Guilty Pleasures (Short Story)

 

It is a matter of statistical inevitability that some people will find themselves in possession of a name that is either appropriate, or wholly inappropriate, to their job of work. It was for this reason that, in the cut and thrust world of gastronomic writing, John Bean used his middle name rather than the first name that had been so casually placed over him by the innocent creature that spawned him forty-nine years previously. Exactly what flight of fancy had led her to match him irrevocably with a popular variety of tinned food was utterly beyond him and he had never found the opportunity to ask because he had been given up for adoption a few months after his advent.

Other than on his birth certificate and no doubt in countless official records safely hidden beneath the veil of data protection, it was a name that had ceased to exist. So it was no surprise to see just the one initial illuminated dimly on the nameplate to his penthouse flat beside the fish-eye lens that even now was placing a slightly yellow image of him on a small screen in the kitchen, four floors above his head. Lifting the key from his trouser pocket on a chain that hung from his belt he opened the door, stepped into the dimly lit hallway and shut out the darkness of the early autumn.

As he replaced the key carefully in his pocket and looked up from adjusting the small collection of packages in his other arm, he came face to face with a pair of bright brown eyes looking out from a dark skinned and smiling face. There was a strong scent of Calvin Klein and a scratchy whining noise that came from the cream coloured earphones hermetically sealed into the ears.

“Chef!”

John mumbled an acknowledgement and hurried off uncomfortably towards the brighter light of the stairway. He detested meeting anyone in the communal area because it reminded him that he didn’t actually live alone.  Even though he could shut the door and secure it with the three locks and the additional chain and bolt that he had added himself, he hated to be reminded that there were other people around. He regarded such meetings as one might consider a ghostly visitation and this designer-styled apparition lived in the flat below. The name J.R. Robson was on the nameplate to his flat and John thought that he was something in video production for the internet. It was all smoke and mirrors to John Bean, just some kind of grand illusion, yet he smiled inwardly at the greeting that he had been given.

Once in the comfort of his flat he placed his hat and coat on the only spare hook available on the wall, checked the chain and the bolt on the door and headed into the kitchen where he set his parcels neatly on the worktop. Then he proceeded to wash his hands in the sink. First using a lozenge of coal tar soap and a nail brush to remove any dirt from beneath his impossibly short nails and to scrub his palms, between each finger and across the back of each knuckle. This being done he rinsed his hands and forearms with hot (but not scalding) water, rubbing between his fingers vigorously.

After drying his hands thoroughly, he then took a couple of squeezes from a liquid soap dispenser on the wall and began to wash his hands once more. This time he moved the hospital-style faucets with his elbows to avoid contamination. This time, as well as between his fingers, he focused on the cuticle before again applying warm (but not hot) water. Once dry, he punched the antibacterial dispenser on the wall with his right elbow and caught, in his clean left palm, the cool gel as it slipped from the nozzle. Rubbing vigorously, he covered every bit of surface skin on each hand, front and back. Then, holding his hands slightly apart as though in prayer, he waited whilst the alcohol evaporated sensually on his hands.

“Right!” he said out loud to the space between his fingers, “let’s begin.”

He ran a finger along the top of the collection of books that were lined up on a shelf just to the right of the sink. He didn’t touch any of the books until he stopped above a spine that was plain white although it was as neatly placed and as immaculate as all the rest. The pressure of two fingers on the top of the book and the tome cantilevered gently into the soft skin of his warm hand. There was already a bookmark in place and as he shifted the position of the book in his right hand, it opened gently to him.

The affair had started a couple of days ago when a chance encounter had lead to an exchange of notes over a Starbuck’s and the passing over of a moderately discrete package wrapped in brown paper. This resulted in a search yesterday evening amongst his books and the placing of the bookmark where it now lay exposed.

“3722 Mauviettes à la Bonne Femme,” he paused to remove a small notepad and pencil from a draw nearby. Opening it he began to write, speaking as he did so,“ Proceed as indicated for...”

***

Whilst this strange ritual was taking place in the penthouse at number 43A Tavistock Road, another event was underway in one of the houses opposite: in number 142 to be precise. This was an unassuming semi-detached house of the kind that sprung up in the late 1940s: world wars apart from the towering grandeur of the Georgian terraces opposite, so brutally hacked and chopped apart by property developers.

In the kitchen of number 142, Mrs. Wilkins was dicing an assortment of parsnips and onions for a casserole that she was preparing for her husband for the following day, a Saturday. Normally this was a day off for both of them. However, things were not normal. Mr. Wilkins had been out of work for about nine months now, partly the result of a redundancy and then as a result of an aneurism that had struck him down whilst buying some fruit in the market. Mrs. Wilkins had managed to find an extra job on a Saturday at a local supermarket but even with disability allowance it was a struggle. Then there was the matter of pride. Tom was a proud man.

“Never had a day’s sick in my life,” he lied coolly to the lad down at the Jobcentre when he had first signed on.

It came as a great blow to his ego to be labelled as ‘disabled’ and to be ‘on benefit’ and it hurt him badly. He would sit in an armchair in the front room for most of the day, looking out on a world of different people. Evenings were worst because he would watch the suits go by and recall those days not so long ago when he would have been walking along with them: part of the pack heading for home. Now he felt like an outcast, his pride in ruins, his confidence damaged beyond repair and his body – disabled. A tear formed in the corner of his eye and wavered there as he struggled to control his emotions. He sniffed and wiped a cold hand from the offending eye and then across his forehead.

“Mel,” he called in a voice that wavered with distress, “what’s for supper, love?”

She didn’t hear him at first, partly because of the noise of chopping and in part simply because she didn’t recognise the voice as that of the man she had married over thirty years ago. It sounded weak and broken and...someone else.

In any case, she didn’t answer him. Gathering all the vegetables into a pot, she seized the small chicken that was sitting on the work surface, plucked the cellophane and the red “Reduced” tag from it and sliced through the side of the breastbone with the large knife that she had been using for the vegetables. Then with her thumbs inside the body cavity she ripped the breast apart and sliced the length of the backbone, splitting the carcass into two parts with a sharp crack. She paused for a moment.

“The poor thing’s too small to quarter.” she said, unwittingly.

“Christ!” she sighed, “Talking to myself again.”

Then she grabbed a leg, yanking it forward to slice diagonally between it and the thigh. Both parts went straight into the pot, followed a few seconds later by the other two. On the floor at her feet a cat rubbed itself across the back of her jeans in the ever hopeful expectation of a gift.

“Strange, how good that feels.” she said to the voices in her head.

It was all mechanical. She knew that she should have seasoned the pieces before frying them lightly, like all the books said but then she had forgotten to buy oil. No, correct that. She had not been able to afford Olive oil and in a moment of rebellion had refused to accept Rape. She hadn’t got any red wine either, or bacon for that matter and the parsnips cut up small had to take the place of button mushrooms.  This ‘70s classic was to be de-gastronomised (was that a word) from ‘coq au vin’ to... to something else.

Water, just enough to cover, seasoning and onto the hob to bring to the boil and then into the oven out of sight for a couple of hours on a low heat. It wasn’t really a casserole: she knew that. She  also knew that when she returned from work on Saturday to microwave the bowl of chicken soup for her Tom, he would question her with “Are you not having some?” and she would lie, “No, love, I ate at work.” That would give them Sunday’s meal as well.

There was nothing else to do for a moment and so she ran a bowl of hot water, grabbed a clean cloth and a bottle of bleach and went to work on the surfaces and the knife to remove all traces of the viscous juices of the butchered bird.

As she immersed her red hands in the hot bleach solution she realised what a comfort it really was. The cat had given up its attempted seduction and had stalked off to curl up on a pile of damp washing. The kitchen tap dripped like it always did and from the front room she could hear a news report about the famine in Niger. On a shelf nearby, together with a seldom used parmesan grater and a dusty Alessi colander, was a small collection of redundant books. Deep within one of these, once white on the cover and spine but now battered with age, past use and the splash of tinned tomatoes, there were the following words.

“3192 Poulet sauté à la Bourguignonne ...Fry some blanched diced streaky bacon in butter until brown...”

***

Back in the penthouse, all had not gone according to plan. There was a delay caused by the condition of the birds once they had been freed from their brown paper shroud and this had resulted in the need for some distasteful work with the tiny corpses. Then it had been necessary, once more, for John Bean to repeat his hand washing ritual and to undertake some additional cleaning of the working area. However, once he got into the recipe, things moved along smoothly as he worked his way through the hand written list of tasks that was clipped to the wall above the work area like an order in a restaurant.

He measured out his progress by the changing smells that penetrated the air in the kitchen and was pleasantly surprised when his nose informed him that the offering was ready. There was a rich, almost gamey scent that hung heavily in the air.  With a growing sense of excitement that would have been considered disproportionate to the nature of the event by many, John hurriedly tidied up his work surfaces and plated up.  Finally, he removed his clean, white apron and carried the plate through to the dining room. The plate was deliciously hot and it warmed his hands without burning them. He offered the clean and delicately laid out plate of food to the plain melamine place mat before stepping quickly to the window. Pausing only long enough to note that it had started to rain, he drew the curtains quickly, his heart racing slightly. Then he returned to sit before the cause of his excitement.

It should be noted that he was only wearing his underwear, a pair of white socks and slippers at this point because he had removed his everyday clothes before the preparation of this supper and the donning of the white kitchen vestments. He reached for the large white napkin that was beside him on the table and opened it with the efficient and exaggerated movements of a priest. Placing it carefully over his head, he paused for a moment of grace before bowing his head to the forbidden fruit on the table in front of him. He noticed, curiously, that he was aroused as he held a trembling hand out to take the body of the small bird.

***

“What’s he doing now?” Mel asked as she walked into the front room.

Her husband was standing at the window looking up towards the converted flats opposite.

“Dunno, but he’s just drawn the drapes and I don’t think he was wearing anything.” he replied without turning.

“Here, close the curtains and eat. It’s beans on toast tonight.”

She returned to the kitchen for two cups of tea.

***

J.R. Robson walked back quickly towards the flats at 43 Tavistock Road munching on a large burger and occasionally stopping to grab a handful of fries from the paper bag that held them.

It seemed like ages ago that he had had the munchies and had needed a fix that his minimalist kitchen could not satisfy. He’d almost walked into the old guy that lived upstairs in his rush out to eat.  At the cash point he had looked down into the dim well of light where someone had scrawled four digits, “2380”.  When prompted he had entered his PIN number, noting as he did so that someone had written “you fat bastard” in dark nail varnish on the screen.

He had looked at the words, the image of his own twenty-something fitness in his mind like the ghost of Hamlet’s father before him.

“I’m hardly a bloater!” he had said out loud as his opinionated self had taken the money from the machine and had turned away into the night.