Then the hand was out of his mouth and the scarlet, spittle-covered fingers were in front of his face, with his tongue, held between thumb and forefinger.
Kaufman was speechless.
"Serve," said the father, and stuffed the tongue into his own mouth, chewing on it with evident satisfaction. Kaufman fell to his knees, spewing up his sandwich.
The father was already shuffling away into the dark; the rest of the ancients had disappeared into their warren for- another night.
The tannoy crackled.
"Home," said the driver.
The doors hissed closed and -the sound of power surged through the train. The lights flickered on, then off again, then on. - The train began to move.
Kaufman lay on the floor, tears pouring down his face, tears of discomfiture and of resignation. He would bleed to death, he decided, where he lay. It wouldn't matter if he died. It was a foul world anyway.
The driver woke him. He opened his eyes. The face that was looking down at him was black, and not unfriendly. It grinned. Kaufman tried to say something, but his mouth was sealed up with dried blood. He jerked his head around like a driveller trying to spit out a word. Nothing came but grunts.
He wasn't dead. He hadn't bled to death.
The driver pulled him to his knees, talking to him as though he were a three-year-old.
"You got a job to do, my man: they're very pleased with you."
The driver had licked his fingers, and was rubbing Kaufman's swollen lips, trying to part them.
"Lots to learn before tomorrow night . . ."
Lots to learn. Lots to learn.
He led Kaufman out of the train. They were in no station he had ever seen before. It was white-tiled and absolutely pristine; a station-keeper's Nirvana. No graffiti disfigured the walls. There were no tokenbooths, but then there were no gates and no passengers either. This was a line that provided only one service: The Meat Train.
A morning shift of cleaners were already busy hosing the blood off the seats and the floor of the train. Somebody was stripping the Butcher's body, in preparation for dispatch to New Jersey. All around Kaufman people were at work.
A rain of dawn light was pouring through a grating in the roof of the station. Motes of dust hung in the beams, turning over and over. Kaufman watched them, entranced. He hadn't seen such a beautiful thing since he was a child. Lovely dust. Over and over, and over and over.
The driver had managed to separate Kaufman's lips. His mouth was too wounded for him to move it, but at least he could breathe easily. And the pain was already beginning to subside.
The driver smiled at him, then turned to the rest of the workers in the station.
"I'd like to introduce Mahogany's replacement. Our new butcher," he announced.
The workers looked at Kaufman. There was a certain deference in their faces, which he found appealing.
Kaufman looked up at the sunlight, now falling all around him. He jerked his head, signifying that he wanted to go up, into the open air. The driver nodded, and led him up a steep flight of steps and through an alley-way and so out on to the sidewalk.
It was a beautiful day. The bright sky over New York was streaked with filaments of pale pink cloud, and the air smelt of morning.
The Streets and Avenues were practically empty. At a distance an occasional cab crossed an intersection, its engine a whisper; a runner sweated past on the other side of the street.
Very soon these same deserted sidewalks would be thronged with people. The city would go about its business in ignorance: never knowing what it was built upon, or what it owed its life to. Without hesitation, Kaufman fell to his knees and kissed the dirty concrete with his bloody lips, silently swearing his eternal loyalty to its continuance.
The Palace of Delights received the adoration without comment.
-END
