Twelve Days of Winter

by MacBride, Stuart

  It was as if nothing had ever happened.

  When the lunchtime rush was over, Philippe and Alexander sat in the cramped manager’s office, drinking strong cups of coffee with the door closed. The chef leaned back in his seat and groaned at the ceiling tiles.

  Alexander fiddled with his mug. ‘Erm. . . How are we getting on with . . . with our visitor?’

  A shrug. ‘He’s in bags at the back of the fridge. Looks just like fried mince.’ Another groan and Philippe slumped forwards. ‘The trouble is the bones.’

  ‘Oh God.’ The bones – a whole human skeleton would look suspicious, even in a restaurant’s rubbish. ‘We’re ruined! We’re—’

  Philippe held up a hand. ‘No, not ruined. I chopped the bones, put them in the oven. They’ll roast and dry out. We smash them with a hammer into little pieces. Then we dump them. Not a problem.’

  ‘What about the . . . the. . .’ Alexander tapped the side of his head.

  ‘Meh. . .’ Philippe finished his coffee. ‘When you hack a man’s skull into eight pieces with a cleaver, it looks like any other bones. No one will notice. Trust me. It is all good again.’

  Alexander tried for a smile, and managed to find one. They were in the clear – the body was taken care of, the lunchtime rush was over. Now all they had to do was impress the socks off Martin White and everything was perfect. ‘Philippe, I want you to get some sleep, OK? The staff can take care of the clean-down and prep for the evening sitting. You rest. I want you at your best when Martin White gets here.’ The smile turned into a beam.

  Everything was going to be all right.

  Philippe looked a lot better when he emerged at half past six: wide awake and smiling. The white powder on his top lip was probably just flour, wasn’t it? He’d been making bread, or pastry, or checking the . . . something. That was all. Nothing else.

  Alexander opened the reservations book, then closed it again. Lined it up with the edge of the bar. Took a deep breath. Only two people had a key to the restaurant: him and Philippe, and he certainly hadn’t stuck a dead body in the fridge, so it had to be Philippe, But. . . But Philippe was a brilliant chef, you had to expect a certain amount of eccentric behaviour from geniuses. And besides, where was Alexander going to get anyone else as talented in Oldcastle?

  So they would carry on as if nothing had ever happened. They would get their good review and open up a second restaurant, Le Coq Rouge – it would become a beacon of French cuisine for all of Oldcastle to see. No: all of Scotland! It would win three Michelin stars. And all because Alexander had the wisdom to not call the police.

  Marguerite had even turned up for work – albeit seven hours late – with a patch of white gauze taped to the back of her head and a story about being mugged. She shared some knowing glances with Philippe, but. . . But it was probably nothing. It would be fine. Everything was going to be OK.

  At ten to seven Alexander gathered the staff together in the dining room and gave them a pep talk: Martin White was coming in tonight; they were not to be nervous; they were a professional team; they were the best French restaurant in the whole city; do their best and tonight would be perfect!

  And then he went back to the manager’s office to chew his fingernails and watch the clock. Counting the minutes until Martin White’s reservation for one, at eight o’clock.

  ‘Well?’ Alexander shifted from foot to foot on the tiled kitchen floor.

  Philippe tossed a handful of langoustine tails into hot garlic and herb butter. ‘It’s a crime we have no sea bass, but—’

  ‘What’s he ordered?’

  Philippe gave the pan one last flick, then poured the langoustines over a fillet of turbot resting on a bed of mashed butter beans with salsa verde. ‘Soup, paté, and crevettes to start with, then the veal, entrecote, turbot, and lamb.’ He wiped the edge of the plate and dressed it with a sprinkle of finely chopped chives. ‘Service!’

  ‘Good, good. . .’

  Marguerite appeared and whisked the plate away into the restaurant.

  Alexander glanced at the fridge. ‘And what about . . . you know . . . that thing?’

  ‘I had Colin throw half the mince in the bin when he came on. Told him it was rancid.’

  ‘Excellent. Yes, that’s good. Fine.’ He wrung his hands, smiled, fidgeted. Then went to stand at the door, looking out through the glass porthole at the dining room, searching the faces until he found the bane of every restaurateur’s life. Martin White: flabby, pale, with a shock of dyed-black hair, sitting on his own at a table big enough for four. Marguerite offering him the first taste from a bottle of wine, checking to make sure it was acceptable. White’s face clouded over as he swilled the liquid back and forth, then spat it out into another glass and complained bitterly.

  ‘Oh God. . .’ Alexander bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Things were starting to go sour.

  Half an hour later and White was picking at his main courses. Starting with the lamb, then dipping into the other dishes. Making snide comments into a Dictaphone.

  Marguerite stormed through from the dining room, burst into tears, went straight into the walk-in fridge, slammed the door, and screamed.

  It took Alexander five minutes to coax her out.

  ‘He’s being such a bastard.’ She slumped back against the pass, wiping her eyes with a dishtowel. ‘The wine’s too warm, the wine’s too cold, the salt’s too salty, the soup’s too wet, the candles don’t smell nice. . .’ And then she started swearing in French, but Alexander wasn’t listening. He was peering out through the porthole at the man who was going to ruin his restaurant.

  ‘Merde!’

  Oh God, what now?

  Philippe was on his knees in front of one of the ovens. Staring in at the empty space.

  ‘What? What’s gone wrong?’ Everything was going wrong!

  ‘The. . .’ Philippe checked the empty oven again. ‘He. . . They’re gone.’

  ‘What are gone? Philippe: what’s gone?’

  ‘The bones.’ Philippe slammed the oven door and stood, eyes raking across the kitchen. ‘Angus!’

  The commis chef flinched, nearly dicing his fingers along with the celeriac. ‘Yes, chef?’ Standing to attention.

  ‘Bones – in this oven. Where?’

  A smile broke across Angus’s face, and he sagged a little. ‘I made stock, chef.’ He pointed at the huge pot sitting on the hob at the back of the kitchen – the cooker reserved for boiling bones, vegetables, and off-cuts. ‘Onion, carrot, celery, peppercorns, bay leaf, thyme. . .’ The smile slipped a bit. ‘Something wrong chef?’

  Philippe opened his mouth, but the only thing to come out was a small squeak.

  ‘Chef?’

  ‘Did. . . Are we using it?’

  Angus frowned, as if Philippe had just insulted his mother. ‘Yes chef: it’s good veal stock.’

  Alexander stared at the big pot bubbling away, then at the soup, and the sauces and everything else ‘veal’ stock ended up in. Even the fish. They were ruined! ‘I—’

  ‘Good!’ Philippe managed to plaster on a smile. ‘Er . . . well done.’

  ‘Thank you, chef.’

  It was time for more brandy.

  After dessert, Martin White started in on the liqueurs and whiskies. Getting louder and more obnoxious with every drink. One by one, the other tables drifted away, until it was quarter past eleven and the place was empty. Apart from Mr White.

  He was probably planning on skipping out without paying as well. Expecting La Poule Française to pick up the tab in a last-ditch attempt to curry favour and get a good review. Well, if that was what it would take. . .

  ‘We should have thrown him out!’ Philippe stood at Alexander’s shoulder, glaring through the porthole at Martin White. ‘Go find a McDonald’s, you fat connard.’

  The kitchen was deserted – Alexander had sent everyone home once the washing up was done. Well, there was no point everyone hanging around getting depressed, waiting for Martin White to put them out o
f business. So now it was just the two of them out back and Marguerite out front; gritting her teeth and serving the horrible Mr White.

  ‘We’re ruined. . .’

  ‘Fat pig doesn’t deserve to eat my food!’

  ‘He’ll give us a terrible review. . .’

  ‘I should have pissed in his soup.’ Philippe threw his hands in the air. ‘Fuck him. I’m going to get drunk.’ He grabbed his coat and stormed out the back door, slamming it behind him.

  There was a flurry of movement in the dining room: White was getting to his feet, preparing to leave.

  Alexander straightened his jacket, plastered on his best smile, and went through to meet him. Give it one last shot. Save the restaurant. Even if it meant grovelling and paying for White’s meal.

  He got Marguerite to fetch the reviewer’s coat then told her she could knock off for the night. At least this way she wouldn’t see him humiliating himself, bowing and scraping.

  ‘Mr White!’ He beamed, holding his hands out as if they were old friends. ‘How lovely of you to have joined us. I hope you enjoyed your meal?’

  White sneered back at him. His voice was slightly slurred by three bottles of vintage Bordeaux. ‘You can hope.’

  There was an awkward silence, broken only by the bell above the door as Marguerite made good her escape.

  ‘Perhaps. . .’ Alexander picked a napkin off the table, fidgeted with it, sweating, smiling for all he was worth. ‘Perhaps I can treat you to a fine cognac? It’s a 1936 Louis XIII Grande Champagne: quite exquisite. . .?’ And very expensive. But the restaurant was worth it.

  Philippe was the first one into work on Friday morning. Head pounding, eyes like devilled eggs, mouth like the bottom of the grease trap. That’s what he got for gulping down tequila and snorting coke at the Bain-Marie in Logansferry till four that morning. Bragging to all his chef friends about the exquisite meal he’d just served up to Martin White.

  And it was an exquisite meal, each course more perfect than the last.

  White wouldn’t know fine dining if it crawled up his trouser leg and bit him on the derriere.

  The review would be in the paper tomorrow. Soon people would start cancelling their bookings – he’d seen it happen time and time again. The only place that consistently got a good review from White was Fandingo’s on Crenton Lane, and why? Because they had a waiter called Dave suck the fat pig’s cock under the table while he ate, that’s why.

  Philippe cracked open the fridge. Time to throw the last bags of Kenny into the garbage – let the bin men take care of him. And there, lying on his back in the middle of the tiles, was Martin White. Pasty faced and stiff as a board.

  With a small smile, Philippe unrolled his knives and started carving.

  4: Calling Birds

  Agnes is in the full throws of simulated orgasm when Tracy finally gets someone to answer their damn phone. The word, ‘Hello?’ pops into her earpiece.

  ‘Can I speak to the home owner?’ Ignoring the cries of ‘Yes! Yes! Oh GOD YES!!!’ coming from the next cubicle along.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m calling from PVSafe solutions: if you could replace all the windows in your house for free, how many would you replace?’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake: I was in the bloody bath! BUGGER OFF!’ The clatter of a phone being slammed down, then the indifferent ‘burrrrrr’ of an open line.

  Tracy groans, unplugs her headset and levers herself out of her seat. Bladder’s killing her. Correction: the baby’s foot in her bladder is killing her. At forty-one weeks pregnant she looks like she’s swallowed a sofa and feels like it too. She picks a wedge of floral-print maternity dress from between her buttocks. Very classy.

  She waddles over to Mr Aziz, who sits at a desk by the door squinting at a copy of the Racing Post. Picking the horses he’s going to lose money on tomorrow.

  Tracy holds out her hand. ‘Pee break.’

  He doesn’t even look up at her. ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes, again.’

  He shrugs and passes her the bathroom key. She only gets paid for the calls she makes, so who cares if she spends half the evening in the toilets? Five minutes later she’s standing at the coffee machine, crunching away on a handful of antacid tablets, waiting for her camomile tea to infuse, sniffing the heady aroma of percolator coffee and wishing to God this damn baby would hurry up so she can get back to proper drinks again. Got enough on her plate without having to give up caffeine and alcohol too. She nods as Agnes limps over. ‘How’s it going?’

  The old lady grins, exposing a perfect set of brand-new dentures. ‘Twenty-one so far.’ Agnes leans forward, voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. ‘I’m gonnae get Mr McWhirter one of them cashmere cardigans from Markies.’ She pats her rock-solid blue-rinsed hairdo. ‘And maybe get myself a new hat, from Santa. What about you dear? How you holdin’ up?’

  Tracy shrugs. ‘Been better.’ She tries for a smile – risky, because the tears were never far away. Especially when someone offered sympathy. ‘Chloe’s missing her granny, dad’s distraught, and John’s lost his job. . .’ Right on cue her eyes fill up. ‘I’m sorry,’ She sniffs, running a hand over her puffy face. ‘Bloody hormones aren’t helping.’

  Agnes doesn’t say anything, just envelops her in a hug that smells of Parma Violets, Mint Imperials, and stale cigarettes. ‘You should go home.’

  ‘I . . . I can’t.’ Tracy pulls a tatty hanky from her sleeve and blows her nose. ‘We need the money for Mum’s funeral.’ Sniff.

  Agnes looks back at the row of cubicles. ‘Tell you what, I’m doin’ fine this month: why don’t you take over my phone for a bit? Be “Sexy Sadie” for a while. Easy money. . . Aye as long as you don’t mind all the screaming.’ She winks. ‘Nothing like it to get your knickers waggin’, though. Soon as you get home you’ll be tearing the pants off that husband of yours.’

  Tracy pats her swollen midriff. ‘That’s how I got into trouble in the first place.’

  Tracy shifts in her seat. Bloody haemorrhoids are worse than the hormones. Can’t get Agnes’s headset to sit properly either – keeps digging into her ear. ‘I’ve got your big hard dick in my mouth and I’m sucking like. . .’ She stares into space for a moment. ‘Like a vacuum cleaner!’

  ‘Unnngh, unnnngh, ungggh. . .’ From the other end of the phone.

  ‘God you’re so big!’ There’s something very liberating about having pretend sex on the phone with strangers. Saying things she’d never dream of saying to John. ‘Oh, yes, like that: I love it when you bite my arse!’

  ‘Unnnngh, unnnnngh, unnnnnnnngh!’

  ‘Come on my tits!’

  ‘Unnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh!’ Pant, pant, pant. ‘Oh God. . .’ Sigh.

  Tracy checks the timer – three minutes fifteen seconds. The quickest one yet. For a moment she almost tells him not to worry, it happens to all men at some point, but that’s probably not what Mr Heavy Breathing wants to hear. So she settles for, ‘Oh, you were soooo good! I’m rubbing your spunk all over my big firm breasts.’ A little more post-coital smut brings the call up to six and a half minutes.

  ‘You know, Dear,’ Agnes leans on the cubicle wall, half-moon spectacles balanced on the end of her nose, ‘you need to slow them down a bit. As soon as they. . . You know. . .’ She makes a euphemistic hand gesture, which is ironic considering she’s spent most of the evening telling complete strangers to fuck her harder. ‘Once they’ve “finished”: they hang up, and you stop getting paid. Don’t go straight for the mince and tatties – tease them. You’ll make a lot more money.’ She looks left and right, like she’s about to impart a trade secret. ‘I always do this big long striptease – they love it.’

  ‘Striptease is it?’ Daphne McCafferty pokes her head over from the cubicle opposite. ‘I likes to touch myself all over. Gets them all hot and bothered, and it takes forever when you’re my size!’ She laughs, throwing her head back, making her chins wobble. Daphne McCafferty – AKA: Naughty Nikki – sixty-three next April.
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br />   The only one not offering up any advice is ‘Busty Becky’, a granny from Dundee with an artificial hip, white hair and a big hairy mole on her chin. She just sits there, clickity-clacking away – moaning into her headset and knitting at the same time. Making a big woolly jumper with reindeer on it, while someone wanks into her ear on a premium-rate phonecall. ‘Ooh, it’s so big!’ Knit one, pearl one. ‘You know you want it. Beg for it. Get on your hands and knees and beg.’

  Mr Aziz comes over to see what all the standing around is in aid of. ‘What?’ He’s got his hands in the pockets of his cardigan, stretching it all out of shape. ‘Why am I not hearing the sounds of hot passion?’

  Agnes slaps him on the back, making him lose his balance. ‘We’re just impartin’ the tricks of the trade to young Tracy here, aren’t we Daphne?’

  ‘Aye,’ Daphne grins, ‘we’re gonnae turn her intae a top-flight phone-sex girl. Like in that movie with Rex Harrison and the old geezer.’ Her grin turned into a frown. ‘Oh, what’s it called. . . You know, the one with ‘“I’m gettin’ married in the mornin’”. . .’

  She launches into the song and Agnes joins in, all merry and jolly until ‘Busty Becky’ stands, one hand clamped over her mouthpiece. ‘Will you lot keep it down? I’m trying to bugger a solicitor called Steve from Castleview, and he’s a bit flighty about the size of my strap-on.’

  The singing dissolves into grins and sighs, then everyone goes back to their phones. Everyone except for Agnes and Tracy.

  Mr Aziz frowns at her. ‘How come you’re on the Sexy Sadie line, then? I mean, no offence, but I think you’re a bit young for the phone sex business.’

  ‘I need the money, it’s my mother’s—’