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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781846272523 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Granta Books |
| Publication date: | 11/07/2013 |
| Pages: | 288 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.70(w) x 7.80(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Friday Evening
Sveinn hung the last ones out to dry: the hooks pierced the back
of the necks. Fortunately the holes would be hidden by silky
soft hair once the heads were added. He placed a ruler between
the ankles: it was important that they dried slightly apart, otherwise
they might handle awkwardly, like apprehensive virgins.
And there they hung, all four of them, all body type number 4.
He straightened himself up, eased the small of his back with a
damp, aching hand and admired their colouring: golden brown,
as though they had wandered naked all summer in the sunshine
shielded only by a fine haze of cloud. The colour mix had
worked perfectly and he made a mental note to write down the
proportions before the numbers faded from memory.
He didn’t consider himself an artist, although others sometimes
gave him that dubious accolade. He was a craftsman, a master
craftsman in his field, yet he didn’t puff himself up over it – for
what is self-satisfaction other than the flip side of stagnation? He
would not be guilty of either. His job was to craft as skilfully as he
could, to create an illusion of human consciousness – shining out
of blue or hazel eyes, floating behind half-closed red lips, framed
in blonde, raven-black or auburn curls – and to let his beautiful
girls go into the world, in the hope that they would bring their
owners joy.
He took off his rubber apron and hung it on a nail by the
door, washed his hands in the cubby-hole off the drying room
and put his watch back on. When he saw that it was well after
eight he realized his stomach was rumbling, his jaw was stiff
and his temples were throbbing unbearably. His finger joints
were on fire and pain ricocheted round his wrists and elbows.
It was the same every time – when his concentration relaxed
his body began to protest.
Leaning heavily against the door frame, he tried to recall
what was in the fridge. It would have been quicker to wander
into the kitchen, open the fridge and scan the contents, but
that was beyond him right then – he needed to let the
tiredness ebb away before he did anything, but at the same
time he knew he couldn’t unwind until he had some food
inside him.
What was there? Minced beef nearing its sell-by date, onions,
potatoes, flatbread, butter. Anything else? Cheese, tuna in oil,
wafer-thin slices of processed smoked lamb in cumbersome
packaging. He didn’t feel like cooking – he thought the knives
and wooden spoons would be so heavy. Heavier than the steel
he used in his girls’ joints. Heavier than lead. It was a wonder the
bases of the boxes he transported them in didn’t give way under
them.
There were a couple of restaurants nearby, but he wasn’t
ready to face people after working so many days on end. He
could get himself flatbread and coffee, but it went against the
grain to let three hundred grams of minced beef go to waste.
No, there was only one thing for it now: to shift himself
from the door frame. Although he longed for nothing more
than to take it with him into the kitchen and to lean against it
while the onions and mince browned in the pan. One foot in
front of the other, it could be done. A pleasant problem compared
to an empty fridge and having to go out to the shops.