Jello Salad

by Nicholas Blincoe

  Naz turned on him, the gun still in his hand but somehow less threatening. He had lowered it a touch and Cheb acted as if it wasn’t there at all. Now he was asking if anyone wanted to put the kettle on.

  “Hey, Hogie. You’re a chef, why don’t you go brew up.”

  *

  Hogie had to go out for milk. There was none in Mannie’s kitchen. He crossed to the shop on the corner where a crowd of kids begged sweet money. Inside were a bunch of men out to watch City play, buying chocolates and crisps before the match. All of the streets around Santiago Street were crammed with cars, some double-parked, although the game was not due to start for another hour and a quarter.

  Stuck in a mad press of City fans, Hogie had to wait to be served. He spent the time wondering if there was anything he could buy Mannie. Wasn’t there some kind of sweet that was good for shock?

  When he left the house, Mannie seemed to be coming round. He was still on the floor, left just as he had fallen, but he’d begun to sob quietly. Cheb and the Pakistanis were getting on tine. There seemed to be no danger that anyone would be shot. Hogie didn’t know if Cheb had helped calm the situation, whether he’d chosen to calm things deliberately or if it had happened naturally and he’d just swung with the flow. He also wondered if Cheb was as straight as he’d looked. In general, he didn’t wonder about Cheb as often as he should.

  He paid for two pints of milk, a dozen eggs and a plastic pack of boil-in-the-bag hotdogs he uncovered in the fridge unit. He knew he was hungry now. The tension that had begun to twist across his chest and neck for the last three hours had unwound across his body, setting his nerves bristling. After Naz put his gun away, the tension turned into a kind of jagged emptiness. If he could eat, quickly, Hogie hoped that he could regain some kind of psychic balance.

  On the way out of the shop, he began to regret the dogs. He couldn’t offer a couple of Pakis sausage meat. Whenever pork was on the school dinners menu, they were always given a sad pile of grated cheese.

  Back in the house, he found Cheb and Naz sitting on the sofa. Naz was showing Cheb how the gun loaded and how to rack the first bullet into the chamber. Mannie was sat on a chair by the fire. Hogie came in waving the carton of milk in the air, saying “I’ll brew up, then.”

  Naz said, “Omar’s done it. All you got to do is pour it out.”

  Cheb said, “Hey, Hogie. You want to know what Mannie did? Naz gave him three hundred trips to sell, he took five to test the quality and hid the rest. Except, he was so stoned he forgot where he put them. He’s spent the last week searching the house for them.”

  Hogie said, “Why don’t we pay?”

  “Yeah, that’s an idea,” said Cheb. “We’ll give you the money, Naz.”

  “You’re going to carry this fucker’s debts?”

  Cheb shrugged, Sure.

  Hogie pulled a wad out of his pocket, “I’ve got a couple of hundred.”

  “Here’s the other four,” Cheb handed over a fold of fifties.

  “Sweet.” Naz took the notes and turned to Hogie. “Hey, Blondie, this guy says you’re a chef, right? I’m a chef, as well. Or I was, before I started up in business for myself. Now I let Omar handle the recipes. Mixing speed with baby milk or soaking the blotters.”

  Omar nodded, taking his dues.

  “Try some of Hogie’s cake.” Cheb lifted the plate off the floor.

  Naz scowled at the cake.

  “We were going to eat it, but all the knives are fucked.” Hogie pointed at the knives lying in the grate.

  Naz called Omar over. Reaching behind his outsize shirt, Omar produced a huge knife and cut the yoggo-choc cake into sixths. Slipping one segment onto the upturned blade, he handed it over to Naz.

  “What do you think?” asked Cheb.

  Naz took a bite. ‘It’s alright. For a fucking kiddies party, it’s alright. Is this all you do?”

  Hogie said, “No. I was wrecked last night, I just made something simple.”

  “Well, it’s simple. I’d say it was fucking infantile.” Naz paused while he finished the cake. “You’re a chef? Where do you work? In town?”

  “In London. I just got my own restaurant. Cheb’s the head waiter.”

  “Sweet. He looks like a fucking head waiter. What you should do, give Mannie a job, as well. Because, I tell you, he’s not cut out to be a fucking drug dealer.”

  Mannie didn’t look as though he was cut out for anything much. He was still tugging at the sleeves of his sweater, hunched into his fireside chair. Mannie had been the only one to stay on at school while everyone else went to the tech and got a trade. Mannie had even gone to poly, the only one of them with any hope of getting in. Although he never finished the course. Behavioural Psychology, who needed that? Still, Mannie wasn’t the only one who had never worked in his life. It was fucked up but as far as Hogie knew, he and Jools were the only ones who counted as an any kind of success.

  Naz was nodding his head, saying, “Yeah, I used to be a chef. I started in the kitchen at my uncle’s place when I was twelve. I spent six years at that, until I found my vocation. I’m a natural born gangsta.”

  Cheb nodded; a total fucking natural. “But you should have stayed with cooking, you could have been the Gangsta Chef—got your own telly show, book deal and everything. Going down the shops and choosing the best joints at gun point. Toasting peppers with a flame thrower.”

  “Sounds sweet.”

  “You should think about it man. Look at the crap they put on the telly. Like Hogie, for instance.”

  Naz turned to Hogie, “Yeah? You been on the television?”

  Hogie nodded. “Once.” He was about to point out the video but Cheb started speaking again.

  “Everyone’s on the telly these days. Even Mannie’s mad sister, even she’s been let on the telly.”

  “What does she do?”

  “What does she do?” asked Cheb.

  Hogie shrugged, waiting for Mannie to tell them. When he realised everyone was staring at him, Mannie mumbled; “She plays Derek Tavener’s step niece from his second marriage.”

  “On Pony Trek! I watch that. She’s Charlie Brompton, yeah? She’s alright.” Naz nodded, sucking slowly through his front teeth. “I tell you, I wouldn’t mind a bit of that.”

  Cheb and Hogie stared at each other. Cheb spoke first; “She’d probably like you. I’ll fix you up if you want. Why don’t you give me your number.”

  SIX

  Monday morning, back in London. Hogie had been awake an hour when he heard Cheb’s radio. Steadying his bowl of Ready Brek in one hand, he pushed open the door and walked in. The room was a nine by ten box Hogie used as a junk room. He couldn‘t recognise the place now. Cheb had lined the walls in tin foil, rippling the entire height of the room. Left-over strips dangled from the ceiling, catching the light and sending it fingering across the bare wood floor. And right at the centre: Cheb. The metal guru in his tin foil yurt. Sat cross-legged on the mattress, studying a blanket-sized map of England.

  Hogie said, “You’re awake.”

  “Yeah.” As it happened, Cheb hadn’t even needed his radio-alarm. He was still wired to East Asian time and was out of bed before his tape of the last sermon of the Reverend Jim Jones got to the interesting part. “What do you reckon to this?”

  Hogie followed the gesture, a hand sweep around the room. He said, “Nice one.”

  “It’s a feng shui thing. You wanna live right, you got to maximise the potential of your living space.”

  “What happened to the carpet?”

  “That had to go, it was doing my head in. You know, I hadn’t realised what a wrench coming back home would be. After losing my box in Manchester, I got to thinking. I need to re-acclimatise.” He jabbed at the outspread map with his finger. “Co-ordinate. You know what I mean?”

  “Sure.” Whatever. Hogie stood spooning his breakfast mush with no discernible appetite, knowing he didn’t look half as sweet as Cheb. Manchester had worked opposite spells on them both,
giving Hogie a short lift and a sour comedown and Cheb a full-spin but setting him down revitalised, re-modelled even. His motor neurones all in a line and motoring in one direction.

  Hogie said, “Listen, I’m throwing a sickie. I don’t need to be there until opening day tomorrow. The staff don’t arrive till then anyway so as long as I’m in early I can’t see a problem.” He hoped that by tomorrow evening he’d have some kind of culinary experience worked out.

  Cheb said, “What about food?”

  Hogie had pencilled a short list of basics for Cheb to fax through to his suppliers. He said he’d get the rest himself, early in the morning at the markets.

  “How early?’

  Hogie came up with a number, “Around five, that should do it.’

  “When did you ever get up for five?”

  “I’ll score some whizz. It’s standard practice when you do the market.”

  *

  Cheb picked up the mail at the door, flagged a cab and ripped through the envelopes before he reached work. There was nothing but a tax demand, a wad of promo literature from different foodie companies and a clutch of Good Luck cards from other chefs. Cheb stuffed the lot into his case. He spent the rest of the journey checking the sights, counting the streets to Soho, the centre of his new city.

  The restaurant was well-placed on a side road, only a short step from Dean Street. From what he’d seen on his other few visits, this was the gay area of town. The restaurant was called La George, which fitted right into the general ambience. The name was flourished across the window like a huge queen-ish autograph but behind the glass the interior gave off a haughtier, look-don‘t—touch, vibe. So much cooler than the street in the middle of this early summer heat wave. Cheb unlocked the door and double-clicked the catch behind him. The dining room was heavy with damp gloss fumes, the white wood floor threw out an unscuffed sheen. No doubt, the place looked ready for business but Cheb could still think of a couple of discreet decor ideas.

  He shimmied the length of the room, sloped under the bar and flipped his case onto the counter next to the answering machine. The red message light was flashing. Cheb triggered the recall button and listened through: half of them replies to the party invites, the rest shameless begging for an invitation. It was like no one in London could pass up on a free meal. He had better things to do than take the numbers.

  He opened his case. Just the touch of it made him feel Secret Service suave. He’d bought it during the three hour stop-over in Qatar, en route from Bangkok. It was duty-free and irresistible, built from toughened plastic and in—laid with foam, costing $400 complete with a set of multi—head screwdrivers and a cordless drill. He had no use for a toolkit but, once he’d emptied it, it was a perfect size for his credit card machine. This was Far East criminal technology, the gear demanded respect. You couldn’t keep it rattling round an old Adidas bag, sandwiched between Timothy Leary’s Tibetan Book Of The Dead and other in-flight classics.

  Standing on the bartop, the machine was a piece of work: black and square with a groove across the top, just wide enough for a credit card. The groove already looked like it was gagging for a bite of someone’s credit. Cheb got down under the counter and found a free plug socket. The whole thing was sweeter than sweet, over tout de suite. With the machine stashed under the cash till, he could copy someone’s card in seconds—do it right in front of their face without them even noticing. It was so easy, he hardly deserved a free shot from one of the bottles on the shelf behind him. It wasn’t going to stop him though.

  He counted labels until he saw the one that caught his mood, a top-shelf armagnac. Once he’d fetched a chair and reached for the bottle, he poured himself a solid double. It tasted not-quite smooth, playfully venomous with a delayed punch. He would have mixed it with coke but knew there wasn’t any. He took it straight and chaseless and hoped he’d remember to phone the suppliers.

  The bottle went back on the shelf. A quick rinse and the tumbler could go back on the rack. Cheb pushed through the swing doors at the back of the restaurant and slid into the kitchen. The place looked undisturbed but something put him on edge long before he picked up the smell of cold cuts.

  He found the corpse sat on top of the stove. The head was veiled inside the steel hood of the extractor fan but he could see the guy was dead long before he got close. Whoever sat him on the stove had pulled down his trousers to get better contact between the rings and the buttocks. The gas was off now but Cheb could see the damage between the man’s spread legs. The summer’s first flies were whispering around the torture scene.

  The body smelled of burnt hair, giving a faint acrid tinge to the soft smell of his meat. Cheb pulled hard at the skinny arms and swung the body out from the hood. The head clapped against the steel sides before crumpling onto the kitchen top. The guy had been young. Cheb thought, just about his age. The bruises across his face had ruined his looks but left him recognisable. Not that he recognised him. If the guy looked like anyone, it was Hogie.

  There were gobs of burnt flesh stuck to the gas rings. Cheb reached out, absent-minded as he prised a lump free with his thumb nail. In front of him the body lay slumped and twisted, the gas rings branded as a five point crown across the upturned cheeks. Cheb stood looking as he cleaned a gluey speck of grease from under his nail with one of his dog-tooth incisors. He yanked his finger out of his mouth the second he realised what he’d done. He once read somewhere that the ancient Aztecs ate the loins of their victims. He could see the logic but he was no cannibal. He was a by-stander.

  Cheb frisked through the dead guy’s pockets and found a few twisted Rizla skins but nothing that could pass as ID: no cards, driving licence, video membership. He had no idea how to play this kind of situation. Maybe if he spent the day figuring the possibilities, he’d see the move. He began a circuit round the kitchen, then another. After five turns he was spinning in anxiety, his left cortex fused and his right cortex in linear paralysis, fixed on a satellite stroll around the floor tiles while his nerves soft-wired his body.

  What he decided to do, was clean up.

  There was a shoulder-high wheelie bin in the corner of the kitchen, one of a pair. It took some time to man-handle the corpse to the edge and topple it inside. The guy was at least a foot taller than him and was nothing but arms and legs but he managed, sealing the job with the bin lid.

  Afterwards he washed his hands and walked back through the swing doors into the dining room. He had his eyes on the floor but looked up when he heard the squeal of a taxi brake. Out in the real world, Jools was stepping out of a black cab onto the kerb. She was hefting a world-trip size suitcase and rummaging for her fare. Cheb thought about locking the door on her but in those few seconds she paid the driver and turned around. She was in clear view, beyond the plate glass, pulling a sour face. He was in clear view, pinned inside the restaurant.

  She came banging through the doors case first and red-faced before he even had time to move. She let the case drop as she collapsed onto a chair, “La George? What’s that mean?”

  Cheb said, “It’s named after the owner. What are you doing here?”

  All she said was “Where’s Hogie?”

  “He’s not working today—what are you doing here?”

  “Leave it Cheb. I’m dead on my feet. I need either a blast of coke or a stiff drink, and then I’ll be out of your way. All I need is the keys to Hogie’s flat.”

  “What?”

  She pulled in her breath, and let it slip out the bottom of her clenched teeth “Don’t give me any shit, Cheb. You know Hogie asked me to come stay with him. I’ve had a nightmare fucking journey. I got hassled loads on the train. Now, I need a line or a drink, and then I need to put my feet up. So get with it.”

  Cheb went to the bar and fetched her a brandy—not the stuff he’d been drinking but something that might keep her quiet. If she thought she’d had a bad day, she should try his for size.

  Jools was telling him about her headache, brought on by the
fumes in her train. She said the whole of her carriage stunk of amyl. Two sleazes from Liverpool were sniffing poppers, rolling spliffs and hassling her loads—all the way to London. When the train reached Euston station, she found out they both worked for British Rail: one driver and one guard, assigned to take the Inter-city back to Lime Street. She swore, next time she was going to fly, like Hogie did. Cheb didn’t tell her the plane was his idea, Hogie had wanted to drive.

  Jools took time out during a breathing pause to look around the restaurant.

  “It’s alright”

  She was impressed. Her mouth was open and wasn’t making any noise. He asked her how she’d found the place.

  Jools pulled a copy of Time Out from her shoulder bag. “It was in here. I bought it for an article and found a photo of Hogie inside.”

  Cheb took the magazine. It was crumpled with about a day’s worth of wear and tear so she must have bought it before she left Manchester. Flicking onto the contents page, he saw an article headlined “Pony-girl Must Die?” next to a smudged picture of Jools.

  “We’ve both got our photos in the same issue, me and Hogie.’

  Cheb nodded, Uh huh. It must be written in the stars. He found the article about Hogie and La George in the Intro. section—three-hundred words backed with a glossy pic of Hogie, all bright-haired and stoned grin. It read as a brief bio, written in x-plicit prose that made Hogie sound more like a porn-stud rather than an over-hyped caterer.

  Cheb flicked on through the magazine, asking Jools if there were any photos of her death that might upset his stomach.

  “No. The TV company isn’t releasing any stills of my accident. They plan to keep the exact details secret to add to the dramatic impact.”

  Cheb said, “You get hit by a truck. Everyone knows. You told most of them.”

  Jools said, “I got an interview on breakfast television tomorrow, talking about the message we’re trying to give.”