Arnaud and Georges have already singled out one of the sanglochons. I can hear squeals and gruff shouts as I go along the path to the pens. When I reach the clearing Georges is herding the condemned animal towards the gate of the sows’ pen, which Arnaud is holding open. The rest of the pigs have, sensibly, made themselves scarce. They’re at the far end of the pen, milling about as far from the two men as they can get. In the smaller pen nearby the dark shape of the boar is stalking up and down along the fence, grunting excitedly.
The sow Georges is driving towards the gate is comparatively small, not much bigger than a Labrador, but still looks big enough to bowl him over. He clearly knows what he’s doing, though. He keeps it moving by slapping at it with a thin stick, steering it with a square of wooden board that he holds against its head. Neither he nor Arnaud acknowledges me as the pig is driven out of the pen. Arnaud follows closely behind as Georges directs the animal towards the small cinderblock hut that stands – ominously, it now seems – by itself.
‘Close that,’ he tells me, gesturing to the open gate.
He walks off without waiting to see if I do. The remaining pigs are starting to drift over to the gate, so I quickly shut and fasten it with a loop of wire that hooks over the fence post. There’s a curse from Arnaud. I look around to see him sending the spaniel away with a kick as it gets too close. The dog yelps and runs off down the path.
They get the sanglochon to the entrance of the hut before it baulks. Its squeals become frantic, as though something about the place has panicked it. Georges has his full weight behind the board, pressing against the terrified animal, while Arnaud is trying to block it from escaping with his legs.
‘Are you just going to watch?’ he hollers at me.
I go across, standing opposite Arnaud so that, with Georges behind, the sanglochon has nowhere to run. I put my hand on its back and push. Its hide is rough and bristly. Solid, like a leather sandbag. Georges whacks it with the stick and the sow darts through the doorway.
Its squeals are amplified inside, pitching off the unyielding walls and concrete floor. I stay in the entrance, reluctant to go any further.
‘Get in here and shut the door,’ Arnaud snaps. ‘Leave the top open.’
I do as I’m told. It’s a stable door, split into two halves. There are no windows in the small hut, so the open top section is the only source of light. Flies buzz excitedly inside, and I try not to recoil from the stink of dried blood and faeces. In the centre of the shed is a waist-high stone slab. A rail is attached to the ceiling above it, from which hangs a pulley with a chain and hook. I stay close to the door as Georges picks up a long-handled lump hammer from the slab. It’s bigger than the one I’ve been using, but the old man hefts it easily, his oversized forearms corded with tendons and veins.
The sanglochon is blundering from side to side in the corner, although it seems to realize there’s no way out. Georges goes over to it and takes something from his pocket. Scraps of vegetables. He scatters them on the floor in front of the pig, scratching it behind the ears and muttering reassuringly. After a moment the animal calms down enough to get their scent. Still agitated, it sniffs at them. Georges waits until it puts its head down to eat and then hits it between the eyes with the hammer.
I flinch at the meaty thud. The pig drops, twitching on the floor like a sleeping dog chasing rabbits. While Georges takes hold of its back legs, Arnaud pulls the chain down from the pulley with a swift rattle. The routine seems almost choreographed, suggesting they’ve done it many times. Arnaud winds the chain around the pig’s legs and slips the hook through a link higher up to hold it in place. As he straightens he winces and rubs his back.
‘Give me a hand.’
I don’t move.
‘Come on, don’t just stand there!’
I make myself go forward. He shoves a length of chain in my hand. Georges comes and takes hold of it with me. I still have the crutch under my arm. I hesitate, unable to think what to do with it, then lean it against the wall. Arnaud moves clear, walking stiffly.
‘Pull.’
The chain is cold and rough. It moves easily for a few inches, and then checks as it takes up the pig’s weight. There’s a stench as the animal voids its bowels. The chain tugs at my arms as Georges heaves on it. I do the same. I’ve lost all volition. When he pulls, I pull. I feel the strain in my back, my arms. The pig’s rear end lifts off the floor, and then it’s hanging clear. It’s still twitching, still alive. We pull it higher.
‘OK.’
