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The Slaughter Man - Softcover

Parkin, Cassandra

 
9781789550573: The Slaughter Man
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1789550572 ISBN 13: 9781789550573
Verlag: Legend Press Ltd, 2019

Inhaltsangabe

‘Haunting and beautifully written’ Emma Burstall

When her identical twin Laurel dies, seventeen-year-old Willow’s life falls apart. With her parents’ marriage faltering, she finds escape at her uncle Joe’s cottage. But even as they begin to know each other, Willow is plagued with memories of her sister. Then, Lucas arrives in her life – troubled, angry and with a dangerous past.

Joe’s cottage is idyllic, but the forest is filled with secrets. What is Joe hiding from her? What events have brought Lucas to her door? And who is the Slaughter Man who steals through Willow’s sleep?

As the lines between dreams and reality become blurred, Willow’s torment deepens. It seems as if her only escape lies with the Slaughter Man.

What Reviewers and Readers Say:

‘A dark, eloquently creepy tale. Parkin's prose quivers with visceral terror’ Carol Lovekin, Author of Snow Sisters & Ghostbird

‘Haunting, complex and beautifully written. A really compelling read' Emma Burstall, the top 10 bestselling author of the Tremarnock Series

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Cassandra Parkin grew up in Hull, and now lives in East Yorkshire. Her short story collection, New World Fairy Tales (Salt Publishing, 2011), won the 2011 Scott Prize for Short Stories.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

CHAPTER ONE
She’s at her sister’s funeral, and she knows she’s dreaming because the heads of all the people there have been replaced with the heads of birds.
At the front of the church, the vicar’s surplice is made soft and welcoming by her enormous pillowy breasts. When this day happened for real, Willow had briefly laid her head against them, in that first naked moment when the vicar turned her soft sad gaze towards her and said, I’m so sorry about your sister, and her words turned a key inside Willow’s chest and the grief she’d vowed to hold onto tumbled out like coins, splashing and crashing in bright sharp tinkles onto their laps. Now, the slick green head of a mallard turns its open beak towards her and she glimpses the tongue, flat and disturbingly human-looking. She wonders why Reverend Kate wears the head of a male duck. Perhaps it’s the sardonic commentary of her unconscious on the customs and practices of the church. She can see its beak stretching and relaxing with the rhythm of its speech, but she can’t hear a word. The church is entirely silent.
In the pew three rows behind her, a cluster of students from college – the college that used to be theirs and is now, unbearably and irrevocably, only hers – sit glossy and silent. Girls and boys alike wear speckled starling-heads, their sharp jabbing beaks turned downwards as a mark of respect, and not because they’re looking at their phones. Beside her, her mother’s body shudders with tears, but above her shoulders the raven’s head remains expressionless and silent. In real life, her mother had reached down and taken Willow’s hand and stroked her fingers and whispered, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, over and over and over, senseless and endless, until Willow’s fingers were tingling and sore. Perhaps the bird-heads are masks. Perhaps the people wearing them are trapped inside, their whole worlds reduced to the simple need to breathe. Willow wants to reach up and touch her own face, see if she too has been forced to wear one, but her hands are too heavy to lift, and so she sits and waits for what she knows must surely come.
When this happened for real, Laurel was carried into church in a white coffin with a satin finish and fiddly gold handles. Willow had looked at the coffin and thought in disgust, How can you possibly have picked that one? She wouldn’t want that one, she’d want a black one, we both would. God, if you pick one like that for me… and then the horror of her thoughts crowded in so fast that she could hardly breathe for guilt. She was imagining her parents picking out her own coffin. She was dreaming of her own ending, of going down into the darkness to join Laurel. She was imagining death as an escape.
A change in the light tells her that the men are coming in with Laurel. There’s no coffin tonight. Instead her sister rides still and flat on the shoulders of four men. Three walk with the strength and synchronicity of professional undertakers, and wear the steady gaze and long, wise beaks of ibises. The fourth, his red-topped woodpecker head incongruous and gaudy, is her father. He holds tight to Laurel’s ankle, buckling at the knees occasionally as he forces himself to perform this last duty. Willow wonders if he’ll fall, and if Laurel will fold and crumple as she falls with him, or if she’ll be stiff and rigid, like a plank of wood.
The procession lacks dignity, the ibises unbalanced by their fourth companion, his head and suit mismatched, his with her and her mother, and she was fairly sure her mother wanted the same thing, but her father had insisted. Just as on the day of the funeral, he’s so stricken with grief he can hardly walk. Just as on the day of the funeral, Willow thinks how much better it would have been if her father had been in the pew with them.
Then she glimpses her sister’s head, which is also her own head, sees the face they’ve both been wearing and looking into since before they came into the world, and wonders in panic, Is it me they’re burying today, or is it her? Which of us is still alive and which of us is dead? What if I’m not Willow at all, what if I’m Laurel and I don’t know it? What if she thinks she’s me? What happens then?
The three ibises and her woodpecker father reach the front of the church and lay Laurel down on the altar. It’s been swept clean of crosses and candlesticks, and covered in a sheet of thick blue-tinged plastic that blurs the gold thread embroidery of the altar cloth beneath. The ibises step back and melt away. She will not see them again. This is the first sign.
Wake up, Willow thinks. Wake up. This is your last chance. Do it. Do it now. Right now. Wake up. Wake up! And she’s not sure if she’s talking to her twin, or herself.
She knows what’s coming next because she’s had this dream before. The congregation, each wearing their bird-heads, stand, slowly and effortfully as if they’re wading through water. She doesn’t want to join them, but this is a dream, and she’s given no choice. She wants to hold her mother’s hand, but her mother is just ahead of her now, second in the long chain of people that’s forming up behind her father, whose bright streak of red feathers glow like a beacon in the spray of sunlight, shooting through the window to splash across Laurel’s closed, silent face. This is the second sign.
Wake up, Willow thinks. This is a dream. You don’t need to stay here. Wake up and get out of here. None of this happened. You don’t need to be here. It’s only a dream. She closes her eyes, fierce and tight. When she reopens them, she can feel the rustling that comes from the excited agitation of the thousands of tiny feathers, covering the bird-heads of the congregation. They’ve begun to clack their beaks in anticipation. This is the third sign.
The minister stands behind the altar, behind Laurel’s body, and raises her hands in blessing. Her father, the first in the queue – the head of the family, she supposes – mounts the three shallow steps to the altar, raises his hands for a moment in imitation of the minister, then bends from the waist and plunges his head down, down, down, into the soft cold belly of his daughter. When he turns his face to the waiting congregation, his beak and feathers are covered in blood.
No, Willow thinks. This isn’t what happened. I won’t let this be what happens. This is a dream. I won’t let it happen.
Her mother next, stepping up to the altar with quick steps, soaring on a wave of air created by the swift eager movements of those who wait behind, as if instead of clapping their hands, the congregation are urging Willow’s mother onwards by moving their arms like wings. The gesture of blessing. The dip. The pause. Her mother’s face, birdy and bloody.
Willow should take her place at the altar now, but she’s not wearing a bird-head. The vicar bundles her over to one side, a swift kind gesture that nonetheless has the seeds of exasperation in it, as if Willow is a small child refusing to leave her offering at the Harvest Festival, or clutching stubbornly to her small silver coin for the collection plate. Helpless and sick, Willow tries not to look as one by one, the congregation take their turn at the sacred feast, each bird in its turn, the raptors and the seedeaters and the water-birds, the ones who hunt and the ones who strip the carcasses and the ones who live on honey and nectar, each dipping their faces and raising them again, eager but not impatient, knowing there’ll be enough for everyone.
Stop, she thinks. She wants to scream her thought...

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Verlag
Legend Press Ltd
Erscheinungsdatum
2019
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1789550572
ISBN 13 
9781789550573
Einband
Taschenbuch
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
288
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
preigu
mail@preigu.de

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