The Man They Could Not Hang

Chapter 2: Herod's shop

                                                          I hear the cannon over the drum

                                                        The beast  roars near our front lines

                                                         No fear as others turn tail and run

                                                 Today we face a wall of teeth, mortar and mud

                                                                Edmund Hardwicke, 1769

Adders and Horse entered Herod’s Butcher Shop near nine in the evening. Aside from the noise from nearby taverns, the town centre was quiet. The streets were dimly lit with a large full moon on a clear night, providing the main source of light for most people walking through the streets at such a late hour. The proprietor, Edward Herod, was present slicing a griffin carcass by gaslight in such surprisingly thin slices given that he was equipped with such a large, hefty meat cleaver.

        A well-built man, now in his fifth decade, Herod's business  had been blessed by success after the war. Like any successful entrepreneur, he knew to branch his business into other areas of townlife. 

        Herod glanced up at his two collection boys and gave the slightest of smiles. ‘Lads, you caught me still at work. Don’t you fret! We’ll soon have these cutlets in time for dinner.’

        Adders and Horse took their cloth caps off. ‘Good evening, Mr Herod,’ they both said in unison.

        Herod motioned to two chairs near the meat counter: ‘Make yourselves at home lads and we’ll get these darlings frying soon.’

        Adders looked around the shop. It was sparse, cleaned thoroughly and all other meat had been put away out of sight. ‘Where are your staff, today, Mr Herod?’ asked Adders. His scrawny, delicate features looked thinner in the gaslight.

        Herod glanced up at Adders. ‘Gone home boy. I could have got one of them to do this job,’ pointed Herod at the carcass. 'But, it is as I tell my offspring: '‘Know your work and keep it close.'' There is nothing wrong with a bit of hard work—nothing; without it we all get rusty. Truth to tell, your workers can always disappoint you,’ said Herod shooting a sideways glance at Horse. ‘Take my nephew, Eric. He has been chopping, deboning and mincing for years, and the poor lad has not met my expectations.’

        Herod kept on slicing and looked over at Horse sat by the meat counter. ‘Tell me Horse, did you get the payment from the Wadlows’ family?’

       A large man with a broad skull, Horse shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I have fallen on my blame, sir. Mr Wadlow got the better of me.’

          'I know, lad. Adders told me.’

        A trembling Horse looked up at Adders who was staring intently at the floor, trying not to lose control of his bladder.

        ‘He caught me by surprise and chased me off the property with his gun,’ said Horse.

      ‘A hell of a pity, lad. I shall have to say to his lordship, Gray, that Wadlow has not met his payment three months in a row. What do you think he will say to me, lad? What steps will he take?’

        Horse shook his head, too terrified to even answer.

        ‘A rhetorical question. You know the word '‘rhetorical’'? In any case, how many cutlets do you want, Horse? I think that I have finished for tonight,’ said Herod wiping his blood stained hands on his blood-saturated apron.

        ‘Three, sir,’ said Horse.

        ‘So you will, lad. How many for you, Adders?’ asked Herod.

        ‘Three would be ample for me, Mr Herod,’ said Adders.

        ‘Good lad. That is good,’ said Herod

        ‘You are sure about three? You don’t want four?’

        ‘No, sir, three,’ said Adders.

        ‘Good lad.’

        Herod picked up the meat cleaver and swung it into the neck of a seated Horse. It went deep, stopping at the vertebrae. Horse swung slightly from side to side before the blood cascaded out of his neck. With empty eyes, he tried to mouth words. He coughed up several jets of blood, and dropped dead from his chair onto the clean floor.

        While Adders started to weep, Herod watched the blood cascade across the floor from Horse's severed neck. Herod showed no more emotion to his act of murder than a squashed fly.

         Herod walked around the counter, pulled the still warm chair that Horse had been sat on and positioned himself directly in front of Adders. ‘Look at you. Tears like a young jezebel, watching her fancy man march off to war.’ Herod grabbed Adders by the collar. ‘You owe me everything, lad, not tears.’

        ‘Yes, sir,’ said Adders, with a damp puddle appearing beneath his chair.

        ‘Good lad.’ Herod hauled the body of Horse onto the meat counter with effortless strength. ‘This will be for you.'

        Adders pleaded with his hands. ‘I cannot. I could not. He was my friend.’

        Herod picked up the meat cleaver, still dripping red from Horse, walked over to where Adders was sitting and held the cleaver against Adders’ throat. ‘You will my boy! Do you want to disappoint me, such as Horse. You said you wanted three slices?'

        Adders nodded.

        ‘Now, which part: the shoulder, belly or leg?’ barked Herod.

        Adders shook his head in revulsion.

        ‘The shoulder then?’ suggested Herod.

        Herod swung the meat cleaver while Adders closed his eyes and listened to the sound of torn flesh and splintered bone.