The young boy screams and someone drops their tuba.
Most people pretend not to notice the dead swan draped over my shoulders as I walk back home. They part to let me through, some tutting as they do so. The swan is heavier than it looks, and its wings keep trailing along the ground, tripping me up. I hoist it higher. Its neck dangles down, beak bouncing off the case of the swan heart beneath, which is practically chirruping. The bus driver refused to let me on, miserable bastard, but the exercise will do me good. I’m sweating, in spite of the wind.
Thomas is still watering his garden when I get home. There are pools forming around his ankles.
‘Hey,’ he says, waving with the wrong hand so the sprinkler he’s holding dowses his clothes. ‘Oh! Nice swan.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Is it all right? It looks a bit … floppy.’
‘It’s dead.’
‘Oh!’ He shudders. ‘Doesn’t the Queen own all the swans in the country, or something?’
I fumble for my keys. ‘Bye, Thomas.’
‘Oh, OK. Bye.’
I slam the door behind me and let the swan tumble to the floor. It stares up at me, blankly. He’s right, though, Thomas. The Queen technically does own all unmarked swans in open water. Not that she’d ever exercise her rights. They don’t make queens like they used to.
There was a time when jealous queens ate the hearts of their daughters. Elisabeth of Austria, a real-life nineteenth-century princess, used to sleep with raw meat on her face, to keep her skin young and freckle-free. She had hair that took hours to brush, and she would wash it with egg yolk and brandy. At the age of sixty, she was stabbed through the heart by an anarchist who thought she looked ugly. Her corset was so tight that she didn’t die for several hours. Her heart bled out slowly, twitching in a cage.
Birds and hearts are similar in so many ways, you see. I nudge the dead swan with my foot.
It’s like poetry, really.
I check on Cora, who hasn’t moved, and drag the bird into the kitchen. It takes an age to pluck, as I try to keep the feathers whole. I’ll get Cora to make a skirt with them, one that sweeps the floor. She can wear it along with her bearskin coat and wolf-tooth crown, and I’ll take her dancing. The white feathers gleaming against her dark skin, the two of us never breaking eye contact so everyone else feels uncomfortable. We can arch our necks and point our feet. Parade across the floor.
Swans were sacred to Druids, who thought they represented the soul. They believed these birds could travel between our world and the world of the dead, and, because storytellers brought news from all worlds, they were given ceremonial cloaks called tuigen, made out of songbird feathers. The hoods of these cloaks were decorated with the feathers of a swan.
Cora loves stories; she deserves a cloak of feathers.
I take off my jumper, and unstrap the heart case underneath. I don’t want to distress my newly bought heart by keeping it on me as I dissect my kill. I can almost hear it resisting as I put it down, away from the warmth of my body. It shudders slightly. It misses me. Good.
I pull on an apron and close the blinds.
I sharpen my knives.
Butchery is an art form lost on many.
The six o’clock news filters out from the radio.
Today’s headlines: US scientists remain sceptical of North Korea’s claims it has created the Elixir of Love. A video from a woman in northern England has gone viral, in which she says she is willing to donate her heart to save someone else’s relationship. The suicidal forty-two-year-old from Northumberland is currently accepting couples’ CVs via email, so she can pick one to donate her heart to.
I slice through the breast meat.
The Aphrodite Heart Factory in east London has seen a record number of animal rights protestors, after its announcement that it will be opening five new branches just north of the city. The activists, who have all rejected animal heart transplants, choosing instead to suffer with heart disease, petition for the abolition of the animal heart market. The Prime Minister calls for calm, insisting that these new factories are simply a precautionary measure, not a sign that love levels are plummeting to an all-time low.
He released this statement earlier this afternoon. ‘Whilst we continue to manufacture hearts for our own needs, we must also take great care to cater for others, by sending out hearts and doctors to those suffering in foreign lands. Love translates into all languages, and should know no bounds.’
I locate the swan’s wishbone and put it to one side for later, then I pull the swan heart out from its ribcage, blood congealing on my fingertips.
It’s a special moment.
It’s still warm.
I lick my lips.
It’s not unusual to eat animal hearts. Dare I say it’s not unusual to eat human hearts, either. There are odd people out there who place adverts looking for strangers to eat their hearts while they struggle to stay alive, which is hardly arousing, but the actual act of eating human hearts goes back centuries, probably millennia. One eccentric in the 1800s, William Buckland, used to eat all manner of strange things. Bluebottles and toasted mice, panthers and puppies. At least I don’t do that. Mind you, William did also eat the heart of Louis XIV, which had been embalmed for a hundred and fifty years. He simply grabbed the silver container on display at dinner, ripped out the contents and swallowed it whole. That’s not something I’d recommend. Hearts should be fresh. Still beating, if at all possible.
I trim the fat from the edges of the swan heart and begin working on a marinade. My favourite is a simple one. Two tablespoons of olive oil, one of sherry vinegar, a splash of Worcestershire sauce, a pinch of salt, oregano and black pepper. I chop the heart finely and line it in the marinade. It’ll need to sit for an hour or so. Enough time to clean up, freeze the carcass, make a side salad and check on everything downstairs.
The swan heart I bought online still sits on the counter top. It’s beating slower than before. Every so often, it jumps in its case, trying to get my attention. I wonder if it’s concerned I’m about to cut it into tiny pieces, too. Part of me feels sorry for it, like a fool. I make soothing noises and reattach it to my chest. The heart sighs with relief. We’re bonding. Once I’ve cooked and eaten tonight’s meal, we’ll bond further. Independent studies have shown that if a human consumes a heart from the same species intended to be put inside his or her lover, then there is a greater chance of creating a lifetime bond. Love consumes you, so you must consume it.
I carry the chopping board to the sink, squeeze in a good amount of washing-up liquid and relish the silence where a reprimand would be. Through the kitchen blinds, suds up to my elbows, I spy Thomas and James in their living room. They’re sitting side by side on their new designer sofa. No doubt they deliberately left their curtains open so the world could see. A poster image for a glass heart relationship. Like a bloody art installation.