Feast

PRAISE FORTHE YELLOW HOUSE‘An astounding debut.’ —Brisbane News‘Creepy and atmospheric … It’s a measure of the skill of the writing that this uncomfortable, often ugly tale is such an immersive and evocative story, with a sense of horror that is never far from the surface.’ —Herald‘A tautly written thriller.’ —The Big Issue‘An intriguing look at human nature and how assumptions about family and who you are related to can colour what people think of you—and what happens when these secrets come out—and how far some people are willing to go to hurt people and cover it up.’ —The Book Muse‘O’Grady is a talented storyteller; it’s her narrative skills that make this grim tome so compelling.’ —Australian Book Review‘The Yellow House is highly accessible literary fiction … Emily O’Grady has such a talent for clearly conveying the unstated, and the visual imagery that she injects into her writing just leaps from the page. I’m still thinking about this novel and expect to be for some time.’ —Theresa Smith Writes ‘Compelling and accomplished … a powerful novel about the legacies of a notorious, violent crime in a family and in a small rural community where everyone knows everyone else’s business. Through Cub’s delightfully natural and chatty account, we see how her strong personality and down-to-earth assessment of the people around her help her come to terms with her discoveries and with the ways in which her family is still affected by them.’ —Eclectica Magazine‘It’s not an easy thing to nail the voice of a child in a way that’s both authentic and alluring, but O’Grady does just that from the get-go.’ —Debbish Emily O’Grady is a writer from Brisbane. Her debut novel, The Yellow House won The Australian/Vogel’s Award in 2018 and was shortlisted for the 2019 Ned Kelly Award for Best First Fiction. Feast is her second novel. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.First published in 2023Copyright © Emily O’Grady 2023All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.This project has been assisted by a Queensland Writers Fellowship. The Queensland Writers Fellowships are supported by the Queensland Government through Arts Queensland and State Library of Queensland. Queensland Writers Fellowships are administered by Queensland Writers Centre.Allen & UnwinCammeraygal Country83 Alexander StreetCrows Nest NSW 2065AustraliaPhone: (61 2) 8425 0100Email: [email protected]:www.allenandunwin.comAllen & Unwin acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Elders, past and present.ISBN 978 1 76106 711 2eISBN 978 1 76118 673 8Typeset by Bookhouse, SydneyCover design: Sandy CullCover image: © Irene Lamprakou/Trevillion Images FOR MY MOTHER CONTENTSALISONNEVEALISONSHANNONNEVEALISONNEVEALISONACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ALISONALISON KNEELS BESIDE THE RABBIT. Its right hind leg is clamped into the trap and it takes quick, shallow breaths, heart pumping, lungs expanding and contracting. The surrounding field is thick with pale tussocks and crispy heather, the neighbour’s cottage and the road to the village just beyond the hill. It is early still and Alison is out here in the cold because last night she dreamt of her mother, who served her three chanterelles on a dinner plate. In her dream, the mushrooms glowed, and when her mother—looming like a cast-iron statue in the centre of a colonised city—opened her lips to speak, the grotto of her mouth glowed also, her tongue orange and bulbous and radiating light. When Alison woke at dawn, she rose and went out to search the woods. She found no mushrooms, but she did find this, the rabbit. She applies pressure to the levers of the trap until the steel jaws open and the rabbit’s mangled leg is freed. A hissing sound escapes its mouth as she presses her palm to its throat. She does not speak to it or soothe it with soft, maternal clucks. It stares up at her, eyes pink as tourmaline, but doesn’t struggle until she presses down with the same swift motion she uses when cracking Patrick’s back on the bedroom floor when he comes to her, weary and tense after a long day hunched over piano keys. She gathers the rabbit by its back legs and rises. The joints in her own legs are stiff and she rolls each ankle. Usually, it feels good to walk, early and in the spring, when it’s no longer cold enough to preserve a corpse, but she is too warm in Patrick’s shearling coat and sweat dampens her chest. Though home is only a short walk past the woods and the stables, she’s hit with the inexplicable fear she has strayed too far and won’t be able to find her way back again. The illogical ache of homesickness, of feeling far from where she is safe. She closes her eyes and imagines herself suspended in a bubble of liquid, gummy and unthinking as a jellyfish. She tries to leave her body and hover above the feeling world, but her brain is hot and swollen, its weight gluing her to the earth. When she opens her eyes to find she’s still earth-bound, a gush of vinegar surges up her throat and she leans over to be sick. She hasn’t eaten breakfast and a viscous puddle coats the rocks at her feet. Forty-eight years old and pregnant for the first time. For her entire life she’s been nothing but careless and until last