Gardener

It was only now, later on standing on the lawn, lathered in oily sweat and with one arm swinging the leaf blower in a lazy slow motion arc, that he considered the dreamlike quality of the valium he had taken and how much he was enjoying himself.
His hooded eyes blinked steadily beneath his sunglasses like a pair of sheets on a washing line in a mild breeze, coolly rising and falling in their docile summer manner. The vibrations from the leaf blower skittered and shuddered pleasingly, sending a constant rhythmic massaging up his load bearing arm as it swung left to right in that 180 degree turn, scything the leaves and hubris into the packed brown earth at the sides of the lawn with its breath.
He stood, feet locked into position on the lawn, and slowly, after letting go of the ignition trigger and allowing the blower to die out, lowered it. It hung from the strap on his shoulders, loose by his side like a firearm. His arm still felt the residue of the vibrations, much like an eardrum that’s been too near to a powerful speaker. His muscles felt muffled, warped and fuzzy, the sensation pleased him. Swaying slightly in the closeness of the afternoon and the haze of the drugs he surveyed his handiwork so far. A spotless lawn.
There was still work to be done though. The rolling grass of the Radford families’ garden still needed cutting, the expansive flowerbeds had to be weeded thoroughly and the willow tree out front needed pruning. It was hard work and involved long hours but it would please his father to see him do it, never mind the fact that he didn’t have a choice in the matter. At least it had got him out of the house on a good day, he couldn’t argue with the weather.
He ran his tongue along the backs of his top teeth slowly, stopping at the right hand side of his mouth and poking his tongue out of the corner. He tentatively felt a solitary downy hair that protruded over the edge of his top lip – a survivor from last night’s wet shave. The tip of his tongue poked at it gently, flicking it and enjoying the dextrous pinnacle of contact between hair and soft flesh.
Crickets sounded out in the afternoon air and the sky was a piercing blue. The shade was almost exactly the same fulsome colour as the eyes of his Aunt Deb’s old dog Princie. The dog was deaf and stupid and brought nothing but bad odours and soiled carpets with it wherever it went. He remembered seeing Princie’s grave in Aunt Debs back garden some years previously and recalled feeling nothing but contempt for the little punk and the way that it had died, running out into the road and getting splattered over the tarmac like a little bundle of bloody rags.
Globules of sweat formulated on the back of his neck, convalesced at the top of his spine and ran down the bare stretch of skin that met the edge of his vest like the shore meets the bubbled cream of the ocean. He spat a long lazy jet of phlegm infused saliva, failing to notice it splattering onto the tip of his steel toe capped boot. He surveyed the garden around him and the thickening heavy cloak of atmosphere that the heat created and decided that he didn’t really mind being out here in the sun. This community service could turn out to be better than jail after all.

Later on he had moved onto the flowerbeds and was knelt in the hot powdered soil. Steadily he plunged his trowel around the green based stems of the weeds, forcing the blade down under the shallow roots and gouging the plants out. Afterward he tossed them over his shoulder into the wheelbarrow that stood behind, solemn and expectant.
He had realised by now the effects of the drugs and couldn’t help but feel grateful that Grandpa Ted had shattered his pelvis, leaving that veritable goldmine of pharmaceuticals at home ready to be pilfered. The Valium made the work a mildly surreal experience. He found it hard to concentrate, every few seconds he would find his attention slowly wondering off whilst his body continued to work away at its monotonous task. He felt as if he was in a pleasant dream and his brain was full of light feathered candy floss. His vision was clouded and white and his thoughts were inconsistent and tangential. Nothing mattered.
After a time he found his scattershot attention wondering aimlessly towards the Radford families outhouse. They had left it open so that he could access the assorted gardening paraphernalia contained within. Seemingly in no time at all and without knowing how he had got there, he was standing in the doorway swaying and surveying the place. It was a small stone building. The building reeked of organisation and seemed to have the idea of intent but absolutely no evidence of use at all, almost as if it was someone’s idea of something that they should own just so they could say they owned it rather than say they used it.
His attention was caught by the large refrigerator that stood proud and gleaming in the far left corner, resplendent in white with the fiercely minimal logo emblazoned on its door. He glided over to it immediately and tugged it open. Inside he found precisely what he had hoped would be there. He helped himself to a six pack.
The shuffle back to the flowerbed and the glare outside was decisive and quick and soon he was sat in the dirt chugging down the beers and drifting off in a glazed fantasy entirely of his own making. He chose not to think about the job at hand or the commitments and promises he had allowed himself to make to his father and that septic judge at the court. As he drank he lay on his back, propping himself up on an elbow, his head falling backwards happily, his sharply featured face and sweat licked hair dreamily lolling in the sun. The bright red handle of the trowel protruded from the ground next to him, patiently buried and waiting to be removed like poor little Princie in Aunt Deb’s garden all the way across town.

It was at least three hours later that he awoke – flat on his back and gently reeling back to the land of the living like a handful of sand tossed down the windshield of a car, tumbling wayward and steady; irregular but true.
Confused, he tugged his sunglasses off and saw the cans of beer scattered all around him. Specks of dirt peppered his arms where he had lain in the dirt. The sky was by now carrot orange and darkening fast.
He rose steadily and began to pick up the empty cans, loading them into the wheel barrow along with the few odd weeds, roots and leaves that he had cleared from the flowerbeds earlier. He then pushed the barrow to the top of the garden as fast as his legs would allow him. Once there he quickly scrabbled in the dirt, making a hole with his hands and cursing his forgotten trowel. When the hole was big enough he threw the empties in and hastily kicked the dirt back over them and pushed the good earth in with his boots, stamping on it hard. He then emptied the contents of the barrow on top.
After wheeling the barrow back down the garden, filling it with tools and transporting them all to the outhouse, he was getting himself ready to leave, all the while preparing the lies that would be required to explain why the day’s work quota had not been met when the sound of a car pulling up on the driveway stopped him short.
The floodlight came on as the car door opened, anticipating the night no doubt but unnecessary in the crepuscular glow of the late July summer fade. The sound of the hard soles on the paving slabs as whoever it was climbed out of the car echoed out. He was reminded of the sound of the corridors at school, of the hallways of police stations and of the emergency room. The car door shut crisply and the footsteps drew closer. The driver of the car was alone, there was no other discernible sound coming from fellow passengers. No other sound emanated – it had not been locked.
The gate swung open as he stood there awkwardly still and shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. He was suddenly illuminated by the false glow of the floodlight, no longer covered as he had been before, by the criss-crossed shadows of the wall and the vinery that climbed up it. Mrs Radford stopped as she saw him. He could only make out her outline which was lit from behind. He blinked but said nothing, he tried to make out her features but he could not.
She took a step forward then and walked towards him. She was svelte and lithe with her narrow waist. She wore a white summer dress with a large black belt. Her hair was made up in a late 60’s style bouffant bob. It was shadowy brown and probably dyed but it was hard to make out.
“You the gardener?”
“Yes.”
“Working a little late aren’t you?”
“I guess. Just finishing up actually.”
“It’s David isn’t it?”
“No its-”
“What happened to David?”
“I don't know. They sent me.”
“God. No one tells me anything.”
He stared back at her blankly and suppressed the urge to shrug.
“You drink?”
“No.”
“What?”
“You heard me I’m not drunk.”
“Slow down. I’m asking you if you’d like a drink.”
“Oh.”
“Lets try this again...Do you want to come in for a drink?” She repeated herself slow and sarcastic as if she was talking to a retard.
“Yes.”
She nodded towards the French doors that led from the patio into the house directly into the lounge. He stood silently as she sloped over.
Sloped is a good way to describe Mrs Radford. She moved quickly and coolly, swaying slightly from side to side with her bouffant head drifting and her perfect behind shuffling after her in a narcoleptic drag of movement. She didn’t look at him as she pulled the keys from her bag, put them in the lock, turned them and opened the door and walked inside. He followed her.

As he surveyed the spacious lounge area of the house in all of its softly lit ambience he was stuck by the capricious nature of the place. Seemingly old and homely bits and pieces lived incongruously with intellectual and modernist looking items and furniture. It was as if two different minds had clashed and compromised on an uneasy alliance over the decor. A battered leather chez lounge was stationed next to a minimalistic and expensive looking metallic table whilst a large shelf of old dusty novels with yellow pages lived right next to a black marble plinth upon which rested some shapeless and challenging stone sculpture. The carpets were cream coloured and clean and the 4 lamps that stood in each corner of the room were tall and heavily shaded in 30’s style Chinese imitation velvet with tassels at the bottom. He didn’t like this place all that much – it didn’t fit. They didn’t even have a fucking TV.
Mrs Radford was busying herself on the other side of the room, crouched down and flicking through a wooden box of records with her painted dextrous fingernails. She found the one she was looking for and put the record onto the hi-fi with great care and attention. He stayed where he was; close by the French doors and slightly unsure of himself and his surroundings, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans and the sweat on the back of his vest drying out slow.
After the initial tinny fluffy crackling sounds an acoustic guitar picking out a haunting melody drifted out of seemingly every corner of the room.
“I insisted we get surround sound,” she explained matter of factly after noticing him turn his head quizzically. “It’s the only way to listen to music. As soon as technology becomes available – you invest. That’s progress.”
He nodded his head slowly, his eyes not leaving her. He wondered when that drink was going to arrive already.
“Leonard Cohen.” Again she nodded at the stereo. “I don’t expect you to have heard of him. This song is about the French resistance in World War Two.”
“Oh.”
“You have heard of France haven’t you?” She smirked.
Again he said nothing. Sometimes it’s better to say nothing, sometimes you don’t have anything to say.
She smiled wryly at having failed to get a rise out of him and walked exactly four paces to her left to the sideboard that stood against the wall where she started to prepare some drinks.
“I like to listen to him every night. His voice on his earlier recordings has a hauntingly bleak quality that helps me relax. I can relate to the tragedy in his voice because I’ve experienced a lot of tragedy in my life.”
“Yeah,”
“Whiskey Soda?
“Ok.”
She held the drink up in one hand, offering it to him without moving and smiling at him as she did. After a moment he realised that she wanted him to come to her. He obliged, leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the cream carpet as he went that stretched from the French doors to just one step in front of her, some twelve ft covered. Her green eyes flicked down to look at the stains.
“Do you know what else I do when I come home?”
“No.”
“Bring me my bag.” She said smiling broadly.
He turned his head. He was still high he realised.
“It’s on the table over there.” She pointed and sipped her drink, clunking the ice against the inner ridged indentations and sides of her glass. He could hear the lemon fizzing. She wanted him to walk past the creamy blue leather couches and go to the large glass topped table on the far right of the room where her bag rested.
He trudged across to fetch it and brought it back to her leaving fresh footprints along the carpet on the way. Why not? It didn’t bother him in the slightest to do it. In actual fact he enjoyed it.
“Thank you dear.” She touched a hand to his elbow, “Sit down.”
“Thanks. My legs are sore. From the work I mean.”
“Get much done?”
“A little. I fell asleep though.”
“Oh?”
“I was tired.”
“Mike is just gonna love you.”
He could only assume she meant Mr Radford. He looked across at the photo on the wall. The grey hair, side parted, the gold rimmed wire glasses, that beaming smile and the felt tip red coloured tie and powder blue suit. He sure looked like a Mike. He looked like a fucking prick.
“Yeah it was hot.”
Mrs Radford pulled out a small Tupperware box from her bag and sat on the couch next to him. She was close enough for him to be able to smell her hair and make out the freckles on her thin nose and the tiny blonde hairs that coated her top lip in ever so faint brushstrokes. His tongue flicked at the rogue hair at the corner of his own mouth as he looked at her.
“It certainly was,” she said, removing a long thin joint from the box and lighting it.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“And why are you here?”
“You asked me.”
She held the joint up and waved it slightly, as if she was writing her name in the air with its tip.
“This is something I like to do; it helps to break up my day. My day really needs breaking.” she giggled, “I mean why are you here today? What did you do?”
“I stole a car.”
“Just one?
“No.”
She laughed.
He accepted the joint from her and sucked at its tip greedily, his lungs inflating and ingesting the smoke. They were a pair of bellows inside him.
“You don’t say much do you?”
He smoked, surveying the back of his hand and looking at the distance between it and her knee, how the distance between their bodies caused his spatial focus to shift ever so slightly in a noncommittal tectonic shift.
“I like that,” she continued, “God knows I hear people talking all day long and I swear that not a single one of them ever actually says anything. You should hear my husband. He thinks so much of himself – he thinks he’s so damned smart in his suit and his office and with all of his money.But really what’s money Mike? What is it? Happiness is coming home at the end of the day and being satisfied with everything that you’ve done. Bob Dylan said that you know, you’ve probably never heard of him.”
She slouched in her seat still further as she talked and talked but he wasn’t really listening to what she was saying. He didn’t really care. She was boring.
All the goddamned adults and parents always found some reason to feel dissatisfied with the lives they had built for themselves. They all found ways to blame circumstance for the way things had gone rather than their own goddamn shoddy decision making. He was tired of it. Stupid people and their stupid lousy tiresome ways. Everybody had their own fucking agenda, he wished they would just admit it and stick to it and stop blowing off about it and bothering him with their problems.
“Are you hungry? I could kill for some olives. Do you like olives?”
He did not like olives.
“No I don’t want any of your damn olives.”
“Well I do. Be a doll and get me some from the kitchen.”
He didn’t move.
“Listen kid, I want some olives and I want to sit in my house and listen to my music. Do I need to remind you who’s here on community service here and who is the owner of this house? Mike had them imported from Sicily. A young man like you should love olives – they’re sophisticated and delicious and it’s important that you try them.”
He rose without a word. Sometimes it’s best just to let people have their way. It saves time.
He floated through the lounge into the hallway, hovering to the sound of the soft acoustic guitar with his head lolling and rolling around like the ice in his empty glass that he was still carrying by his side. He could faintly hear Mrs Radford singing in the lounge.
Before he knew it he was in the kitchen opening the overstocked fridge and removing the jar of olives and then he was turning and walking right back to the lounge. This felt like a lucid dream. The slow burning soft unreality of the day and the sound of the judges voice booming down at him in court and the sound of his father’s disappointed voice and the feeling of not actually caring about anything except yourself and not feeling guilty about it and not feeling obligated to do anything you don’t want to do just because someone else thinks you should do it. This was the uncertain sensation of knowing something is out there and knowing that maybe you want it and feeling that maybe you’ve got a God given entitlement to it but knowing that you’ll probably not be able to do anything about it and that you’ll feel bad about it but at the end of the day it really just doesn’t matter that much.
“Wow the whole jar. How spontaneous of you.”
Sarcasm washed over him. She laughed to herself a little. “I want you to try one of these. I guarantee you’ll like it – it’s important for you to like them because they’re new to you and you should always try something new and because they wouldn’t make them if they weren’t good.”
As he reluctantly held his hand out he heard a key turn in the door.
Mrs Radford placed a handful of olives in his palm and turned towards the doorway that led through to the kitchen and through to the rest of the house.
“Mike’s home.”
She turned and placed one hand on one hip and stood defiantly with her legs apart firm and implanted on the carpet like the gardener had been implanted on the lawn earlier that day. She was watching the doorway intently as they both stood listening to the sounds of Mr Radford arriving, the shuffle of his shoes on the tiles of the kitchen, the sound of his keys being placed on the kitchen table and the sound of him sighing heavily, punctuated by a silence that could well have been him rubbing his bleary eyes beneath his glasses or him running a hand along the smoothed line of his jaw.
“Hello husband,” she said as Mike walked into the room.
He looked just like his photo, jowly and fortyish andwearing the wire gold framed spectacles. He wore a grey suit and grey shoes that matched his grey eyes and his grey hair. He looked tired and small.
“Aren’t you going to say hi to our guest?”
Mr Radford didn’t say a word; he just looked down at the footprints on the carpet.
“I said aren’t you going to say hi darling?”
She was actually pretty drunk. He looked at her in profile as she stood up and pointed at her husband with her drink. She was still a pretty fine looking woman; he had to give her that. She had all the right things in all the right places. It was just a shame she had to be the same as all the others.
“You know what Mike you arrive here late again and you don’t even say one word to me. Not a single word of greeting. Not only that but you also don’t even look at me. Not a glance. Nothing at all! You walk in the door and your first thought is to look at the floor. I just can’t believe you. I’m your wife Mike. I’d have been the mother of your children too if you’d have been fucking capable Mike. Even now I’m talking to you, addressing you like a real life grown-up and you don’t have the guts to talk back or answer to me! You can’t can you!”
Mike Radford followed the footprints on the floor with his eyes. He looked at the gardener.
“I’ve had more goddamn words of wisdom from this boy in fifteen minutes than I’ve had from you in a damn lifetime of marriage!” She smoothed her hair down with one hand. The gardener looked on. “You know I look at myself in the mirror and all I can see is potential. I’ve been wasted and I’ve been squandered and it’s a goddamn tragedy! You’re a lousy husband, you’re a lousy man and you didn’t fucking nurture me the way I should have been nurtured! I’m all your fault!”
She swayed slightly as she stood, pointing at her husband accusingly, her teeth bared in all their white brilliance like perfect little stalactites. She’d obviously been building up to that.
“I’ve said it before Mike and now I’ve said it again. And I still mean it.” She reached into the jar and pulled out an olive and popped it in her mouth and chewed furiously as she started to cry.
The gardener stood watching the Radfords. Mr Radford watched his wife. She was chewing olives and crying in loud cloying choking breaths in between removing the olive stones from her mouth and dropping them onto the floor petulantly. She stamped her feet and made little sobbing and whinnying noises in between chewing. It was dark outside but dimly lit in the room. The record played on.
God he thought to himself. It’s like some people enjoy being unhappy. They’ve got nothing else to talk about.
Mr Radford took off his jacket. He tossed it onto the floor over the footprints and went to get himself a drink. He didn’t care.
Upon seeing this, Mrs Radford gave an almighty sob. It had been no good; her words had just bounced off him. After she exhaled with the cry she bent over, then as she stood back up she inhaled sharply.
Too sharply.
Suddenly before she knew it she was choking on an olive. Mr Radford watched as his wife hunched over where she stood, coughing loudly in a series of quick painful braying contortions. Her face was red and blotchily purple as she struggled for breath and there was unbridled panic in her eyes. Her bouffant hair wobbled wildly as her hand clutched at her lovely neck and she looked about desperately. She simply couldn’t breathe. She looked up, trying to signal what was happening to her.
He looked over at Mr Radford who had not moved and was watching his wife choke, impassively sipping his drink and ignoring his desperate wife with the immutable face of a Roman statue.
There was only one thing for it, his hand had been forced. Cursing loudly the gardener quickly grabbed Mrs Radford from behind, hitching his interlocked and fisted hands beneath her ribcage and heaving inwards and upwards as hard as he could. Mr Radford watched the whole thing play out calmly, never taking his eyes from his wife for a minute.
When it was all done with and the olive stone stuck in Mrs Radford’s airway had been dislodged after three hefty and costly heaves he stood away from her. She crouched coughing away on all fours like a dog. Like little dead Princie used to do when he fouled up the carpet somewhere. Mr Radford had not moved a muscle. He still hadn’t even spoken.
The gardener breathed heavily as the record came to a grinding halt. He opened up his fist and looked down to see the small handful of olives crushed up into a paste and smeared on his palm. He wiped his hand on the expensive looking couch cushions.
No one spoke and it was pretty clear that it was time to leave so he did. He didn’t say anything to either of them. He knew he probably wouldn’t have to.

Brief Snapshot

Picture the scene. It’s my birthday. I’m ill. I’m 17 years old. Mum and dad are still on speaking terms at this point but the cracks have long since started to show and there’s a fat fruit cake in front of me. This is the moment right now as I look down where I get a feeling of ultimate serene dissatisfaction and I realise that I don’t enjoy birthdays anymore. I resolve to drink nothing but alcohol for the rest of the night.

Picture the scene. It’s the last summer I spent at home before leaving and not going back. I’m standing at the bar serving lukewarm drinks to lukewarm people and smiling to myself as I realise I’m going to steal the tenner from the 12.50 I just got, running the whole round through as just one drink.

Picture the scene. Me losing my virginity a lot later on than I’d led everybody I know to believe I had. My drunken hands fumble at her bra and my solitary bloodshot eye traces the outline of her lips and teeth and the imperceptible fair hair at the corners of her mouth. I wonder how on earth I have managed to do this and I do not realise that this is all going to end embarrassingly for me in just five minutes time.

Picture the scene. I’m 13, I’m alone and I’m burying my brother’s guinea pig in the back garden after it finally fucking died. I drop it into the shallow grave I have dug for it and I fill it up with spadefuls of decomposing grass and dirt stone and shit from the compost heap nearby. I don’t feel much at the time but for days afterward I have nagging feelings of remorse about burying him in compost and I think about the grass and clay sediment clumping down on him, getting in his fur and teeth as he lies there on his back, feet facing dead upright in the air. I conclude then that I am against the ownership of animals.

Picture the scene. I’m sat at a funeral right at the front of the church. It’s his funeral. I’m watching the vicar read the eulogy that I wrote but was too scared to deliver. I look down at my hands and remember how they shook so damn much when I was writing it that I could scarcely hold the pen much less right the words. I stare down dry eyed and listening to the people around me sniffling away, knowing that nothing will ever be the same again.

Picture the scene. It’s me on holiday in Spain aged twenty and devouring pages of Hemingway. I’m sitting and thinking and folding pages so I can come back to them to reread and saying over and over to myself “God could I ever write like that?” No I decide. I don’t even bother to try.

Picture the scene. Its five minutes ago and I’m stood looking out of my window watching the child on the roof a couple of doors down from me aiming a toy gun at the traffic below and pretending to kill everyone out there. I sympathise with him and I want him to turn round and see me watching him so I can give him a fraternal wave. He doesn’t though and I find myself feeling actually a little bit relieved.

Picture the scene. I’m drunk yet again sitting opposite a girl on what I think might be a date. The boundaries have not been set so I pepper my conversation with eye contact and genuine interest rather than my usual mutterings and ignorant grunts of acknowledgement. Her thespian friends soon arrive though and I feel strange and out of place and unable to contribute to the conversation in any meaningful way. I make my excuses and leave, walking to the bus station and feeling in some way vindicated for going. On the bus I feel like I’ve made a big mistake and I'm embarrassed even though I'm on my own.

Picture the scene. Picture the scene. Pick that one or another one or any one of hundreds of others like it. Pick any one you like if you want. There’s no narrative and there’s no rich interwoven tapestry or incredible fabric of meaning. It’s just several choice cuts of things that have happened to me. That’s all it is and that's all it has to be and then it’s all over and no one is the wiser for it no matter what they might think. To be honest you might as well just not have bothered.

Last Supper

...Shocked and looking across the pinewood table at Paul she could barely register a word he was saying.
“I’m sorry to have to do it like this but I just feel like I owe you the truth.” His hands were laid open on the table, palms upward and facing the ceiling in an almost holy pose. His eyes looked teary and suffused with what she felt was blatant faux sincerity.”You know I pride myself on my honesty. I wouldn’t say this if it wasn’t true.”
Christine stared at the plate of food she had lovingly prepared earlier. Prawn cocktail, his favourite. The prawns had been stacked up in a tower that was shaped like a rook from a chess set. The tower was carefully placed on a mixed bed of dry crispy kelp and rocket and fashioned to look like a remote cliff top retreat. She had elaborated by fashioning little rocks for the base of the tower from croutons and had then coloured them dark with minute droplets of balsamic vinegar to give them an added sense of authenticity. Melon balls lay in pools of salted water crafted to look like buoys as if they had just drifted in from a windswept Nordic sea. The bread rolls had been carved to look like seagulls and were positioned so that they were bent over, dipping their crispy beaks into small nests of butter that sat on each side plate.
She was especially proud of the birds sculptures. She had specifically researched breeds of gull native to North Western Europe and had taken great care to ensure that every aspect of their physiology had been accurately recreated.
“God what a waste” she thought. The meal sat uneaten and mocking now, a bitter metaphor for her relationship.
“I think you know this will be better for us in the long term. Things haven’t been right between us for a long time now have they? I mean, you can’t say that this hasn’t been coming.” He leaned back in his chair cooly and placed his hands behind his head. “You work such long hours and you know that I have my needs as a man– at the end of the day I don’t feel that I’m being stimulated anymore...and that’s down to you.” He paused, clearly thinking, before continuing earnestly. “Try and look at it objectively. Now you can concentrate on your cooking more. You can really push for that star! I’m only holding you back. If you think about it what’s really happening is I’m helping you out by leaving. I’m doing this for your benefit. Long term I mean.”
She looked up at him then and was disgusted with herself for still finding him so handsome. Wordlessly she began to set about her prawn cocktail with relish. She brought the fork down on top of the tower and sliced it right down the middle in one clean stroke. She then slowly and deliberately broke off the seagulls head with her left hand. She speared two of the round melon buoys, mashed some of the prawns onto them and crammed the whole lot into her mouth, fork following fist grotesquely.
She chewed furiously...


Christine stood in her kitchen proudly with her hands on her hips. She looked at the huge fridge and the huge freezer, the blackened hobs and the steel sinks and smelled deeply the various fatty aromas and steams that arose all around. The kitchen porters were miserable, the waiters were distracted and the chefs were stressed, all was as it should be. This was her restaurant and tonight was her night.
Her chefs’ smock was almost a part of her now, it was the skin that she might shed at night but would never really take off. Her hat was customised and replete with a feather and numerous badges that demonstrated drama; elegance; humour; colour. Her trousers were striped rather than checked and she wore customised rubber non-slip shoes that cost her over £500 and that she insisted were worth every single penny. Everything about her screamed success, she just needed the reviews to prove it.


...She finished off the culinary trompe l’oeil with gusto and attempted to wipe the remnants of seafood sauce from her chin. With the napkin that she had concertinaed and fanned out to look like the tail of a peacock she wiped it, accidentally smearing her lipstick as she did so and giving the right corner of her mouth an inadvertent prostitutes finish. Paul was still talking.
“I mean after all I lent you the money didn’t I? I think that it’s only fair that I see my investment returned to me. We’ll be needing it you see – so we can find a new place. Of course you can keep the flat; I wouldn’t want to see you on the street...”
Christine reached out, took a fat swig of the by now thoroughly depleted bottle of white wine and reached for her cigarettes.
“I don’t want to hurt you Christine but it’s a necessary evil. I MUST go to her. I have to be happy, I owe it to myself – I deserve it.” His nostrils quivered and his eyes widened. “My god you’re not smoking mid-meal are you?”
She looked at him as she lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Paul’s careful comb-over looked ready to flop down over his brow. She could swear steam was about to spurt up from the rim of his cashmere turtleneck sweater.
“This is my flat and I’ll smoke whenever I like Paul.” She signalled with her fork at his plate. “Are you gonna eat that?”
Without waiting for an answer she stood up and walked around the table and took his plate from him. Ash dropped onto his hand. She sat back down and begun to demolish his meal, pulling merrily on the cigarette in between mouthfuls and chugging wine down fervently...

Tonight was the unveiling of the new menu. Tonight Dan Nelson, esteemed critic from The Standard was coming. His opinion was important; with his badge of approval she would be right on track for the Michelin star. She clenched her fists – she was nervous and she didn’t mind admitting it. She decided to have a quick check out front to make sure everything was ok.
Bursting out of the double doors and into the dining area she surveyed the place. Rackwells, her beloved restaurant. She adored every inch of this place, the low ceilings, the curved alcoves cut into the rustic stone walls and the casual elegantly lit vinery that garbed the bar and the doorways and the trellises by the tables like a cool summer gown. She loved the tables too, the green wine bottles with red candles stuffed into the necks, the glistening cutlery and the cloud white plates decked out across the surfaces.
There was no music; there was just the quiet murmur of voices and the clink and the clank of service. The sound was all the music Christine needed, the bustle and noise of her own restaurant all she ever wanted to hear. It was a symphony to her.
She made her way over to the maitre d’, her non slip shoes squeaking on the wooden floor as she trod and looked him up and down for what felt like the millionth time. He’d been a hasty and recent appointment, replacing Paul at very short notice.
“Simon are we set?”
“Yeah we’re all good.” He had the air of a man who’d been asked the same question thousands of times before.
“Have Maggie go all around the free tables’ one more time, I don’t want any marks on those bloody glasses.”
“She’s already done it twice.”
“Look I just want everything to be perfect. Go and tell her will you.”
“Whatever you say Chrissie.”
“It’s Christine.”
“Christine.” She was sure she could detect a hint of sarcasm in his eyes.
He was an odious little man, squat and flat footed. He was completely bald yet he still somehow managed to maintain a thorough crop of pube like hair that at all times could be seen at the top of his neck, front and back. Christine was confident that the hair covered almost every inch of his torso like an enormous wiry fur rug. She had a sense for these things.
She checked her watch. 8.50pm. Nelson would at least be on his way by now.


...”Christine!” Paul exclaimed. “Can’t we be grown up about this?”
Christine finished off the food and burped. She took off her glasses and then laid them on the table next to a stray crouton that had slipped from the plate in the frenzy of fork and knife and malice that she had just exacted on his starter.
“Why? Are you hungry Paul?”
“I’m sorry ok! I know this isn’t what you had in mind when you invited me round here.”
“You got that right.”
“Look we just connected. These things happen. I was powerless-“
“Your dick was powerless. You knew what you were doing.”
“Her and I, we have everything in common. You and I, well all we have is Rackwells. Our restau-“
“My fucking restaurant Paul. Mine.”
“Bought with my money. All I’m asking is a little recompense now and the rest by the end of next month. That’s not too much to ask is it? I need it. WE need it.”
“What so you and your bit of fluff can settle down and have wee pompous kiddies, feeding them foie gras and soufflé instead of baby food whilst I’m out on my arse and bankrupt? No thanks.”
“When you get angry you get vulgar. It’s more than a little pathetic.”
“Well I guess that’s the Glasgow in me love.” She pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. She felt sick...

Christine watched Simon closely from behind the bar. He looked like he’d been squashed into his suit. How was she supposed to create a good impression tonight with that troglodyte greeting the guests? He didn’t have Paul’s casual grace or his winning smile.
She shook herself, violently shrugging off the memory of him. She had to remain on task. Tonight was too important. She poured herself the third nerve steadying drink of the night. It was a healthy one; four parts gin to one part ginger ale. She raised it to her lips and put it down again before adding a cube of ice to take the edge off.
She drank lustily and thought about the evening. She’d seat Nelson in the corner so he’d have the optimum view of the restaurant, letting him see her team of handpicked waiters zipping about the dining room like cross pollinating bees. Then it would be on to the meet and greet. She’d send Simon over there and she’d watch him closely, reading his lips and making sure he stuck closely to the script she’d given him, the “Hello sir”, the “May I take your jacket?”, the “How was your journey?” She’d watch the oily smiles and the casual small talk, the open and over friendly body language and the insipid yet necessary sycophancy. She’d drilled it into Simon and God help him if he failed to deliver.
She savoured the tang of the fiery liquid at the back of her throat and winced as she swallowed it down, feeling it carve a trail right down to her empty stomach. It was up to her tonight. She had to take the bull by the balls. This was her meal and that was where the buck stopped. She finished the last of the drink and poured herself another, bigger than the last.
As she poured she looked down at her hands. They looked gross and pulpy to her, sallow and fat. She stared through casually unfocused eyes at the veins as they seemed to become more tumescent, increasing their blue colour and practically glowing beneath her paper like skin. She could feel them throbbing and pulsating, her hands two balloons at the end of each of her arms inflating and deflating steadily like two autonomous bags of the darkest blood imaginable. She thought deeply about what she had done. She thought of Paul.

...By now she was drunk. She had finished off all the wine in a matter of minutes, recklessly throwing it back purely because it would irritate him.
“You’re being churlish Chrissie.”
She laughed cruelly. Turning her hurt feelings into something far darker.
“The thing is Paul, that I actually don’t care about what you say. I really don’t.” She placed both hands on the table and leaned forward violently as she uttered the final word, lurching forward a little in her drunken state. The flame on the candle nearest to her blew out in spiteful exhalation. “I never have.”
“Look maybe I should just leave. It’s obvious that I’m not going to get any adult conversation here. I had hoped that I could do this sensibly but obviously you’re not going to let that happen.”
“Obviously.”
He turned in his seat and made to rise, ready to leave and glad to do it but stalled at the look on Christine’s face. She was suddenly contrite and anxious for him to stay; she wanted to postpone the finality of his departure.
“Please wait.” Her voice cracked slightly – more than she intended. “At least eat this last meal with me.”
He sighed in that pompous way of his and sat once more, humouring his drunken companion. He maintained his disinterested air.
“Can I at least eat this course myself then?”...

9.30pm. it was time. Christine hurried into the kitchen yelling orders to the staff. She was a dictator, this was her country and these were her subjects working her land. As the staff set about their tasks she went to the doors and peered out the porthole, swaying slightly as she watched Simon who was glancing at his watch. It was 9.45. The front doors swung open.

...They ate the roast beef in silence. It had been quite badly overcooked as it had sat neglected and temporarily forgotten in the oven. It was now tough and chewy. Minutes passed.
“So are you going to tell me her name then?”
“Isabel.”
Christine drank yet more wine. The tone had become slightly more cordial now as she settled into the slow acceptance that the relationship was over. However she had still opted for the most expensive Bordeaux they had and had taken great pleasure in Pauls slow realisation, disapproval and attempts at concealing his irritation.
“And what does she do?”
“She’s a journalist.”
“Oh?”
He said nothing. He spooned another mouthful of steak into his mouth followed by some damp looking red cabbage. He visibly forced it down.
“And what does she write?”
“She’s a critic.”
“Film? Theatre? The NME?”
“Don’t be facetious. I think you can take a bloody good guess at what kind of critic she is.”
“Of course!” Yes of course. A food critic; she simply had to be. Christine found herself practically choking on the irony. “What paper?”
“The Standard.”
She emitted a small cry that was for the most part bitter laughter but was also part abject dismay. She then really started to laugh. Bitter little bursts of air squirted out of her nose as her shoulders shook, it was too much. She took another drink, composing herself. It really was an excellent wine.
“There’s a critic from the Standard coming to Rackwell’s next week you know.”
“I did know that actually.”
“I bet you did.”...

A woman walked into the restaurant. Her shoulder length brown hair shook like a shampoo advert as she glided over to Simon who was busy mopping his brow with a red handkerchief. Christine watched them exchanging words. Simon reached behind his head absent mindedly and began twiddling the hair at the back of his neck between his forefinger and his thumb. He pointed at the corner table – the table reserved for Dan Nelson. Christine rested her head against the glass wearily. Her breath steamed against the glass as Simon turned and approached.
He entered.
“Change of plan. Dan can’t make it tonight so they’ve sent someone else.”
“I saw.”
Simon shifted from one foot to the other, his furry hands stuffed into his pockets, waiting for Christine to say something and in no rush to hear it. She remained silent though he could swear he heard teeth grinding within her pursed lips. “So?...”
“So what?”
“I mean, what’s the plan?”
“Nothing’s changed Simon.” She lied.
“So there’s no change in script or anything?”
“Oh just use your judgement will you. That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“Ok.” He left. She didn’t need to watch him to know that his fixed automatic grin was etched across his fat shaven face.
Sighing she made her way to the kitchen. It was time for a menu adjustment.


...“How long?”
“A few weeks. A month and a half maybe.” He’d pushed the remainder of the beef away after painfully forcing three quarters of it down. “Did you make any dessert?”
“Raspberry cheesecake.”
“Oh, well you know I love cheesecake Chrissie. But I’ve got to admit, I’m a little full.”
“How about I bring it out and you can maybe just try a little...For me?”
“Well I suppose I could. I’ll give it a proper professional appraisal.” He winked at her.
Christine sashayed into the kitchen. She felt as if a keen buzzing noise was ghosting around inside her head. Like the alien ringing of tinnitus she felt it, the cool and deliberate fury of betrayal washing and lapping against the inside of her mind. On the breakfast bar the cheesecake lay. Next to it was the knife. She picked up the cake with a pointed glance back to the knife and carefully carried it back into the lounge where Paul sat at the table tapping away at his phone...

Starter

Slow cooked Hens Egg with Pearl Barley Parmesan Cream and Rosemary.

Main course:
Roast Loin of Salt Marsh Lamb with Rosemary Potatoes and Summery Salad moistened with Olive Oil.

Dessert
Mint and Chocolate Parfait with Fresh Mint Sorbet

She made her way to the walk in fridge. To her left as she walked in was a large blue ice box that had been sealed up with gaffa tape around the edges. She opened it up, using a knife to slice the tape apart. Inside the box were several sealed polythene bags containing various hunks of meat differing in size and girth. She chose the choicest cut she could. It was dark and wine red. Seams of blood ran down in rivulets and collected at the bottom corners of the bag as she held it up to the light, her breath steaming out and clouding the bag with condensation. This was all very fitting.
Soon she was cooking. She forgot all about the alcohol in her system and simply allowed its loosening effects to aid her. It was almost as if she was floating above herself watching her body work. Her nervousness ebbed away, as did all of her other emotions. All that was left was Paul, the way his hair fell, the olive hue of his skin and the way he airily waved his hands as he articulated himself. She thought of him inside her and between her legs at night and felt the burn and the pain of the thought of him doing the same with Isabel. She remembered the parties they’d been to and the friends she thought they had had. She remembered the thrill of opening the restaurant together and the first time he had walked her into this very kitchen standing behind her and edging her inside the doorway with a smile on his face and his hands over her eyes so as not to spoil that first wondrous surprise. She remembered vaguely the first time she had met him.
As she poured and kneaded and kept a watchful eye on cooking times she thought about how it was all over now and she thought about how her hand had been forced. She remembered the look of panic in his eyes and the flopping and flailing of his arms and his muffled cries of shock and horror in those final few violent moments.
And with all that came a liberation. She poured all her feelings into the food, right into the ingredients and the careful preparation, the sauces and the dressings and the delicate flourishes of presentation. Christine’s dark hair fell over her face as she worked, oblivious to everything around her as she stood, lost in her head and enjoying every glorious minute of the work.
The starter and the altered main course came and went in no time at all and as the final flourish of the dessert was completed she rang for service. When the ringer chimed out to her as loudly as any cathedral bell had ever done she started violently. Her hands started to shake and she could feel her pulse quicken in the aftermath of the catharsis she had just gone through.
Simon appeared through the doors ready to collect, his round flustered face all of a sudden a joy to look upon.
“You done?”
“Yes I think I am.”
“You think you are?”
“No. I know I am.”
“Ok.” He held out his hands.
“Actually I think I’ll take it to her myself.”

...“Paul.”
He looked up.
“Is there really nothing I can say to change your mind?”
His face softened.
“Chrissie baby. I’m sorry but I’m in love. And it’s not with you. We’re over.”
“Ok.” She breathed deeply. “But what about the restaurant?”
“I’d never take that away from you. But I want my money back, and I want it as soon as is possible. I don’t want things to have to get messy. Legally I mean.” He returned his attention to his phone. “It’s nothing personal you understand.”
“But you know I can’t afford!...” She stopped and collected herself.
“I’m sorry. But there’s nothing to be done about it.”
She made a monumental effort to force some cheer into her voice but it only came out as bitter and taut.
“Hey well at least we had this meal together eh? What did you think of it? Here.” Standing next to him at the end of the table she placed the cheesecake in front of him.
The buzzing in her head had begun again.
“Tell me what you think. How does it look? Do you like it? You always used to love my cheesecake Paul. That was the one thing you always said I did better than anybody else. You remember, I know you do. Chrissie you’d say, that cheesecake. That’s your speciality. Well here’s your favourite and just one last time I want you to try a bit and give me your honest opinion. It’s me you’re talking to here, it’s the same old me and it’s the same old cake! You won’t get any better anywhere else, believe me I know. Nothing’s changed! Nothing at all!”
“Well alright.”
He tentatively took a forkful, cutting downward so as to get an even slice of each layer. He put it into his mouth and chewed carefully. Christine watched unblinkingly, she couldn’t hear a thing. Her hands tightly gripped the back of the chair that she stood behind.
“WELL?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes!”
The pitching buzz in her head threatened to overwhelm her completely.
He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled derisively.
“Well to be perfectly candid with you it’s a little... ”
She didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence.
Wordlessly she grabbed the back of his head holding a huge chunk of his hair and scalp as hard as she could in her fist. With her other hand she picked up a handful of the cake and stuffed it into his face as hard as she could, cramming as much into his mouth as was humanly possible.
She then pushed him back off his chair, his foot flicking upward and hitting the underneath of the table which in turn knocked the cake onto the floor. Now Paul was on his back – still reeling from what had been a powerful ramming blow to the face – his nose bled freely.
Christine pushed the cake across the floor towards him. Her mind was a blank emotionless canvas. She straddled him and held his nose and then began stuffing his mouth with cheesecake in quick forceful shoves. Each time she grabbed a handful she pushed it in deep inside his squirming mouth as far as it would go, forcing her hand in up to the knuckle and sometimes even beyond. She ignored the noise and suppressed his struggles beneath her weight for a time but both were long since finished by the time she forced the last bit of cake into him.
When he was dead she rolled off and lay on her back breathing heavily as she stared at the ceiling. She’d never killed anybody before. She couldn’t deny it; she was as exhilarated as she was ashamed. Her heart rate soared inside of her and she closed her eyes.
After a time the buzzing in her ears gradually subsided and she climbed up and on to her feet.
She then set about tidying the table, carrying the plates into the kitchen where they would need a good scrub. She simply could not abide mess...

“Good evening.”
“Oh hello there.”
“We were expecting Mr Nelson tonight. I do hope everything’s ok with him?”
“Oh yes sorry about that, he was called away very suddenly. He never mentioned why. They asked me to fill in.”
“Yes I can see that. You must be Miss Ross?”
“Why yes how did you know?”
“I’m a great fan of your work.”
“Well that’s very nice of you to say. I guess now I can honestly say that the feelings mutual.”
Neither of them laughed.
“Oh so you enjoyed your meal then?”
“Oh yes. The dessert in particular.”
“I am pleased. They’re my speciality you know.”
“Yes I’ve heard all about them.”
“I can imagine you have.”
Miss Ross looked up at her sweetly. Christine smiled back. Her hands were behind her back, one gripped the wrist of the other arm tightly.
“I see you have a new Maitre’D.”
“Yes. Pauls moved on.”
“Oh? That’s a shame.”
“Yes it is rather. I think we’ll manage though. After all, it’s all about the food isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s all about the food here.”
“And the food was really good wasn’t it?”
“Well I enjoyed it.”
“Wonderful. At least you’re happy. That’s the main thing.”
“Yes. That’s the main thing.”


...Once the plates had been cleared away and washed and the table had been wiped down she looked upon his body splayed out christ like on the floor with legs together and arms out wide. She couldn’t leave him there. He couldn’t stay here anymore.
She went to the kitchen and fetched newspapers, a knife, some polythene bags and a large blue ice box to put him in...

Christine nodded at Isabel. She tried to force a smile but it came across as more of a constipated grimace. Isabel smiled back, her pretty eyes glittering sweetly. Christine turned on her heels and stalked back to her kitchen then. She didn’t plan on reading the newspapers in the morning but she fully expected that the reviews would be favourable.