Critique Page 10

  Seeing him inspect the kitchen, Benoit spoke up. “We don’t have much time left here. We’ll be moving on soon.”

  Sandy frowned. “You mean…like with the lease?”

  Benoit smiled.

  “Something like that.”

  He dragged on his cigarette. The smoke drifted towards Sandy, smelling of burning herbs.

  His stomach rolled, and he rubbed his face.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Where’s Enfer?”

  “Chef will be here soon,” said Benoit. “He’s very keen to start work on the new dish, and now that you’ve brought him his…ingredient, preparations can begin.”

  He dropped from his stool and approached the Tupperware box. He poked the side. The contents wobbled. Benoit wrinkled his nose.

  “Dégoûtant, Mr Devanche!”

  Sandy left the maître d’ to his childlike inspection and glanced at the door, willing Enfer to walk through it. The business was bad enough without having to deal with this runt. Blood still marred his hands. He’d hid them in the sleeves of his sweater on his way over. He presumed most people thought he’d be protecting them from the cold. Not one paid any interest to his macabre delivery, for which he was grateful.

  The whole thing felt distant. A stranger had handled the knife with such dexterity, plucking the desired organ free with the skill of a master butcher while his victim died at his feet. He’d left Suzie screaming on the bed, and his feet barely touched the floor as he made an escape.

  Is murder that easy? he thought.

  His guts answered his question, curling and writhing.

  No. The real work comes now. Dealing with it.

  A door slammed somewhere in the restaurant, and Benoit immediately left the grisly prize and busied himself about the kitchen.

  Sandy sat straighter, even this small gesture requiring him to dig deep. The emptiness and fever were quickly returning.

  Without a word, Enfer strode into the kitchen. He stopped, crossed his arms across his wide chest and nodded at the container.

  “Surprendre,” he said. “What have we here?”

  He smiled and tightened the band that held his ponytail in place.

  “You know exactly what we have,” said Sandy. He dragged his fingers through his hair, nails scratching the scalp. “Feed me.”

  “Not so hasty,” said the chef, walking past and patting Sandy’s shoulder on the way. “You know how we operate. This isn’t a fast-food restaurant that throws out cheap food sur le demande. Good things come to those who wait!”

  Sandy wanted to slam his fist onto the table, wanted to slam his fist into Enfer, but had neither the strength nor courage. He shivered again, the hunger bringing a cold that flowed beneath his skin like an undercurrent of a dark Arctic sea.

  Enfer picked up the semi-transparent box and gently tipped it back and forth, watching the meat slip around in its crimson pool.

  “He will eat well tonight,” he muttered. “Such wonders I can create with this most innocent of ingredients…” He looked over his shoulder at Sandy. “I’m aghast, and owe you my deepest apologies, mon ami.”

  Sandy cast him a drunken glare. “Feed me. Please.”

  Enfer ignored him and reverently placed the box back on the table. He carefully peeled back the lid and leaned closer.

  “Wait…”

  The chef gripped the edge of the table.

  “This…this isn’t right.” He reached in and picked up the liver with the tips of his fingers. It dangled, and blood dropped in a regular beat. “What is this crap, Devanche? I can’t cook with this!”

  Sandy groggily lifted his head, meeting the cold gaze of the furious chef.

  “You wanted liver,” he croaked. “That’s liver…human liver.”

  “Look at this!” Enfer snarled. His hand shook, jiggling the meat. “I wanted meat from the child! The size of this… It’s come from an adult, and you know what that means? No. Of course you don’t. It means alcohol. It means caffeine. It means hundreds of other things that affect the flavour. The meat needed to be virgin!”

  He sighed and dropped the liver. It plopped back inside the Tupperware container.

  “Benoit,” the chef snapped.

  The short man turned from his menial task and curled his moustache. He snatched a quick puff of his still-smouldering cigarette.

  “I’m already on it,” he said, and with a smirk, left the kitchen.

  Sandy watched him leave, his nerves raised.

  “Where’s he going?”

  Enfer, staring at the discarded meat, shook his head.

  “Don’t worry yourself, family man. She’s quite safe. I’m sure the bumbling law of this city has her in its embrace. Benoit has other contacts for me, and he rarely disappoints.” He sneered. “Unlike some, monsieur.”

  Sandy could barely form his words. The craving tugged at his every thought, and Enfer’s scolding had stomped on any fire he could muster.

  “Let me…explain…”

  “There’s no need to explain!” said Enfer. “Your faith, Sandy. Your faith has already explained everything.” He shoved the plastic container aside. “I can’t use this.”

  “I was…disturbed,” said Sandy, concentrating. “I was about to…for some crazy reason, and then he walked in. Jeremy. He was going to do…things to her, Jacob. To my little girl! I had the knife. It just…happened.”

  Enfer stroked his thick stubble.

  “You amuse me, Sandy. What worse could this Jeremy do compared to what you had in mind?”

  Sandy growled. “Some things are worse than death.”

  Enfer shrugged.

  “Ah, touché. I’ve been around long enough not to argue that point.” He tapped his chin. “And you say this man, this Jeremy, just appeared?”

  Sandy’s head swam. He didn’t want to think back, to stand in that pink bedroom with the knife in his hand. Yet the lamp flickered, and the pages of the Bible turned. FLICK-FLICK-FLICK.

  “He was in the shower,” he said, “but all of a sudden…”

  Enfer clapped his hands and squeezed them together.

  “Ha! Your very own ram trapped in the thicket! Just like Abraham and Isaac, your faith was tested and God, seeing how you would sacrifice your own kin in his name, sent you divine intervention. You are a lucky man. You know not how much you have been blessed this day!”

  Sandy closed his eyes. Blessed was the last thing he felt. Dirty. Hollow. Torn to pieces. Perhaps these were more accurate words to choose.

  Enfer looked to the low ceiling and grinned.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways. I envy the revelation you must have felt: to stand up to the bully like David stood up to Goliath. To deal with the issues rather than hide from them.”

  He strode over to Sandy and wrapped his arms around him. The embrace was fierce, and the critic had little strength to avoid it.

  “No more hiding. You are now an even more changed man indeed!” said Enfer. “Of all the members of the dining club, it’s been you with the promise and the will to change all along. I think it’s time.”

  Sandy rocked on his stool as Enfer released him. “Time?”

  Enfer slapped him on the back, nearly knocking him to the floor.

  “Time for your last critique!” he said, beaming. “Time for the greatest meal you will ever eat!”

  Sandy’s stomach responded to the words, and the critic grabbed the front of Enfer’s shirt.

  “When?” he demanded, speaking through the pain.

  His answer disappointed.

  “There comes a point in the life of every sinner,” said Enfer, “when the wrong path is chosen. For one to truly see the error in their ways, that branch must be sought out and addressed face-to-face. Do not ask me when, Sandy, for this is not in my power. It is in the hands of you and the Lord now.” He gestured. “Walk with me. The sooner you reach your spiritual destination, the better. You mustn’t have much strength left.”

  Sandy slowly clim
bed off his stool. He felt he hadn’t slept or eaten for weeks, and weights had been tied to his limbs.

  “I’m tired,” he told the chef. “I need to eat. Please, just a little…”

  “And eat you shall!” boomed Enfer. “But not here. For what is this place? Nothing but a building, an empty shell. For the great feast, you will need to be at your crossroads for the added flavour, mon ami!”

  They left the kitchen and entered the foyer. Benoit had gone, off to do deeds Sandy had neither the desire nor the stomach to consider.

  “I don’t understand,” said Sandy. “Please. Tell me where to go.”

  Enfer smiled.

  “That is not my place.” He led him to the door to the restaurant. Beyond the glass door, the endless parade of the city continued, faces downturned from the rain. A taxicab sped past too close to the kerb, sending a short wave across the pavement. Passers-by jumped and cursed.

  “Please, Jacob.”

  “God will guide you,” Enfer replied. “I know you have faith now. Use it.”

  He escorted Sandy through the door and onto the washed-out street.

  “But my faith was in you!” Sandy cried; too late, the door had closed, and the hulking figure of the chef had disappeared.

  “Shit!” Sandy hissed and, ducking his head against the bite of the wind, staggered away.

  * * *

  He walked through the streets, still having nothing for a taxi fare. His hands contained only dried blood. Guilt and confusion were a useless currency, but the only things he possessed.

  Besides the key to his apartment.

  With no other destination in mind, Sandy headed homeward. Quite a few blocks lay between him and his bed, and already the lack of Enfer’s food had taken a toll. He walked with his head down and back hunched, dragging his feet. At one point he clashed shoulders with a passing young man in designer glasses, a beige jacket and woollen scarf. He might have been attractive if not for his sneer.

  Sandy muttered an apology and veered right, around a corner, nearly falling over a street vendor’s wares. He staggered into a shallow cardboard box, spilling the several miniature robots it contained. The seller shouted something foreign and shook his fist. Sandy ignored him and walked on.

  Every braking squeal from the busy traffic sounding like a scream: Suzie’s scream. The critic struggled to shake the sound from his head, having developed a kind of mental tinnitus. He prayed she was fine. Leaving her had broken his heart, but what other option did he have? Sit with her until Nicola arrived? Or better yet, take her to Enfer? He could have whipped up a kid’s meal.

  His coarse laugh became a wince. His insides ate away at him.

  I need to eat.

  He hurried his pace, the way a driver will push his empty car faster to reach the next gas station.

  The familiar streets now felt alien to him, the way a dream can skew reality, yet leave a trace of the familiar, enough for the mind to believe in it. His tired feet pounded the sidewalk.

  The pedestrian traffic eased off the main drag, and Sandy lurched around a corner, eager to be out of their midst. Some snack or scrap must be left at his apartment. Enfer wouldn’t let him just walk out in this state. The chef needed him.

  Up the street, the entrance to his apartment building sat insipid between its neighbours. A canopy, made from a plastic blue enough to put the dull sky to shame, protected tenants from the rain. This was the only feature that separated it from the other buildings. That and the police that milled around beneath it. Their squad car splashed alternate tones of red and blue across the walls and pale faces of the officers.

  They know… thought Sandy, stopping. Did Suzie tell them? No, more likely Nicola having a stab in the dark.

  His stomach seemed to swell, and he groaned through clenched teeth.

  He looked up and sought out his balcony. His apartment. No way could he get there past the police. So close, but his prize lay out of reach.

  A figure stood on his balcony, dressed in white. Distance blurred his features.

  Another policeman or forensics, he reasoned.

  He licked his lips and plunged his shaking hands deeper inside his pockets. Crossing the road, he slipped around the corner and down an alley, away from the prying eyes of any of the officers.

  The stench from overflowing dumpsters barely touched his nausea, which squirmed like a gutful of live maggots. Time was running out, and the sight of the police—knowing his life was over—sapped his strength further. He staggered down the alley with no destination in mind. His apartment was infested with the law, who wouldn’t understand in their black-and-white view. He’d had his fill of police and their…methods, after Cameron. The restaurant? Enfer had made it perfectly clear that he was not to return.

  So where?

  He looked up, hoping for some divine intervention. Finding none, he staggered down the man-made ravine of fire escapes, barred windows and heaped trash.

  A little way ahead, from behind a dumpster, a booted foot flopped on the ground.

  Sandy’s shallow breath hitched in his throat.

  “‘S there?” asked a groggy voice.

  The critic inched forward, gradually peering around the edge of the dumpster.

  He recognized the younger man instantly. The homeless junkie from that first night at The House of Jacob.

  He sat slouched against the scratched metal, his legs straight and out. His chin lay resting on his chest, which was covered in a crusty splat of vomit. The man didn’t seem to mind. One sleeve was rolled up, almost to his shoulder. The needles of his affliction lay scattered on the ground.

  “Jesus,” said Sandy and took a step back.

  “You got the wrong guy, pal,” said the junkie and, using the dumpster, pulled himself up. Stench rolled off him: the dry vomit, urine and something much darker like smoke. “Though I knows ‘im.”

  The younger man dug into his filthy green coat and pulled out a bottle. He took a few swigs and offered it to Sandy, who politely declined.

  “If it’s something stronger you want,” said the tramp, “get your own. I gots enough for one more hit. Just one more.” He sniffed and wiped an eye, like he’d been talking about a loved one that didn’t have long left.

  Sandy started to walk away. He didn’t have long left himself before the hunger would leave him crippled on the ground in pain. He shoved past his new company.

  “Hey… Whatcha have to be like that for? Just cos I ain’t got a home doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings!”

  Probably not, thought Sandy. You probably blasted those away with the smack you fill your veins with.

  “I used to be somebody!” said the tramp and pounded his chest. “You think I wanna live like this? You think this is fun for me?” He spat on the ground. “Who the fuck are you to look down at me, anyway? You ain’t so hot yourself. What the fuck’s your story?”

  Sandy opened his mouth to reply, to bring the upstart down with a cutting remark, the kind that had the chefs of this city crying into their soups. Nothing came out.

  “Thought so; don’t wanna talk about it.” He spat again. “Same here. One little thing can change your whole life, right? Just bad luck, I guess. Some people win the lottery. I guess guys like us average out the score. You hungry? Looks like you haven’t eaten for a while…”

  The kindly junkie turned and leaned over the edge of the dumpster, rummaging through the contents.

  Sandy held his breath against the blossoming pain and ran the rest of the alley, ignoring the angry shouts from behind.

  Imagine living like that. No pride. No home. An addict.

  He burst from between the final two buildings, across the sidewalk and into the road, glancing over his shoulder.

  A car horn blared.

  The taxicab swung to the side as Sandy span, confused in the road. The horn blasted out a threat again, and the driver appeared to spit curses behind the glass.

  Sandy lurched across the rest of the road before the bewildered face
s of the other drivers, who had stopped their cars at the sound of the horn. On the opposite sidewalk, he wiped the sweat from his face and leaned against a shop front to catch his breath.

  The drivers, unwilling to take the incident further, gradually moved on.

  You can’t carry on like this, he thought, eying his haunted reflection.

  His head jumped from the shop window. The owner, some frustrated old bag with librarian glasses, had banged her fist against it. She jerked a thumb at him. Be on your way, good sir.

  He hugged his sides and walked on.

  His wandering path and shortcut through the alley had brought him out into the shopping district. While the rain-blackened buildings still reached into the sky like broken planks in a rotten fence, the ground floors were occupied by the colourful and inviting world of commerce. Shoppers milled from store to store, purchases swinging in jolly paper and plastic. You couldn’t buy your way from under the never-ending storm, but pretty things helped you get through the day.

  Sandy realised he’d been like them once…with Cameron. Life wasn’t too bad back then. They’d start with a coffee at the Italian place on the corner and slowly work their way from one end of the district to another. Some shops held no interest for either of them, but that wasn’t the point. The day out, being away from nagging wives and strict deadlines and the rain, the constant rain, that was the point.

  The wine bar where they always finished stood further up the street. A member of staff carried metallic tables and chairs from the sidewalk back inside, ready for evening trade. No one ever used the alfresco furniture. The weather never allowed it.

  Sandy walked past, peeking in through the open door and windows. A few drinkers stood by the bar in pairs, and a couple of chatting women sat in the corner booth.

  The booth in which he and Cameron had spent blissful hours in each other’s company.

  He smiled at the memory and headed off, no destination in mind.

  Enfer mentioned a crossroads, he thought. But the city is full of crossroads!

  He roared and clutched his stomach. The hunger seemed to be nibbling into his very skin.