Communion Town by Sam Thompson

Author:Sam Thompson [Thompson, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literary, Fiction, General
ISBN: 9780007454785
Publisher: Fourth Estate
Published: 2012-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Good Slaughter

Work stopped a heartbeat back. There’s no hush like the hush when the machinery shuts off. It’s an uproar of silence. We keep our thoughts private. The workers remove their goggles, hard hats and earplugs, peel off their spattered overalls, scrub their hands at the sanitary stations and file to the exits. The concrete gleams. Clear droplets form on steel points, swelling and falling, mechanical, slower and slower. They don’t want to count away the time that’s left.

Fischer is carrying out his inspection, now checking the overhead rails, the conveyor belts, the hooks, the chutes and the basins, now seeing that tools have been sterilised, drains cleared and work tables hosed down. It’s the same at the end of each shift. If he finds something out of order then heaven help the culprit. Any moment now he’ll see that one of the tools is unaccounted for. I watch for it. I’ve waited here, out of sight, watching, not moving: but now it’s time to move.

Hello, Fischer. Here I am, dressed for work, carrying the implement of my trade. The last of the others has gone, you see. I thought in this moment I’d find some words to say to you, to settle what’s happened between us in these weeks. But look, we’re here and I have no words to add. In my head it was easier. You must be pleased the things you’ve done to me have worked so well.

The flesh of his face looks heavy under the lights. As I stump towards him his lips twitch and he tilts his head a few degrees, letting me know that what’s happening is well within his expectations. He’s quite sure he has the upper hand. He tugs each fingertip in turn and draws off his gloves, then lays one on the other and bats them against his thigh. He’ll take his time and decide what to do with me.

We all know Fischer’s floor is run to the hardest standards. No second chances: you let him down and you’re finished. He smiles that lazy, dangerous smile as the distance between us closes. But he fails to understand that I do not make mistakes here on the floor. I’m good at my job.

Now we’re within arm’s reach, I can see where the hairs are thinning on top of his head and how his pate glistens under the lights. There’s a mark where the hard hat has been clamped into the skin. He looks up at me and his mouth shows the rough line of his teeth. He thinks I’m slow, but that’s only because I never know how to answer him.

Puzzlement shows in his expression. Odd that so small a delay, just long enough for me to walk across a sloping cement floor, can add up to the error he now suspects. He should have acted differently, but now it’s too late. His eyes are the colour of dry concrete. The pupils contract to pinpricks as they note the implement in my hand.

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