The mincemeat was missing. Sarah searched through her bag with an outstretched hand, feeling around in the pockets, the corners, the bottom for the thing. She pulled out her scuffed leather diary, gym trainers and sanitary towels to no avail. The mincemeat had gone, along with her purse, but in that moment all that seemed to matter was the former.

Frantically, she retraced her steps back to the bus stop, scanning the floor with impatient, eager eyes for the bright supermarket carrier bag. If it had fallen, Sarah was certain that she would have heard the sound of plastic on gravel. She reached for her phone, but was was she to do? Call the bus company? Call the police? Call her mother?

In her head, she wondered if it was better to go back to Brixton and see if someone had found it, but she thought against it, bile rising in her throat at the thought of pushing through the bodies in her funeral suit, not that anyone would give up her ground beef, anyway. She was sure of it; there was nothing for her at home, nothing but the the dregs of a batch of vegetable soup in a dirty pan, still on the hob from yesterday afternoon.

She had spent too long boiling vegetables in salt water, peppering leeks, skimming the film from the top of the water every ten minutes, filling a kettle, trying to make nothing taste like something. She was sick of using the potato masher to cream the mush into a finer paste because her mother didn’t own a blender. Tired of the sickly taste of swede and carrot; wet in her mouth, the stench of cooking cabbage.  

She had bought the mincemeat at a supermarket next to the train station. It was swaddled in bland plastic casing, a pale and pallid pink the colour of too much fat, a limp and bloody piece of paper stuck to the bottom of the curled strings of meat like spaghetti or braided hair or tubes. It had been picked over by everyone’s hands but hers. A feeling had come over her not unlike that of a carnivore, and ashamed at the bloodlust she could not help but imagine the dark taste, chewing the inevitable gristle between her front teeth.

Even when the cashier scanned the barcode, Sarah did not take her hands away. She was ready, flushed of face and tense; ready to run if it proved that her maths was wrong and she did not have enough. The cashier, rough and dirty stubble beginning to appear on his thin face, illuminated by the strobe lights of the cigarette counter, seemed to anticipate Sarah’s move, and for a moment the two of them were locked in an awkward embrace via the packet of value mine until he let go at the sight of her purse. She emptied it into the palm of his hand and darted out of the doors.

She wanted something to chew. She wanted to feel textures and solids and fat and flesh and all that comes in between. She could not hear her mother, choking on the thin soup, slurping it from the spoon any more.

Avoiding the small Godly woman with a megaphone parked outside of the pharmacist, she bumped into a group of men dancing to accordion music, steaming cups of coffee on the floor by their feet. They laughed, and so did she, enamoured with the shrill shrieks of their instruments and the soft soles of their trainers bouncing on the floor. With a yank on her hand, they made her dance. She did it half-heartedly with embarrassment, swinging her handbag from side to side, whacking the hoards of passers by who were struggling to get away from the spectacle. She thought of the relief of it all, the preacher’s hands on hers, her uncle’s tears at the sight of the coffin, the pathetic flowers that lined an old and blurry photograph on a mount. She felt nothing but relief.

When she finally pulled away, Sarah stalked towards the bus stop, patting down flyaway hairs with the palms of her hands. The woman with the megaphone was louder now.

So Jesus said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life…”

Sarah winced at the analogy, and sidled toward a group of commuters so that she could vanish amongst them. It was difficult not to make eye contact when she could not stop staring. She had put her hands over her ears to drown out the tinny voice.

`The vomit on her mother’s last day had looked just like the soup, plastered across the carpet of the bedroom floor, dripping down her chin, orange stains on her cream nightgown. She had done her very best to wipe it away, to clean up the stains, but there was very little she could have done.

The house was silent. Sarah turned on the kettle, found the last of the vegetables in the fridge and threw them into a pan. Salt, pepper, garlic. When they had boiled, she took the potato masher and did her very best. Her mother’s chair was empty, the cushions indented with the outline of her hips and legs. Sarah took the soup to it and sat down, her hands cupped around the curve of the bowl. After an hour of silence, she realised that she had let it go cold.

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