Unnatural, page 1
Ruth Gilligan is a writer and academic from Dublin now based in the UK. She has published four books to date and is the youngest person ever to have topped the Irish Bestsellers’ List.
Her most recent novel, Nine Folds Make a Paper Swan (2016), was inspired by the little-known history of the Irish-Jewish community and was published to international critical acclaim.
Find out more at https://www.ruthgilligan.com/
Atlantic Short Stories
A Lesson in Englishness
Life Lessons
The Hall Chimp
Published in Great Britain in 2019 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Ruth Gilligan, 2019
The moral right of Ruth Gilligan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part 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 permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
E-book ISBN: 978 1 8389 50408
Atlantic Books
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
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www.atlantic-books.co.uk
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Unnatural
By Ruth Gilligan
He had sent a text to say he was running late, sad-face, but when he arrived the waitress said ‘you’re the first’ and it felt almost profound.
The first man.
The first to do what you are about to do.
He smiled at her. She blinked.
Aren’t you?
The restaurant was a long-time Dublin favourite, a linen white and French affair; a chandelier in the middle give or take the size of a planet. He used to bring clients back in the day, liquid lunches where they almost drowned, though by all bank accounts that era seemed a distant something now.
He checked his phone. Not a peep. She had probably set off in a stink – terrible timing, tonight, given she was up to her eyes. But he had insisted – ‘it’s your birthday!’ – the perfect alibi. Not the first man to have used it either, he assumed.
She always joked about having been born right in the middle of calving season, clearly jealous of the animals getting the attention. But jokes aside, there had been a significance to the timing that had nothing to do with jealousy, even if it didn’t reveal itself until many years and many herds down the line.
On the table, an orchid had been stuffed deformed into a crystal vase. It wasn’t clear if it was fake or if it mattered.
‘Anything to drink?’ It was the waitress again, all possibilities and teeth.
He considered champagne, then thought it too obvious; anyway, she would only allow herself half a glass. It was a long enough drive back to County Cavan, especially in the dark. He did it most weekends, zooming the same country lanes he had spent his entire youth desperate to escape.
He could remember shreds of her from their childhood, but only one moment as a whole. He had been out avoiding his father’s temper when he found her crouched by a barbed wire fence. A calf had got itself mangled so she was trying to set it free. ‘Can you smell it?’ she had asked. ‘Lean in – don’t be afraid.’ In those days, though, he almost always was.
She had been sent to boarding school for secondary, so the next glimpse was ages later – the reception after her brother’s wake, the kitchen stuffed with sobs and sandwiches on white. Then he left for university and barely came back until his father’s sixtieth bash in the old hotel, every relation and distant neighbour penned in under one cheaply spot-lit roof. Down in Dublin he was considered a people person; up here he could feel himself revert. He bought a new suit and shook the birthday boy’s hand, but couldn’t quite manage to meet his eye.
Towards the end of the night, she had found him alone with his Blackberry out in the smoking area. ‘Ah, the prodigal banker,’ she greeted. ‘Surprised you lot can still walk with your tails between your legs.’ Before he could bristle, she softened. ‘You know that she died?’ Going back over twenty years. ‘That’s why I wanted you to lean in – her hide already smelled of death.’ Looking down at his emails, he didn’t understand a word; instead he felt a draw that was almost primal. By morning, he never wanted to leave again.
And now she was here. ‘Parking was an absolute nightmare!’ She came in cumbersome with the kiss. ‘I had to do three loops of the Green before I could find one that would fit.’
He imagined the muck-smeared 4x4 circling, an angry honk for every ‘NO’ poster it passed. He saw she was wearing the new dress he’d bought. ‘Champagne?’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘You can have one?’
‘No, Murphy’s law she’ll go on me tonight.’
He smiled – it sounded like it was dying she meant, when really it was the opposite. She placed her phone face down on the table and picked her gilded menu up. She hadn’t bothered with make-up – she was a natural beauty. He pictured the celebratory photo of them he would post online.
She had thirty heifers in her herd and only one more left to calf.
His father’s temper used to be worst around this time of year, out in the shed, waiting up all night. He would offer to help keep watch – he knew when the bones poked through the skin it meant things were about to happen. He always thought it looked a bit like wings; like the heifer might suddenly sprout a pair and take flight. His father always sneered and said he hadn’t a bloody clue.
These days, she’d told him, there was a special device they fixed at the base of the mother’s tail. It tracked her movement then sent the farmer a text when the calf was ready to arrive. He had wondered about women wearing it too, tucked in by their coccyx and synced up to an app or a Facebook post. ‘Never mind the cattle – the tech investors would go mad for that. Ditch the farm and make your millions!’
Of all his jokes, though, this one hadn’t made her laugh; had made her hang up and ignore his texts. He sometimes worried she minded the cattle far too much.
Now the waitress again: ‘Do you know what you both want?’ It was the million-euro question. But they would try soup and scallops for a start, followed by a pair of sirloins, rare. He risked the champagne, still hoping she might be persuaded. There were sourdough rolls with sun-blushed tomatoes. The sommelier went so gently with the cork the fizz barely made a pop.
‘Well,’ she said, once her bread was buttered. ‘Aren’t you actually going to wish me a happy–’
‘Shit.’
‘I was almost worried you’d forgotten. Not even the usual flower and cheesy card delivery?’
He had to bluff quickly – ‘I thought you said you were too modern for all that’ – but of course she was correct. He had just been so focussed this year on arranging the rest.
He had taken the day off work last month to drive to Cavan for the requisite chat with her da. He knew it was a bit cheesy, a bit old-fashioned; knew he hadn’t a bloody clue what to actually say. And in response, the old man hadn’t offered his blessing, only his doubt. You honestly think that you can tame her? Tail between legs, he had zoomed straight to the jewellers where the diamond looked unnaturally large.
He felt it now dug into his pocket, the jut of it making a mark on his skin. He saw the orchid in the vase, the water around it set firm like gelatine. ‘And tell me,’ he blurted. ‘What will the text actually say? ON MY WAY – SORRY I’M LATE, SMILEY-FACE?’
This time she laughed and his skin sun-blushed with joy. The starters arrived, his scallops so plump they had surely been farmed.
He had only managed to drag her down to Dublin midweek before for very special occasions; like his promotion dinner last year, keeping an eye for the moment someone asked whether she was a banker too. His colleagues had taken her reply in their stride, but by morning the jokes were already waiting by his desk – gags about her wearing wellies in bed; about breeding season and pedigree bulls in heat.
He cast his eyes around the restaurant now. As it happened, the woman at the next table was pregnant. He thought of the upcoming referendum and the amendment itself. The right to life of the unborn. He looked at the husband sitting opposite and wondered if, on paper, they were a good match or if they differed wildly too.
He wondered if, on modern farms, the cows even needed the bulls or if they were just inseminated artificially.
Apart from them, the room was mainly businessmen, the economy finally back on its wobbly feet. ‘Green shoots’ the journalists had been calling it. He assumed fake orchids qualified.
‘Are you finished?’
As the plates were cleared, she checked her phone, the glow illuminating her freckle constellations. In truth, she wore nothing in bed and it was perfect.
He glanced to his left. It hardly felt appropriate, though he knew better than to say as much.
‘Jesus she was a serious piece of work.’
It was just over a month until the nation’s historic vote. As with most things, she had been adamant in her position from the start. It made him curious if there was something lurking – a teenage boyfriend? A ferry across the Irish Sea? Either way, he was surprised when she first told him. ‘What, bit too progressive for a country girl?’ she had spat. A rage he resented, only because it went so close.
And now as their steaks arrived weeping a pool of pink, two special knives to do the honours, he wanted to ask: What about an unborn cow? Would you be happy terminating that? But then he saw her tucking in – ‘OK you were right – this place is pretty good!’ – and he wasn’t resentful, he was very happy indeed.
He took a breath and stood up on wobbly legs, a lump in his throat and in his pocket too.
‘What are you doing?’ She took another generous bite. He felt a panic that was almost primal.
He mangled an excuse about the bathroom and kept his head down as he passed the expectant parents. He realised he had been so focussed on the rest he still wasn’t adamant which way round he would vote himself.
***
In the mirror, the eyes looked back tired, but a splash from the tap and they glistened again. It was some fancy high-tech system, all done on sensors for the avoidance of human contact. He thought of that final heifer with her device stuck on. He planned to suggest not inseminating the herd at all next year since, hopefully, she would have other things to organise.
When he heard the scream, he didn’t think of plans or devices he simply ran. In the middle of the restaurant, the woman was laid out on the carpet, a pool of wet like there had been a leak from the corniced sky. The husband barked down the phone for an ambulance while she knelt down next to the wife. She turned and saw the box in his hand. ‘What’s that?’
He blinked before there was another animal scream.
She rubbed the woman’s back and told her to breathe; rolled the woman’s nude tights to her pink swollen ankles. He tried not to smile, but he could see, underneath it all, she was a people person too. The other diners had stopped their dining so really, they were nothing now. The ambulance got delayed and he thought of a joke – of a child born, here, with a silver spoon.
Eventually, though, the sirens arrived. The manager ordered a round of drinks to wet the baby’s head. She asked for a Coke then disappeared to the fancy bathrooms to wash her hands of any trace. He took out the box and pictured her with a swollen belly painting the walls of his spare room pink. It was another thing he was planning to suggest.
While he waited, he suddenly pictured something else and felt ashamed they hadn’t offered it. Because she could have just driven the woman to the hospital herself – the 4x4 would have got there in jigs of time. And never mind the business on the farm or trying to stay free in case that text message finally came. Surely it was only natural to prioritise a new human above all else?
The right to life of the unborn?
The idea only lasted a second. He drank some water; it was his first mouthful all night. In terms of the referendum, he realised now he would of course be voting ‘YES’. Because if she had taught him nothing else (and she had taught him so much – the smell of death; how not to be afraid) it was that you couldn’t force other people to want the same things as you; couldn’t tell them how to live their lives.
He closed his eyes.
You honestly think that you can tame her?
He felt so ashamed for having ever tried.
At the phone’s vibration, he opened them again.
‘Talk about dramatic!’ She came hurtling back.
He snapped the box shut and nodded at the lit-up screen. ‘You need to go.’
‘What?’
‘It’s time. I can’t keep you here.’
As she used her fingerprint to unlock the message, he wondered if he would hear from her again; if he would try sending a sad-face text or cheesy card; if she would bother to reply. He also wondered if he had ever felt so hungry in his life, so now he picked his cutlery up, praying the silver knife was sharp enough to sever any flesh or any cord.
If you enjoyed Unnatural, Ruth Gilligan’s exquisite new novel The Butchers is the perfect next read. A brilliant, flawlessly, intricately plotted novel following the deep intimate stories of four people caught up in the churn of the Irish beef boom.
Buy The Butchers from the following retailers:
Amazon
Kobo
Google Books
iBooks
Ruth Gilligan, Unnatural
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