INTO DARKNESS

Kurt entered, as usual, through the door on the east side of the building. Once inside, the hubbub amplified around the cavernous ceiling. The clacking of trolleys on the part-cobbled floor, the echoing chatter of its temporary inhabitants. It was the same sound that greeted him every time he came. He passed the vendors and mongers that plied their wares. Some of whom he purchased from, others he would engage in occasional conversation, and others he gave only cursory nods. Perhaps the odd ‘Hi’. It wasn’t necessary to know everyone. He wasn’t the gregarious type.

As he approached the meat counter he favoured at the market, he did a double take. Standing behind it, looking at Kurt as though he was expecting him, knew him, was a stranger.

“Good morning, Kurt.”

He knows my name…? “Er, good morning. Where is Eric today?”

“Oh! Eric had an urgent call from his sister. She is very poorly and requested he come and visit,” the stranger said, affably, completely at ease behind the counter. “I am his cousin, Bernard.” The accent came on the ‘ar’. “He gave me a run-down of who I might see on any particular day. The more interesting customers, so to speak.”

“Eric never said he had a cousin in the same trade. Come to think of it, I can’t recall him ever mentioning his sister, either. Are you from around here?”

“Oh, no. I live on the other side of the city. I’m retired, but I still have all the required skills.” Bernard leaned forwards, as if to add weight to a secret he was keeping. “To be honest, he never really got on with his sister. They fell out many years ago. Things that may seem trivial to most, if allowed to fester, can become open wounds between siblings.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Indeed, and now Marjory has been diagnosed with a terminal illness. It is remarkable, isn’t it, how the prospect of death can rekindle a relationship? It makes one realise the futility of petty grievances.”

“Yes, I gather that’s true.”

“Well,” Bernard leaned over a little closer, “to some at least.”

For the briefest moment, Kurt felt as though the remark had been more than a statement. Closer to an accusation. Impertinent, almost.

Bernard straightened up. “Well, Kurt, what is it you want today? Anything special planned for dinner this evening?”

Kurt hadn’t expected the question. He was still thinking about Eric and his sister. “Dinner? Yes, of course!” He looked through the glass front of the counter. The meat was displayed with its usual aplomb. Nothing appeared any different to what it might have been if Eric had been standing behind it. As he scanned the contents, his eye was drawn to a selection of chicken, which had been halved, the legs and wings removed and displayed with consummate artistry. He raised his head to speak to the butcher.

“The chicken. Excellent choice, Kurt. Is it the whole bird you want?”

“Why, yes, please. How did you know? I was only thinking it.”

Bernard smiled, “I am a very good reader of faces. It comes with many years’ experience in the trade.”

Kurt watched the butcher at work, unsure at the man’s familiarity but quite sure he knew his trade. When he’d finished wrapping the parcel of meat, he rang up the total on the old mechanical till – the kind which gave a ‘ting’ when the drawer opened – where the numbers popped up into the window on the top. Kurt remembered such things from his youth. When such things were common. When vendors used to count out the money while giving you change. In reverse as well. Nowadays, there was no need to have the mental acumen to do such a task, or even to speak to customers. The digital age had laid waste to that. Scanners and that interminable blip when the items passed through the laser. It would be quite feasible to employ monkeys to work in supermarkets. Except, perhaps, their inquisitiveness would lead to them opening the stock or jumping on the customers. He sniggered internally at the thought.

The butcher turned, “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you, Bernard.”

The butcher replied with the total due. Kurt handed him a note. Bernard counted out the change, going backwards from the note value until he reached the sale total. This small act pleased Kurt immeasurably. It was as though the man knew what he had been thinking about. After he had pocketed the change, Bernard handed over the carefully wrapped paper parcel. As he did so, a sensation passed through Kurt’s hand. Like a small static charge. It moved up his arm in a soft pulse. For a moment, an image flitted through his mind. A memory of long ago, when, as a small boy, he would chase the chickens through his uncle’s farm. It went as quickly as it came.

“Are you alright, Kurt? You looked like you disappeared there for a moment.”

“Yes, I did. I just had a memory of when I was a small boy. Odd really, right when you handed me the parcel.” Kurt felt the presence of someone to his right. He turned and realised another customer was waiting. “Oh! Excuse me for dithering, my apologies.” He turned back to Bernard.

“See you again soon?” the butcher said, smiling.

“Yes. I usually come here every couple of days. The walk does me good.”

Kurt left with his parcel, leaving Bernard to turn his attention to the new customer.

That evening, Kurt roasted the chicken crown and fried the legs and wings. The roast meat he would carve for sandwiches. He made savoury rice to go with the fried portions. At the small dining table, which he used to share with his wife, he sat and thought about Eric’s cousin. And how, in all the years he had known Eric, he’d never mentioned him. Their conversations probably never wandered there, of course. Why would he mention him if the reason never arose? He put the thoughts out of his mind and turned his attention to dinner. It smelled good – he was an adept cook. Had to be, living on his own. Ida had shared the cooking with him when she was alive. And he still, after all this time, never quite managed to cook for one. There were always leftovers. He looked at the chair she once sat in, and the lonely place setting on the table in front of him. You used to like this, Ida, remember? He spoke the words in his head. There was no answer of course, but she would have.

Kurt picked up a drumstick and took a bite out of the hot flesh. For a moment, a sensation similar to the one he’d experienced at the market overcame him. It was a couple of seconds, then it vanished. The experience wasn’t unpleasant, just odd. The rest of the evening went without incident, much like any other, so Kurt put it down as just one of those strange things your body does, as you age. Later, as he got ready for bed, a memory of his wife came back. One he’d intentionally pushed to the back of his mind, and it sent a small shiver down his spine. He thought he’d eventually get over her loss. But doing that was an impossible task, like remembering only the positives, when the negatives vie for equal prominence. Thankfully, the memory was quickly replaced by the one he’d had earlier, on the farm as a boy. Memory is a strange thing. It can be so selective, as if the inside of your head is made up of billions of filing cabinets, some of which have missing keys.

Kurt was usually a light sleeper. One of the standard afflictions of ageing. But that night he slept deeply, and the memory of the farm came back to him – one of those vivid dreams in full sound and technicolour. He ran from the house down the hard-packed, soil path towards a barn. He didn’t recognise it; it could have been any barn from memory. From a movie. There was a loud ruckus coming from inside. As he drew nearer, he heard the shouts. Voices raised in fear and anger. From outside, they were indistinct. But as he got to the door and peered in, the voices shrieked in a cacophony of high-pitched terror. It was the chickens. The chickens were screaming instead of clucking, they were screaming like humans. He understood the language they cried in, and though the noise was unbearable, and the voices were tangled in an intricate layer of pain and panic, he heard some of their individual cries. Stop! No! Please don’t kill me! I’m begging you, please!

In a methodical, almost clockwork fashion, the farmer grabbed one of the birds at random, lifted it by its feet then slammed its head down onto a large block. All the while the chicken would be screaming in its high-pitched human voice. Screaming for mercy. When it had been stunned by having its skull partially crushed, the farmer took his large cleaver and dispatched its head from its body. Blood spurt in arcs as the farmer threw the convulsing corpse onto a pile behind him. After doing this several times, he lifted his head and looked at the stranger in the doorway. The face carried years of toil and a glistening red sheen. Blood coated his leather apron and the floor around him. He grinned and beckoned Kurt over, playfully wielding his cleaver as though parrying a sword. Then the farmer’s demeanour changed, the smile vanished and he began to run towards the barn door. Kurt stood rooted to the spot, unable to make his legs function. As the farmer drew close, he raised the cleaver above his head. Kurt, caught in his dream paralysis, could only watch as the brawny arm wielding the weapon began its rapid descent towards his head.

Kurt awoke from the dream like a sprung hinge, sucking in a loud, gasping breath, his arm raised in defence. He sat shielding his face for a few seconds before lowering his hand, his breathing gradually easing as he lowered his body back to a reclining position. The rest of the night was spent in an uncomfortable loop of fractured sleep.