The Curfew - Jesse Ball [6]
—It is, said William.
—I knew it. Those take quite an edge, quite an edge. I won’t lie to you, I have more than a few of them myself, although substantially larger. The only meat you’ll cut with a knife like that is a man’s throat.
William blinked, and tried not to flinch as the man sat on the stool and rested one burly arm on the armrest of the leather chair.
—So, this is how it is. My father’s dead. He started this business. Made it what it is now. People will always need someone to do their butchering, that’s what he used to say. Do you know he could butcher a cow in any of thirteen different ways? How do you write an epitaph for a man like that?
—Robert Denton, that’s how we’ll start, said William matter-of-factly.
—Robert Denton, that’s right.
—So, any thoughts? Some people like to put something simple, in remembrance, others like to really make the person’s presence felt. Sometimes the epitaph is an inside joke—something only the deceased would understand.
—I do have something like that, said Denton.
The door opened, and a man nearly as big as Denton stepped into the room.
—Wilson fell under an ox, and his leg’s bent.
—Well, call over Hal Sanderson. He’ll put it right. As for the ox, is it dead?
—It was dead. He pulled it off a beam and it dropped on him.
—I see. Well, that’s how it is.
—Right.
The door shut.
—I’ve got something, said Denton. He often said he could skin a pig with the lights off. He even said he did it once, although I never saw it.
—That’s good, said William. That’s really good.
He wrote:
ROBERT DENTON
who could skin a pig in the dark.
—I like it, said Denton.
William went to the door.
The two shook hands.
—They made me think, down there, you might be a hard man to deal with, said William.
—Don’t fool yourself, said Denton. I’m a mean bastard. You just caught me at a tender moment.
—Well, I’ll get to work on this.
Denton nodded.
He was out on the street again. A man jostled his elbow. It was … William looked away.
—Will? the man said.
Will did not stop walking.
—It’s you, isn’t it? he said again, catching up. Well, of course it is. I haven’t seen you in quite a while. It’s, actually, it’s very fortunate to meet like this.
Will continued on, and didn’t look at the man.
—Will, I need to speak to you. Do you hear me?
He grabbed William’s arm and pulled him around.
—Sit down with me, there, in that cafe?
—We mustn’t be seen. Come after five minutes.
—Do you see what I mean? It’s crucial. It’s everyone’s place—everyone is in a position to act, at some point.
A man with a long moustache and a military-style coat was muttering into his soup. This man had come in five minutes after William. He had sat at a table near the front, but then knocked over a bottle of wine and asked for another table. He had been moved to the table next to William. This man was William’s friend. William had not spoken to him in four years.
—I don’t know what you mean, said William.
—Even you, said his friend, even you must have heard of it.
—It seems just like the purges. I’m not interested.
—It’s not the same thing, not at all. That’s them killing us. This is us killing them.
His friend’s moustache moved ornamentally as he spoke in precise, deliberate sentences. It was as if the conversation had been rehearsed.
—Did you rehearse this conversation?
—And if I did?
—It would make me feel like you thought it was important.
—It is important.
—Then did you rehearse it?
—Perhaps.
—If you did, then who did you have as me?
—Whalen.
—No? Whalen? Is he still around?
—Of course.
—It doesn’t matter. I have Molly to think of.
—Come tonight, please. The address is on that sheet. It’s necessary. Louisa would have wanted you to. You know that.
William held his hand close to his face. He didn’t say anything.
His friend’s face, turned away from him, addressing an empty table off to the right, became somehow slightly cruel.
—If nothing else would get through to you, I will say this last, that I intended to save for a place of greater privacy. We have had news of Louisa and