Pork

The girls drag their heels as they are moved on, some flashing their knickers at the pigs, some showing them the forks. Mandy loiters, arms wrapped tight around herself, trying to strangle the cramps, smother the nausea, lock down the shivering, lock down her racing brain.

She locks her gaze on Big Geoff’s heels as he leads her to the unmarked car, knows better than to look him in the face. Big Geoff first, then Bullet Pete. Then the fix. And the price this time? Geoff snarls her hair around his fingers and yanks her into the back seat. Pete leers over the headrest. Geoff’s slaps her. Pushes her down, crushed satin skirt riding up, holds her chin between a meaty thumb and fingers. Squeezes, hard. Tenderised, then. Better than spit roast.

Beef

She celebrated her thirteenth birthday with Tony. Watched him weighing her assets with his stare, knowing he wanted to weigh them with his hands, saw his tongue snaking from his lips. The other girls giggled at his tattooed biceps, simpering to be spun faster on the waltzers, but Mandy knew the game. When she ran out of cash he waved her onto the ride anyway. When she licked his ear, he told her she was good. He bought her a hot dog and taught her to be better.

Chicken

Six kids kicking their heels against the kerb, waiting for the next car to round the corner. Mandy’s heart pounding — her turn to play chicken. Run too soon and you’re a loser, run too late and… nobody ever ran too late.

Till Mandy did—

—Brian grabbing her tank top, hauling her back with a fucking hell, Mandy, you loon. Sprawled on the verge, legs splayed, elbow grazed, clothes grass-stained, one hand peppered with gravel, her face hot with the shame of it. They all laughed and called her a stupid cunt, but then Brian thumped her arm. Grinned. Offered her a hand up. At least she wasn’t chicken. It didn’t make up for having shit, market-bargain trainers, a jumble-sale tank top, a haircut razored by her mam, or a dad that fell out of the Working Men’s Club after making a twat of himself more nights than not. But, it was something.

Lamb

Uncle Mike was the first man to call her she a good girl. Call her his little lamb. He liked to take her walking across the hilltops in Halifax, the sun on their backs, or the drizzle pissing down their necks. In the fields below, they’d watch lumps of grimy wool on spindly legs rolling in their own shit. Mandy liked to see the smallest ones romping around the fields, sometimes butting one another in play, sometimes bleating for their mother. Noisy little bastards, Uncle Mike said. By autumn, they were gone. Uncle Mike explained, in detail, where they went. All that noise they made, you see. That’s what did for them. He pointed out two remaining survivors, huddling quietly near a pen, heads down.

Turkey

When the priest beckons to her, she knows that one of them is to atone for their sins; one of them needs carnal chastisement. It’s a familiar story.

This one frowns, and tells her the only thing he wants to put in her mouth is a hot meal.  He leads her towards the presbytery. Pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket. Says the only thing he wants to do with her body is help her get it clean. Says the Lord will see her through. Prayer is the thing.

He’s kidding, right? Whatever his game is, she’s too tired to fight. She follows him anyway. Nobody wants to be alone at Christmas.

Heather is a working-class Yorkshire writer, published by Urban Pigs, Oxford Flash Fiction, The Wild Umbrella, Bath Flash Fiction, Fictive Dream, and other quality journals. She has won several competitions and is Pushcart and BOTN-nominated. A sight-impaired Spoonie who loves the sea and is addicted to cheese. Find her at https://sites.google.com/view/heatherbooknook