Cal

He stood at the back gateway of the abattoir, his hands thrust into his pockets, his stomach rigid with the ache of want. Men in white coats and baseball caps whistled and shouted ad they moved between the hanging carcases. He couldn't see his father, yet he didn't want to venture in. He knew the sweet warm nauseating smell of the place and he had no breakfast. Nor had he smoke his first cigarette of the day. Smells were always much more intense then.