tighten it either. All the
time her eyes were locked onto mine, begging me to increase
the pressure, pleading
consciousness withslip
and let her meinto
to end her life, to snuff out her
the darkness.
Aurélie wanted to die, and I wanted to kill her, but I
couldn’t. The thought wouldn’t go away: she was my si ster. We
had different mothers, but the same pig of a father. There was
something we both shared, a bond which I couldn’t deny.
My grip loosened and she spoke, a frail whisper.
‘Don’t stop; please, kill me.’
Her eyes reflected the pain she felt, not physical pain but
emotional and spiritual pain. I recognised it, remembered it
118
from my childhood, the misery I felt when my father had sent
me away.
way. I saw
saw the ffe
ear whi
which
ch washe
washedd over mme e when I
returned, the em
empti
ptine
ness
ss I felt ever
every day w whe
hen
n I rem
remeembered
bered my
my
mother
other and tthe
he tra
trage
gedy
dy that
that be
beffell her.
her. Al
All of this
this wa
wass obvious
obvious
in Aurélie’s
Aurélie’s ey
eyes.
es.
I took my hands from her throat and stepped back. For a
moment, the silence in the cutting room was so loud it hurt.
The
Then she spoke again
in,, her voic
ice
e thin and tremblin
ling
g.
‘Please, finish what you’ve started. It will be a relief, a
blessing. I know what
what you’ve done to Father Chenevert,
Chenevert, and I
can guess what you did to Elodie and Madame Arnette. I don’t
have the strength to carry on. Who you are and why you’ve
done this, I’ll never know, but you’ve won. It’s over.’
‘I can’t kill you, Aurélie,’ I said. ‘It’s not that I don’t have

the stomach
once for it, Inor
you’re dead. justthat I don’t think my life will be better
can’t...’
‘Why?’ she asked. Her question chilled me, because it
was genuine, an enquiry driven by curiosity and a desire to
understand.
‘I cannot kill you, Aurélie, because you are my sister.’

119
 Chapter 20: Aurélie Dup
Dupont
ont
I was slipping into darkness, unable to stay focused as the mad
woman
pushingintensified
my trachea herclosed.
attack.I was
Her thumbs
gulping dug into my
air, trying throat,
to suck it
in, but nothing was reaching my lungs. Unable to draw breath,
pain welled up in my chest as if my insides were parched and
withering. For a moment, the pressure subsided. She hesitated,
her attention drifting, and I seized the opportunity, using my
last reserves of energy to fight back.
Driving my knee up with all the force I could muster, it
connected, and her grip loosened, her thick strong fingers
releasing enough for me to jerk free. I had no time to think, no
plan of escape. Using my nails, fingers and elbows, I swung
and scratched in a frenzy, a whirlwind of defence. I couldn’t
see her, my vision blurring as I dredged up every last bit of
energy
nergy to sustain
sustain my
my ass
assau
aullt on this
this unk
unknown beabeast. M
Myy ea
ears
rs
were ringing with exertion. I knew I was hitting the target
beca
be cause
use I coul
could
d ffe
eel contact
contact wi
with her.
her. The
Then
n she moved away
away..
The
Th ere was a moment of calm, lm, but befo
forre I h
ha
ad a chance
to assess the situation an explosion of pain radiated from my
throat. Something hit me hard, a devastating impact
constricting my windpipe.
crumpled, unable Gagging,
to fight any more.struggling to breathe,
I had lost the I
battle: it was
finished.
She dragged me across the floor by my hair, but there
was no pain. I was suffocating, smothered by the finality of the
situation. Numbness kissed my limbs, a crushing and crippling
loss of feeling. My body was dead; my mind struggled to catch
up with my lifeless flesh. Resistance was not an option.
The
Th e woman raisiseed me up and dropped me on the cuttin ing
g
block, the impact driving out what little air remained in my
120
lungs. She was strangling me, but I couldn’t feel her fingers
around my neck, only an inability to function, to move, to
brea
breathe
the.. I for
orce
ced
d my
my eye
eyess ope
open,
n, w
wa
atching
tching h
he
er ffa
ace contort w
wiith
rage, with hatred for me.
I was going to die. She’d killed Father Cheneve
Chenevert.
rt. Why I
did not understand, but she had killed him. His head was
hanging in the fridge. She’d killed Madame Arnette. There was
nothing to indicate she had, but I knew it. She’d killedkilled Elodie.
Agai
gain, the
there
re wa
wass no evide
vidence
nce,, but I knew iitt to be true
true.. Now
Now she
would kill me, her frenzied attack verging on the animalistic.
Brutality radiated from her. She would kill me and I would let
her. There was nothing else I could do.
The
Th e realis
lisa
atio
ion
n brought an unwaveringing fe fee
elin
lingg of calm
lm..
The
Th e pain,
in, the confus
fusio
ion
n, the mise
isery was at an end. Th Thining
gs
couldn’t
looked atget anyother,
each worse; they
my could
eyes only with
pleaded get better.
her toAs we it. I
finish
wanted
wanted iitt over a
and
nd d
done
one wi
with,
th, a cl
cle
ean endi
ending.
ng. I no llonge
ongerr cared
about surviving.
In her eyes, I saw hesitation once more. Unlike the last
time, I couldn’t fight back. I had nothing left aside from my
accepta
cceptance
nce of dea
death. AAss he
herr gr
griip lloosen
oosene
ed a
and
nd m
my
y llungs
ungs sucked
in air by reflex, I tried to speak, a frail croak being all I could
produce.
‘Don’t stop; please, kill me,’ I said.

bestialTh
Tho osedrawn
rage words away
change d haerveil
like ; shto
e lo
loo
oked vauwoman
reveal ln
lne
erable,
leafraid.
, her
She released her grip and stepped back. Tears brimmed in her
eyes, as if she were looking at herself on the block rather than
me.
‘Please, finish what you started,’ I whispered. ‘It will be a
relief, a blessing. I know what you’ve done to Father
Che
hene
nevert,
vert, and I can
can gue
guess wha
whatt you did
did to E
Ellodi
odie
e and
Madame Arnette. I don’t have the strength to carry on. Who
you are and why you’ve done this, I’ll never know, but you’ve

121
won. It’
It’ss ov
over
er.’
.’
It was as if my words stung her soul. She was off guard,
weakened by an inner sensitivity.
‘I can’t kill you, Aurélie,’ she said. ‘It’s not that I don’t
have the stomach for it, nor that I don’t think my life will be
better once
once you’re dead. I ju
just
st can’t...’
‘Why?’ I asked.
She trembled, assuming the role of victim rather than
persecutor.
‘I cannot kill you, Aurélie,’ she muttered, ‘because you
are my sister.’
It made no sense. It bore no logic. I was an only child,
Papa’s sole daughter, without siblings or other family. But
when
when she spoke the wor
words,
ds, when
when she made the cla
claim, I kne
new
w
without doubt it was the truth.

The woman, Gisè

The isèle,
le, fet
fetched a bowl of warm water and a clot loth,
pla
placi
cing
ng them
them on the
the bl
block.
ock. As
A s I cl
cleeaned
ned the
the bl
blood
ood of
offf my fa
face
and dabbed at the grazes and cuts, she brought me a glass of
Cognac.
‘It’s not high quality,’ she said, handing me the drink.
‘It’s a cheap one, but it’s all I have.’
Her personality had changed, regressed, since she’d
admitted she couldn’t kill me. Now she seemed
s eemed broken.
‘I don’t understand how you’re my sister,’ I said, trying
not to provoke another outburst of aggression from her. ‘I
believe what
what you say
say,, but it makes no sense.’
‘My father is Jacques Dupont; your father. My mother is
dead.’
‘I know our mother is dead,’ I replied, ‘but I was born
shortly after my ... our mother ... married Papa. I remember her
dying, but I don’t remember any other children. You’re older

122
than me, so before she married Papa...’
Gisè
sèlle wi
wince
nced
d whe
when
n I use
usedd th
the
e wor
wordd Pa
Papa
pa.. For som
some
e
reason, my words disgusted her. With a deep breath, she
explained the situation, growing more distant as she spoke.
‘My mother was not your mother. My mother died when
I was thirteen years old. Within a brief time, my father, the pig
you call Papa, sent me away. He moved your mother in and
they married in haste. It’s safe to assume you were conceived
when my mother was still alive, and our bastard father was still
married to her.’
‘But Papa said I was his only child—’
‘I have no doubt he did, Aurélie,
Aurélie, but it was a lie, just like
when he told my mother he loved her, or when he told me he
loved me, or when he promised that no matter what happened,
Ime
would
withalways
his life.be hishe
Then beloved daughter
sent me and he would
away because he wasprotect
embarra
barrassed by me me, and because
because I was a hinde
hinderrance to his
hi s
future with your mother.’
I didn’t want to believe what she was saying, but I didn’t
have a choice. Something clicked in my head as she spoke, a
realisation the things she was telling me were too
uncomfortable to be a fantasy. Papa never spoke of his past; it
was as if he didn’t exist until he met my mother.
‘This shop belonged to my Grand-Papa, Hugo Picard,’
Gisèle said with a hint of bitterness. ‘He only had one child, a
daughter,
daughte r, my mothe
mother. r. W
Whe
hen
n she marrrriied Ja
J acque
cquess D
Dupont,
upont,
Grand-P
rand-Papa passe
passedd the shop to he
herr husb
husba and. J acque
acquess Dupont
Dupont
took over a thriving business, one held in high regard by the
locals, and he ran it into the ground. I watched my mother fade
away trying to stop him from ruining it all. He destroyed her
and he nearly destroyed the business; i t’s all you can expect
from such a man.’
‘That’s not fair,’ I replied, growing defensive of Papa.
‘The shop’s always busy. People come from miles around to

123
buy his charcuterie.’
charcuterie.’
‘Bullshit!’ Gisèle spat out the word with venom. ‘How
busy was it in the past? How close did he come to handing the
keys to the bank? It’s only been busy since
since I retu
returrned
ned and
and
started
started ma
maki
king
ng the cha
charc
rcute
uteri
riee. That
hat ma
man, J acques
cques D Dupon
upont,
t, has
has
neither the passion nor the fucking imagination to create the
finest products. When he hands the shop over to Sebastian
Roche, it will take no time for the business to be dead and
buried. That jumped-up little cunt you intend to marry has less
idea than the bastard you call Papa.’
Every word she said made sense; every word rang true in
the depths of my mind. I didn’t want to believe it because it
meant accepting Papa was a liar. Despite my gut feeling, I
needed to be sure, to verify her claims.

hidden‘Ifyou
you’re the Icatalyst
away?’ behind to
asked, unable hisunderstand
success, why
the has Papa
situation.
‘Surely he’d celebrate you and make sure the world knew it
was his daughter—’
Gisèle laughed, a spiteful and haunting cackle. I knew it
was my ignorance causing her humour.
‘I’m a dreadful memory he wants to forget. I’m the only
remaining link to his past, the cause of questions amongst his
fri
rieends and nne
ew ffa
amily. I se
serv
rve
e as a rem
remiinder
nder to e
everyone
veryone in
Sainte
Sai nte--Marie
rie-sur-Ari
sur-A riè
ège of what
what he was:
was: a man who shshun
unne
ned
d
his
andown child,
forgot herwho
when cheated
she wasoninhis
thewife when
grave she was
to jump intoalive,
bed with
anothe
notherr w
wom
oma an. I bring
bring the
the two si
side
dess of his life together; that’s
what scares him.’
‘Do you intend to punish him?’ As I asked, I realised it
wasn’tt the case. If Gisèle was everything she claimed to be, she
wasn’
only had to walk out on the street and let people know who she
was, and Papa’s torment would begin.
‘This is all I know,’ she replied, gesturing to the cutting
room. ‘Grand-Papa was one of the finest charcutiers this region

124
has ever seen. When my father pushed me out to fend for
myself, Grand-Papa took me in. He taught me the skills and
artistry of charcuterie. It was the greatest gift, and he gave it
without expectations of anything in return. This is his shop, as
far as I am concerned, and it always will be. All I want is to
carry on, to exist in my own private space, to create the best
products I can. But when the business goes to that fuck-weasel
Sebastian, I’ll have nothing, nothing at all.’
Twice she’d mentioned Sebastian in a scornful and
detrimental way, and I didn’t understand why. She knew about
the plans for our wedding, and I’d seen the head of Father
Chenevert in the fridge. It was obvious there was a link, but I
couldn’t see it.
‘Why did you kill the priest?’

‘I wanted
coldness to stop yourme.
which frightened wedding,’ she
‘If it was s aid with
delayed, a detached
I would have
more time to kill ... well, to complete my plans.’
‘Your plans? Did those plans involve killing me?’
‘No.’ She seemed surprised I would think of such a thing.
‘My plan was to kill Sebastian Roche. The priest was a way to
earn more time.’
‘And Madame Arnette?’
She nodded, adding, ‘I didn’t want to kill either of them,
but af
afte
terr I failed iin
nmmy
y atte
attem
mpt to sla
slaughte
ughterr Se
Seba
basti
stia
an, he we
went
nt
into hiding. I had to do something.’
s omething.’
An icy
icy shi
shiver
ver passe
passed
d through me. A
Affter
ter the de
dea
ath of
Elodie, Sebastian had become very insular and withdrawn.
He’d stopped going out, and on the few occasions he ventured
into town he was nervous. I thought Elodie’s death had affected
him, but if Gisèle had tried to murder him, he’d said nothing.
‘I don’t agree with anything you’ve done, let me stress
that,’ I said, trying to show empathy. ‘Your actions are
repugnant, reprehensible and unforgivable, but I can see what
drove you to make those terrible decisions. Given what you’ve
125
done, I can’t help but think you were also involved in the death
of E
Ellodie Lloris. Were you?’
She nodded, but her demeanour changed. Rather than
regret, she was contemptuous, as if the death of my friend was
jusstified
ju ified. I st
struggle
led
d to contain my emotio
ion
ns. I w
wa
anted to rage
and shout, to tell her she was twisted and evil, but I remained
cautious. If she attacked again, I wouldn’t be able to resist. Her
strength and lack of restraint would lead to my death. There
was also the fact I now knew about her murderous deeds. I was
a threat to her liberty. If she’d killed to preserve her place at the
shop, albeit in a position of servitude, what might she do to
stay out of prison?
‘Did you kill Elodie just to delay my wedding?’ I asked.
Again, Gisèle looked surprised, as if the idea shocked
her. ‘No, my intent was to kill Sebastian, but he got away
from me, so she was the only alternative.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘If Sebastian got away from
you, why would you then track down my friend and kill her?’
Gisèle didn’t answer. She stared at me, her expression
changing from confusion to realisation, and then to a smile,
mocking and pitiful.
‘You didn’t know, did you? In fact, you still don’t know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Sebastian and Elodie. They were ... well ... he was
fucking her.’

126
 Chapter 21: Jacques Dupont
It is not easy to kill someone. Maybe I’d underestimated the
coldness needed
circumstances to murder
which placedSebastian. To create
him in danger a setthing,
was one of but
to kill him, to physically end his life, was another entirely.
When
hen he arrived a att the shop, I could
could se
see
e the lauda
udanum
num and
absinthe were having an effect. He looked tired and vacant, his
eyes rolling as he struggled to maintain his focus. His speech
was slurred with occasional stutters, and even the simplest of
questions pushed him into a state of confusion.
I insisted he drove, and he asked if we had time for
coffee before setting off. I hadn’t brought the shop keys and
cursed the missed
cursed ssed opp
opport
ortuni
unity
ty to admininiste
sterr one la
last dose
dose. A
Affte
terr
a quick trip to the café, we headed out of town.
wasn’t in a fit state, but this was counter-
Sebastian wasn’t
productive and created greater caution in his driving. Despite
his befuddled state, he was careful, keeping his speed low and
taking early action at junctions or if other vehicles approached.
It wasn’t a problem; I didn’t want him to crash in the town. My
aim was to make sure plenty of people saw him driving the
van.
Once in th
the
‘You seem eexhausted,
coun
countrysi
tryside
de I told
told hi
him
Sebastian. totake
I’ll st
stop.
op.ove r and you
can have a sleep.’
‘I am tired, Monsieur Dupont, I don’t know why. It’s
unlike me, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.’
‘I insist, Sebastian. I couldn’t live with myself if you had
an accident. Have a rest and I’ll wake you when we get to the
slaughterhouse.’
As he dozed
dozed ne
next
xt to me
me,, I conside
considered
red what
what I was a
about
bout to
do. I’d be braced for the impact, but he wouldn’t. I might need

127
to smash his head off the dashboard a few times, maybe beat
him around the head with a blunt object, to make sure the
trauma killed him. Could I do that? Did I have the stomach to
beat him to death?
How thorough would a police investigation be? The high
level of alcohol and opiates in his blood might be enough to
explain the accident, but if they dug a little deeper, asking a
coroner to go into greater detail about the cause of death,
would they realise any additional head injuries I’d inflicted
were inconsistent
inconsistent with a crash? I’d have to move him into the
driver’ss seat; would some small clue give away th
driver’ thee fact he
wasn’t driving?
What was a simple idea in the comfort of my kitchen
now see
seemed to b
be
e a ste
step
p too fa
far. I wa
wante
nted
d to kil
kill hi
him
m, but I
doubted
make himwhether I could
crash and suffersee it through.
a fatal injury, IfI Iwouldn’t
thought hesitate,
I could
but to beat him around the head was too much.
What if he survived and was disabled? Would Aurélie
consider it her role to care for him? It could make things worse
if he was crippled, but when it was revealed he was unfit due to
drink and drugs, would she still stand by him? She’d have to
accept his selfishness had put me in danger if I was also
injured. She wouldn’t forgive such an act. She couldn’t.
As I drov
drove
e, I picked
picked out tree
trees in
in th
the
e di
dista
stance
nce and brace
braced
d
myself for the impact, but I couldn’t steer towards them. My
arms ffroz
roze
e, una
unabl
ble
e to turn the ste
stee
eri
ring
ng whee
wheel. A
Affte
terr each m
miisse
ssed
d
opportunity, I’d resolve to hit the next one, but each time I
couldn’tt bring myself to do it. Sebastian was dozing,
couldn’
unprotected, and would come off worse in a collision. All I had
to do was crash.
Heart pounding, I struggled to catch my breath. I had to
do this, to kill the boy before he destroyed Aurélie’s life. In the
dista
di stance
nce an e
enorm
normous
ous oa
oakk tree
tree broke th
the
e skyl
skyliine
ne.. As
A s I close
closed
d iin,
n,
I steer
steered the van clcloser
oser to the edge of the tarmac.
tarmac.
128
 Bracing for the impact, eyes closed, I forced the steering
wheel right, and the van lurched up the bank. Tensed for the
impact, the steering wheel jerked in my hands and the van
skidded and veered off to the left. Sebastian had grabbed the
wheel.
‘Monsieur Dupont,’ he shouted, his voice panicky. ‘Wake
up.’
I hit
hit the brakes and
and the van shu
shudde
dderred to a ha
hallt.
‘Monsieur, you fell asleep,’ Sebastian croaked, breathing
rapidly. ‘It’s lucky I woke up, or we might have been killed.’

Aurélie was sitting in the kitchen when I got home. The

atmosphere was uncomfortable, an unusual tension obvious
behind her distracted mood. She didn’t speak, not even a
greeting. Her silence felt accusatory. Something had happened.
After putting the kettle on, I glanced over. Her face
seemed puffy, swollen around the eyes, skin blothcy and
marked.
‘Aurélie, has something happened?’ I asked. ‘Your face
looks ... has something happened.’
She wave
wavedd her
her ha
hand
nd,, di
dism
smiissi
ssing my conce
concern.
rn. As
As I
prepared the cafetière, I noticed the kitchen sink only contained
my cup
she’d from
been
the morning. Either she’d had nothing all day or
out of the house. An uneasy feeling crept over me,
An
my skin tingling as a wave of stress crawled down my neck. I
knew what she had done.
‘Did you have a peaceful day, Aurélie?’
‘I couldn’t sleep, Papa, so I decided to open the shop. It
was strange. Despite you being at the abattoir, the meat and
charcuterie were laid out on a trolley in the cutting room. It
was as if you knew I’d be there.’
She was challenging me, pushing me to come up with an
129
excuse.
‘I wanted you to rest,’ I said, my thoughts cascading into
a chaotic mess. ‘You shouldn’t have gone to work.’
‘If you thought I wouldn’t open the shop, why was the
meat prepared? If I hadn’t gone, it would have all been spoiled.
I know how much you hate waste, so I don’t understand …
unless, of course, it wasn’t you who prepared it.’
I carried on making the coffee, trying not to show the
sickening anxiety which was erupting inside me. Her statement
wasn’t a question. She wasn’t looking for an ans wer; she was
accusing me. She left her comment hanging in the air. Tthe
silence which followed was nothing more than bait set out to
snare me.
‘Was anyone else there?’ I asked, trying to make the

que
questi
stion
knew. on appe
appea
ar to be rhetori
rhetorica
call. I nee
neede
ded
d to fi
find out wha
whatt she
‘If they were, they didn’t return.’
I busied myself with the coffee. Aurélie remained silent.
Maybe I was overthinking things, letting my nerves get the
bette
betterr of me. I f she was aware
aware of Gisè
sèlle, she would
would hha
ave
mentioned seeing her. Gisèle wouldn’t let anyone know of her
prese
presence
nce.. Eve
Evenn I rarel
rarely
y sa
saw
w her
her unl
unle
ess I soug
sought
ht h
he
er out. Maybe
there was nothing to worry about.
Placing the coffee pot and cups on the table, I sat
oppos
opp osi‘Darling,
iteA uré
réllieyou
. shouldn’t have gone to work. I wanted you
to rest. Maybe you should take a break from the business until
you’re feeling stronger. You’ve been through a lot, and stress
can
can creep
creep up on you. Anxi
Anxieety an
and
d grie
grief do stran
strange
ge thi
things
ngs to
people.’
She looked at me and smiled.
‘Papa, soon I’ll be running the business and I’ll need to
deal with whatever the world throws at me. I can’t close the
shop every time life presents a challenge. I can’t run away and
130
hide when I’m sad or depressed. If I do, the customers will go
elsewhere and the business will fail. No; I can’t take a break. If
anythi
nything,
ng, I shoul
should
d be at the sh
shop
op m
mor
oree of
ofte
tennaand
nd ta
take
ke a grea
greater
ter
level of control. After all, when you retire, I can’t come
running to you for help every five minutes.’
As I pou
poure
red
d my
my cof
cofffee, Auré
A uréllie pu
putt he
herr ha
hand
nd ove
overr he
herr
cup.
‘Not for me,’ she said, her voice fatigued. ‘I’m tired and
need to sleep. Tomorrow morning I’ll come to the shop early
and you can show me how to prepare the meat and charcuterie.
Goodnight Papa,’
‘Wait,’ I said, my tone pleading with her not to leave for
a moment. ‘Aurélie; I love you dearly and have wanted nothing
but the best for you. Bringing you up alone was a struggle, but
it was
will be.aSometimes,
privilege too.
inIlife,
waswealways proudtoofmake
are forced you, and I always
choices, and
with hindsight they’re often choices we wouldn’t make twice.
At the titim
me, we make those d de
eci
cisi
sions
ons to pr
protect
otect the one
oness we
love and care about the most. On the balance of an entire
lifetime, it would be tragic if a few mistakes became worth
more than the countless times the right decisions were made.’
I hesitated, trying to think how to continue, but she
mumbled, ‘I understand Papa.’
With that she rose, kissed me gently on the head, and left
the kitchen.
As I he
heaard he
herr ffootste
ootsteps
ps on the stai
stairca
rcase,
se, two thi
things
ngs
struck me. The first was how distracted she seemed, more
distant than I’d expected. It was as if she’d reached a moment
moment
of realisation.
The
Th e second thiningg whic
ich
h stood out was at no poin intt in our
conversation had she referred to Sebastian.

131
 Chapter 22: Aurélie Dup
Dupont
ont
Gisèle’s accusati
accusation
on a
about
bout Seba
Sebasti
stiaan a
and
nd E
Ellodi
odiee num
numbe
bed
d me
me. A
Ass
she spoke,percolating
questions the piecesin
fellmy
intohead
placenoand so many
longer of the
required answers. I
was shocked, disappointed, angry, vengeful, an entire range of
emotions bubbling up, and yet above it all, I felt relief. Why, I
could not say, but it was as if someone had lifted a weight from
my shoulders.
I had to do something, but I was at a loss as to what I
should do. I needed to think, to appraise the situation and
assess my options. Before I left I promised Gisèle whatever
conclusion I reached, I would tell her before taking any action.
She hadn’t killed me because of the bond of sisterhood; I owed
her something for that.
When Papa returned from the abattoir, I was in the
kitchen wrapped up in the turmoil of my thoughts. In one day
I’d discovered the person I’d always trusted might be a liar, the
man I inte
ntende
nded
d to m
ma
arr
rry
y had be
beeen un
unffaithful
thful,, and I ha
had
d a siste
sisterr
I knew nothing about who’d tried to kill me.
When I heard his key hit the lock, I wanted to hide. The
last thing I needed was a confrontation. However, I knew I
couldn’t get
mentionedgeI’d
t upopened
and
and runthe
a
away
way.. As
AsI he
shop. camhis
hoped e into the kitche
reaction tchen,
n, I
might
clarify the confusion I felt, which was smothering me with
uncertainty and insecurity.
He didn’t give me an answer about the prepared meat and
charcuterie. Instead, Papa told me I should have rested. I tried
to press
press the matte
tterr without
without a
allerting
rting hi
him to the fact I knew a
about
bout
Gisèle, but he simply repeated his concern. Then he sowed a
seed of doubt, one he wanted to grow into a self-induced
uncertainty of my sanity, by suggesting my mind could be
132
fragile because of the stress of the wedding and the recent spate
of deaths.
In that
that m
mom
ome ent I saw
saw a ssiide of him
him I didn’t know, one
which was scheming … unless Gisèle was the manipulator. I’d
always believed Papa was the only person who offered me
unconditional love and put my needs first. Had a stranger, a
murderous psychopath who claimed to be my sister, somehow
brainwashed me into distrusting my own father?
Inside my head a chaotic whirlwind jumbled my
thoughts, my emotions staggering from one extreme to another
as I struggled to know what was real and what was imaginary. I
had
had to be alalone,
one, to embr
embrace
ace si
sillence,
nce, to cal
calm
m the maelstr
strom
om
raging inside my head.
I said goodnight and went to bed.

Many years ago, at school, I struggled with mathematics,

especially equations. My teacher, Madame Giroux, once
explained I should not look at them as one big problem, but as
seve
several
ral sma
smaller proble
problems lilinked
nked tog
toge
ether.
ther. Af
Afte
terr her
her ad
advi
vice
ce,, I
found equations simpler. My situation felt confusing, just like a
complex equation, so I broke it down into smaller parts.
Elodie’s post-mortem revealed she’d had sexual

intercourse
consensual..before
consensual Elodieher death,
hadn’t and evidence
mentioned indicated itto
any relationship was
me. If
she had a boyfriend, why would she want to keep it private?
We’d shared a lot of secrets and she often voiced her jealousy
over my relationship, so if she had someone special, why didn’t
she
she sa
say?
y? IIff her
her love
l overr was Seba
Sebasti
stia
an, iitt e
expl
xpla
aine
ned
d he
her si
sillence
nce..
When Elodie was murdered, Sebastian reacted in a
negative way. At the time, it wasn’t obvious how strange his
response was, because I was in shock. He didn’t know her well,
but he fell apart.
apart. If they were in a re
relationship
lationship and he’d been
been

133
the last person to see her alive, it was understandable why his
reaction was so severe. It wasn’t love or regret or sorrow; he
was terrified their illicit liaison would implicate him in her
death. Admitting his involvement would’ve assisted the police
in finding her killer, but he went into hiding, concerned only
with saving his own cheating skin. I could discount the
possibility Sebastian had killed Elodie, as Gisèle had admitted
the crime, unless her confession was a lie.
Understanding what had happened between Sebastian
and Elodie was pivotal to making sense of the situation. Since
he’d started working at the shop, he’d become insular and
sullen, as if he was drifting ever further away from me. With
what I’d learned about him, I wasn’t sure if his mood was a
defence mechanism, pushing people away from digging into
the truth, or whether the situation he found himself in was
overwhelming.
Once Papa had
had gone to bed
bed,, I dressed
dressed a
and
nd sl
sliippe
pped
d out
through the back door into an unseasonably warm night.
Walking to Sebastian’s house, I tried to focus
focus on what I nee
neede
ded
d
to ask him. It was vital I avoided any conversation with Gaston
or Sebastian’s
Sebastian’s brothers; it would only dissolve into bickering
and nam
name-
e-calling. They’d become off-hand to the point of
rudene
rudeness
ss since
since Sebasti
Sebastia
an sta
started
rted work
workiing a
att the sshop.
hop. IIff the
conversation
conversation involved them, he wouldn’
wouldn’tt be honest with me.

comingApproach
pp roachi
from theing his
his hous
house
backyard. e,ne
O I he
hea
ard a bu
burbl
rblee of conversa
conversatition
voice was Sebastian’s; I didn’t
on
recognise the other at first. As I crept closer and listened, I was
sure
sure it wa
wass JJe
ean-
n-PPierre
rre, one of his
his olde
oldest
st fri
frieend
ndss a
and
nd hi
hiss be
best
man.
Settling close to the gate, I eavesdropped on their
conversation. An occasional clink of bottles told me they were
drinking.
‘I can’t stand the man,’ Sebastian said, his voice slurring.
‘When she’s around, he takes pleasure in humiliating me, and if

134
she’s off somewhere he treats me even worse, like shit on his
shoe. I’ll punch his stupid head off once I’ve got what I want.’
‘So, there’s no joy on that front?’ Jean -Pierre asked. He
clearly was more sober.
‘No, nothing. I’ve searched every inch of the shop, which
wasn’t easy. They never leave me alone. He watches
everything I do, and she’s there most of the time with her
miserable sulking face. I swear, she blubs and weeps when
she’s with me, moaning about how unhappy she is, but when
the fucking customers come in, she’s all smiles and laughs. The
second they go out the door, she’s back to being a maudlin
bitch. I’m sick of her
her swollen eyes and snotty nose. I’ll be glad
to be rid of the pair of them.’
The
The urge to reveal myself, to tell Sebastia
ian
n to go to hell,
to scream out I knew
overwhelming, about
but I bit him
my lip andstayed
and Elodie,silent.
was
‘Are you sure you’ve looked everywhere?’ Jean -Pierre
asked.
‘Only in the shop,’ Sebastian growled, anger clear in his
words. ‘He keeps the door to the back area locked. I’ve never
seen the fridges or the cutting room. The bastard keeps telling
me I’m not ready. He says I need to scrub the counter and clean
away the trimmings and wipe up the shitty mess he makes
before I can
can do anything with the meat. He doe
doesn’t
sn’t even let his
darling daughter out there, so what hope do I have?’
‘Maybe he keeps them at home?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I asked Aurélie, but she didn’t
know what I was talking about, or acted as if she didn’t. I said I
wanted a quick look to understand the basics, ready for when
we wer
were runni
unning
ng the busi
busine
ness,
ss, but she see
seemed surpr
surpriise
sed
d by the
notion he had any written recipes. They must be in the shop.
Why else would he keep the door locked? That’s where he
makes the char
charcuteri
cuteriee, so the recipe
recipess must
must be the
therre. Once I ge
gett
hold of them I’ll be free of the fucking Duponts.’

135
 ‘But what about the business?’
‘Fuck the business,’ Sebastian spat. ‘The money from the
recipes will be enough for me to live on. I don’t intend to
marry the miserable bitch and live in the shadow of that bastard
jusst so I can go to work every day, earning
ju ing money to keep her
and him happy. I won’t be chained to a shop I don’t want. My
father thinks I’ll hand him the recipes and spend my
my days
selling meat while he enjoys his retirement. Okay; he might be
the one who found a buyer, but they’ll buy from me just as
quick as they would from him. Then I’ll be free of the Duponts
and my family too. Now, will you help me?’
There was a pause in the conversation
The ion, and afte
fter a
mome
omenta
ntary
ry si
sillence,
nce, J ean-
n-P
Pierre
rre sp
spoke
oke..
‘I’ll help, but I want twenty per cent of the price.’

J‘You
Je can
ean-Pierrrhave
-Pie e la
lauten,’
ug his gtian
hed,Sebas uffa replied.
faw
w s fa
fals
lse
e and sarcastic,
ic, and
said, ‘I’m the one taking the risk. If I get caught, how do I
explain it? Imagine how people will laugh if I’m caught
burgling a butcher’
butcher’ss shop. I want twenty per ccent
ent or you can ddo
o
it yourself.’
‘Fifteen?’
‘No Sebastian; it’s
it’s twenty or nothing, and if you try to
haggle with me again, then you’re on your own.’
The clink of bottles indicated they’d made a deal.
‘I’ve got to get going,’ Jean-Pierre said. ‘It’s late and
Genevieve will wonder where I am. I’ll do it tomorrow night,
but remember
remember this: you’re the one who’ who’ss sure the recipes are in
the shop. If they’re not there, I still want my percentage when
they’re sold, even if it means you having to marry the bitch to
get them. Understand?’
Sebastian grunted, a non-vocal response.
‘Do you understand?’ Jean-Pierre repeated, his tone
serious, a hint of aggression forcing home his point.
‘I understand,’ Sebastian muttered. ‘I fucking

136
understand.’

137
 Chapter 23: Gisèle Dupont
I pushed the confrontation with Aurélie out of my mind as I
dealt with the evening’s tasks. Cutting the meats and fats to
preparre sauci
prepa saucissons,
ssons, I was iim
mmersed in m
my
y wo
work
rk when the
therre
was a knock at the back door. It wasn’t the heavy pounding of
authority, more of an awkward, apologetic knock. I knew it was
Aurélie before I opened up. I presumed she’d come to tell me
herr de
he deci
cisision
on..
I f her
her choice
choice was
was to iinf
nform
orm the authori
uthorititie
es, the
there
re wa
wass
little I could do. The bond of sisterhood, our undeniable
kinship, meant I couldn’t kill her. I wouldn’t demean myself by
begging for clemency
clemency,, and running from the ppolice
olice wasn’
wasn’tt a
realistic option. I f they had certain knowledge I’d committed
the crimes, they’d find me. The ignominy of failing to escape
and being dragged off to jail was worse than the inevitable
incarceration.
She hadn’t come to discuss my future. Anxious and
upset, she slipped inside as soon as I opened the door, her voice
thin and trembling as she told me to lock the door. I led her into
the room I sl
sle
ept iin,
n, and with
with her
her se
sea
ated
ted on the be
bed,
d, I we
went
nt to
make coffee. Topping the cups off with cognac, I returned. She
had calmed herself a little and was staring around the gloomy
storeroom.
‘You sleep in here?’ she asked, almost in disgust.
‘It’s all I have.’
‘But is it all you want?’
My sil
silence gave
gave her
her the answe
nswer.
r. It would
would have
have be
bee
en too
easy to spew forth on the bastardry of our father, but she’d
come for another reason. Taking a sip of the coffee, she
wrinkled her face.
‘Once more, apologies for the cognac,’ I said. ‘It’s not of

138
the quality you’ll be used to drinking.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, her voice an almost hollow whisper.
Aurélie told me of her decision to confront Sebastian and
how he wa
wass outs
outsiide the house
house,, ta
tallki
king
ng to Je
J ean-P
n-Pierr
rre
e. Uns
nse
een,
she’d eavesdropped on the pair, and what she’d heard alarmed
her. It was clear Sebastian had little interest in her. At first she
believed he was only interested in taking over the business, but
as the conversation progressed, she’d discovered he didn’t want
the business as it meant having to be with her. He was only
interested in the recipes.
‘What recipes?’ I asked, confused with the twist in her
tale.
‘Papa’s recipes for charcuterie,’ she replied. ‘A few
months ago, a man came from Paris. He’d heard how popular

Dupont’s charcuterie
little of everything. was and vis
I remember himitedbecause
the shop.
heHe bought
was a
very polite
and well-groomed. The next day he returned and asked Papa to
sell him the charcuterie recipes, but Papa refused. The man
returned several times in the following days, but each time
Papa sent him away. I think Sebastian has found the Parisian
again and intends to sell Papa’s recipes to him.’
‘Our father’s recipes, really?’ I asked with scorn. ‘What
makes you think that half-wit knows anything about recipes?’
‘Gisèle, that’s not fair,’ she snapped, leaping to his
defence. ‘You know how long the queues can be on market
day.. We sell out of charcuterie in the first hour or two we’re
day
open. I have to stop people buying up whole batches, and if
plead with me to find something,
people arrive late they’ll plead
anything, for them to buy.’
I laughed. There was nothing else to do.
‘Aurélie, I’ve already told you your blessed Papa doesn’t
make the charcuterie. I doubt he has the skill and he doesn’t
have the passion. I make the charcuterie, all of it, from
formulations my Grand-Papa taught me; the same man who
139
started this shop. They’re all stored up here,’ I said, tapping my
head. ‘The formulations aren’t the key; what makes the
products remarkable is my passion and love for them, my
artistry, and most of all, the ingredients. That is why people
queue up to buy from Dupont’s, why they are upset w hen the
products have
have ssol
oldd out, because
because I make charc
charcute
uteri
rie
e unl
unliike
anything they can buy elsewhere.’
As we face ced
deea
ach othe
other in th
the
e gl
gloom
oom,, I ha
had
d a realisa
satition.
on.
My father had asked me to write down my formulations. I
thought
thought iitt was so he coul
could
d pa
pass
ss the
them
m on to AAuré
uréllie and
and
Sebastian, but the truth was more distasteful. He, like
Sebastian, intended to sell them. Her beloved Papa, the one
person she thought she could trust, would sell her short, just as
he had done to me many years before she was born.

I suspe
suspecte
cted
d JJe
ean-
n-P
Pierre
rre woul
would
d force
force hi
hiss wa
way
y through the back
back
door. Breaking into the shop from the main street was too great
a risk. Passers-by might see him and alert the police. The rear
entrance was secluded and unlit. The back of the building had
no windows, so he had to come through the door.
Aurélie and I waited in my room. She’d suggested we
wait upstairs, concerned he might spot us and bolt. However, if
he saw my living quarters, he’d know he wasn’t alone and
vanish back into the night.
‘Once he’s inside, we need to overpower him fast,’ I
explained in a whisper.
‘How do we do that?’ Aurélie asked. She sounded
nervous, and I put her discomfort down to the upset she’d
suffered.
Passi
ssing
ng he
her the pa
pan
n of a cas
castt al
alumi
umini
nium
umha
ham
m pre
press,
ss, I sa
saiid,
‘I’ll grab and hold him. Yo
Youu hit him around the head with
ith this
is;;
try to connect with his temple if you can.’

140
 Aurélie’s eyes focused on the pan, but she didn’t take it
from me.
‘I can’t,’ she said, her voice as weak as her will to attack
Je
J ean-P
-Pie
ierrre.
‘You can, and you must.’
‘I can’t do it. What if I kill him?’
‘Then you kill him,’ I said, still holding out the pan.
‘Either you hit him, or you can hold him while I do it.’
Aurél
urélie took the hamham press
press..
With the lights off, I could see her silhouette but not her
face.
ce. Midn
dniight
ght pa
passe
ssed.
d. I knew
knew she wa wass fa
falling a
asl
sle
eep, he
herr he
heaad
drooping and jerking upright as if attached to strings like a
maca
cabre
bre mari
rione
onette
tte.. I let her
her be;
be; whe
whenn Je
J ean-
n-P
Pierr
rree arr
rriived,
ved, the
adrenalin
adrenalin would snap h
her
er awake … if he arrived. When she

tol
toldd me
Pierremsounded
e the story,
story,
likethe conve
converrsa
drunken sati
tion
on be
bravado.betwee
tween
n Seba
Sebasti
stiaan a
and
nd JJe
ean-
One o’clock came and went, and as two o’clock came
around, I regretted listening to her. Sebastian and his best man
had obviously been fuelled by beer and bullshit during their
conversation. Even if their intentions were to carry out the
burgl
burgla
ary, J ean-
n-P
Pierre
rre ha
had
d probabl
probablyy deci
decide
dedd aga
agaiinst b
be
eing
Sebastian’s stooge. It was always possible Aurélie had got
things wrong. Her mental state was fragile, and I’d had doubts
from the start when she told me of the proposed burglary.
As three o’clock approached, I stood and moved with
care; I didn’t want to wake her. No matter how much she
believed the burglary would take place, I couldn’t afford not to
work. The saucissons needing finishing and meat needed
cuttiing and
cutt and tri
trim
mming ffor
or the next
next morni
morning
ng.. A
Ass I reache
reached
d to
switch on the light, something stopped me: a noise, but it
wasn’t a noise. It was a sensation rather than a sound. Someone
wass outsi
wa outside
de the back
back door. Steppi
Stepping b
ba
ack iinto
nto the room
room, I
covered Aurélie’s mouth with my hand and shook her. The
change in her breathing told me she’d woken.

141
 A gentle, barely perceptible scratching came from the
door, metal on metal. I knew every noise the building made,
but this was different. The lock was being picked. It seemed to
take
ta ke an
an age
age;; J ean-
n-P
Pierre
rre wa
wass pa
patitie
ent iiff noth
nothiing eellse
se.. T
The
he tim
time
dragged as we breathed shallow breaths, silence our foremost
concern. There was a click, and the door moved less than an
inch. The lock was released, but a bolt held the door from
opening. The wood bowed, contorting as whoever was outside
appl
ppliied pres
pressure
sure.. Y
Yiielding
ding to the exerte
xerted d forc
force
e, the screws on
the bolt creaked and with a loud crack the hasp broke free.
Je
J ean-P
-Pie
ierrre entered, the door clos
losin ing
g gently behin indd him.
im. He
was breathing, deep and loud, a sound of relief. It was obvious
he thought he was alone.
The
Th e moment he switc itched on the lig ligh
ht in the corridoidor, I
sprang
pu
pushshiingout
hi
him
mfrom
gaimy
agai nsttroom,
ns the walgrabbing
the wa ll. A
Auré him
uréllie ollby
fol the
lowe
owed throat
d me
m e, butand
sstood
tood
still, her eyes locked onto his.
‘Hit him, for fuck’s sake,’ I gasped, but she remained
petrified, the ham press raised but motionless. He tried to
speak, but my grip on his throat only allowed a gurgling croak
to emerge.
‘Aurélie,’ I snapped. ‘Hit him, now.’
She remained frozen, her eyes wide, mouth open, but
trapped in a moment of paralysis. He croaked again, so I
pushed
collapsingmyasthumbs intoHis
I pressed. hiseyes
larynx, feeling
rolled his neck
up, his windpipe
trembling
as he sp
spaasm
smeed. I pul
pullled hi
hiss he
heaad tow
towa ards me, thethen
n sm
smaashe
shed
d iitt
back into the wall with all the force I could muster. Eyes
rolling, he sagged. Pulling his head back, I drove it into the
wall again and again, until he slumped to the floor.
Auréli
urélie lowered h he
er arms a and
nd dropped
dropped the ha ham m press, but
otherwise didn’t move or speak. She watched as I dragged the
uncons
un conscicious
ous J ean-
n-P
Pierre
rre up the stai
stairs iinto
nto tthe
he cutti
cutting
ng room
room.. By
By
the time she followed me up, I had him in the walk-in fridge,
142
his hands bound and looped over a hook. He swayed as I
pushed past him, his feet a few inches off the floor.
‘What do we do now?’ Aurélie asked. The question was
childlike, and I knew she was afraid of hearing the answer.
‘We wait,’ I replied, matter-of-factly. ‘Go downstairs and
get some sleep. I have work to do. The cold air will bring him
round soon enough and we’ll find out what he and Sebastian
have planned.’
‘I can’t sleep. There must be something I can do.’
‘Fine. Stay here and watch him until he regains
consciousness.’
‘And then?’
‘Come and get me.’
I finished stuffing the saucissons and hung them on a
rack Outside,
day. to dry, before
the skysetting about preparing
was taking on a reddish thetinge.
freshDawn
pork for
wasthe
approaching, and we needed to decide whether we dealt with
Je
J ean-P -Pie
ierrre there and then, or left
left him hangin ing
g in the frfrid
idg
ge
untitill the cl
un close
ose of busi
busine
ness.
ss. Auré
Auréllie sesee
emed pe petri
triffied by the
thought
thoug ht of leaving
ving him
him the
there
re u
unti
ntill eve
veni
ning.
ng. I reassure
ssuredd he
her the
fridge would be soundproof, but she wanted to get on with
things.
Je
J ean-P
-Pie
ierrre sobbed as we walk lke
ed in
intto the frfrid
idg
ge. Th
Thee
stench gave away the fact he’d shat himself.
‘Aurélie, what are you doing?’ he blubbered.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Why are you robbing
the shop, my shop, for Sebastian?’
‘What makes you think I’m robbing the shop?’ he said,
his voice trembling.
‘I heard you and Sebastian scheming the other night. You
didn’t see me, but I heard you talking.’
Je
J ean-Pierre’s face was the epitom
pitomee of pani
panic.
c. I t was
laughable how shocked he was at being caught out
Aurélie, you don’t understand. Sebastian asked
‘No, Aurélie, asked m
me
e
143
to do this for him, but I didn’t want to do it. My intention was
to tell you what he was planning.’
ou’re a fucking liar,’ I said, running the blade of a
‘You’re
‘Y
slicing knife up the length of my sharpening steel. ‘If you
intended to tell her, why did you break in rather than going to
her house?’
‘Sebastian wants your father’s recipes,’ he said to
Aurélie, but his eyes never left the blade in my hand. ‘I thought
thought
the best thing to do was get them before he did and give them
to you. I can’t believe what he’s thinking; I tried to tell him
how you were the best thing that’s ever happened to him—’
Sickened by his lame excuses, I flashed the blade across
his belly and he squirmed. The cloth of his shirt was sliced
open, a welling stain of red spreading on the edges of the
cotton‘It’s
where I’d enough,’
sharp cut him. I muttered. ‘Now, tell the truth or
you’ll bleed a lot more.’
‘Aurélie, please, make this mad bitch stop,’ he sobbed.
‘I’m telling the truth, really I am. Why would I lie?’
Aurél
urélie looked a att me
me and sh
shrugge
rugged.
d. I pa
passe
ssed
d he
herr the kni
kniffe
and we
went
nt ove
overr to J ean-
n-PPierre
rre.
‘You’re a dirty boy,’ I muttered. ‘You’ve shit your pants.’
I unfastened his belt, unzipped his trousers and let them
fall. Then I jerked down his soiled underwear, before turning to
Aurélie.
‘He’s a lying bastard and he came here to rob you. Cut
his cock off.’
‘No,’ he howled. ‘Please stop; I was going to tell you
what Sebastian had planned.’
Aurélie didn’t
didn’t move, so I brought up the steel hard into
his testicles. His entire body twitched, and an explosion of
vomit muffled his scream.
‘Cut off his cock, now!’ I ordered, but still she didn’t
move.
144
 ‘Please, Aurélie, I have a wife…’ he whimpered through
puke
puke--sta
staine
ned
d li
lips.
ps.
‘Does she know who else you stick your cock in?’ I
asked.
‘I’m faithful to her,’ he blubbed, addressing Aurélie but
responding to my comment.
‘Faithful, like Sebastian?’ I asked.
As I spoke, I saw Aurélie tense, her hand gripping harder
on the knife handle.
‘Did you know?’ she demanded, stepping towards Jean-
Pierre.
‘No, I promise I didn’t,’ he sobbed.
‘I haven’t told you what I was asking about, so your
response tells me you did know,’ she said, her dem
demea
eano
nour
ur
changing fromdriving
hurt of deceit that ofher
a shocked child‘Did
inner rage. to anyou
angry
bothwoman, the
have a good
laugh at me? Did he tell you what he did with her, the sordid
details? Did you smile and chat with me knowing what he’d
done?’
She stepped towards him, the knife raised, her hand
trembling. Waving the blade like an accusing finger, she raised
her eyebrows, awaiting an answer.
‘Don’t stab him,’ I said. ‘You’ll soil the meat. Cut his
throat. Slice like you would an aged ham, long and deep. That
way you’ll hit both arteries.’
‘Shut up,’ Jean-Pierre snapped at me.
‘Well?’ she barked, ‘What have you got to say for
yourself?’
‘Honestly Aurélie, I told him he was in the wrong. I
begged him to stop seeing her and asked him to tell you the
truth, but he refused.’
Hearing his pathetic pleading, I laughed.
‘It’s odd how you’ve become a paragon of virtue now
you’re hanging on a meat hook. Shame you weren’t so

145
moralistic before you tried to rob her.’
Ignori
gnoring
ng me
me, he remained
ned focus
focuse
ed on A urél
urélie.
‘I tried to tell him to stop, to be faithful to you, but he
didn’t listen. Genevieve talked to Elodie too, but she was the
same.’
Aurélie’s level of anger spiked at the mention of
Genevieve.
‘Did everyone know about this?’ she snapped. ‘Were you
all laughing at me? Sebastian, Elodie, you, Genevieve; all
sne
sn eering
ring a
att stu
stupi
pid
d Aurél
urélie whi
whille you wa
waiited
ted to rob me
me and fuck
fuck
me over.’
Stepping closer, she swung the blade, hacking at his
throat. It was a clumsy move, lacking skill and accuracy. The
blood ran, but she’d missed his arteries.
arteries. He was scream
screaming,
ing,

howling,
told him ifmore in shock
he calmed thanIpain.
down, couldI took
help.the
He knife off her and
quietened,
listening to me for the first time.
‘Jean-Pierre, we could leave you here, locked in the
fridge, and you would bleed to death. It would be a slow and
miserable end. However, we’re busy and need to clean up your
shit and puke before any cross-contamina
contamination
tion occurs, so I’m
happy to help you out so we can get on with our labours.’
He didn’t reply, his breath rasping as he trembled with
shock.
shock. I turne
turned
d to Aurél
urélie and shrug
shrugge
ged.
d.
‘I offered to help him, but he’s not interested. He wants a
slow, lingering death, so we’d best get on with our work.’
‘No,’ he sobbed. ‘Please help me.’
‘You
‘Y ou want my help
help?’
?’
‘Please.’
I stepped forward and with one stroke, brought the knife
across this throat, the blade severing the arteries and cutting
through the trachea with a slight crack as the gristle succumbed
to the ste
stee
el. A
Ass b
bllood spr
spraye
yed
d acr
across
oss the
the fri
ridge
dge,, spl
splaashi
shing
ng us
both, I looked at my sister.
146
She was smiling.

147
 Chapter 24: Aurélie Dup
Dupont
ont
The
The stench in the fr
frid
idg
ge was stomach churning
ing, but I w
wo
orked
alongside
soon overwGisèle,
hellmescrubbing
overwhe d the smelland
sme of fcleaning.
aeces andThe
ces and odour
vomi
vom of bleach
it. Despi
spite
te J ean-
Pierre’s corpse hanging in the middle of the fridge, Gisèle
seemed unconcerned
unconcerned by the body of the man she’d murdered.
Her focus was on cleaning up to make sure the other meat
didn’t become tainted.
I left to fetch more boiling water and on returning I
pulled the fridge door closed to maintain the temperature.
Gisèle jumped up and pushed it wide open. Her eyes blazed
with anger.
‘Never close the door when I am in the fridge,’ she
snapped. ‘If you ever do it again, it’ll be you up on the fucking
hook. Understand?’
I nodded and focused on scrubbing the floor, giving little
thought to her outburst. I was still disturbed by the ease with
which we’d murdered Jean-Pierre. As we worked, my shock
subsided and was replaced by a growing feeling of relief.
Killing Sebastian’s accomplice had been cathartic, an
inevitable event driven by the pain and torment created by
others.Gisèle carried on cleaning, and after a while I felt brave
enough to ask how we would deal with the body.
‘What do we do next?’
‘Once the fridge is spotless, we need to prepare the meat
and charcuterie for the shop.’
Her nonchalant attitude, her detachment from what
happened less than an hour ago, was staggering.
‘I mean what do we do with Jean -Pierre?’ It felt strange
saying his name out loud, so I repeated, ‘What do we do with
148
the body
bo dy.’
.’
‘We need to scrub and shave it, then scald the skin. Once
that’s done we’ll paunch it, b reak it down and process the meat.
The waste will need to be incinerated.’
She spoke without a flicker of emotion. In her mind, it
was no longer the corpse of a man we’d killed. She didn’t see a
dead person, a victim. To her, it was just meat, and I envied her
attitude.
With
Wi th th
the
e fridg
ridge
e sp
spotl
otle
ess, GGiisèl
sèle re
rem
moved
oved JeJ ean-Pierre’s
remaining clothes, cutting them off with a razor-sharp skinning
kniffe. J ean-
kni n-P
Pierre
rre ha
had
d seve
several
ral ta
tattoos
ttoos;; Gisè
sèlle sh
shook
ook her
her hea
head on
seeing them.
‘Aurélie, I need to prepare the produce for today’s trade.
Scrub the body, then shave off as much hair as you can. If it’s

difficulttto
scorch theheremove,
flesh
sh.. A burn
Affte
ter, it off
r, pour with
scal
sca a wa
lding
ding blow
terrtorch
wate ebut
over eve
verydon’t
ry inch
i nch of
skin. Once you’ve done that, slice off his tattoos. I should be
finished by then.’
I nodded
nodded a
and
nd smiled, not be
becau
cause
se I was happy
happy,, but
because
because I wante
wanted
d he
herr to sense my grati
gratitude.
tude.
By the time she returned, I’d washed and shaved the
body and was
was scalding the skin. Gisèle
Gisèle’’s nonchalant attitude
towards the corpse, treating it as a raw material, had rubbed off
on me. It
I t wa
wass ssurp
urpri
risi
sing
ng how
how ffa
ast it wa
wass ffor
or JJe
ean-P
n-Pierre to
to
become dehumanised.
towards which I was working with a piece of meat
I was ambivalent.
With the scalding complete, the skin had tightened.
Removing the tattoos was difficult. The tip of the knife blade
pulled rather than sliced, and the skin tore under the slightest
pressure. Gisèle took the knife from me and sliced off the
remaining tattoos with a simple motion. Her knife skills were
superb. Despite working with charcuterie every day, slicing
hams and saucissons, I couldn’t compete with her mastery
when using a blade.
149
 With the preparation complete, Gisèle placed a large
metal trough beneath the hanging carcass. Taking a hook knife,
she pierced the skin just below the sternum and drew the blade
down in one smooth motion, opening his abdomen down to the
groin.
I’d expected the guts to tumble out, but they remained in
place, the incision gaping but nothing pushing through.
Inserting her hand, Gisèle eased the intestines out in one long
mass of knotted innards. Pulling with a well-practiced artistry,
the bowels and stomach all came away and slipped as one into
the trough. Reaching into the cavity, she dragged out the last
bits of colon, leaving the kidneys, liver, heart and lungs still in
place.
The
Th e trough was repla
lacced with
ith a clea
lean metal tray, in
intto
which sheher
shrugged dropped the offal.
shoulders Wiping her hands clean, she
in apology.
‘I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier, Aurélie. I have a thing
about fridge and freezer doors. My mother died after being
trapped in a walk-in freezer.’
As I heard her words, a creeping ominous feeling
emanated from the pit of my stomach, like a flood of fiery ants
crawling through my flesh. I felt nauseous, struggling to catch
my breath as my skin froze and burned at the same time.
‘No, you’re wrong,’ I replied, my voice wavering as I
tried to suppress the dread. ‘It was my mother who was trapped
in a freezer.’
‘You’re talking shit,’ Gisèle snapped, anger clear in her
voice. ‘I know about my mother’s death and you don’t. She
died before you were born. She was probably alive when you
were conceived, but she died before your mother spat you out
for that bastard to mollycoddle.’
I breathed, slow and deep, trying to calm myself before
responding to Gisèle’s cruel taunting.
‘It was a winter’s day, snowing and bitterly cold. Th e

150
abattoir telephoned and said because of the weather there
would be no deliveries. So Papa—’
‘Don’t tell me: he went to the slaughterhouse himself?’
Gisèle interrupted.
‘Yes, he did. He didn’t want to let the customers down.
To
Towards the end of the day he telep
lephoned my mother—’
‘He remembered an order, didn’t he?’ Gisèle asked,
cutting across me, her words heavy with contempt. ‘He
remembe
berred an ord
orde
er and asked your
your mother to
to go to the
the shop
to be certain the customer could pick it up and wouldn’t be
disappointed. When he finally arrived home, he realised your
mother hadn’t returned and went out to look for her. He spent
several days searching—’
‘How do you know all this?’ I asked, a new terror

flooding
th of over
death
dea me. Didwas
my mother; Gisèle
she have something
sent away becauseto she’d
do with the
locked
Mama in the freezer and left her to die while Papa was out
searching? I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t speak, the words
wouldn’t flow
flow..
‘I know this,’ Gisèle said, ‘because it’s what happened to
my mothe
motherr w
whe
henn I was thirtee
thirteen
n ye
yea
ars old.
old. Af
Afte
terr they discove
discovered
red
her body, my father ... our father ... put on a show of grief to
the world, wailing and moaning and beating his chest, claiming
to be tortured by the thought she was dying in the freezer while
he was out searching. After making a public display of his
torment, he’d return home and the pretence of grief ended as
soon as
as the fro
ront
nt d
door
oor cl
close
osed.
d. IInsi
nside
de the house
house, all he ca
carred
about was sending me away so he could move your mother in;
your mother, who was bearing his child.’
Te
T ears tumbled
led down my cheeks, wave upon wave of
agony wracking my mind as Gisèle spoke. What she described
was how my mother died, but with one difference.
‘You’re wrong, so very wrong,’ I sobbed. ‘It devastated
Papa whe
when
nMMa
ama die
died. For
For many yea
yearrs he broo
broode
ded
d over his
his
151
part in her death, a darkness following him in everything he
did.
did. At
At titim
mes. the grie
grief was so overw
overwhe
hellming he wan
wante
ted
d to g
go
o
to the stone bridge outside town and cast himself into the river.
He wanted to die.’
‘He wanted to die,’ Gisèle said with cold detachment,
‘but he didn’t; did he?’

We sat in the corridor, waiting by the trolley of meat. Outside,

the streets were still silent. It wouldn’t be long until the early
risers turned up for work. Deliveries would arrive at the
marketplace, the traders would build up their stalls, and the
shopkeepers would start dressing their windows for the day.
Papa would open the shop, collect the meat, and lay out the
cabinets.
He’d already know I wasn’t at home. He always looked
in on me before leaving for work, and when he realised my bed
was empty, he’d know I was aware of Gisèle’s presence. If
what she’d said was true, he’d come straight to the shop in a
state of panic.
I imagined him struggling to think of an excuse why he
hadn’t told me about my sister, or ever mentioned the similarity
in the way our mothers had died. No doubt he’d claim he only
wanted to protect me. He’d tell me he cared for me and wanted
to be sure I didn’t suffer because of the cruel blow fate had
dealt us.
He’d lay the blame at the feet of an unfair world, the
selfishness of others, the two-faced attitudes of the townsfolk,
he’d even blame Gisèle, but one thing was certain: he’d present
himself as an innocent party in the whole situation. He’d
mention the darkness which haunted him, the struggle to
overcome his inner misery, and to top it off there’d be a
reference to the fact he’d struggled through it all because he

152
wanted to safeguard me from the horrors of life.
Outside, in the street, footsteps echoed on the cobbles.
We waited with patience, unspeaking, but aware of each other’s
emotions. Echoing footsteps approached, rapid, almost
anxious, before stopping at the front door. We both knew it was
him. The sound of a key in the lock was followed by the street
door opening.
‘Aurélie?’ he cried out into the empty shop. I didn’t
respond.
‘Aurélie, darling, what has she done to you?’
Again, I didn’t respond, but I heard a shallow sigh,
almost in desperation, emanate from my sister. Then the door
to the corridor burst open.
‘Aurélie,’ he shouted, ‘quickly, come to me. I won’t let

her hurt you.’

I remained seated next to Gisèle. Neither of us moved
and he didn’t come any closer. He was terrified, panic etched
on his face.
‘Papa, why did you lie to me?’
‘Whatever that vile bitch has said is a lie, a blatant
falsehood. She is a monster, an animal. She threatened me,
saying she would hurt you if I turned her away. She claimed to
be my
my daughter
daughter, but my daughter died. That’s why I never
talked about my first marriage. It was too painful.’
‘How did your daughter die; was she trapped in the
freezer?’ I asked. He looked stunned.
‘She died in childbirth, along with her mother. They both
died together and this thing,’ he raised a trembling finger to
‘this monster is trying to exploit my grief by
point at Gisèle, ‘this
threatening
threatenin g to hurt you unless I pay her off.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I said, but uncertainty raged inside
my head.
head. Pap
apaa had
had bee
been supporti
supportiveve my entire life, and he’d
never done wrong by me. This woman, this so-called sister, had
appeared from nowhere, killed my friends, and now was
153
turning me against my father.
‘Look at her,’ he spat. ‘She’s an abomination, a freak.
She looks nothing like me or her mother. Now, come here and
forgett every lie the bitch has told you.’
forge
I stood, and he held out his arms, more in hope than
expectation.
‘If you’re telling the truth, Papa, you can prove it. Show
me your charcuterie recipes.’
His mouth fell open, but no sound emerged.
‘Papa; if she is a liar, you must be the one who makes the
produce, and you must have the recipes. Show them to me and
I’ll believe you.’
He crumpled as if someone had delivered a hefty blow to
his guts. He was fading in front of me, defeated, bereft,
hopeless, exposed
speaking, for what
and stepping he was.
forward Gisèle
grasped hisrose,
arm,still without
jerking him
into the corridor before leading him away. I sat again and
awaited the arrival of my betrothed.
Sebastian rapped on the glass door, but when Papa didn’t
appear he tried the handle and, finding it open, walked into the
shop. Then he hesitated. It was an error. Papa would have kept
the door locked if the shop wasn’t open, even if he was out
front. Sebastian was suspicious.
‘Monsieur Dupont?’ he called out. ‘Hello?’
Withhim.
unnerved his knowledge of the planned burglary, the silence
‘Jean-Pierre?’ he hissed, nervousness obvious in his
voice. The lack of any response resulted in him muttering what
sounded like a prayer. Maybe he was praying for forgiveness,
but I doubted it. His pleas would have been to protect himself
from being found out.
Worried he might bolt, I shouted, ‘Sebastian, I’m in the
back room.
room. Can you help me?’
‘Aurélie, is that you?’

154
 ‘Of course it’s me; who else wou ld it be? Now, come and
help me before I drop these trays.’
I hea
heard him
him approa
pproach and as
as he came
came thr
through
ough the door, I
pushed him against the wall, the slicing knife against his neck.
‘Keep quiet, Sebastian,’ I laughed, ‘or I’ll cut your dirty
cheating throat.’

155
 Chapter 25: Gisèle Dupont
With
Wi th m
my
y fa
fathe
therr tr
truss
usse
ed a
and
nd g
ga
agge
gged,
d, I wen
wentt ba
back
ck to
to Aurél
urélie. She
had Sebastian against the wall in the corridor, a knife at his
throat.
‘Remember what I told you,’ I said as I watched him
tremble. ‘A single consistent slice with enough pressure to
sever both arteries and open the trachea.’
She looked towards me and shook her head.
‘I want answers from him first, and I don’t want his death
to be quick. He didn’t make things easy for me, so why should
I make it easy for him?’
At the menti
ntion
on of a sl
slow
ow dea
death, Seba
basti
stia
an m
ma
ade a
whimpering noise. A dark patch grew on the front of his
trousers as he pissed his pants in fear.
I went
went iinto
nto th
the
e sh
shop
op and
and llocke
ocked
d th
the
e front door
door.. Atta
A ttachi
ching
ng
a scrawled note reading, ‘Closed due to unforeseen
circumstances, sorry for any inconvenience’ to the window, I
pulled down the blinds. Passing back into the cutting room, I
locked the door behind me. Sebastian was standing by the
block near the walk-in fridge. He was weeping like a child, his
limbs trembling as he undressed. Aurélie wasn’t angry or
emotional;
her formershe was detached and unperturbed by the plight of
fiancé.
Glancing at me, his eyes pleading for mercy, trousers
around his ankles, he muttered, ‘Help me, please.’
‘You don’t know me, do you?’ I a sked. He shook his
head, fear pronounced in his expression.
‘It’s a funny thing, Sebastian. You’ve never seen me
before, but I’ve seen you, late at night in th
thee square. You were
fucking your slut in the bushes. Your trousers were around your
ankles then as well. For a paunchy little shit, you seem to have
156
a big problem keeping your pants up, don’t you?’
Panicked, his eyes locked on to Aurélie’s and he
whimpered, ‘She’s lying.’
‘Did you know the police are looking for whoever had
sex with Elodie before she died?’ Aurélie asked, her tone
accusing. ‘If they find him, the mystery lover, they’re
convinced they’ll have found her killer. If you didn’t fuck her,
you won’t mind talking to the officer handling the
investigation, will you? After all, you’ve told me Gisèle is
lying when she says she saw the two of you together,
fornicating in the bushes.’
Sebastian wept, tears cascading down his cheeks.
‘Aurélie, I’m so sorry. I was weak. She tempted me and I
didn’t want to … I love you so much and I can’t explain—’

‘Which
spitting hand
out the didwith
words you disgust.
touch her with?’ Aurélie demanded,
‘What?’
‘Which fucking hand did you touch her with? Which one
rubbed her sex?’
‘Aurélie, please, stop this.’
He knew she wanted revenge, an act of retribution which
would
would cost hi
him de
dea
arly
rly. A
Ass I wa
watche
tched
d hi
him tre
trem
mble
ble, it wa
wass cl
cle
ear
he didn’t understand
understand how far she’d be willing to go to pay back
the hurt he’d caused.
‘Stop being a spineless shit and answer me: left hand or
right hand?’ Aurélie demanded.
A slow movement, a feeble shake, his right hand gestured
to admit its guilt. In a blur of motion, Aurélie grabbed his wrist
and wres
wrestltle
ed hi
hiss ha
hand
nd iinto
nto the feed tube
tube of the mince
ncer.
r. In
In
shock, he didn’t resist, and by the time he realised what was
happening and tried to break free, she’d hit the switch.
A tortured scream echoed through the cutting room. He
jolt
jolte
ed, sprin
ing
gin
ing
g fre
free fr
fro
om her grasp befo
forre collap
llapsin
ing
g to his
knees, a guttural scream accompanying his writhing as he held
157
aloft his hand, only his thumb still attached. His fingers were
nothing more than torn stumps with fragments of bone, blood
spurting as his quickening heart rate pumped gore into the air.
Ribbons of tendon flapped as the blood sparkled in the morning
light.
He tried to rise, but as he did she rushed forwards, a fat
basher in her hand. She swung it so hard she almost toppled
over, and all the force crashed into his temple, sending him
sprawling across the floor. Stunned, he didn’t move, laid out on
the stone flags. The crimson puddle around his mangled hand
spread across the floor.
I fetched a bucke
bucket of water
water and toge
togethe
therr we turned
turned hi
him
m
over. Pouring a steady stream of icy water onto his face, he
jerrked awake, spitt
je ittin
ing
g and gurglin
ling
g. Au
Aurrélie took hold of his
hair and pulled
‘Did his head
you gaze intoupright.
her eyes while you fucked her?’ she
asked, her rage intensifying.
‘Please Aurélie, look at my hand. What have you done to
me? Stop now, before it’s too late.’
I tossed the last of the water into his face and shouted,
‘You fucking little shit; she asked you a question. Answer her.’
‘Please let me go; I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done,’
he pleaded. ‘I’ll disappear and you’ll never see me again. Just
stop this insanity.’
‘Did … you ... look … into … her ... eyes … when ... you
... fucked ... her?’
She fired each word at him with venom, every individual
pronouncement like a bullet of contempt, a surge of bitterness
accompanying every ricocheting syllable.
‘No, I didn’t. I regretted every second of it and wished it
had never happened.’
‘Liar,’ she screamed, grabbing his head, forcing her
thumbs into his eyes sockets as if to burst his eyeballs. He
shook his head violently and lashed out, his bloody stump of a
158
hand cracking her across the face, knocking her to the floor.
Stepping forward, I landed a punch, driving my fist into his
throat.
He flopped backwards to the floor, curling up in a
defensive ball, gagging and coughing and struggling to suck in
air. I reached down and dragged him to his feet, steering him
with force into the walk-in fridge. As I released my grip, he
sank to his knees.
It took him a few moments to realise what was hanging
before him, the body clean and shining, hairless, the skin taut
and scrubbed, the thorax open with all guts, organs and viscera
removed. His body shook as a realisation of his fate coursed
through him.
‘Jean-Pierre, oh no,’ he sobbed.

‘Are youunderstand…’
‘I don’t surprised to see your friend here?’
‘You might think you can lie to Aurélie, but don’t make
the mistake of thinking you can lie to me, you dirty little
fucker. You sent your friend to rob Aurélie … to rob us … and
now look at him.’
‘I didn’t send anyone to rob her,’ he muttered, the pain
stripping him of any aggression. ‘It had nothing to do with me;
maybe it was my father, Gaston.’
‘Is there no one you wouldn’t sell out to save your own
hide?’
Sebastian didn’t have time to answer. From the walk-in
door a fierce shriek of hatred ripped open the morning air.
Aurélie dashed in, a cleaver clutched in both hands. Swinging
it with all her strength, it arced downwards into the back of
Sebastian’s neck. His head jolted forward, then back as she
pulled the blade clear. The second swing hit home, cutting
further through his neck. His head nodded forwards, only
connected to his torso by a thin piece of flesh. A scarlet cloud
sparkled in the air, the droplets like miniature rubies as his
159
blood spurted into the dull light. With the third swing, his head
rolled across the floor.
‘Three cuts?’ I said with surprise. ‘That’s not good
enough. We need to work on your cleaver skills.’

We spent the rest of the morning cleaning and breaking down

Sebastian’s body. Aur
Auréélie remembeberred m
most
ost of the proce
process
ss
from de
dea
aling with
with JJe
ean-
n-P
Pierre
rre and worked
worked wel
well, an a
abl
ble
e
assistant. With the body bled, she set about scrubbing, shaving
and scalding the skin. After I’d gutted the carcass, we cleaned
the walls, ceiling and floor of the walk-in fridge.
It was early afternoon by the time we’d finished, so I
preparred a pot of coff
prepa coffee a
and
nd ffe
etched
tched sau
sausa
sage
ge a
and
nd bread.
bread. A
Ass we
ate, Aurélie didn’t mention Sebastian or our f ather. She made
no reference to the killings. She seemed revitalised, as if a
weight had been lifted off her. Eyes shining, a youthful giggle
in her voice indicating excitement, she talked of the future.
‘Together we could not only make this shop great aga in,
but we could create a destination for gourmands and epicures,
producing the finest charcuterie ever made. With your skills
and my vision, Dupont’s can become a name revered by all in
the culinary world.’
‘You said us, together,’ I muttered, my mouth ha lf-filled
with bread and saucisson. ‘Do you mean that?’
Aurélie smiled in a childlike way and said, ‘Of course I
mean it. I can’t do it without you, and you can’t do it without
me, but together ... anything is possible. When I’m with you,
there’s something I can’t describe. It’s as if I was never whole
until now.’
I smiled at her, but uncertainty raged inside my head.
Even though I retaine
tained
d a detachm
detachment when harharvesti
vesting
ng m
me
eat,
there was always a degree of excitement, almost a high, when
160
ki
killling.
ng. J us
ustt as
as hu
hunt
nte
ers e
expe
xperi
rieence the
the th
thri
rilll whe
when
n tra
tracki
cking
ng and
stalking prey before taking it down with a single well-placed
shot, so finding a suitable victim and slaughtering them created
a mental buzz. She might be happy at the moment, but her
emotions could change when the enormity of what she’d done
hit home.
The
Th e killin
illing
gs had been emotioionnally charged. She’d killed
her fiancé who’d cheated and betrayed her trust. She’d helped
slaughter his best friend, who’d no doubt sat back and laughed
as Sebastian humiliated her with his duplicity. Her father, who
had violated her trust, would be next.
Finishing our lunch, she said, ‘We already have two
swine in the fridge; let’s deal with our third little pig.’
Aurél
urélie col
colllected
cted the knive
knives,
s, bone
bone sa
saw
w, cle
cleave
verr and
hooks, laying
cartridge into them out onbolt
the captive thepistol.
block,With
whilethat
I loaded
done,the
we went
to the walk-in freezer.
Tied
Tie d to the wall rackin
ingg, his lips
lips blu
luee, a fine
fine dustin
ingg of
ice crystals sparkling on his hair, was our father. Across his
nostrils, a dribble of snot had frozen. His breathing was
shallow, his body already shutting down because of the cold.
As I moved
oved in
in to st
stun
un hi
him, Auré
Auréllie rea
reache
chedd ou
outt to stop
me.
‘Wait,’ she said, kneeling next to him and removing the
gag from his mouth.
‘Why, Papa?’ she asked.
‘I did it all to protect you,’ he croaked, his voice thin and
weak, the sound accompanied by steam off his breath in the
freezing air.
‘No Papa, not why did you try to control my life. Why
did
did you shun
shun Gi
Gisè
sèlle? S
She
he wa
wass your da
daugh
ughte
ter,
r, just
j ust a
ass I was
was,, but
you treated her with such a lack of kindness.’
His frosted eyes shifted, looking at me in a way he hadn’t
looked at me since before my mother died.
161
 ‘Gisèle, I wanted to love you; I tried to love you, God
knows I couldn’t have tried any harder. After yo u were born, I
worked so hard to make a success of things, to look after you
and you
yourr mother.
other. I wa
wass he
here
re a
att al
all hours,
hours, work
workiing,
ng, bu
butt your
mother grew dissatisfied with me. She started going out alone,
meeting new people, and then she met another man—’
I stepped forward and placed the captive bolt pistol
against his forehead. He fell silent, knowing what was coming.
He didn’t flinch or wince, nor did he close his eyes. They
remained fixed onto mine, until the deafening bang of the
charge forced the bolt home, and he slumped forwards.

162
 Chapter 26: Aurélie Dup
Dupont
ont
It only took a few days to plan for our future. Deciding about
the busi
busine
ideas. ness
We ss was
was e
eaasy: ithe
discontinued t was as iifmeat
fresh f Gisè
sèltrade.
le andThe
I ha
had
d the sa
sam
butcher m e
from
the market agreed to pay a good price for our order book. We
focused on charcuterie. It was better to excel at something than
waste time on the mundane.
Gisèle was adamant she didn’t want to trade under the
Dupont name, so we neede
neededd a new
new ide
identi
ntity.
ty. I ag
agrreed
eed on the
condition she moved out of the back rooms of the shop and
lived at the house with me.
No one seemed surprised when we told them Papa had
retired because of his nerves. The townsfolk all agreed the
stress of what had happened would be enough to push anyone
over the edge. Everyone accepted the explanation he’d moved
away to the coast without any question; our story was so
mundane they accepted it as the truth.
The
Th e Ro
Rocche fa
fam
mily kept away fr
fro
om us, shamed by the
actions of their son. Once news broke about his liaisons with
Elodie, the local police issued a warrant for his arrest, but
Sebastian had disappeared. Despite a manhunt, there was no
trace ofcited
many him.his
The police suspected
disappearance he’d fledofthe
as evidence hiscountry,
guilt. and
Once or twice Gaston came snooping, trying to get me on
my own, wanting to stick his nose into my business, but when I
suggested he should have his discussions with the police, he’d
slink away like a rat.
I was considered a victim, the poor girl who’d suffered
because of the conniving actions of a murderer who tried to
trick her into a sham marriage. People left me alone, and they
also treated Gisèle with great respect. Why wouldn’t they;

163
when Papa suddenly left because of his health, she was the
half-sister who had rushed to my side, offering support.
I f anyone thought
thought we were lying,
ying, the
they
y ne
never
ver sa
saiid as
as
much.

As the grand reope openi

ning
ng approache
approached, d, a crcrowd
owd ffor
orm
med outsi
outside
de
the shop, eager to see if we could live up to our claim of
offering the finest charcuterie ever available in Sainte-Marie-
sur-
su r-A
Ariè
riège.
ge. The shshop
op wind
window ow,, respl
respleend
nde ent with
with produ
producece,, wa
wass
concealed behind the closed blinds. The new sign above the
door, re
readi
ding
ng L es Deu
Deuxx Soe
Soeursurs Cha
Charcuti
rcutieers, was
was cove
covered
red wi
with
th a
large tri
tricol
colour
our.. Mayor
yoreess Le
L ecl
cle
erc ha
had d agre
agreeed to pe
perf
rform
orm the
opening ceremony.
As we stood iinn the sh
shop
op awa
awaiiting
ting noon,
noon, Ma
M ayore
yoress
L ecl
cle
erc asked about ththee te
terr
rriibl
ble
e bus
busiine
ness
ss with
with Seb
Sebaasti
stiaan aand
nd
the Lloris girl.
‘Mayoress Leclerc,’ I said, ‘it remains a tragedy to me
and one I prefer not to think about in too much detail. It was a
terr
terriibl
ble
e sh
shock
ock whe
when
nEEllodie
odie di
died, an
and
d whe
whenn I su
susp
spe
ecte
cted
d
Sebastian Roche, my ex-fiancé, was involved, I confronted
him. He confessed to his infidelity, and knowing I’d inform the
authorities, he then disappeared. Whether he killed Elodie or
not wi‘It
ll remain a mystery until the police find him.’
seems the men in this town have a habit of
disappearing,’ the Mayoress said, adding, ‘well, the ones who
were not to be trusted. However, the outcome seems to be
favourable for those they’ve left behind.’
favourable
‘You’ve had no news about ... Monsieur Leclerc?’ I
asked, careful not to call him Mayor. When the bigwigs at the
Town Hall realised he wasn’t coming back, they’d elected her
in his place, and she deserved the title more than he ever had.
For many in the town, his disappearance was a relief. The
164
gossips said he’d gone off with a younger woman. Others
suspected his brother-in-law had killed him, but no one knew
the truth.
‘Not a word,’ she said, ‘which is how I like it. And your
father?’
‘He’s enjoying his retirement,’ I said. The lie sounded
holllow and I was sur
hol sure
e she suspe
suspected
cted what h
had
ad really hap
happe
pene
ned,
d,
but neither of us were
were about to risk the out
outcomes
comes we’d
achieved.
Thrroughout the conversatio
Th ion
n, Gisè
isèle busie
ied
d herself
checking over the cabinet display, moving saucissons so they
lined up, ensuring the rillette pots were uniform in their
placement.
‘I was extremely fortunate that Gisèle agreed to move

backhappy
said, to Sainte-Marie-sur-
to change the Ariège
subject.to‘Her
helpexperienc
me run the business,’
e and skill inI
formulations has made this possible. Did you know she was
taught by Hugo Picard, the man who started this shop many
years ago?’
‘I remember Hugo,’ Mayoress Leclerc said. ‘When I was
a young girl we would come to town on market days. Our
supper was always a special treat. It was the finest charcuterie
I’ve ever had, and I hope the quality will be as high as it was
back then.’
‘I hope so too,’ I replied.
A few minutes before noon, we rolled up the blinds to
reveal the window displays. People crowded in, their eyes
feasting on the selections of hams, patés, puddings and
saucissons. The customers were licking their lips in
anticipation, mentally deciding which products they wanted to
buy.
There was a large sabodet made from Father Chenevert’s
head, cured
hea cured sla
slabs of ba
bacon
con from
from the back
back of J ean-
n-PPierr
rre
e,
pithiviers filled with a farcis of Sebastian’
Sebastian’ss liver and kidneys,

165
dried lardons of Papa’s shoulders, a whole boned and rolled
cured thigh encrusted with herbs, head cheese, rillettes, rillions,
terrines and quenelles using up every part of the cadavers we’d
harvested. Strings of andouillettes in tubs of aspic glistened
alongside galantines, pickled tongues and jars of tripes.
As I un
unllocked the door,
door, Mayores
yoresss Le
Lecle
clerc touche
touched d my
arm, a gentle touch, and said, ‘I am sure your business will be a
success, but please, both of you, take care. There will be people
who’ll try to cheat and deceive you. They’ll attempt to discover
and exploit your secrets for their own gain. You, like me, are
free from those who would control and manipulate you, and it’s
the way you need to stay. Guard your future well, because
some people like nothing more than to destroy others.’
‘We will take care, the greatest of care,’ I replied.

warmth‘DoI’dnot worry,
rarely seenMayoress
from her.Leclerc,’
‘We know Gisèle
the value of a
said with
secrets, everyone’s secrets, and we shall take them with us to
our graves.’

166
 Boudin Noir de la Mairie
INGREDIENTS
1.65 Litres Blood
1.2kg Fat (mix of hard fat from body cavity and soft back fat)
4kg Flesh (Thigh or Upper Arm)
600g Uncooked Barley
1.3 Litres Light Stock
650g Farina
250g Coarse Salt
175g Black Pepper, Ground
40g Onion Powder
15g
20clMace, Ground
Calvados

METHOD
1: Cube the fat, sprinkle with salt and set aside for 24 hours.
2: Rinse and set out on trays; allow to dry in fridge.
3: Boil the barley in stock until soft. Drain and cool.
4: Mince the flesh on a coarse plate.
5: Mix all ingredients together and refrigerate for 24 hours.
6: Poach
7: Stuff into large
gently forcasings anddotienot
one hour; off.let water temperature rise
above 80°C.
8: Hang to cool and dry.

167
 Hôtel de Ville Rillettes
INGREDIENTS
5kg Flesh (Thigh; do not remove fat)
110g Coarse Salt
110g Brown Sugar
25g Cure #1 (6.
(6.25
25 pe
per cce
ent Sodium
Sodium Nitri
trite
te))
15g Black Pepper, Ground
15g White Pepper, Ground
15g Garlic Powder
5g Cloves, Ground
2.5g Mace, Ground
Rendered fat as needed.

METHOD
1: Le
L eave flesh whol
whole e. P
Pa
ack wi
with
th th
the
e othe
otherr ing
ingre
redi
die
ents
(excluding the rendered fat) into a container with as little air as
possible. Refrigerate for 7 days, mixing every 24 hours.
2: Remove flesh from the container, rinse and dry.
3: Cut flesh into large chunks. Place in a steel pan with a splash
of water to prevent sticking. Cook in oven (140°C) for 2 hours.
Stir, adding
another a little water if needed, and return to oven for
2 hours.
4: If the flesh is falling apart it is done. Allow to cool but do
not allow the fat to solidify.
5: Place the meat in a bowl and stir vigorously so it breaks up,
adding rendered fat to give it a smooth glossy finish. Taste and
adjust seasoning.
6: Pack into jars and top with rendered fat to seal. Refrigerate
for 7 days to allow flavours to meld.

168
 Saucisson d’Albert
INGREDIENTS
5kg Flesh (70:30 Meat and Fat)
8.5g Cure #1 (6.25 per cent Sodium Nitrite)
80g Coarse Salt
10g Brown Sugar
8g Quatre Épices
50ml Madeira
125g Crushed Pistachios

METHOD
1: Cube the flesh and add the salt, sugar, cure and spices.
2: Refrigerate for 48 hours.
3: Mince the flesh coarsely, add the Madeira and nuts, mix
well, and stuff the mixture into Ox runners.
4: Refrigerate for a further 48 hours.

TO COOK
Poach gently in stock and white wine for 40 minutes.
Serve with beans and Dijon mustard.

Quatre Épices (To make 8g)

3g Ground Black Pepper
2g Ground White Pepper
1g Ground Ginger

169
1g Ground Nutmeg
1g Ground Cloves

Pieds de Danseurs Farcis

INGREDIENTS

For the Forcemeat

2.5kg Flesh (70:30 Meat and Fat)
4.5g Cure #1
41g Coarse (6.25 per cent Sodium Nitrite)
Salt
10g Brown Sugar
3g Black Pepper, Ground
3g White Pepper, Ground
2g Pink Pepper, Ground
1g Mace, Ground
25ml White Wine

For
Feet,the
2 Fe Filling
washe
shed
d and sha
shaved
ved
2 Onions
2 Le
Leeks
2 Carrots
2 Ba
Bay LLe
eave
vess
Pinch of Coarse Salt
Ground Black Pepper

170
METHOD
1: Start with the Forcemeat. Mince the flesh coarsely and add
the sa
sallt, sug
suga
ar, cure a
and
nd sp
spiice
ces.
s. Set asi
aside
de for 48 hours.
hours. A
Add
dd th
the
e
wine and rest for a further 48 hours.
2: Place the feet plus all other ingredients for the filling in a
pan. Cover with water and simmer gently for six hours. Drain
the pan, discard the vegetables. Pick the flesh and tendons from
the feet, ensuring the small bones in the toes are all removed.
Season and chop.
3: Roll out the forcemeat on butcher’s wax paper and add the
feet tendon and meat to form a central cylindrical shape. Roll
the forcemeat around it and tie the ends of the wax paper to
create a ballotine.
4: Poach gently for 60 minutes at 80°C and allow to cool.
5: Unwrap
6: Serve and
with fry in hot
steamed oil to crisp
potatoes and the outer surface.
mustard.

Andouillettes de Sebastian

INGREDIENTS
1.2kg Stomach
1.2kg Small Intestine
1.2kg La
Large I ntesti
ntestine
ne
1.2kg FFllesh (Le
(L ean)
400g
400 gSSmmoked LaL ardons
80g Quatre Épices
3 Onions (Studded with 5 cloves each)
Milk (as required)
50ml Red Wine
171
METHOD
1: Place stomach and intestines in a large pot with the onions.
Cover with milk and bring to boil. Simmer for 30 minutes.
2: Drain guts and allow to cool. Discard the onions.
3: Mi
M ince the guts
guts and
and flesh wi
with
th a coa
coarse
rse pl
plate
te.. Add
Add the spi
spice
cess
and red wine and allow to rest for 24 hours in fridge.
4: Stuff into hog casings and allow another 24 hour rest.

TO COOK
Brown in a pan with butter, before placing in a medium hot
oven for 20 minutes. Serve with Dijon mustard.

Quatre Épices (To make 80g)

30g Ground Black Pepper
20g Ground White Pepper
10g Ground Ginger
10g Ground Nutmeg
10g Ground Cloves

Fromage de Tête Chenevert

INGREDIENTS
1 Priest’s Head
2 Priest’s Feet
2 Onions
4 Cloves
16 Black Peppercorns
2 Ba
Bay LLe
eave
vess
172
10g Tarragon
10g Thyme
5g Sage
1 Tablespoon White Wine Vinegar
Salt to taste

METHOD
1: Place all ingredients in a large pan and cover with cold
water.
2: Bring to a boil and simmer for 3 hours.
3: Remove head and feet and allow to cool.
4: Remove all meat from the head and feet. Retain the meat
plus the nose, tongue and ears.
5: Return the bones and gristle to the pan and reduce the stock
by half. Strain into a bowl.
6: Allow the reduced stock to cool and place in fridge
overnight. Once it is set, remove any fat from the top. Place the
jelly
jelly in a saucepan and reheat until liq
liqu
uid
id..
7: Chop the meat and apply salt as required. Place the meat in a
bowl and cover with the stock. Allow to cool and refrigerate
until it is set and sliceable.

Paté de Jean-Pierre
INGREDIENTS
1kg Le
Lean F
Fllesh
1kg Fatty Flesh (40% Fat)
1kg Smoked Bacon
1kg LLiiver
ver
173
3 Fresh Duck Eggs
10g Cracked Black Pepper
20g
20gC Crus
rushe
hedd Jun
J uniiper
per Be
Berri
rries
10g Ma
Mace
5g Cloves
5g Fres
Fresh hTThym
hyme e L eave
vess
4 Ba
Bay LLeeave
vess
1 Tablespoon White Wine Vinegar
300ml White Wine
25ml Cognac
Salt to taste

METHOD
1: Mi
M ince the meats using
using a coarse pl
pla
ate
te..
2: Mix all the ingredients, excluding the bay leaves.
3: Press into terrine moulds and place the bay leaves on top of
the mixture.
4: Cover the terrine moulds with buttered parchment and place
into a Bain Marie, with boiling water covering the bottom two
thirds of the moulds.
5: Cook in a moderate oven until the paté internal temperature
reaches 70°C.
6: Allow to cool and place in fridge overnight.

Lard de Jacques
INGREDIENTS
Use meat cut from the rib cage, running from under the collar
bone to the navel. Cut from the centre of the chest to the side of
174
the thorax and remove the ribs prior to curing.
For each kilogram of meat, use:
22g Coarse Salt
22g Brown Sugar
5g Cure #1 (6.
(6.25
25 per
per cent
cent Sodium
Sodium Nitritrite
te))
35ml Dark Rum

METHOD
1: Place all ingredients in a bag or tray and place in fridge.
2: Turn the meat and massage every day for 10 days.
3: Remove from bag or tray, rinse and allow to dry for 24
hours.
4: Smoke with oak. If cold smoking, smoke three times for
aro
round
und five hours wi
with
th a 24 hhour
our re
rest be
betwee
tween
neea
ach. I f hot
smoking, smoke at 100-120°C until an internal temperature of
69°C is reached.
5: Rest for 24 hours.

175
176
When Victor Holycross commits an act of heinous sacrilege at
the Festival of the Blessed Virgin, he unwittingly instigates a
curse which transforms his wife and daughter into the Devil’s
hairballs. To seek absolution for his sin and to lift the hairy
plague from his family, a penance is given: the recovery of
stolen religious relics. Under pressure from a less-than-Godly
Cardinal and his malicious henchman, Victor has little choice
but to accept his fate.
With a time frame of 40 days and 40 nights and a
decrepit bicycle as his sole form of transport, he finds himself
helped (and more often than not hindered) by a one-legged
whore, a talking dog with strange sexual proclivities and an
attack-nun.
As Victor is thrust into a maelstrom of demonic
confrontations,
he unholy
soon discovers alliances
that the worldand duplicitous
is a far relationships,
darker place than he
ever anticipated.

“If Dante’s Inferno, The Wizard of Oz, and Monty

Python’s Life of Brian had a sacrilegious threesome it
may look quite a bit like The Devil’s Hairball. It’s
wonderfully absurd, a bit whimsical, and completely
bizarre.”
Biblioculus.com

“One of the most bizarre stor

tory
y iide
dea
as I have
have come
come
across in recent years.”
Jim Mcleod – Gingernuts of Horror

177
 “Improper. That’s how to sum up Peter Caffrey’s
raucous horror/comedy The Devil’s
Devil’s Hairball … dirty
humour drips from every page.”
Kendall Reviews

178
 I: SACRILEGE AND
AND
PENANCE
The hig
The igh
h-pit
-pitcched shrie
iek
k jer
jerked Vict
Victor awake. Th
Thrrough his
hangover, he wrestled with uncertainty as to whether the sound
came from the real world or his unsettling dreams. A second
scream emanating from the bedroom increased his festering
sense of dread. With panic pulsing in his guts, he rose from the
chair and stumbled towards the noise.
‘Victor, what’s happened to me?’ his wife sobbed.
A thick coat of matted and dense black hair sprouted
from every inch of her skin, including the palms of her hands
and the soles of her feet. It was an unholy mess. In that
moment it was obvious her condition had been brought about
by his act of sacrilege.
Fighting to suppress his shock, he said the first thing that
came to mind.
‘You’re a bit on the hairy side.’
‘A bit hairy?’ Her voice indicated she was on the verge of
hysteria. ‘Is that all you can say: I’m a bit hairy? For the love
of God, do something.’

Victor
soothing fe
fetche
tones, tched
he d a comb
triedcom b ffrom
to run rom he
her dressi
dreher
it through ssing
ng tta
backable
blhair,
e. Mbut
utteri
uttethe
ring
ng
tee
teeth be
becam
came snagge
snagged d in
in a mass
ass of knots. It too
tookk a fe
few hef
hefty
ty
yanks to get it free.
‘Victor, stop. Don’t comb me, you imbecile.’
There had to be a way to reverse the curse. Somewhere in
The
the kitchen was a bottle of holy water, a long-forgotten gift
fro
rom
m he
herr mothe
mother.
r. A
Affter
ter a qui
quick sea
searrch he found it; the bottle
bottle
shaped like the Blessed Virgin, its screw cap a blue plastic
crown.
Shame flooded
ooded over
over hi
himm. La
L ast ni
night hi
hiss b
be
eha
havi
viour
our ha
had
d
179
been out of character. It might have been the drink, but even in
a state of intoxication his actions carried an unusual darkness.
Looking at the bottle, at the Blessed Virgin’s serene face, he
mouthed the word, ‘Sorry’.
The anguis
The ish
hed cry of his wife brought him back to his
senses. Clutching the bottle, he hurried to her side.
What would happen when he splashed holy water onto
the hairball? Would his wife writhe and scream out in pain?
Might the demons in her rise up and speak in tongues? Would
the hell-hair recede when doused with the holy water? There
was only one way to find out.
‘What the fuck are you doing, you halfwit,’ his wife
shouted. ‘Stop splashing me with water and fetch the doctor.’
‘Let me try one more thing,’ he pleaded. ‘Do you have

any hair removalto

Struggling cream?’
remain calm, inside his head chaos was in
the ascenda
scendancy.
ncy. As
As he sea
searched
ched the bbe
edro
droom
om for depi
depillator
tory
y
products, his wife emitted a mournful howl. Animalistic and
tortured, the sound chilled Victor to his core.
‘Victor,’ she screeched, ‘fetch the doctor, right now.’
Before setting off, he checked on his daughter. Peeking in
to her bedroom, he sobbed. Cecilia was also a ball of matted
black hair.
His wife had demanded medical help, but the clergy
offered a better solution. She wouldn’t be happy he’d opted for
ecclesiastical intervention instead of medical assistance.
However, she’d be less happy to discover her hairy plague was
due to his act of sacrilege.
Making the sign of the cross, he left the house, mounted
his bicycle, and set off towards the Monastery of Saint
Seraphina.

180
A solitary monk occupied the chapel, kneeling on the altar
steps, head bowed in prayer. Victor knelt alongside him,
immediately regretting the decision. Discomfort in his knees
made it impossible not to fidget, and with the incense smoke
tickling his nostrils, he struggled to suppress a sneeze.
‘Do you want something?’ the monk asked, his tone
hostile.
‘Brother, I have sinned, and my wife is very hairy.’
‘Why do you feel a need to share this with me?’
‘My daughter’s hairy too.’
The monk rose to lea
The leave and, in a panic,
ic, Vic
Victtor blu
lurrted out
his plea.
‘Brother, it has been many years since my last
confession. I need help because I’ve committed a mortal sin,

and asTh
ae
result
The monk I’ve
knecalled down
. a hellish curse on my family.’
lt again.
in
‘What makes you think you have called down a curse?’
‘Yesterday I attended the festi val in the town of Goran to
venerate
vene rate the Blesse
ssed V
Viirgi
rgin.
n. Af
Afterw
terwa
ards, at the stre
stree
et pa
party,
rty, I
partoo
partookk of a few drinks,
drinks, maybe a few too mamany.
ny. As
As a res
resul
ult,
t, I —
’
Tongue-tie
To -tied
d, Vict
Victor struggled
led to find
find the rig
igh
ht words, but
the monk finished his sentence for him.
‘You lay with another woman in an adulterous act?’
‘No Brother; not that.’
‘You lay with another man?’ he asked with increased
interest.
‘No; certainly not.’
‘You lay with a beast?’ he asked with incredulity.
‘Brother, no. I didn’t lay with anyone or anything for that
matter. There was a misunderstanding which led to a fight,
resulting in a mob pursuing me through the streets. They were
hell-bent on causing me injury, so I went to the cathedral to
seek sanctuary, but the pilgrims refused me entry. They tried to
181
drive me out and in an act of anger and frustration I ... well ...
there was an incident with the Blessed Virgin that led to her
head coming off.’
The monk’s eyes widened, his mouth hanging open in
shock.
‘You
‘You beheaded
behe aded the Bless
Blessed
ed V
Virgin?’
irgin?’
Victor nodded, his shame evident.
‘Brother, I believe the hairiness of my wife and daughter
may be due to my actions.’
The monk took hold of Victor’s wrist, his grip vice -like.
‘Follow me,’ he hissed. ‘Cardinal Dismas will be
interested in your tale.’

The cardin
The ina
al was draped in viv
ivid
id red satin
in,, the fo
fold
ldss cascadin
ing
g
as he writhed on a chaise longue. Thick rouged lips slurped as
grapes were placed into his mouth by a gaggle of chubby boys.
Wearing loin cloths and stained-glass wings, their skin painted
gold and hair greased into curls, the boys resembled obscene
cherubs.
Despite being overweight and enveloped in shimmering
crimson, the cardinal emitted a threatening air.
‘Who have you brought before me, Brother
Bonaventure?’ the cardinal asked with a voice as deep and
sumptuous as the velvet chaise longue on which he lazed.
‘Your Eminence, this man has confessed to an act of
sacrilege most vile and pernicious. It pertains to the desecration
of the statue of the Blessed Virgin in Goran Cathedral last
night. Will you hear his confession?’
The
The cardin
inaal waved a glo
lov
ved hand and BrBroother
Bonaventure grabbed Victor’s collar, forcing him to the
ground.
‘Kneel before Cardinal Dismas and confess.’

182
 In a trembling voice, Victor recounted his tale.
‘Your Eminence, I am Victor Holycross. Yesterday I
attended the festival in Goran to venerate the Blessed Virgin.
Afteterw
rwaards, duri
during
ng th
the
e stree
streett pa
party,
rty, I was set
set upon b
byyag ga
ang of
thugs. I ran to the cathedral in order to claim sanctuary, but the
pillgrim
pi gri ms refuse
refused
dmmyy pl
ple eas. I becam
became e frustr
rustra
ated
ted a
and
nd m
ma ade
gesture
ge stures,
s, wavi
waving
ng mmy
y ffiists a
att them
them, and by
by acci
accide
dent
nt I knock
knockeed
over the statue of the Blessed Virgin. Now I fear I am beset by
a curse, so I seek absolution for my actions.’
The
Th e cardin
ina
al belch
lched and sat uprig
igh
ht, gla
larring
ing at Vic
Victtor.
‘I am well informed about the sacrilege in the cathedral
and I find myself confused. The account given by the Bishop of
Goran was not of an unfortunate victim knocking over the
statue. It was of a drunken beast who insulted the pilgrims
before performing
Blessed Virgin.’ a violent and sexual act, as if to deflower the
‘But your Eminence, I don’t see how anyone could say I
deflowered the Blessed Virgin. Once I’d knocked the statue
over, I tried to catch it but couldn’t keep my balance. When I
fell my trousers might have split, but to call it sexual—’
‘Did you not try to fuck the Blessed Virgin?’ the cardinal
barked.
Victor bowed his head and mumbled, ‘No your
Eminence, I did not. I suppose to an observer it might have
looked like a dry hump, but nothing more.’
Cardinal Dismas held up a hand to signal Victor should
stay silent.
‘You were drunk, you were confrontational, and you
made profane exclamations during the vigil. You climbed onto
the altar, opened your trousers and with your penis sticking out,
you decapitated the statue of the Blessed Virgin. Then you ran
from the cathedral, your member still exposed and flapping
around, brandishing the Virgin’s head. You did these things, did
you not?’

183
 Victor stayed silent; it was the best course of action.
‘What penance are you prepared to suffer?’ the cardinal
demanded.
‘Any penance bestowed by God’s representative, your
Eminence.’
Cardinal Dismas rose and disappeared behind a wall of
silken red curtains. As he left, Victor stood, but Brother
Bonaventure pushed him back down, forcing him to stay
kneeling.
‘Trust me, little man, you better keep fucking praying.’
Even through his whisper, the monk’s hostility was obvious.
Head bowed and hands clasped together in a reverential
pose, Victor tried to pray. His mind ran in circles, struggling to
recall prayers, but he drew a blank. Instead he moved his lips,
givingVictor
the illusion of prayer.
pretended to pray for at least an hour, maybe
longer. His hangover was in overdrive: demons hammered
anvils inside his head, the Devil scattered ashes on his tongue
and the fires of hell burned within his knees. A growing
discomfort in his bladder indicated he would soon piss himself
too. Nervous of the rage Brother Bonaventure might bring
down on him, Victor felt it prudent not to ask if he could use
the toilet.
Afteterr a long
long wa
waiit, the cardina
cardinall retu
returne
rned
d and
and sse
ettl
ttleed on the
the
chaise‘Ilongue.
have prayed to the Lord and to the Blessed Virgin,
asking for their guidance,’ the cardinal said. ‘Your hideous
sacrilege has indeed brought forth a curse, turning your family
into the Devil’s hairballs. To gain absolution you must lift the
curse by performing an act of contrition, a penance.
‘Many centuries ago, heathen forces attacked this
monaster
onastery. The
They
y murdered the monks
onks an
andd carri
carried aaway
way the
seven sacred relics housed here. Those holy objects are still in
the possession of demons, and as such are lost to the one true
184
faith. Your penance is to locate and recover each relic. When
you have recovered all seven, the curse will be lifted and your
sin, the sickening desecration of the Blessed Virgin, will be
absolved.’
Fishing in his crimson cassock, the cardinal produced a
rolled parchment.
‘The details of the holy relics are recorded on this scroll.
Study it well and remember: all must be returned to me and no
other for the penance to be completed.’
The
Th e cardin
inaal passed the scroll to Bro
Brother Bon
Bonaventure,
who handed it to Victor.
‘I’ll try my best, your Eminence,’ Victor said, ‘but it
might take many years.’
‘Trying is not an option,’ the cardinal bellowed. ‘You will

find thethe
nights, relics
timeand
ouryou willwas
Lord doin
sothe
within forty days and forty
wilderness.’
‘You mentioned demons, your Eminence. What do you
mean by demons?’
‘What do think I mean?’ the cardinal roared. ‘I mean
demons, evil spirits, malevolent and wicked creatures with no
regard for anyone but themselves.’
‘Shit!’ Victor
Victor muttered.
‘Shit indeed,’ snarled Cardinal Dismas, his visage twisted
with a scowl. ‘Travel alone and tell no one of your penance.
This is my command.’
Questions swirled through Victor’s head. The penance
was a challenge, one which was beyond his capabilities. If the
relics were lost, what hope had he of finding them? Some
nights he struggled to find his way back to bed after visiting the
lavatory. Before he could speak, he was manhandled out of the
door, the monk slamming it behind him.
With Victor gone, Cardinal Dismas beckoned
Bonaventure to come closer.
‘Pack our things and bring the implements of i nquisition.

185
Summon my cherub army and fetch the limousine. We will
follow the fool. If he succeeds, I will take the holy relics and
receive the power they bring. If he does not, I will have his
soul.’

186
 II: THE SMELL OF DAMP
DOG
Victor pedalled homewards. Explaining the situation to his
wife was not going to be easy. That she and Cecilia were the
Devil’s hairballs because of his sacrilegious act would create a
ruction, and there was also the issue of the penance. It wasn’t
as if he could pop out for a loaf of bread and not return for
forty days and forty nights. Mrs Holycross was not going to be
a happy woman.
The
Th ere was one positiv
itive
e: the eccles
lesias
iastica
ical authoritie
itiess had
not flexed their muscles regarding the sacrilege. His confession
could have sparked an inquisition, imprisonment, torture or
even execution. They had burned people to death in barrels for
far less.
The
Th e house was quiet
iet apart fr
fro
om a lo
low
w and misise
erable
sobbing. The melancholic and discordant weeping added
another layer to Victor’s overwhelming sense of shame. With
caution he opened the bedroom door and peeped in. A shock
jolt
jolte
ed through him,
im, for
forcing
ing a sharp int
intake of breath.
‘Oh no; what’s happened now?’

before.His
Thewife’s
giantbody hair
hairball nowas longer
longer and more
seemed matted
human, andthan
it
emitted an odour reminiscent of damp dog. The stench was so
dense he could taste it, a dank vileness at the back of his throat.
‘Is the doctor here?’ she whimpered. The hairy mess was
a frightening sight, in contrast to his wife’s p athetic voice.
‘No; he’s not here,’ Victor said, trying to sound calm.
‘He’s very busy and said your condition might be something
and nothing. He suggested we give it a bit of time and if it
doesn’t clear up, go back to him. He said there’s a lot of it
about.’
187
 ‘How long is a bit of time?’ she asked, becoming
fractious.
‘Well, he said to wait for about forty days.’
‘For fuck’s sake, forty days?’ The ball of fluff tensed. ‘I
can’tt wait for forty days looking like this. Did you tell him
can’
what’s happened to me? Does he expect me to ignore this until
it suits him to call? Did you even...’
Victor edged back into the living room and closed the
door. Despite his intense remorse and self-disgust, the urgency
of the penance forced him to carry on. He found a bag and
collected together supplies: food and water, clothes, washing
kit, a box of cigars and a bottle of rum. He added a few other
items which might be of use during the penance: the bottle of
holy water, a hunting knife and a small leather-bound bible.
Spottthan
be greater ing his wife’s
hers. purse,
Finally, thehe emptied
scroll from it;
thehis need would
monastery
went into the bag.
With his things packed, he went into the toilet. Urinating,
he inspected his reflection in the mirror. Was this the face of a
man ready to undergo a challenging penance? He was no
longer the vibrant and bright-eyed dandy who had once been
the toast of Goran town, the bare-knuckle champion with hands
as fast as lightning and a punch as powerful as a hurricane. He
was older, with more belly, fewer teeth and less hair than the
man they carried
undisputed on their shoulders all those years ago, the
champion.
That was the day he’d met his wife. She had been drafted
in to help with crowd control, an inexperienced acolyte from
the auth
uthori
orititie
es. As
As the
they hoi
hoiste
sted
d him
him ont
onto
o the sh
shoul
oulde
ders
rs of loca
ocall
dignitaries, he spotted her. The human tide carried him onward
through a sea of smiling but unmemorable faces. Hers
remained in his mind. She had agreed to marry him once he’d
announced his retirement from fighting. It was a declaration
forced upon him, but which he’d accepted.

188
 Victor closed his eyes. He saw himself back in the corn
field, the waving golden stalks contrasting with those trampled
down to form the ring. His adversary advanced, time and time
again, controlling the fight, jabbing at will until Victor felt the
power surge through his wiry frame. That punch! She might
have stopped him fighting, but she could never take that
moment
oment awaway.
ay.
Leaving the lavatory, Victor couldn’t escape the feeling
he should tell his wife why he was going away. Would she
understand the sacrilege was not his fault if he explained the
situation?
He’d gone to the festival; she knew that much. She was
happy ... well, happyish ... for him to go, but told him to leave
once the parade of the Blessed Virgin's statue reached the
cathedral.
debauchery, The street
and party,
married mensheofsaid,
good was nothing
standing short
had of
no reason
to be there.
His wife never attended the festival. There were too
many questions asked once the drinks flowed. The townsfolk
wanted to know why Victor had turned his back on fame and
fortune. He always shrugged and looked towards his wife; it
was the only answer.
The
Th e old
lde
er men, those of his generation
ion, were alwa
lways
willing to buy a drink or two for the former champ. Ignoring
his wife’s orders, he’d stayed in the old town, drinki ng with his
friends. Most of the men from the villages had stayed. He
wasn’t alone in disobeying his spouse.
wasn’t
A woman had flirted with him. He’d done nothing to
encourage her, nor did he reciprocate her advances. She’d
stroked his leg as they talked, but when her hand moved
towards his groin, he’d made an excuse and left. Three men
claiming to be her brothers had accused him of shaming her
and wanted restitution, but he’d refused to pay. What problem
would his wife have with that?
189
 A fight started, and the three men soon became a mob.
With the odds stacked against him, he’d fled. By the time he
reached the cathedral the mob was over a hundred strong,
chanting he was a pervert and a pederast, so he went inside to
claim sanctuary. She would understand; any wife would.
The
The pilg
ilgrrim
imss in the cathedral had trie
ied
d to throw him out,
sneering with their sanctimonious faces. They’d insisted he left
at once and in an act of anger and frustration, he’d pounced on
the statue of the Blessed Virgin. To make sure they understood
his contempt for their hypocrisy, he’d unbuttoned his fly and...
No; all things considered,
considered, she wouldn’
wouldn’tt understand.

He cycled with no destination in mind. The roadside signs

erected by the ecclesiastical authorities appeared to be more
perrsonal
pe sonal than
than eever
ver bef
befor
ore
e. It was as
as iiff som
some
eone ha
had
d chosen
chosen
their locations to ensure Victor read the messages as he started
his penance.
‘God is always watching,’ one read. Anot her cautioned,
‘Sin marks your soul with an eternal stain’. ‘Be on o n the road to
redemption,’ another declared. One haunted Victor more than
the others; it bore a picture of the Virgin’s face, tears streaming
from her eyes, and stated, ‘Be ashamed’.

As he tr
countryside, tra
avell
thevelled a
signs away
way ffro
became rom
m the
less tow
town
naand
frequentnd
andhe
hea
aded
dedainto
after into
fewthe
miles they ended. The ecclesiastical authorities controlled the
rural community less with dogma and guilt, and more with
tithes and taxes.
With the sun creeping lower in the sky, Victor’s thoughts
turned to finding somewhere to sleep. Surveying the horizon, a
distant wood caught his eye.
Amongst the trees, with his bicycle concealed, he lit a
fire and uncorked the bottle of rum. The alcohol weaved its
190
magic, a warming glow spreading through his body and freeing
his mind from the burden of remorse caused by his
indiscretion. Outside the fire’s glow, darkness crept up to the
edge of the clearing.
The
Th e crack of twigs
igs breaking
ing and a snufflin
ffling
g nois
ise
e
indicated an animal was approaching. Peering into the
darkness, Victor tried to identify the source of the sounds.
Curiosity turned to panic, stress rising as a gripping sensation
twisted his stomach. Could an animal be a demon? Would this
be the first challenge? Reaching into his bag, he pulled out his
hunting knife. The bible came with it. Man-made steel versus
the word of God; he dropped the bible and gripped the knife,
staring into the blackness.
Something was there; he couldn’t tell what. It moved

closer
fat andand the light
scabby, from
moved the fire
around illuminated
without a careits
asshape.
if it hadAnot
dog,
noticed Victor. The mangy canine sniffed at the ground, picked
up a smooth stone in its mouth and swallowed. It moved on,
selected another stone and again swallowed.
Victor hurled the bible at the dog to scare it away.
‘Hey,’ the dog exclaimed, annoyed by the unprovoked act
of aggression. ‘That bible could have hit me.’
A flush of fear washed through Victor’s body, prickling
like pins and needles, an uneasy itch extending to every
extremity. The dog had spoken to him.
‘I’ve never met a talking dog,’
‘Then you have never met me,’ the dog replied.
‘How can you talk like a man?’ asked Victor, struggling
to hold back a wave of hysteria.
‘Can you bark like a dog?’
Victor admitted he could.
‘What makes you think you have all the skills and others
have none?’ the dog asked. ‘Are you so arrogant?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Victor said, calming down. ‘To be honest,

191
I’ve never considered the communicative powers
powers of animals.’
The dog approached, stood uprig
The igh
ht on its
its hind
ind le
leg gs and
scratched
scratche d iits
ts stom
stoma
ach. As
As it
it did,
did, the mass of stone
stoness in
in iits
ts g
guts
uts
rattled.
‘Do you have any tobacco?’ the dog asked. Victor
fumbled in his bag and offered a cigar.
‘I prefer a pipe, but on this occasion I’ll thank you for a
cigar, Victor Holycross. Do you have a light?’
Stunned by the situation, Victor checked his pockets and
passed over a box of matches.
‘How do you know my name?’
The
Th e dog exhaleled
d a plu
lum
me of smoke.
‘I know your name and I know your penance. I know
where you will go, what will happen to you, and how things
will end. May
Victor I offer and
nodded, you the
onedog
piece of advice?’
continued.
‘If you travel west from here, you will soon arrive in
Palus. It is a small town, an unimportant place; in fact, it’s a
miserable shit-hole of despair. On its outskirts is the Fallen
Angel, a run-down bordello. Visit
Visit it and give the madam this.’
The
Th e dog stretched out a paw and presented a coin.in. Square
with a hole in the centre, decorated with strange glyphs and
made from a dull red metal, it was unusual. However, it was no
more unusual than a talking dog, so Victor accepted it without
comment.
The
The dog continu
inued.
‘When you give her the coin, she will introduce you to a
friend who can help you in your penance.’
Victor thanked the dog for his advice and, in turn, the dog
thanked Victor for the cigar. The two were silent, smoking and
gazing into the darkness.
‘I told you I knew how things will end but you have not
asked me further about it,’ the dog remarked.
‘Well, I thought if you wanted me to know, you’d have

192
told me the outcome.’
The
The dog lau
laughed.
‘Victor Holycross, could it be you’re not as stupid as you
look?’
With that, he dropped onto all four legs and sauntered
away, the darkness consuming him. Victor stared into the
gloom, seeing the glowing end of the cigar flare up whenever
the dog took a puff. Then it disappeared for good.

193
 III: A DEM
DEMON
ON IS ABROAD
Cardinal Dismas sat at the head of the table, a goose leg in one
hand and a golden
him, Brother chalice of
Bonaventure ruby at
picked wine in the
a bowl ofother.
boiledOpposite
vege
ve geta
tabl
ble
es. A
Around
round the pe
penthou
nthouse
se suite
suite of the Bene
nedi
dicti
ction
on
Hotel, a handful of golden boys fetched plates of food and
cleared debris from the table.
As a che
cherub
rub pou
poured
red more
ore wine
wine for DDiism
smaas, the ca
cardi
rdina
nall
threw the gnawed goose leg bone at Bonaventure to attract his
attention.
‘Brother, tell me, how do you think the penitent
Holycross will fare?’
‘The man is a fool and a drunkard. I doubt he has the
discipline to succeed. I believe his punishment, a mere act of
penance, was too lenient and he should have received more
severe castigation for his sin of sacrilege.’
‘Are you questioning my decision, Brother?’ Dismas
asked, a glint of anger in his piggy eyes. The monk paused for
a moment, assessing whether his comments had gone too far.
Fixing the monk with an indignant glare, Dismas asked,
‘Do you accuse me of dereliction of duty towards the one true

faith? If youthe
suggesting aresame
suggesting I was negligent,
of the angels and saints,then
andyou
evenmust
the be
Blessed Virgin, who all offered divine guidance on a suitable
penance in
in response to my praye
prayers.’
rs.’
‘Not at all, your Eminence,’ the monk said, backtracking.
‘I am sure you are following divine guidance. However, there
are many who have suffered a worse fate for lesser sins. The
desecration of the Blessed Virgin is a blasphemy for which
some would have found themselves in a burning barrel.
However, this man is free to wander the land on a simple quest
194
for lost relics.’
‘Trust
‘Trust me, Brother Bonaventure, his penance will not be
simple, and we will keep Holycross under observation. Once
he has recovered the relics, you have my authority to deliver
any additional punishments you feel necessary.’
Before Bonaventure could respond, a cherub sidled up to
the cardinal and whispered in his ear. Dismas clapped his hands
and another boy, sweating and breathless, approached the table.
‘Speak,’ the cardinal said.
‘I followed the penitent, your Eminence
Eminence,, as you
commanded. He cycled many miles but went nowhere in
particular. Then he set up camp for the night. A dog arrived, a
talking dog who ate stones and stood upright like a man. The
penitent and dog conversed for some time, and they smoked
cigars‘A
together.
talkingNow
dog?the
Arepenitent sleeps Dismas
you certain?’ in the forest.’
asked, concern
clear in his voice.
‘I swear it, your Eminence.’
‘Can you describe this diabolical beast?’
‘He was fat and scabby, your Eminence.’
Dismas rose from the table and paced the room like a
caged animal, wringing his hands as he muttered to himself.
The
Th e news of the talkin
lking
g dog had him rattled
led. Bo
Bon
naventure also
lso
stood and, with the back of his hand, delivered a hefty crack to
the boy’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.
‘Don’t lie to Cardinal Dismas, you little bastard,’ the
monk snarled, standing over the prostrate cherub.
‘It’s not a lie, Brother,’ the boy whined. ‘I swear it to be
true, every word of it.’
Bonaventure aimed a kick at the boy, who scampered
away, whimpering.
Cardinal Dismas stopped pacing, turned to the monk and
said, ‘Before dawn, take the boy to the river and drown
d rown him.’
‘Yes, your Eminence. He deserves as much for bearing

195
false witness.’
‘What?’ Dismas snarled. ‘False witness? I want him
drowned because we cannot have him telling others about the
things he has seen.’
‘It’s nothing more than the imagination of an ill -
disci
cip
plined ch
child,’ Bonaventure replied. ‘There is no truth in his
claims, nor is there any reason for it to concern us.’
‘Shut up,’ Dismas snapped. ‘He has re ported a demon is
abroad, and you pass it off as nothing to worry about? This is
not good ne
news. If another
nother pa
party
rty ha
hass tak
taken a
an
n inte
interrest in
in our
man’s penance, we must ensure any relics Holycross discovers
come to us and to us alone. Drown the boy before dawn, and
ensure you give my cherubs the command to slaughter any
dogs they come across.’

‘Your
‘Do notEminence, dotell
presume to youme think
nothow to— ' you little shit,’
think,
the cardinal snapped, his anger boiling over. ‘Remember your
pla
place and do a
ass I have
have instructe
instructed,
d, unle
unless you woul
would
d pref
prefer to
carry on this debate on your way to the gallows.’
The monk nodded, made the sign
The ign of the cross and hurrie
ied
d
away.

Victor
talkingstared
dog ininto
histhe darkness,
head. replaying
Had it really the meeting
happened? withinthe
Rooting his
pocket, he took out the coin
coin and
and eexam
xaminened
d it.
it. A
Allthough
unusual, it was real enough.
What had happened to lead him to his current situation?
He lived a simple life, even a boring one at times. He did what
his wife asked; well, he usually did what she asked. He played
with Cecilia, fed the chickens, milked the goat, grew
vegetables and chopped wood. His day-to-day routine was
unremarkable, until the festival.
196
 The act of sacrile
The ileg
ge was out of character. Piou
ious and
sanctimonious people annoyed him, but he tried to be tolerant
of them, so why had he snapped? Shouting and gesticulating
was unlike him, but what had followed was abhorrent. It was
hard to believe he’d done the things he’d done. He wasn’t
given to exposing himself and wouldn’t even think impure
thoughts in a house of God.
How could it be his wife and daughter had become the
Devil’s hairballs? He’d never heard of such a thing. Even the
biblical plagues were accepted as being parables, but this was
far worse than fiery hailstones or boil-infested cattle or locusts.
As for the penance, it was, with hindsight, ridiculous. In
the past he’d had a few penances: ten decades of the rosary,
twenty Our Fathers and a few coins in the poor box. He didn’t

know anyone
demons. who’dheard
He hadn’t beenof
sent out on
anyone a quest
having to to confront
carry out a
penance for forty days and forty nights, but he didn’t know
anyone who had committed sacrilege.
Now a talking dog had appeared, knowledgeable about
his penance, and offering advice and help in exchange for a
cigar. Nothing seemed right.
Victor felt his head for lumps or bruises. Finding none,
he ruled out the possibility of having received a brain injury
during the fight. Maybe he was delusional. Did mad people
know they were mad? Surely insanity precluded an
understanding of one’s condition, which meant he couldn’t be
delusional if he was questioning whether he was.
Maybe he’d flipped and wasn’t in a wood but was sat in a
ward of the local asylum. Would a medic arrive to drill holes in
his skull or attach electrodes to his genitals to cure his insanity?
A feeling of fuzziness washed over him, a warm but
disori
disorieented
nted se
sens
nsa
atition.
on. LLiiftiting
ng th
the
e rumbott
bottlle, he rea
reallise
sed
d he ha
had
d
drunk half of it. Putting the cork back in, he settled down to
sleep.
197
Victor dreamed a dream. He walked across Saint Peter’s
Square
Square iin
n Vati
Vatica
can
n Ci
City
ty.. Al
All around crowds cha
chante
nted
d hi
hiss na
nam
me
and wa
waved
ved flags b be
eari
ring
ng th
the
e image of his his fa
face.
Saint Peter’s Basilica, a muddy puddle blocked the path.
ce. Approa
Approachiching
ng
Saint
Francis of Assisi stepped from the crowd, his robe covered
with bird shit. Smiling, and with a wink which was more
lecherous than friendly, he prostrated himself in the puddle so
Victor could walk over it without dirtying his shoes.
Saint
Sai nt Mi
Micha
chaeel theA rcha
rchange
ngell ca
cam
me down the ste steps
ps outsi
outside
the
the ba
basi
sillica,
ca, ca
carryi
rrying
ng SaSaiint Thérè
hérèsese of L isie
sieux. As hehe kne
knellt,
Thé
Th érèse dip ipp
ped her hair in a vessel of oil and anoin intted Vic
Victtor,
making the sign of the cross upon his forehead.
Approachi
pproaching ng the
the entran
ntrance
ce,, a sol
soliid ste
steeel-ba
bande
nded d oa
oak
k door
blocked the way. Despite pulling and yanking at the handle, it
would not open. Saint Sebastian appeared from behind a pillar,
his body bristling with arrows. After genuflecting before
Victor, he set to work, heaving the door open.
A long hallway led to a spiral staircase; Victor ascended.
Saint
Saint Jose
J osephph sstood
tood wai
waiting
ting at
at the top. In
I n one arm h hee he
helld a
baby, its skin sprouting a dense coat of matted black hair. With
the other he proffered a silver tray bearing a single glass of an
opaque amber
Victor tookliquid.
the glass and swallowed its contents. The
liquid filled him with a fiery glow and he felt younger, stronger
and more vital, as if the essence of youth had been reawakened
withi
wi thin
n hi
him. SSaaint Jose
J oseph
ph bowe
bowed
d in
in re
reve
veren
rence
ce bef
before poi
pointi
nting
ng
down the corridor to an ornate doorway.
Entering a large ballroom, a surge of anger flooded
Victor’s thoughts. There, rotating on a gold and diamanté
turntable, was his wife. She was fur-free, as she had been
before the curse fell. She was on her hands and knees, skirt
198
around her waist. Behind her was the mangy, stone-eating dog,
smoking a pipe and doing sex to her bumhole.
‘Stop; that's my wife,’ Victor shouted.
The dog loo
The looked at him and wink inked.
'Victor; this is your destiny. It is ordained, and therefore it
must be so.’
Victor’s wife looked up and gagged. With each retch she
brought up a smooth stone which dropped onto the turntable
with a loud clunk. Her eyes rolled back in her head, showing
the whites.
Clunk.
Another
nother stone fell as the turntabl
turntable
e rotate
rotated.
d. Through
Through a
an
n
open window, two crows flew into the room, their plumage so
black it sucked the daylight from the air. The birds swooped
androtating
his flappe
pped
dwife
around
around th
the
e turnta
retched,turntabl
ble
e, cawi
another cawing
stonengfalling
and shri
shrie
eking.
fromkiher
ng.mouth.
A gai
gain,
Clunk.
The crows’ aggression levels increased as they intensified
their frenzied activity. Without a care for the ongoing
pandemonium, the dog puffed at his pipe and continued
thrusting into Victor’s wife.

199
 IV: MISTER EARLY RISER
Victor’s dream troubled him, but when combined with guilt

and
everyregret for instigating
thought. the curse,
Was the talking dog aademon?
dark misery cloaked
Burdened byhis
dark
thoughts, Victor set off. After a few miles, he reached a fork in
the road. The signpost identified the right turn as the route into
Palus. Along the dusty track, the ecclesiastical authorities had
only erected one sign, a picture of a smiling nun with the
slogan ‘Pray’. The solitary warning underlined the town’s lack
of importance.
The
The dog had been righ
ight: Palu
luss was a shit-h
it-ho
ole.
le. Th
Thee
buildings were drab and dull, and the people matched their
environment. They were a joyless lot with downcast faces,
vacant expressions and eyes lacking any vibrancy. No one
looked up as Victor cycled down the main street. Even the
children sat on the kerbs, gazing at the gutter with total
disinterest.
The main street’s
street’s buildings had no signs or names. Most
were cl
were close
osed
daand
nd shutte
shuttered;
red; a ffe
ew de
derel
reliict. J ourneyi
ourneying
ng down
down the
side roads revealed more of the same. The town contained
nothing of interest.

madeAfter somehard
the name time,tohe found the
decipher. bordello.
Boarded Its peeling
windows paint
offered
little promise, but the door was open, revealing an
unwelcoming dark interior. Hesitating, he questioned whether
he was doing the right thing. Not only was the Fallen Angel
intimidating, but there was nowhere to hide his bicycle. With
no other choice, he leaned it against the frontage and entered.
An el
elderl
derlyy wom
woma an sat
sat a
att a d
de
esk, he
herr wri
wrinkl
nkle
ed g
grey
rey ski
skin
n
clashing with bright clumsy make-up. It gave her a clown-like
appearance; not a happy or jolly clown, but a predatory and
200
malevolent whore-clown. She was sewing the seam on a gimp
mask. A heavy iron cash box sat on the desk, alongside a home-
made weapon: a length of chain attached to a ball of entangled
leather strips, which had been studded with rusting nails.
Victor coughed, and when she looked up, he offered a
fri
rieendly smi
smile.
‘Are you constipated?’ the old woman asked,
unimpressed with his appearance.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Then take that stupid look off your face. You’re an early
riser, eh? Like to start the day with a fuck?’
Victor muttered he wasn’t looking for sex and she
snorted with derision. It was an uncomfortable conversation, so
to cut it short he dug in his pocket and presented the coin.
Putting
her bonydown herwith
hands sewing, the madam took it, turning it over in
suspicion.
‘What’s this, Mister Early Riser?’ she asked, still turning
the coin over and over.
‘It’s a coin, for you.’
‘A gift? Why? Do you love me?’ she sneered.
Victor looked around as she examined it. The room was
filthy. He’d expected a brothel to be gaudy and kitsch in décor,
but at le
least cl
cle
ean. Thi
Thiss was
was more
more lilike a doss hous
house
e. Af
Afte
terr an
uneasy wait, she opened the cash box and tossed in the coin.
‘Room six,’ she barked. ‘Fill your boots.’
Victor shuffled while the madam gave him a quizzical
look.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to hold
your hand?’
‘My bicycle; I’ve left it out front. Should I bring it
inside?’
‘Do you want the girl to fuck
fu ck you with the bicycle?’
‘No, it’s just I don’t know if it’s safe to leave it there. It
might get stolen.’

201
 The madam laughed and asked, ‘Who’d want to steal
your bicycle? Do you think we have nothing better to do than
wait for strangers to come with their ballsacks full of spunk, so
we can rob them of their bicycles?’
Victor shrugged and headed into the corridor. The doors
didn’t have numbers, so he counted until he reached the sixth
room. Unaware of the protocol when visiting houses of ill
repute, he knocked on the door. There was no reply, so he
knocked again with a heavier beat.
‘Come in will you; the clock is running,’ a woman
shouted from inside.
Victor opened the door and there stood a lady, a naked
one.
A shock of silvery white hair contrasted with icy blue
eyes,and
firm bright
pertred painted
with lips andnipples.
dark pointed olive skin. Her breasts
A smudge were
of coiffured
pubic hair concealed her sex part. Her legs were glorious: one
shapely and milky smooth, the other black and carved with
intertwined serpents.
Victor did a double take. She had a wooden leg, albeit
one carved with great mastery from a solid piece of ebony.
Without speaking, the one-legged whore beckoned him to lie
on the bed, but Victor declined.
‘I’m not here for sex. To be honest, I don’t know what
I’m here for. A friend of yours sent me. I’m doing a penance
and he said you might help.’
‘Who, pray tell, was this friend who sent you?’ The way
she spoke made Victor feel she was humouring him, treating
him like an idiot. As he replied, he realised he sounded like
one.
‘I met a dog who told me to find you. He stands upright
like a man and speaks like a man too. He’s fat and scabby.’
The whore’s expression made clear her annoyance.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What makes

202
you think I’m acquainted with dogs?’
‘I don’t know what else to tell you,’ Victor said. ‘He
smokes a pi
smokes pipe
pe.. Well
Well, he sm
smok
oke
es anythi
anything;
ng; I ga
gave
ve hi
him a ci
ciga
gar.
r.
He eats stones too. His stomach is filled to bursting so he
rattles when he walks.’
‘Sorry, but is this a joke?’ Her face showed she had no
clue who Victor was describing.
‘I met him in the woods last night, but I also dr
dreamed
eamed
about him.’
‘A dream or a vision?’
‘What?’
‘Was it a dream or was it a vision?’ she asked. ‘There’s a
big difference between the two.’
‘A dream, I think. I was in the Vatican and he was there,

on a turntable, doing the sex thing with my wife, in her

bumhole.’
‘In her bumhole?’ The whore smiled, a flicker of
recognition crossing her face. ‘His name is Osvaldo. Ye
Yess, he
likes bumhole sex; he likes it a lot. Don’t we all?’
She gave Victor a wink and patted herself on the
backside. He felt the colour in his face change as a prickle of
nervous heat crawled across his skin.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘I’m Victor, Victor Holycross, and you?’
‘Well, Victor, you can call me anything you like,’ she said
with a giggle. ‘What do you want to call me?’
Uncomfortable with the question, Victor shrugged. She
was pretty and naked, but she was a whore, and being in the
same room was uncomfortable.
‘Now, what’s this mysterious penance of yours all
about?’ she asked.
‘I’m not allowed to talk about it.’
‘What?’ Her response carried a hint of irritation. ‘Why
are you here?’

203
 ‘I need your help; well, I need anyone’s help I suppose.’
‘You want me to help with something you won’t tell me
about? That
That won’t go too well, will it? Who told you not to
discuss it?’
‘The cardinal.’
The
The one-le
-leg
gged whore snorted with
ith deris
isio
ion
n.
‘I should have known it would involve the fucking
clergy. Was it the fat freak who screws his golden boys, or the
rat-faced thin one who likes to play rough with the young
nuns?’
‘The fat one.’
‘Well,’ said the whore as she settled on the bed, patting
the stained mattress next to her to indicate Victor should sit, ‘I
won’t tell him if you don’t. I can’t help unless I know what’s

going Victor
on, sosat
geton
talking.’
the bed, making sure he preserved a
significant space between himself and her naked body. Trying
not to look at her, he told his story. She listened without
interruption and when he’d finished, she stood and dressed.
Once clothed, she gathered a few possessions together and
opened the door.
‘Let’s go, Victor, we’ve got things to do.’
As Vi
Victor stood, he rea
reallise
sed
d he ha
had
d an
an e
erect
rectiion.

Victor cycled out of Palus, the whore balanced in the basket on

the front of the bicycle.
‘I can’t believe you haven’t got a car,’ she said, wiggling
to try and get comfortable.
‘I don’t meet the qualifications for a permit,’ Victor
replied. ‘The ecclesiastical authorities prefer p eople like me to
get about under our own steam as the good Lord intended.’
i ntended.’
‘Who listens to the authorities and their policies?’ she

204
snorted. ‘All you need to do is grease the right palms and, as if
by magic, the clergy recognise your need for motorised
transport.’
‘Well, I don’t have a car,’ Victor said. ‘Let’s be thankful
no one stole the bicycle.’
The whore laughed and asked, ‘What makes you think
anyone would steal it?’
‘A bicycle is a thing of great value. Without it, I’m
screwed. If someone stole it, I ’d have to make sure I found a
new one which fitted me; it’d have to be reliable. Then there’s
the que
questi
stion
on of how I woul
wouldd ge
get a
aro
round
und whe
whenn vi
vie
ewi
wing
ng the
various
vari ous choi
choice
ces.
s. I might h
ha
ave to trave
travell to see
see num
nume erous
bicycles before finding the right one. It could take weeks, even
months. No; it’s better no one steals it. I haven’t got the time or

energy‘IftoI’d
find a replacement.’
have known, I might have been less willing to help
you,’ she said, a hint of resentment in her voice. For a moment,
Victor felt a surge of panic building in his stomach. He didn’t
know anything about the whore apart from the fact that he
needed her help; the thought of going it alone petrified him.
‘Where are we going?’ Victor asked, keen to change the
subject.
‘I don’t know; go wherever feels right.’
The
They rode on in sile
ilen
nce, the morning
ing turnin
ing
g to afte
fternoon
as they followed the road that felt right.

The madam gargle

The led
d, rin
inssin
ing
g her mouth out and repla
laccin
ing
g her
dentures. Brother Bonaventure rearranged his robes, wiping a
drop of his semen from the rough brown cloth. The pair left the
bedroom and returned to the front desk.
‘Madam Zital, Cardinal Dismas asked me to give you
this,’ the monk said, handing over a leather pouch.

205
 The madam opened it and spilled
The illed its
its contents onto the
desk. Two dozen gold coins tumbled out. She counted them,
opene
opened d the cash box an
andd took out
out a singl
single
e coi
coin.
n. IItt was ssqua
quarre
with a hole in the centre, decorated with glyphs and made from
a dull red metal. She handed it to Brother Bonaventure.
‘Thank the cardinal and be sure to give him this gift in
recognition of his continued cooperation with my
establishment.’

206
 V: ONE MAN, ONE BICYCLE
At every junction or fork in the road, Victor asked the one-
legged whore
whichever wayforfeels
directions. Herdusk
right. With replyapproaching,
was always the
thesame: go
discussion turned to finding somewhere to sleep. When they
arrived at a crossroads, the whore told him to stop. Hopping off
the bicycle, she checked the signpost.
‘We’ve got a choice between Hedwig, Walbert or
Nennius.’
Victor asked which way to go, expecting her to say go
wherever felt right, but instead she declared, ‘We’ll go to
Walbert. Let’s hurry and try to get there before nightfall.’
‘I don’t want to be difficult,’ Victor said with a degree of
hesitancy, ‘but I’d rather not go to Walbert, or to Hedwig,
Nennius or any
any other town for that mamatter
tter.. It doesn’t fee
feell right,
and you keep telling me to do what feels right. I think we
should find a secluded wood and bed down for the night.’
‘What’s wrong with a town?’ she asked, puzzled at his
thinking.
‘I don’t know. Towns are busy. People will ask questions
and p
poke
oke the
theiir noses
noses iinto
nto our busine
business.
ss. At
At le
least iin
n the woods no
one will dimore
‘It’s sturb us.’
likely no one will notice us in a town,’ the
whore argued. ‘They’ve got their own lives to lead. A couple of
strangers won’t appear to be odd, but someone hiding in a
wood in the middle of nowhere will arouse suspicion.’
‘I’d prefer a wood,’ Victor said, with the realisation this
was an argument he would not win.
‘You want me to sleep on the ground rather than in a
bed?’ she said with incredul
incredulity
ity.. ‘Y
‘You
ou want me to p
piss
iss in a
stream and wash in a puddle? I don’t think so. If you want my

207
help, you’d better understand I’m not sleeping in a field.
What’s it to be: Walbert or you travel on alone?’

Th
Theey arun
more rriv
ive
ed in W
down andalb
lbeert ainspiring
less s the sunthan
set. It wasThe
Palus. a smmain
all tow n,
road
was little more than a dirt track; Victor’s teeth rattled as the ruts
made the bicycle unsteady. Only one building was lit up: a
small tavern.
Dismounting, Victor considered where he could hide his
bicycl
bicyclee. As
As he trie
tri ed to wres
wrestltlee it behi
behind
nd a hedge
hedge,, the on
onee-legge
gged
d
whore stopped him.
‘Victor, this could get irritating quite quickly. Your
obsession with people wanting to steal your bicycle is
irrati
rration
ona
al. L eave it by the
the front d
door
oor.. I f th
the
e loca
ocalls wa
want
nt to sste
tea
al
something, their first choice is more likely to be something of
value.’
‘But wi
with
thou
outt iitt—’
‘Yes, I know, you’re screwed. Leave it where it is and if
someone steals it, I’ll get you a new one.’
There was only one room available. The whore’s rapid
agreement to take it robbed Victor of an excuse to raise another
argument for sleeping rough.
The
Th e rofelt
bed. Victor omobliged
was smto
all,sleep
too son
mallthe
fo
forrfloor.
two Itpewas
ople
le,typical
, as wasofthe
life; she was the one who wanted to stay in a town, but he’d be
the one who suffered the discomfort.
Supper was tasteless slop; Victor pushed something grey
and lumpy around his bowl for a while, before hunger forced
him
him into ea
eatiting
ng it.
it. A
Ass he put
put the dish
dishe
es outs
outsiide in th
the
e ha
halllwa
way
y,
the whore poured two large tumblers of rum.
‘You told me you’ve got a list of the missing relics; let’s
see what we’re up against,’ she said.

208
 Victor retrieved the scroll and as she read it her face took
on a concerned grimace.
‘Do any of these names mean anything to you?’ she
asked. ‘Saint Carpus? You need to find one of his teeth. This
one is better; Saint Guthlac’s toe nail. If you think a toe nail
will be hard to track down, there’s the hair of Saint Waningus
and the foreskin of Saint Rumwald. We have Saint Eugenia’s
artificial appendage and the kidney stone of Saint Didymus the
Blind. To top it off, you need to hunt for the faecal nugget of
Saint Felicula too.’
‘Those names mean nothing to me,’ Victor said, realising
the penance might not be as straightforward as he had hoped. ‘I
go to church every Sunday, plus any holy days of obligation. I
follow the sacred laws as best I can, I try to do what the
ecclesiastical
other people.’authorities demand, and I behave with respect for
The whore raise
The ised her eyebrow and gave him an
exaggerated look, mocking the fact his sacrilegious behaviour
had led him to his current situation. Ignoring her, Victor
continued.
‘I contribute my loose change to the Sunday collection, I
pay my tithes, but that’
that’ss about it. I’ve hea
heard
rd of Saint Peter and
Saint Paul and the other common saints, but I don’t recognise
any of that lot. I didn’t do well at school and I didn’t attend
religious classes. This isn’t an ideal penance for me. To be
honest, I sometimes only go to mass because my wife insists.’
The
The one-le
-leg
gged whore swallollow
wed her rum in one gulp
and passed the empty tumbler to Victor.
As he refilled it, she said, ‘Well, let’s start with what we
do know. Saint Felicula was a virgin martyr, and she died after
beiing thrown iinto
be nto a se
sewer
wer.. As
As ffor
or he
herr ffa
aecal nug
nugge
get,
t, it m
miight be
a chunk of her own shit or one stuck to her body when they
pulled her out.’
Victor handed back the refilled glass.
209
 ‘Are we looking for a lump of shit?’ he asked.
‘I doubt it’s
it’s just a lump of shit.’
Breaking into a laugh, a smug look washed over Victor’s
face.
ce. Maybe the
there
re wa
wass a way to si
sim
mpl
pliify the ta
task
sk at hand,
hand, to cut
short the penance.
‘What about if we dry out any old piece of shit and tell
the cardinal it’s Saint What’s -her-name’s turd?’
‘It might fool him,’ the whore replied, ‘but a fake relic
won’t lift the curse. If you want your wife and daughter back as
they were, in an unhairy condition, you need to recover the
genuine relics.’
‘Right,’ said Victor, his buoyant mood evaporating as he
considered
considered her words. ‘What about the one with the wooden
leg?’

‘Which one with

‘Saint Thingy thethe
with wooden leg?’
artificial appendage. That’
That’ss a
wooden leg, isn’t it?’
‘It might be,’ she said, checking the scroll. ‘Saint
Eugenia; that’s who you mean. It says an artificial appendage.
It might be a leg or an arm, but it could be something else like
false wings.’
‘Like a cherub boy?’
The one-le
The -leg
gged whore fix
fixe
ed Vict
Victor with
ith an imp
impatie
ien
nt
scowl.
‘I was thinking more like Icarus.’
Feelings of inadequacy grew each time she corrected
him. He was out of his depth regarding the penance and she
was more than happy to let him know it.
The
The whore le left
ft the room and returned a few few minu
inutes la
latter
with
wi th a map of the area
rea.. I de
denti
ntiffying
ying the
the ta
tave
vern,
rn, she worked
worked
outwards, mumbling the names of places as her fingers traced
the roads. Victor sat watching her, unsure of whether to get
involved or stay silent.
‘There’s a convent marked on here,’ she said. ‘We should

210
visit, posing as pilgrims, and find out if any of these saints have
local connections. Any clue as to what we’re looking for is a
step in the right direction.’
‘It’s more likely they’ll spot we’re heat hens and hand us
over to the ecclesiastical authorities, who’ll burn us to death in
a barrel,’
barrel, ’ Victor mu
muttered.
ttered.
With the map and scroll put to one side, she climbed into
the bed.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay on the floor? You can
always get in with me.’
‘There’s not enough room for us both.’
‘Well, you could lie on top of me,’ she giggled.

Victor’s bladder woke him, swollen and ready to burst. He

staggered to the bathroom at the end of the landing and pissed
like a horse
horse.. As
As he turned
turned to lle
eave,
ve, Brothe
Brotherr Bona
Bonaven
venture
ture
stepped into the doorway, the monk’s grin oozing spite. The
shock sent a jolt of terror through Victor and another dribble of
urine trickled down his leg.
‘Make a sound,’ Bonaventure hissed as he grabbed Victor
‘and I’ll snap your fucking neck. Now, come with
by the throat, ‘and
me; someone wants to talk to you.’
The
Theout
stairs and brotof
hethe
r stetavern.
ered him alo
lon
In the nstreet
g theala
lan
ndin
ing
g, dstretch
golden own the
limousine idled, its rear windows obscured by red silk curtains.
Several cherub boys stood close by, smoking and smirking.
One made a hand gesture at Victory, a masturbatory action
accompanied with a sneer.
Brother Bonaventure rapped on the window and it rolled
down. Pulling the crimson silk curtain aside, the fat face of
Cardinal Dismas appeared. His beady eyes revealed an inner
rage, his scowl underlining a deep-set displeasure. Victor
211
swallowed hard and clenched his buttocks.
‘Victor Holycross, how goes your journey?’
‘As well as I could hope, your Eminence, given I’ve only
jusst started out,’ Victor replied, his voice trembli ng.
ju
‘Have you any news regarding the relics?’ the cardinal
asked.
‘No, but I’ve had a few thoughts about the faecal nugget
of Saint—’
‘Now, tell me, have you discussed your penance with
anyone; anyone at all?’ The cardinal’s tone was accusatory.
‘No,’ replied Victor, trying to conceal his vocal tremor.
‘I’ve told no one.’
‘You did not tell your wife?’
‘No, your Eminence. I didn’t tell her.’

‘Did you tell

‘No, your your daughter?’
Eminence, I told no one.’
‘If you did not tell anyone, did you tell anything?
Victor scratched his head and said with confusion, ‘I
don’t understand,
understand, your Eminence. What do you mean by
anything?’
‘Well, let me put it this way. Did you tell a dog maybe; a
talking dog?’
Anxiety gripped Victor or’’s guts like an icy hand. The
cardinal’s words were too specific, too accurate to be random.
He had to know about Osvaldo. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
‘But Cardinal, a dog would not understand my words.
Only an idolater talks to animals.’
The cardin
The ina
al glar
lared at him
im,, unimp
impressed by his cla
laim
im of
innocence.
‘Are you travelling alone?’ Dismas asked.
The questio
The ion
n opened a gutful
ful of uncertaint
inty. Did the
cardinal know about the one-legged whore? Had he spotted
them together?
‘Yes, your Eminence. I am alone, just me and my bicycle.

212
It is an ideal form of transport for a solitary man. It’s over
there.’ He pointed to the machine leaning against the hedge.
‘One bicycle for one man.’
‘One man, one bicycle,’ the cardinal muttered, shifting
his focus to over Victor’s shoulder and nodding. Before Victor
could turn, Bonaventure grabbed him from behind and pushed
something cold and hard onto his thumbs. Panicking, he raised
his hands, struggling to catch his breath.
‘What the hell are these?’ he asked, not wanting to hear
the answer.
‘Those,’ said Brother Bonaventure with pride, ‘are
thumbscrews. Now let’s see what songs you’ll sing.’
‘Where did you go today?’ asked the cardinal, his tone
now more aggressive.
‘Today?’
his pitch Victor
rising and could not
a definite suppress
vibrato the fearobvious.
becoming in hiss.voice;
obviou ‘I
rode around the countryside and came here, to Walbert.’
‘You didn’t go to Palus?’ The question was like a kick to
the bollocks. The cardinal clearly knew about Osvaldo and
seemed to suspect Victor was not alone. Palus and the Fallen
Ange
ngel linked
nked the
the one
one--legge
gged whore to V
Viictor and
and the dog
dog..
Unable to think clearly, he faked confusion.
‘Palus? Palus? No, I don’t think I’ve even heard of it.’
‘Brother Bonaventure, turn the screws.’
The
Th
tightene
tighte ep
ned.
d. Arteffi
At sisrst
urethe
onsehis
sensathtion
nsati uon
mbwa
s in
inc
wasscone
reasof
edeaxtr
s tehm
xtre eebodi
lts
ltscomf
s fort
discom
but then became a searing pain as his bones and knuckles
creaked under the growing force. Despite struggling to conceal
the level of agony, a tortured moan escaped his lips.
‘Once more, are you telling me you didn’t go to Palus?’
‘No, your Eminence. I haven’t even heard of the place,’
Victor sobbed.
‘Brother Bonaventure,’ the cardinal said, by way of an
instruction. The pain intensified as Victor’s thumb bones

213
crunched, the pre
crunche press
ssure
ure incre
ncrea
asi
sing
ng.. A
Anoth
nothe
er wave
wave of spi
spiral
rallling
pain was accompanied by a cracking sound. Victor screamed,
his shriek changing to a gurgle as he spurted a jet of vomit into
the air.
From the limousine window, the cardinal reached out a
chubby hand.
‘Victor Holycross, do you recognise this object?’
Victor’s eyes streamed tears, but he focused on the item
held aloft by the cardinal. It was a square coin with a hole in
the centre, decorated with glyphs and made from a dull red
metal.
In that
that mom
mome ent, control of Victor’s bodily functions
failed, all orifices emptying themselves as the intensity of the
moment crushed his being. Head spinning, vision blurring, the
pain in his
around himthumbs becoming
as everything overwhelming,
turned black. the world caved in

IF Y
YOOU HA
HAVV E EN
ENJJ OY ED THIS
THI S SAMPL
MPLE,E, THE
DEVIL’S
DEVIL ’S HAIRBALL IIS S AVA IL A BL
BLEE FRO
FROMM
GODL
GO DLESS
ESS O ORRA
AMMAZON.

214
215
Whores Versus Sex Robots (and
Other Sordid
Sordid Tales
Tales of Erotic
Automatons)
When
hen the introducti
ntroduction
on of brothel
brothels ma
mann
nne
ed by AI
AI -powe
powered
red se
sex
robots threaten the profitability of the world’
world’ss oldest
profession, the street
street girls decide it’
it’ss time to fight for their
future and bring the punters back where they belong: between
their legs.
Hatchi
tching
ng a dras
drastiticc pl
pla
an to ensu
ensure
re the
the J ohns turn aga
against
erotic automatons, the whores take on the brave new world but
inadvertently unleash a battle for survival as technology’s
finest refuse to take the challenge lying down.
Whores versus Sex Robots is a seedy, science fiction,
splatterpunk, tongue-in-cheek novella. The book also includes
a selection of other stories addressing the rise of the sex robots.

WARNING: Despite
totally unsuitable for the title, this book
masturbatory is NOT
purposes erotica,ofand is
– unless,
course, you like to knock yourself out while reading about the
violence and pain of modern society, the frailty of the human
condition, the abandonment of hope, the depths of selfishness
to which mankind can (and often will) sink, and some other
shit which mocks humanity but is a bit funny (if you have a
twisted mind). If that’s the case, then buy this book and wank
yourself silly. Otherwise, please do not interfere with your
sexual apparatus while reading these stories.
216
 ONE
Delphine stood on a chair, elevating herself above the crowd of
angry
smokewomensnakedgathered
in the air,intwisting
the basement. Fingers
in the sickly of cigarette
yellow light
which oozed from the dull bulbs. The buzz of chatter echoed
off the walls, a hum like a plague of insects. Putting her fingers
into the sides of her mouth, she let loose an ear-piercing
whistl
whi stle
e. Af
Afte
terr a chorus of grumbl
grumble es a
and
nd expl
xpleetives
tives,, the wome
women
fell silent.
‘Ladies, we all know why we’re here. Unless something
s, and changes soon, we’ll all be up shit creek without a
changes,
change
paddle.’
A general murmur of agreement floated around the room.
‘The situation out there is dire,’ Delphine continued.
‘Since the Government opened the sex robot brothels, the
punters have all but disappeared off the streets, taking our
earnings
rnings with
with th
the
em. TThe
he J ohns think
think the lice
cense
nsed
dbbrothe
rothells are
are
safer. The robots don’t rob them or give them the clap. We’re
being screwed,
screwed, and for once it’
it’ss not while we’re lying o
on
n our
backs.’
Agai
gain, the mutteri
uttering
ng ffllowed around
round the room
room, and
Delphine waited for the women to fall silent before continuing
her speech.
‘The only people looking for our company are scum of
the earth, the low-life freaks and psychos who want to hurt us
or do despicable things to our bodies. Every night, we’re
running the risk of getting beaten to a pulp by sickos and
weirdos. If we’re lucky enough to get away without a beating,
we’ll be paid short or won’t be paid at all. If we’re going to
have any chance of survival, we’ve got to bring the punters
back onto the streets. We’ve got to get them to spend their
217
money with real women, with us, instead of the fucking
robots.’
The woman murmured their agreement, and Delp
The lph
hin
ine
e
cranked up the performance, her tone turning more aggressive.
‘There’s a rumour going around, some of you will have
heard it, and it’s not good. Some girls say a Latvian gang is on
the prowl, picking up street girls for torture films or even
worse, maybe snuff movies. One of the Pimlico girls swears
blind a dozen of her friends have disappeared in recent weeks
and she thinks it’s down to the gang. They’re exploiting the
working girls who’ve lost their
t heir income. These bastards are
preying on us; with the tricks going to the licensed brothels,
they know no one will notice or care if we disappear. I don’t
know whether the gossip is true, but I don’t want to be the one
who finds
The
Th ewout
om iteis.’
n responded with
ith anger, shouting
ing and
punchi
punching
ng the
the air, ccursi
ursing
ng the robots and
and the L atvi
tviaans.
‘There is an alternative,’ a tall hard -faced woman shouted
from the crowd. ‘The Government said it would offer us sex
workers support when the brothels opened. They said they’d
give us retraining, so why don’t we ask what they’re going to
do for us?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Delphine replied with sarcasm. ‘The
Government’s going to offer us training. Training: I fucking
ask you, what training will we get? Will they help us become
lawyers, doctors, or maybe airline pilots? No; they’ll train us to
clean up shit, and when every street girl is a qualified shit
picker-upper, there won’t be enough shit for us to pick up and
we’ll all be out of work. Does anyone believe we’ll get any real
support?’
The women fell
The fell silen
ilent, loo
looking
ing to each other in case
anyone had something to say. One, younger and wearing a
sequined eye patch, spoke.
‘I’d like to retrain as a tight-rope walker.’

218
 ‘What?’ Delphine snapped. ‘Annie, do you think this is a
joke or are you just fucking stupid?’
‘Are you calling me stupid?’ Annie snarled, her hands
balling into fists.
‘Yes, I’m calling you stupid. Let’s be straight here; if you
weren’t so stupid, you’d still have two eyes, wouldn’t you?’
Annie lunged forward, grabbing Delphine and pulling her
off the chair. The surrounding women cheered, encouraging the
paiir as the two wom
pa wome en threw punch
punchees. Delphi
phine
ne grab
grabbe
bed
d Anni
Annie
e
by the hair and was about to bounce the one-eyed girl’s head
off the floor when an authoritative voice cut through the chaos.
‘Enough!’
The women fell
The fell silen
ilent and the two combatants ceased
trading blows. An older woman, eyes tired but burning with

Lfury,
ookpushed
ooki through
ing around, the crowd
she scowle
scowl atand
ed at climbed
the wome
wom onto
en bef
beforethe
ore chair.
focusi
ocusing
ng on
Delphine and Annie.
‘Do you think fighting each other is going to help? We’ve
got more important things to deal with, but you’d rather bicker
like children. Squabbling with each other is the best way to
make sure we get nowhere.’
‘Too right, Irene, you tell them,’ one of the women
shouted from the back of the room.
‘We’re the oldest profession in the world,’ Irene said with
passion, ‘and how have we survive d so long? I’ll tell you how:
survived
we’ve been resilient and resourceful. Every time they knock us
down, we get up, dust ourselves off, and get back to work. We
could moan and whine about the new brothels, but the sex
robots aren’t going away. There’s too much money involved. If
we want to survive, we’ve got to be smart.’
The
Th e women shouted their agreement, but fefellll sile
ilen
nt again
in,,
waiting for Irene to tell them how to be smart.
‘The odds are none of you will be able to earn enough
money to put food on the table or keep a roof over your head,
219