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I go clean a tube we use for the worst cases, and then feed it gently down the throat of one of the lambs.
“You done this before?” I ask him.
“Once. But it didn’t work out.”
Taking the flat of Jac’s hand, I place it on top of the tube.
“Feel any air?”
“No.”
“Me neither. We’re in the stomach, not the lungs.”
Carefully, I attach the syringe and then slowly squeeze the colostrum straight into the lamb's stomach.
“You’re doing the other one.”
And he gets it right. Like the first lamb, it begins to respond immediately once the thick milk is in its belly.
“That’s amazing.”
“We’ll need to make sure they warm up properly before they go back to the ewe.”
Four hours later, and we’ve dug sheep out of drifts and made sure all the animals have plenty of food. The ewes due to lamb soon are now in the shed, and the twins we’ve saved are back with their mother and feeding.
Jac takes off his wet coat and boots. It’s mid-afternoon, and we’ve not stopped.
“Thanks for your help. Anyone’d think you’ve done this before.”
“Any time,” I yawn.
“I think you need to sleep.”
“And who’s fault is that?”
“You know as well as I do, Annie Evans, whose fault it is,” he says nipping my waist with his hand.
“I’d say we’re both as bad as each other.”
???
The smell of death hung as heavily as the rows of dead pigs hanging from the meat hooks. At night, this normally busy abattoir was eerily silent, even for Connor O’Dwyer, or ‘Irish’ as he was known.
He moved through the shadowy regiment of carcasses towards the empty kill room and waited for his men to bring their live pig, the bent copper, from the boot of the BMW.
Windowless, white-tiled walls, a concrete floor gently sloping to a middle drain. Power washer to the side. It was the perfect place for a kill. And he’d been here plenty of times before.
He pulled out his blade of choice and snapped it open. The straight razor gleamed under the harsh electric strip-lights. It had been his dear old daddy’s. Back in the day.
Everyone had their kinks. He liked to watch them bleed.
First; a finger. Or two.
The horror on their faces.
The hot gush of desperation as they bent back their head and saw blood pooling below their suspended body. Then, the dawning realisation that it was their ear lying on the floor.
And, the deliciously slow seeping of life that spilled from them with their screamed-out secrets. Anything and everything he wanted them to tell him. Always much more.
If he’d got what he wanted, and he was feeling merciful, he’d let them go.
Stun gun, bolt, a bullet? It didn’t matter which, by then.
Afterwards, the place would be hosed down, the body weighted down. Waiting for its final ferry across the Mersey, and its resting place in the deep tidal scour.
He heard his men coming through, carrying the useless plod. The pig was still lively, even though he’d been bound and gagged.
He was fat too. Detective Bob Smith was a taker, not a giver. He’d had his nose deep in the Scousers’ trough for too many years, with only scraps of low-grade intel cast back their way.
His men hung the wriggling bundle upside down onto the meat hook off the central gantry.
This little piggy tried to run away, when he should have been telling them what was going on. He was in the operation room. He knew about the sweep of raids that the National Crime Agency was planning on their outfit.
No way could he have missed it. There’d been hundreds of arrests across the country. Thirty of his men had been locked up. Including Tony. They’d found kilos of coke, meth and seventy grand in cash lying around his kid brother’s apartment when they’d raided it without warning. It didn’t matter how good the lawyers were, his baby brother was going down for a long stretch.
Irish bristled as he felt the cold fury of his anger rising inside him. No call. No notice. This little piggy had broken their agreement.
He hated cops. Especially swaggering bent ones, like Bob Smith.
He listened to the muffled sobs coming from the tied-up detective. It wouldn’t take long before this snivelling scumbag told him who the grass was.
It had to be one of their own. Someone high up, on the inside. Someone who knew about Prifti, and how they planned moving in afterwards onto his patch.
“Take his gag off.”
His men retreated as Irish advanced towards the inverted policeman swinging on the hook, trying to wriggle free.
“How did the NCA know about our plans to take over Prifti’s patch?”
“I don’t know. Let me go, Irish. Please. I can help you.”
He could indeed. But, not on his terms anymore.
The detective’s eyes widened in horror as he took in the twenty-five centimetre razor in Irish’s hand.
“No. I beg you.”
His cries were pitiful.
Out of habit, even though it was immaculately clean, Irish wiped the blade along his leather coat sleeve.
“Who’s the informer?”
The detective squirmed as Irish bent towards him. The steel edged closer, then gently caressed his face.
“Don’t hurt me! Please! All I know is his code name Si.”
Irish’s face remained implacable.
Si was the hitman’s username.
That was surprising. And disappointing; he’d been a very effective team player.
And disappointing too, that Spineless Bob Smith had squealed before he’d even got to the business end of their meeting.
Ah well, there’d be no dillydallying with finger removal for this gutless little piggy. He’d get straight to business too.
Irish moved around the bent copper, kneeling behind him; his free hand cradling the detective’s head like a barber about to give him an upside-down shave. He angled the head into line, stroking the razor against his chin, his cheek, and then carefully removing a little of the gingery hair around his ear.
“No! God help me! Please! No!”
“Shh… it’s okay,” Irish whispered into the bent copper’s ear. “Now tell me everything you know.”
His voice would be the last thing these ears would hear.
One by one, he’d slowly slice them away; the detective’s secrets spilling out with his blood. Then he’d remove the snout.
And then… He felt the thrill of anticipation as he considered how this little piggy’s face would writhe and contort, how the hot gushing blood would spout, when Bob Smith became separated from his balls.
???
“I can’t believe that I’ve never been here before.”
Claire paused to gaze out at the estuary and the spring sunshine dancing on the waters, creating ripples of silver as the opposing tides battled.
They’d parked by a popular pub and were walking a trail along the estuary to the sea.
“You ever kayaked this?” she asked Sion.
“Yeah. A couple of times. The tide’s a bit tricky.”
“I think I’d be scared.
”
“I’ll take you some time, if you want?”
Claire didn’t respond. She focussed her camera on a cormorant spearing itself into the waters below.
“Yes!”
“Let me see.”
Sion studied the shot. The bird held itself in a perpendicular dive. She’d caught it arrowlike; headfirst with its beak skimming the water’s surface, its wings arched back like an Olympic diver.
“This is really good.”
“Y’think?”
“Definitely.”
Embarrassed, she pointed to a quaint whitewashed cottage on the shoreline opposite.
“I could live there.”
Sion agreed. It was the kind of place he’d choose too. Right on the water’s edge. Peaceful.
They walked on. The wild garlic springing up from the ground formed an aromatic carpet of green as they walked alongside the bank of the widening estuary.
They were heading to the Victorian wooden bridge that spanned the sea and led them to Barmouth and the huge beach beyond.
“We came here to the seaside as kids, but I’ve never done this walk.”
“When you live somewhere, it’s easy to forget to see the beauty of the place.”
“You from around these parts, then?” she asked.
“Caernarfon.”
Venturing across the bridge, seeing the water way below her in the cracks between the boards made her queasy.
Sion stopped in the middle to look out at the sea, and then back up the estuary.
“I moved about a lot as a kid.”
“Me too.”
She took another shot with her camera. This time, it was of the snow-dusted grey Snowdonia mountains that rose dramatically from behind the mouth of the estuary.
“Mum came here from Birmingham,” she explained, "And we lived on the caravan sites. Mum remarried, after a bit. Moved on. I moved out when I was sixteen.”
He’d been right about her. She’d had tough times too.
“But, this is the best place. I’m glad we came here.”
Sion took her hand as they walked through the seaside town, past the booths that would soon be selling buckets and spades and bait for crabbing. They walked past the empty fairground, and the waltzers that had been Claire’s most favourite thing in the world, before carrying on out onto the vast beach beyond.
