Critique Page 11

  I have to do something!

  The thought of turning himself in crossed his mind. The law might understand his actions. Jeremy…he was the evil, sick bastard in all of this. The things he must’ve done to Suzie…

  The imaginings did nothing to help his sickness. Sandy pushed a hand against the wall and bent over, retching.

  He breathed the chilly air deep and settled his convulsions, yet as he straightened, his body rebelled. What meagre remains of Enfer’s broth left in his stomach gushed from between his lips and over his chin. Vomit splattered the front of the black sweater.

  Sandy looked down at the mess, instantly picturing the junkie back in the alleyway. Funny how life works out. He’d always tried his best, worked hard. He was a five-star gentleman, but never gave more than three. Yet, he stood in the strengthening rain at dusk, stinking, desperate. No better than a junkie asleep beside a dumpster.

  Just unlucky, I guess.

  He wondered what had happened in the junkie’s life to set him on the same path. For him, it had been a mere visit to a restaurant.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Behind him, laughter rang out from the open door of the wine bar.

  But was it Enfer? he thought. He’s shown me the path I was already on before we met.

  When did it all start?

  He began to walk, clutching his stomach.

  * * *

  Sandy hated it when he reviewed restaurants and following a later visit, nothing had changed. They failed to see his stinging barbs and blunt comments were there to help. There was no excuse not to learn from a critique.

  He didn’t aim to do the same.

  The weather had kicked into high gear, perhaps driven by God who wanted to keep him away from such a horrid place. Sandy had lowered his head and pressed on through the wind and rain that hit his exposed skin like bullets. He stood at the entrance to Gehenna Gardens, a beautiful name for an ugly, decrepit building.

  Some parts of the city were notorious, and buildings within them legendary. Gehenna Gardens was one such place. Poking from the ground, the multi-storied tower proved to be a haven for the lowlifes of the city. Thus, rent was cheap. For newcomers to the city, especially naïve, twenty-two year olds from the country, Gehanna proved to be the first stop before better accommodation could be found.

  Cameron had lived on the twelfth floor.

  Sandy pushed through the graffiti-covered doors and into the entrance hall. The garish scrawl and loud letters continued across the grimy walls. The word HOODS was written in chunky, violet letters standing five-foot high across the mailboxes. The whole thing looked like a jigsaw for gang members.

  Sandy walked through the pathetic room and to the elevators. The once shiny doors of metal had failed to escape the can of the street artists, and various motifs fought for space.

  After a deep breath, he pushed the call button.

  Somehow, he felt more comfortable in the building this time around. On previous occasions, and even with Cameron, the threat of violence always hung heavy within Gehenna. One time, a fat Latino man wearing the thickest gold chain Sandy had ever seen passed them in a corridor, grumbling the words “fags” as he neared. Sandy had ignored him, and nothing had come of the incident, but it had stayed lodged in his memory. Now, on the run from the law in a place were nothing was ever seen and nothing was ever heard, he understood Gehenna a little better.

  The elevator door opened, and Sandy was stricken by the stench of stale urine. He stepped inside. The critic leaned against the light green wall, taking the opportunity to catch his breath.

  He pushed for the twelfth floor. The doors closed, and the elevator rumbled upwards.

  The moment of inertia increased the sense of void in Sandy’s stomach, and he gripped the chipped, plastic railing to avoid falling on the stinking floor. He squeezed his eyes closed and waited for the sound of the doors opening.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  Can I do this? Can I face it after all this time?

  His guts, feeling like they dissolved in their own acids, answered his question.

  A moment later, the elevator gradually slowed to a stop. The doors opened to a reveal a dimly lit corridor.

  Sandy headed left. The door to Cameron’s apartment stood at the end of the corridor.

  You can do this, thought Sandy. What other choice do you have?

  He swallowed.

  The corridor was silent. All the apartment doors on either side were closed. Sandy longed to hear the sound of a muffled television set or even voices raised in argument. He needed to feel life was close by, but it hid.

  The door to Cameron’s apartment hung half open, a few inches of black-and-yellow police tape still stuck to the frame.

  Sandy guessed that cheap rent or not, no one would want to live in there anymore. Not after what happened.

  He wanted to stop and turn around, go back to the elevator and escape this fetid building, yet the hunger drove him on. Reaching the door, he gently pushed it open and peered through the gloom.

  This… he thought. This is my crossroads.

  The small apartment had been ransacked. Gone were Cameron’s modest second-hand sofas, his television and cabinet. The coffee table remained, but that had been smashed to pieces. Rubbish covered the floor, and the spray-can brigade had covered most of the walls. A dirty curtain hid the balcony windows, casting the room in a low, grey light.

  Sandy walked into the lounge, kicking aside balls of screwed-up newspaper and empty cans. In his mind, he still saw the light and airy apartment, filled with the scents of Cameron’s simple yet tasty food. The television would be on, playing some kind of science fiction show. Cameron was such a geek for all that.

  He wandered through the room, his memories distracting him from the hunger.

  “We met at work during a boring department meeting,” he told the empty room. “He was new, just arrived in the city that week and started a job at the paper. Something to do with computers: layout or design or something. He was just so…new. Wide-eyed by the city lights, in need of someone to take his hand and guide him through this new life.”

  Sandy smiled.

  “But you did more than guide him through life, oui monsieur?” asked a voice from beyond the window.

  Frozen, Sandy listened to the window slide open. A towering shadow fell onto the curtain, which was swept aside by a wide hand.

  Enfer stood framed by the rain, dressed in his chef whites.

  “You’re…here,” said Sandy.

  Enfer grinned and held out his arms. “Where else would I be? I’m here for you, Sandy Devanche, and this is where things started to go wrong, is it not? For one to truly see the error in their ways, that branch must be sought out and addressed face-to-face, so here I am. For you.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I know everything I need to. Shall we begin?”

  Enfer pulled the curtain wider, revealing the wet balcony to Sandy.

  The rain had quit its relentless beat, yet the darkening sky rolled with ominous charcoal clouds. In a bizarre contrast to its backdrop, Enfer’s set-up was neat and ordered. A pristine and ironed white cloth covered the table for one, and on its surface, a delicate white orchid sat within a slender glass vase. Candles had been placed around the arrangement in a perfect square. The flames danced in the slight breeze.

  Sandy’s stomach heaved, his body preparing for the imminent feast. He stared at the balcony railing and didn’t budge from his spot in the middle of the lounge.

  “Monsieur?” said Enfer. “You table is waiting.”

  Sandy shook his head.

  “No. Not out there. In here, yes, but not out there.”

  Enfer raised an eyebrow.

  “You refuse my hospitality? After all that you’ve been through, you wish to fail at the last.”

  Sandy squeezed his fists.

  “I told you. Not out there.”

  “Seems you’re developing a backbone,” sai
d Enfer. “Finally.”

  “You did this on purpose.”

  “Again,” said the chef, “things must be sought out and addressed face-to-face. Don’t you think you’ve been afraid of balconies for too long now? A man approaching forty…afraid of balconies!” He chuckled.

  Sandy stepped forwards, more from the hunger than compliance, but stopped again.

  “No,” he said. “I can’t. I can’t go out there.”

  Enfer sighed, his goliath shoulders sagging.

  “Very well,” he said, “but I shall not let good food go to waste. Perhaps I serve it, and let God’s creatures descend to their meal, oui?”

  He entered the apartment, and without casting Sandy a glance, entered the kitchen.

  The critic fell among the rubbish on the floor, his legs folding beneath him. Cramps fluttered through his stomach and up into his chest. His heart throbbed against the squeezing muscles.

  “Please…” he gasped, writhing on the floor. “Enfer, please…”

  Whistling a tune, Enfer returned carrying a cloche-covered plate. Ignoring Sandy, he stepped out onto the balcony and laid the plate on the table. He stood back, leaned against the railing and waited.

  Sandy rocked onto his back with his arms wrapped around his rebellious body, and his knees pushed into his chest.

  “Please!” he wailed.

  A soldier guarding his treasure, Enfer stood rigid, staring forwards.

  “I can’t do this,” Sandy told himself and rolled onto his front. He crawled slowly through the garbage and towards the window.

  “You’re meal is getting cold,” said Enfer, emotionless.

  Sandy pushed his palms against the glass and looked out at the corner of the balcony. His memory and vision superimposed, and for a moment, he saw Cameron standing on the railing, looking back over his shoulder, tears falling from his eyes.

  Sandy roared and pushed himself up from the floor. He leaned against the window, sucking in deep, ragged breaths. The pain had escalated from a gnawing void. It felt like his insides had been ripped out.

  “Enfer…” he moaned. The word steamed on the chilly pane.

  “Come to me,” said the chef. “Exorcise your sin and be clean.”

  Sandy’s feet staggered across the dirty carpet, his shoulder sliding along the window. At the threshold to the balcony, his momentum wavered, and he paused.

  “One more step,” said Enfer. His smile had returned. He encouraged Sandy, beckoning with his hands. “One more step to face your fear.”

  Sandy sobbed and wiped his eyes.

  “But…but Cameron…”

  “…was a long time ago,” Enfer finished for him. “One more step. Then you can eat.”

  The hunger responded to the promise, and Sandy screamed. Holding his breath, he stepped outside.

  “Excellent,” said Enfer. He pulled out the chair.

  Trembling and rubbing his stomach, Sandy shuffled across the slick balcony and sat within the square of flickering light.

  “Nice of you to join me…eventually,” said Enfer and laid a napkin across the critic’s lap. “Are you ready for your supper?”

  Having been bullied out onto the balcony, the one place in the world that scraped at his spine in terror, Sandy had no patience for games. He needed to feed. Without waiting for Enfer’s theatrics, he grabbed the handle of the shiny silver cloche and pitched it from the table. It landed on the grimy tiles of the balcony with a clatter.

  On a wide, white plate sat two small bowls and a fork. One contained a pale meat, probably chicken by the way it had flaked, in a rich, rust-coloured sauce. The sharp spicy scents told Sandy he was looking at a small curry, the perfect size for an entrée. Beside it, an identical bowl housed a few spoonfuls of plain, boiled rice.

  Too hungry to care, Sandy snatched up the fork and dug out a good helping of the curry.

  “Ah…India,” said Enfer and sighed. “Such an enlightening place. Did you know that the cuisine reflects the spirituality of the country? Yin and Yang, if you will. The duality of life. Take this curry for instance. One might see it as a simple, yet spicy dish…”

  Spicy, yes, but Sandy experienced a world beyond simple. The sauce was affluent with fresh tomato and coriander, and the chicken cooked so slowly that the meat melted in his mouth. The herbs and spices had been mixed and balanced so finely that they created a puzzle of heat on his tongue. Sandy’s taste buds struggled to solve it, but the sensation made him dizzy from pleasure.

  “Take the rice,” the chef continued.

  Sandy did, plunging the fork into the light, fluffy mound. He shovelled in a mouthful.

  The rice was…just rice. Plain, boring. Nothing more than filler to bulk up the lavish curry.

  “The rice,” said Enfer as Sandy greedily munched. “Rice alone is so…barbant. Isn’t that the case with life sometimes? The daily grind, clocking in, this constant heavy weather…oui? The dull, unexciting relationship that is…” He stroked his beard, choosing his words carefully. “Flavourless.”

  Somewhere in his hunger-ravaged mind, Sandy agreed. He used the rice to cut the curry, making the succulent dish last a little longer.

  “But the curry,” said Enfer, “the curry is the heat of passion and the spice of lust. It has everything the rice does not. It’s the heat of an otherwise plain meal, the way love can be the heat of a plain life.”

  Sandy scooped another forkful of curry and shoved it between his lips. A sharp jolt of pain ripped through his mouth. He cried out, feeling something sharp penetrating his tongue.

  “But sometimes,” said Enfer. “Love hurts.”

  Sandy screamed. The acidic burn of the chillies had found its way into the wound. Sticking out his tongue, he hastily examined it with fumbling fingers, feeling something straight and hard. He tugged it free. Trying to suck the pain from his throbbing tongue, he held up the small object.

  Smeared with thick curry sauce, the corner of the razor blade was pearled with his blood.

  Sandy roared, unable to form words, and stared at Enfer.

  The chef closed his eyes and nodded. “All part of your final critique. Sometimes pain is healthy. It makes us who we are and builds character…just as it can add flavour.”

  Sandy’s tongue felt like it had been severed, and every slight movement caused fresh waves of agony to soar through his mouth. The metallic taste of blood mingled with the curry, adding another dimension to the already enigmatic mix of spices.

  He closed his eyes, his cries softening to contented mumbles.

  “Some might say these days of suffering were justified,” said Enfer, his eyes flashing silver. He reached behind his head and unfastened his ponytail. Hair loose, it fell down his back and around his shoulders, teased by the tentative breeze.

  The candle flames danced.

  Sandy ate on, mixing the rice with more curry, feeling the roof of his mouth open on a blade, relishing the harsh sting of the spices.

  “You groomed him,” said Enfer. “You were the older, wiser man and you used him. For what? The escape? The sex?” He shook his head. “There’s no stronger power in this world than love, Sandy Devanche. To truly give one’s love is to give one’s life to another. But then…that’s what he did. He gave you his love…and you didn’t want it.”

  Sandy listened, but didn’t argue. The pain was too much, and any conversation would pull him from the meal. He’d waited so long. He had to eat.

  “He died because of you. Stepped off this very balcony because he couldn’t bear to live without you. And you did nothing. Easier to get on with your life than accept the truth.” He sighed and looked out over the rooftops of the city. The gathering tempest hung over the tower blocks like an angry god. “You’d rather save face than admit who you are. The moment Cameron splashed over the sidewalk, he’d never existed. Your relationship never existed. You were back to being a normal husband and father.” He shook his head.

  Sandy scraped the last of the curry and rice from the bowls and a
te it. On the table lay a row of five razor blades, all plucked one by one from his mouth. He picked up the first and licked the sauce from it, opening another shallow furrow on his tongue.

  “So this is where it all started to go wrong,” said Enfer. “After Cameron, you tried to put the past behind you and live a straight life, until your wife found your…colourful hard drive file.” He chuckled.

  Grimacing through the pain, Sandy replaced the now shiny blade back on the table and proceeded onto the next. It still contained a splattering of sauce and even a shred of chilli. He sucked on it eagerly.

  “But we’ve come a long way. I think you’ve come to terms with who you are. You’ve even managed to love again. Maybe there’s hope. We’ll soon find out.”

  * * *

  Enfer placed a second covered plate on the small table.

  The wind had increased, and the candle flames thrashed within their shallow glass houses. The candles themselves secreted a clean citrus smell. Sandy knew they’d been picked especially for the hint of lemon they would inevitably add to the palette.

  The chef had allowed Sandy some time to recover. The starter had worked its magic, and the hunger had shrunk back into the shadows. His tongue, a patchwork of slits and scratches, had numbed from the pain slightly. Although his mouth felt full of stinging nettles, he managed to form words. He stared at Enfer.

  “You have it wrong,” he said. “I didn’t kill Cameron. I did love him.”

  “I’m sure you did, in some way. Or maybe you loved the way he felt more than the man himself. But you did kill him. Certainly. His love scared you and you turned your back. That’s what killed him, Sandy. You saw him fall. How did that feel?”

  Sandy closed his eyes and again saw Cameron plummet. There one second, and the next? A sound like an egg breaking far below.

  ““Who are you to lecture me?” Sandy mumbled. “You wanted me to kill my own daughter.”

  Enfer threw back his head and laughed.

  “As I said, God works in very mysterious ways. He intervened. Instead of killing a beautiful, innocent girl, you removed a sexual predator. An evil. Surely killing evil men is the work of the righteous man? I love the Bible, but at times, it’s just a little too vague. Thou shalt not kill, for example. Non, though shalt kill for God.”