Supply and Demand

After putting the pie made with human meat into the oven to bake,
Arthur Butterworth sat down on the chair next to the chopping table. He
began to ponder the ways of the world, and particularly those which
explained why he had been forced to resort to an alternative
supply.

As proprietor of Butterworth's Family Butchers (Purveyors of Quality
Meat since 1892) for over thirty years, he had known the good times,
and was now experiencing the bad. It all began to go wrong when
supermarkets started springing up in the seventies, he recalled. Up to
that point, there was only one source for all things meaty: the
Butcher's shop. But then those huge, anonymous places started opening,
and suddenly there was an alternative. Suddenly, people were not forced
to visit a separate shop for their Sunday joint, they could simply pick
it up in the same place they bought their vegetables, bread, milk and
beer. Which of course meant that he, and small shopkeepers like him the
length of the country, found themselves with a much depleted market,
almost overnight.

Things had gone from bad to worse, and with the opening of the new
shopping centre a few years ago, just five miles down the road,
Butterworth's had lost a substantial amount of the business they had
previously managed to retain. Finally, about three months ago, Arthur
had realised that unless something significant changed in the very near
future - and by significant he was looking for something about as major
as the Government outlawing any shop bigger than, say, a terraced house
- he would be out of business by the end of the year.

And then, like a White Knight on a shining charger - well, except for
the fact that he was driving a black hearse and dressed in black - came
Ernest Longfellow, chief Undertaker at the Peaceful Rest Funeral
Parlour. Ernest, an acquaintance for longer than Arthur could remember,
had seen Arthur sitting in the Black Swan one Sunday lunchtime, slowly
but surely drinking that week's meagre profits. He had wandered over,
sat at Arthur's table, and placed his half-drunk pint on the table-top
with the precision and confidence of a Grandmaster giving Checkmate. He
looked at Arthur for a moment or two, staring into his eyes, his own
eyes as fitting to his profession in their mournfulness as a red nose
befits a clown, and said softly, "I could help." That was all; just, "I
could help."

~*~

Arthur hadn't known what he was talking about for a moment, but Ernest
just sat looking, and gradually Arthur realised - though how he could
have known Arthur did not understand - that Ernest knew all about his
financial troubles. Or, if not all, then certainly enough.

Ernest repeated himself. "I could help", he began, but this time
continued. "I know you have problems Arthur; don't ask me how I know,
but I do. And if you want, I could help you with them. What do you
say?"

Arthur didn't know what he said. He was still trying to understand how
Ernest could possibly have found out. He ran quickly through his mind
the names of the people he had talked to about his financial strife. It
didn't take long; his wife and his accountant. And that, he was sure,
was all. His wife would never have talked to anyone about such things,
so that meant Ernest must have learned this from Arthur's accountant,
Henry Bloomfield. But that couldn't be right could it? Henry was an old
friend; his father had been Arthur's father's accountant. So
how&;#8230;? He realised Ernest was talking again.

"&;#8230;get me another pint, and we'll talk business then, how's
that?"

Arthur stood up before he realised he had moved, then took Ernest's
empty glass and wandered over to the bar. On his return, with a pint
for Ernest and a double Scotch for himself, Ernest was still sitting in
the same posture, staring into space with those eyes of a thousand
mournings. He turned them on Arthur as he re-seated himself opposite.
"Right, to business then, eh?" Arthur was sure that there was a
"thanks" in there somewhere, and that it must have been his own
diminished hearing which had failed to pick it up. He listened, Ernest
talked.

"Now, you're a retailer, right? I mean, I know you don't just sell meat
on, you actually do something with it first, but in the end you are
more or less buying and selling, yes?" He didn't wait for the
affirmative nod, but Arthur gave it anyway. "So, you are at the mercy
of your suppliers, correct? If they put up their prices, you either
take up the slack yourself, or you pass on the increase to your
customers. But it's a harsh world isn't it Arthur? And you're feeling
the squeeze now from the new shopping centre aren't you?" So many
rhetorical questions, and Arthur began to resemble a nodding donkey.
"But what if, just let's suppose, what if you could find a supplier
who's prices would be much lower than any others, and you could take
the profit yourself instead of the increased cost? Now wouldn't that be
a great help?"

A few seconds passed before Arthur realised that this one required more
than a mere head movement; he replied. "Well yes, obviously it would,
but there aren't any. Unless you know of one&;#8230;?"

"I might, I might." The rictus grin on Ernest's morose face looked
about as appropriate as it would have done at a funeral. This face was
not built for smiles. "You have to understand that
this&;#8230;er&;#8230;produce may not strictly comply with all
the EC regulations exactly, but I'm sure you're not going to worry
about a little thing like that, now are you Arthur?" Back to the
rhetorical ones again.

"Now, let us say that I could, for a very reasonable price, supply you
with a certain quantity of goods which would supplement your regular
supplies. It's important you maintain your dealings with your regular
suppliers for a couple of reasons. One, of course, is to avoid
suspicion; it wouldn't take an Einstein to notice you were apparently
selling meat without ever buying it, would it? But the second reason is
that my&;#8230;er&;#8230;supplies would only be useful for
certain of your products; it would not be suitable to replace your
prime cuts. I think it would be better used in pies and the like. Yes,
I think it would be very good in pies, actually. You sell a lot of pies
Arthur, don't you? So I think that if you were making a healthy profit
on them, it might well make the difference between sink or swim. What
do you think?"

Arthur thought, and as he did so, the first flickerings of a way out
began to show themselves in his mind. But he had a question of his own
now. "This sounds all very fine and well Ernest, but I have to ask you,
where does the meat come from?"

Ernest flinched slightly at the word "meat", but didn't let it break
his bloodhound expression. "My produce", he corrected, "comes from what
you might call, 'natural wastage'. In my profession Arthur, I have
access to certain commodities which would, should I not find a use for
them, be completely wasted. I abhor waste Arthur, and it would be very
pleasing to me to find an outlet for this resource. And if that proved
to be of mutual benefit, then that would be all the more gratifying."
He could see that Arthur was still completely bemused, so he had to
spell things out in order that the light would dawn in Arthur's
benighted brain. "I can sell you the bodies, Arthur."

This one took some sorting out. He had heard the words, yes. He had
even, on a very hypothetical level, understood their meaning. But
relating this meaning to his own situation was proving difficult.
Gradually he married the two together, and as meaning turned into
comprehension, the expression on his face was an accurate barometer of
its progress. Full realisation of what Ernest was suggesting equalled
an acute mix of horror and disgust. For a few moments he could not
speak. Then he managed to stammer out, "Are&;#8230;are you
sug..suggesting I&;#8230;cook with&;#8230;dead people?"

Ernest's expression didn't waver for an instant. He was completely calm
in his reply. "If you want to put it like that, then yes. But you cook
with dead cows and pigs all the time anyway. So where is the
difference?"

For a moment Arthur was so stunned by the normality with which he been
answered that he almost began to question his own reaction. But reality
was still lurking and gave him a kick where it hurt, and he blurted out
"you must be bloody insane man! What the hell do you think you're
talking about? Jesus!" He swallowed his double Scotch in one gulp, then
braced while the fiery liquid burnt its way down into his stomach.
Finally he was composed again, though he still didn't trust himself to
speak. Throughout this, Ernest had neither looked away nor spoken. In
fact he had not so much as moved. He continued to watch Arthur with the
confidence of a cat watching a bird it has already wounded. It was
simply down to timing now. Nothing more. He waited. Then he
spoke.

"Arthur, look, I know that what I'm suggesting might seem a
little&;#8230;well, a little unpalatable, but believe me, it really
is a very sensible thing to do. It's only meat, for Heaven's sake. I
mean, I don't know whether you're a religious person or not, but
whether you are or aren't doesn't make any difference. The fact is that
these people are just as dead as the carcasses you get delivered every
week. Listen, just hear me out. Let's just hypothesise, yes? Let's say
you agreed, just for the sake of argument. Now, how would it work?
Well, we deal with about thirty funerals per week, on average. Now, of
those, about half are elderly people, and to be honest with you, their
meat is tough, stringy and tasteless. And there's not much of it either
usually. So, that takes us down to about fifteen. A few of those will
have died from illnesses that preclude the meat being used; also, we
are occasionally requested to provide an open-casket cremation, which
means they would unfortunately have to be placed in the casket. But I
reckon that on a reasonable week we should have about ten carcasses
that I could sell to you. The logistics are easy. We simply don't put
the bodies in the caskets. We leave them in the cold-storage room, and
make up the weight in the coffin with something else, like wood wrapped
in cloth. Each week, I'll deliver the carcasses to you at night, or
very early in the morning. I have a white van I use for errands when
the hearse isn't appropriate. It will be very discrete, and very easy.
All you would have to do is ensure that the meat was processed before
any of your staff got to see it. Also, you should give me all the scrap
bones you have from the last carcasses, each time I make a delivery. If
we have a cremation, we need to put some bones into the casket. When
bodies are cremated, the bones don't completely turn to ash, they have
to be crushed in the cremulator. So to avoid suspicion at the
crematorium, this would be essential. But other than that, there's
nothing to worry about. See? Simple."

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. In spite of his
initial disgust, he had begun to consider the idea. But before he could
go any further, he needed to know about the financial arrangements. He
asked.

"Well, I was thinking about a hundred pounds per carcass", said Ernest.
"You can easily make double that selling the meat in pies, I would have
thought. So that seems to be reasonable."

Arthur was now seriously considering the idea. The average human
weighed what? About 160 pounds or so? How much of that was meat? Say
half. Eighty pounds. With the other ingredients that go into the pies,
that ought to make about double the weight in the finished produce. He
could probably clear about a hundred pounds per carcass! At ten a week,
that was an extra thousand pounds a week clear profit! He could do
this, he realised. He could actually do it, and save the
business.

After some further discussion, during which Arthur managed to get
Ernest down to eighty-five pounds per body, they agreed, and the deal
was struck. It was arranged that Ernest would deliver two carcasses to
the shop on Saturday night, and Arthur would spend Sunday preparing
them, by himself, his staff not working that day. He would make up some
experimental pies and puddings, try them out, and if they seemed okay,
would begin selling them in the shop the following week.

Saturday night had arrived, and with it had brought Ernest, having made
some effort to live up to his White Knight image by swapping his black
hearse for his white van. He turned up at a few minutes past midnight,
drove round to the back of the shop, and saw Arthur waiting for
him.

Ernest climbed out of the van. "Cold one tonight Arthur. Going to be a
frost in the morning I'm thinking." This said while walking to the rear
of the van and opening up the back doors. When Arthur saw the two
bodies lying on the floor of the van, it was all he could do to prevent
himself throwing up the remains of his tea, then telling Ernest where
he could shove his bodies. But he steeled himself, and moved to give
Ernest a hand with the body that he had begun to pull over the lip of
the van's floor. It was not until they got the body inside that Arthur
realised that the cadaver was headless. This had been an absolute
demand from him, but he had quite forgotten about it until he glanced
down and noticed that one end of the cloth-wrapped carcass was
straight, rather than pointed; it ended at the shoulders. He breathed a
shaky sigh of relief at that; it was one thing to be cooking bodies,
but quite another to be aware of whose body. That would have been quite
out of the question.

They left the first carcass on the chopping table, fetched in the other
one, laid it by the first, then stood breathing heavily, breath rushing
from their mouths and noses in white plumes. Arthur looked at his
watch. Quarter past twelve. He had decided to start work immediately on
preparing the meat, so that should anyone come in unexpectedly during
Sunday, they would see not two beheaded human cadavers, but stocks of
freshly-cut meat, albeit of a somewhat anonymous nature. Ernest was
still there, but Arthur knew he was only waiting for his money, so he
paid the man, and walked back to the van with him.

Ernest turned before climbing into the van. "Good luck with them," he
said, then, with an uncharacteristic glint in his eyes, continued "I'm
sure you'll enjoy the flavour. Very unusual, bit like chicken, but
moister and tastier." He gave the worst impression of a smile Arthur
had ever seen, then climbed into the van, started the engine and drove
off, leaving Arthur standing in the cold night, wondering whether
Ernest had been attempting humour, or whether he was suggesting that
he'd already tried human flesh himself. Arthur fervently hoped for the
former, but instinctively knew it was the latter. He hurried back
inside as his thoughts exaggerated his coldness, locked the doors, and
set to stripping the meat from the two carcasses.

His knowledge of butchery was an advantage of course, but he had no
experience in this particular branch of the profession; nor had he any
training in human anatomy, so he was largely working in the dark. But
the obvious place to start was with the legs, so he began, with the
first body, by removing the two legs, then chopping them into more
manageable pieces, before removing the meat, putting the fillets into a
steel tray and throwing the pieces of bone and tendons into a plastic
dustbin. He must remember to let Ernest have them the next time he
delivered, he thought to himself, then realised that already he was
thinking about this as a regular arrangement. In a curious kind of way,
he was quite proud of himself for the way he'd dealt with this whole
thing. He realised as well that the job he was currently performing was
not exactly unenjoyable. Finding where the best cuts of meat were on
this completely new animal was rather a challenge.

Gradually the meat tray and scrap bucket filled up, as the carcass was
dissected. Arthur was enjoying himself thoroughly now. All thoughts as
to the identity of the body had disappeared, and he was already
planning how to use the fine meat that was being yielded. He would make
"chicken" and mushroom pies, "chicken" and vegetable pies, "pork" pies,
and possibly introduce some more exotic varieties, such as ostrich.
He'd heard from his suppliers that ostrich was all the rage at the
moment, but had been unable to afford to buy any. But now he could sell
as much as he liked. Okay, his ostrich meat would be slightly
different, but again, by putting it in pies, he would be able to hide
the fact easily.

Finally the first carcass was fully filleted, and he prepared the
second one in much the same way, except for the fact that this one was
a female, whereas the first had been male. The genitals of both and the
breasts of the second all went into the scrap bucket.

After preparing the meat, he took a good-looking piece from the tray,
cut it into small chunks, then mixed it with a mixture of mushrooms and
gravy. He took a ball of pastry from the fridge, rolled it out into two
pieces, then quickly and expertly made up a pie in a dish, filling it
with the meat and mushrooms, slipped it into the oven, then sat down to
wait.

~*~

He realised that at some point during his musings he'd fallen asleep,
and when he looked up at the timer on the oven, he saw that the pie had
been baking for about an hour. It should be about ready, he thought, so
he opened the oven door and slid the baking tray out with an oven
glove. The pie was nicely browned on top, and steam was rising from the
hole in the middle. He put the tray down on the work surface next to
the oven, cut a slice from the pie and put it on an enamel plate. His
heart was beating faster as he looked at the exposed meat in the pie.
This was the big test. Could he actually eat this meat? After all, he'd
managed to deal with the delivery of the carcasses and the filleting.
But this was the thing he'd been dreading most. The tasting. But it had
to be done. He had to know if it was going to be possible to sell this
stuff, if it was really going to help him out of his present plight. He
waited for a couple of minutes - under the pretence of letting the pie
cool but in reality to pluck up some more courage - then took a forkful
and put it into his mouth, without stopping to blow on it in case the
slight hesitation gave him an opportunity to put it down again.
Tentatively, he began to chew the meat, and in the process started to
investigate the flavour.

It was fantastic! He had never eaten meat like it. It was like chicken,
he thought. Ernest was certainly right about that. He was also right
about the fact that it was tastier than chicken, not as dry, and
altogether more&;#8230;more meaty. He found he was enjoying the
taste; more than that, he was eating the rest of the piece of pie. When
he finished, he cut himself a bigger piece and ate that too. This was
the best pie he'd ever eaten, without a doubt. Now a shadow of doubt
flickered over him. Could this meat really pass as chicken? Wouldn't
his customers suspect that their was something unusual about it? After
a moment, he decided. No, they wouldn't. It tasted too good for one
thing. So long as something tasted good, it didn't really matter
whether it tasted particularly like what it was supposed to be. And
this pie tasted good!

After eating more than half of the family-sized pie, Arthur set to work
making all the other varieties of pies and puddings he could think of,
baking and testing until dawn the following day. Finally, his arms,
legs and back aching from the night's labours, he left his shop and
climbed upstairs to the flat he shared with his wife. Without
undressing, he slumped down onto the bed, noticing with only slight
interest that the clock said 6:58. His wife would be getting up in an
hour, he realised. He just hoped she would leave him to sleep on. She
was used to him working long hours, but wouldn't realise just how long
he'd worked tonight. His last thoughts before falling asleep were happy
ones. He had a new supplier, a source of the finest, tastiest meat, and
every chance of not only saving the business but making a decent profit
for Mary and himself. Not a bad night's work.

~*~

Sunday was spent pie-making. He worked for over twelve hours, baking
dozens of pies and puddings, filling up his cold storage areas like he
was stocking up for Armageddon. This week, of course, there was only
the meat from two carcasses to use; next week, with any luck, he would
have ten. And then the money, and the work, would really increase. He
went to bed tired and happy again on Sunday night, and for the first
time in more years than he could remember, he looked forward to opening
his shop on Monday morning.

~*~

The new pies and puddings were an unqualified success. On Monday he
sold only a modest number. But as the week progressed he found that
people who had bought them on Monday were returning for more. By
Wednesday afternoon he had sold out. He could not believe it. That
night, he made a call to Ernest to put in his order for the following
week. He ordered ten carcasses, and Ernest assured him that it would be
no problem; they had plenty of stock. Arthur felt a lightness he could
not remember feeling since&;#8230;well, since ever. Within a month,
the shop would be making a good profit again, and possibly, just
possibly, he could make enough to take himself and Mary on that
long-awaited second honeymoon. As he and Mary sat down to their dinner
on Wednesday evening - chicken and mushroom pie from the shop - Arthur
smiled to himself. Life is good, he thought. Thank God for
Ernest.

On Saturday, Ernest duly delivered the ten carcasses, as ordered, and
Arthur paid him the ?850. he also gave Ernest the bucket of bones from
last week's filleting. Things were going very smoothly indeed. He spent
the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday filleting. He knew that this
week he would not have time to make the pies and puddings himself, so
all he could do was to prepare the meat then get Jason, his loyal but
not-too-bright junior assistant to make up the pies during the week. He
knew that Jason would not question the fact that the meat looked a
little different. He was a good lad; he'd just get on with the job he
was given, without questions. Lack of initiative was not always what
one looked for in an employee, but in this case it was perfect.

Again the pies and puddings flew out of the door during the week. In
spite of the fact that he'd prepared five times as much as last week,
he sold out at mid-day on Friday. The week's turnover was fifty percent
higher than the previous week's, and almost as high as it had ever
been. What was more, his profit margins were much healthier, and that
week he made an extra nine-hundred odd pounds more than normal. He
couldn't stop smiling. Word of mouth was selling the pies, he realised.
People were starting to tell other people about how good they were. He
couldn't lose. The only worry now, he thought to himself jokingly, was
making sure there were enough for himself and Mary. They had both
developed a real addiction for them, although of course Mary still
thought that the meat was chicken. But what did that matter? She was
happy, he was happy, the business was thriving. Could life get any
better?

Unfortunately, life has a way of balancing the books, and five weeks
after beginning his new line of produce, Arthur's elderly mother
Beatrice passed away in her sleep. He took a few days off work to sort
out her affairs and arrange the funeral. He and Mary went along to the
Peaceful Rest Funeral Parlour to make the arrangements, choose a
casket, and so on. After waiting for a few minutes, they were finally
seen by&;#8230;Ernest Longfellow.

The meeting went reasonably well, although Arthur could not shake
certain thoughts from his mind, and when everything had been sorted
out, he caught Ernest by himself for a few moments while his wife went
to call at the Chemist's next door.

"Ernest, listen, I wonder if you could do me a favour?"

"Aah, I thought you were going to ask. It's about your mother's body
isn't it? Don't worry Arthur, I wouldn't dream of selling it to you.
Not a chance."

"Thanks Ernest. I knew you'd be alright about it."

"Not a problem Arthur. My condolences again. A very sad loss."

~*~

The funeral over, life slowly got back to normal. The pies were still
selling like hot cakes, Arthur thought, wondering if the metaphor was
not too absurd. But however you described it, they really were saving
the business. He had been able to begin clearing his huge overdraft
and, at this rate, would be out of debt within eighteen months or so.
The loss of his mother had certainly saddened him deeply, but the new
life being breathed into his business was helping him deal with the
grief more than a little.

One Friday, a fortnight after the funeral, he came into the flat after
closing the shop, and found that his wife had prepared a wonderful tea
for them, a lovely cold buffet with plates full of different
things.

"What's all this for?" he asked, bemused yet grateful.

"I just thought it'd be nice to surprise you" she smiled, then came
over and gave him a hug. She really was a good woman, he
realised.

They both sat down, and he loaded his plate with ham rolls,
vol-au-vents and sausage rolls, all bought fresh that day from the
bakery in the High Street; salad, pickled onions, and of course, pork
pie from the shop.

Arthur tucked in; the day had been hectic, and he was ravenous, having
missed his lunch. He was halfway through one of the delicious sausage
rolls when he bit down on something as hard as rock. He let out a yell
and dropped the roll on his plate, clutching his mouth in pain.

"Arthur, whatever's the matter?" asked Mary, worried.

"I think I've broken a tooth on that sausage roll. There must be a bit
of bone in it or something." He glanced down at his plate and saw, half
hidden in the chewed part of the sausage roll that had fallen from his
mouth, something shiny, something&;#8230;yellow and shiny. "Oh my
God", he whispered. "Could you get me a glass of water, do you think
Love?" he asked, manoeuvring Mary out of the room. She immediately
disappeared into the kitchen, giving Arthur a few moments.

He picked the object out of the crumbs and brought it up to his face.
It was a gold wedding ring. That crafty scheming bastard, he thought.
Longfellow had been dealing with the baker too. How much profit was he
making there? He wondered. Still, did it really matter? So long as
Arthur was getting as many carcasses as he could use, what was the
problem?

He looked again at the ring. There seemed to be an inscription inside
it. Holding it up close, he was able to read it. "To my darling bride
Beatrice Butterworth. With all my love, Frederick." He quickly pushed
the ring into his pocket before Mary came back. He took a sip of water
and checked his tooth with his tongue, and found that it wasn't broken
after all. 'I'm eating my own mother', he thought as the full truth hit
him. 'Mind you, it really is a tasty sausage roll. I could eat another
of these.'