Hunger and the Howling of Killian Lone

by Will Storr

  “I’ll work on whatever you tell me to.”

  “And then there’s Max. I’ll be frank, if I may. Max’s reaction to you was…” He swallowed. “The truth is, he doesn’t want you anywhere near him. I mean, I don’t know, exactly, what you did−”

  I felt as if something hot and invisible was trying to push me over. My eyes lost focus momentarily.

  “I don’t care about Max,” I said. “I won’t work with him.”

  My legs began to fizz with weakness. Ambrose’s gaze followed me as I pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Well then, what on earth are you suggesting then?” he said.

  “Is it true you’re opening a French place? Glamis?”

  He reared back slightly.

  “Dear me, you are well informed, aren’t you?” There was a silence. He picked up a fat black fountain pen and put it down again. “Well, Glamis might work actually. Although I am concerned as to how you came to find out about it.” He leaned forward, towards the ramekin which seemed to distract him. “May I ask who told you?”

  I ignored him as he took another spoonful and gave a soft, involuntary groan. Behind him was a shelf of small silver statuettes of women: a naked adolescent with breasts like tender kisses; an adult woman weeping into her own arms; another with her hands in the air screaming at the gods. I surveyed them, emptily, my mind filled with thoughts that I’d never had before. New thoughts of Max.

  “I’d want a senior position,” I said.

  “Don’t be bloody ridiculous,” he yelped. “You’re an apprentice! You’d be lucky to be on the line in one of my kitchens!”

  “I’m the best saucier you’ll get.”

  “You’re too young,” he said. “You don’t have the experience.”

  “What about Alain Ducasse? Two stars by twenty-seven.”

  “It’s impossible, Killian. Absolutely impossible. I’m terribly sorry. I admire your ambition. You’re more like Max than you probably realise, but I think this time you’re letting your hunger for success cloud your powers of reason. But do not worry. You will have your moment. I’m certain I can find a place for you at the bistro.”

  “I want to be head chef.”

  He rose a little from his chair.

  “You can’t be head chef!” he said.

  “Then I’ll take my sauce to Nico.”

  “Oh fuck off,” he shouted.

  The rage sent him to his feet.

  “How dare you?” he demanded. “Who in the name of God do you think you are?”

  I leaned forward over his desk, picked up his fountain pen and scratched the phone number for Dor Cottage on his notepad.

  “That’s my number,” I said.

  Standing up, I reached over, intending to retrieve the ramekin, but the moment my fingers touched it, I changed my mind. I marched across the room, for the first time not intimidated in the slightest by his ridiculous slippery carpet, and just before I left, turned to deliver my final demand.

  “And I want Kathryn to be my second.”

  35

  As I drove home, the sun was shining high over London. It was so hot in the city that you could smell the pavement, whilst out in the countryside the scent of trees and wildflowers was released into the air as if the whole of nature was being cooked on a low simmer. But as I neared Herstmonceux the weather changed dramatically. The further I travelled up the long track into the woodland clearing in which Dor nestled, the worse the storm became, my car wheels slipping in the mud and the rain forming a sheet of exploding water on my windscreen.

  Turning off the ignition, I rubbed the mist from the window and surveyed my uncle’s wall, now half destroyed and looking like a great, gaping smash-toothed mouth. I couldn’t wait to finally obliterate the thing. Running through the rain, I decided it was too wet to launch my final attack on it and so determined instead to pay another visit to the attic.

  The small door pushed open easily and I climbed the ladder into the loft. It was freezing and the storm was coming down onto the old roof like an assault. There was no wind; the only thing you could hear was the barrage, the relentless grey fall of rain. It must have been all over Kent and Sussex by now.

  I spent perhaps an hour in the French section, hunting for dishes that might impress Ambrose if he did decide to give me a chance. After a time, I went to the section labelled “Dor”. There were piles of old notebooks – some left by Dorothy, others by what must have been previous occupants. On the top shelf, in the furthest corner, I spotted the most gorgeous book of all. Black leather and with no decipherable title on the spine. I felt my narrow biceps strain as I took it down. Brushing the veil of dust and fly remains away with my sleeve, I read the words, Index plantarum officinalium, quas ad materiae medicae scientiam promovendam, in horto, Dor Cotagium, Herstmonceux’.

  I opened it slowly. Every beautiful age-dried page was composed of hand-drawn illustrations of plants, each one crowded by closely rendered inky text. Page by page I turned and recognised, in amongst the etchings, many ordinary herbs. Marjoram, rosemary, meadowsweet, purslane – each was accompanied by descriptions that seemed to describe not their flavour, but their supposed medicinal properties. But the further I got into the book, the stranger its contents became. I stopped recognising many and then most of the plants, all of which were apparently once grown right here at Dor. Gradually, the sentences took on their own strange form, as if becoming affected, somehow, by the item they described. Eventually they ceased even to be written in straight lines. Instead they bulged and spread, sometimes following the contours of the particular herb they accompanied, sometimes following a logic all of their own. The result was a wonderful maelstrom of words that spoke of awe and magic and barely controlled terror.

  I sat against the shelf and took my time with the index. Above my head, the rain crashed down ever harder as, beneath me, the cottage settled into its dark and favoured state. As the day fell away into night, I reached one of the final pages of the book. I felt myself gasp, a cloud of cold breath billowing visibly from my mouth. The picture in front of me – unmistakably, it was my herb, the one shaped like a teardrop. It was called ‘Earl’s Leaf’. The text was close and difficult to read. I strained to make out the words:

  “… must thereby be Warned that a Triumvirate of Plantes does grow in the Physic Garden of Dor Cottage that hold much Perille and Danger, causing vile Fites and Madnesses in each of man’s distinct planes, Libido, Body and Spirite. If Takene together, these Plantes will cause Great Agonies and Death in Full Grown Men. Local Men and Women have been Bewitched by these same Herbes and Mary Dor Burned as a Witch on the Groundes of Herstmonceux Castle for the sin of Formenting same… ”

  A sensation came over me, of being tiny in that attic; swallowed. I tracked down the text, fascinated by what I could make out of its discussion of my precious Earl’s Leaf which, it said, causes “madness of libido” and “…inflicts the Eater with a wicked and terrible desire to commit Foul Venereal Acts…”.

  Turning the page, I came across a drawing of something called Cauter which was erect on a thick stem and had a tiny ball of thin thorns hanging from it. This would apparently cause a “madness of the body”. The final of this “deadly triumvirate” of herbs, labelled Hindeling, had a stiff, five-petalled flower with a curling, tongue-like stamen which triggered a “madness of the mind”. From what I could decipher, each one caused a different effect and, if taken together – according to the increasingly hysterical author of the book – they would kill.

  Downstairs, I fetched my raincoat and the sledgehammer from outside the back door. My boots were sucked into the mud as I made my way towards the hole in the wall. I stopped and peered in. In the torch’s beam – it didn’t seem possible. The Earl’s Leaf was thick, leery and wild, almost reaching out towards me. I moved my torch around and saw other shapes in amongst the Earl’s Leaf. There it was, thicker, shinier, with its white spikes and hanging head – the Cauter. And there in the distance – the purple, serpentin
e stamen of the Hindeling. I heard a sharp wooden groan from deep in the elm forest. It was thrilling to be amongst these plants that hadn’t been seen for centuries. I stood there, in the rain, and laughed. The 350-year-old physic garden was alive.

  I picked up the hammer and hurled it against the remaining bricks, which cracked and fell with satisfying ease. I soon got into a rhythm, my arms, legs and the rough wood-handled tool working in harmony. When the wall was finally down, I harvested an armful of Earl’s Leaf. Trimming each tumescent stalk, I laid half the crop out in the kitchen and the other in the airing cupboard on sheets of newspaper to dry.

  * * *

  I was in the midst of some kind of nightmare when I was awoken by the telephone ringing.

  “Good morning,” said the voice in the receiver.

  “Oh, Ambrose,” I said. “Hi. Hello.”

  I looked at my watch. It was late – eight thirty a.m. I still had that peculiar sensation that accompanies nightmares: the inescapable feeling that you’ve been violated, somehow, by outside forces. I had the name “Mary” in my head and a memory of clawing, howling dogs.

  “I’ve been considering our discussion and I have a proposal to put to you. You should consider this to be a final offer, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, still groggy.

  “If this conversation comes to a close with anything other than you answering in the unqualified affirmative, the offer will be withdrawn immediately. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “I have had a long conversation with a good friend of mine, a patron back in France. Claude tells me he made a young man about your age chef d’cuisine at a wonderful little restaurant, La Barriere de Clichy, a while back – Bernard Louiseau. You’ll be pleased to hear it was a great success. Louiseau’s down in Saulieu now and is thriving. So that is the position I am offering you. Chef d’cuisine.”

  “Great…”

  “However,” he said, pausing for a moment, “you will be seconded by Chef Andrew Silverwood. It is Chef Andrew who will take ultimately responsibility for all aspects of the kitchen and the food. Unofficially, he will be your chef de file. For the avoidance of any potential unpleasantness down the road, I wish to also make it clear that your wage will be half that of Andrew’s. Until he judges you to be sufficiently competent to take charge of the kitchen, you will not be carrying out the full duties of a head chef. You’ll make your sauces and work on running the pass. If it emerges that you have the ability to call tickets and lead the brigade, and when you have learned to do it well, then of course we can renegotiate. Now then, Killian. All I want to hear from you is a single syllable. What’s it to be?”

  “So it will look like I’m in charge, but really it will be Andy?” I said.

  “One syllable.”

  I made myself a promise. I would use the Earl’s Leaf only when it was strictly necessary. I would honour Dorothy, as much as I reasonably could. I would be responsible. Good.

  “Are you there?” said Ambrose.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes you’re there or yes you accept my offer?”

  “Yes to both.”

  “Ah, the gratifying sound of a good man making the right decision. Excellent. Right. We need to discuss menus. It will be traditional bistro food, but tweaked in order to show off your sauces. You have more, I assume, than the one you prepared for me?”

  “I do,” I said. “And I have little twists on the French classics that I think you’ll like. They’ll be perfect for Glamis.”

  “I’ll talk with Andy and we’ll go over everything on Thursday afternoon. We’ll meet at Glamis where you can prepare all your sauces for tasting. Don’t let me down, Killian.”

  “Could I also have Kathryn?” I said. “I want Kathryn there.”

  “I thought I’d made myself clear. No conditions.”

  “Not as my second,” I said. “Just on fish or meat. Please. She’s brilliant and I’ll work fantastically with her and Andy. She should never have been fired. You know that.”

  I listened to the humming telephone quiet.

  “Oh, fine, fine,” he said. “But if she gives any indication that her mind is with her damned mother, rather than with her work, then she’s gone.”

  “And tell her that it was nothing to do with me. Please, Ambrose. Can you tell her what happened? Tell her it was Max, being a cunt.”

  There was a silence. When Ambrose spoke again, there was a world-weary note in his voice.

  “The address is 11 Charlotte Street. Not far from King. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

  I could see Mary in the kitchen, her rough cloth shawl and her hair, wet with steam and sweat, and her plum-blushed cheeks, and she was strong and young and handsome.

  On the oaken table, she was laying out the Earl’s herbs. Sheafs of freshly harvested stems with leaves like flattened teardrops. She squeezed one between her thumb and forefinger and breathed in the scent. Her tongue, pink and wet, pushed over her bottom lip and she smelled again. With a ball of twine, she began tying them together for drying.

  Then footsteps up the path.

  She stopped, her right ear angled up into the filthy air. To listen. To wait. To feel her heart in her chest.

  Whispering outside: “They say she has an Evil thing within her and that the Devil attends her in the form of a Fly.”

  A hammering on the door. It shakes the Fly from where it was watching. It lifts and dances its spirals and circles. It’s all around her as she listens through the filth.

  A hammering again.

  She drops the leaves and hurries up the stairs.

  What about the fear? What about the burning? What about the trouble that’s been breeding between the cracks in the beams and the cracks in the mortar and the cracks in the floor? What about the mischief that’s been buried in the ground and is stirring? The old trouble, the family trouble, that old mischief come to find me.

  36

  The first dish ever made at Glamis was grilled quail with sauce Bois Boudran – a herby, tangy French concoction, made with tomato compote, vinegar, chervil, chives and tarragon. I prepared it in the newly installed kitchen.

  Andy was at the butcher’s block, working on the quail. He barely lifted his head to greet me. He just motioned at the blue A4 folder that included the method for Bois Boudran, which I only took for the sake of appearances. I was already familiar with the recipe and I was thrilled: it would be perfect.

  Over the previous three and a half weeks, I had been working through the nights, practising a variety of sauces without using Earl’s Leaf. Although I had been pleased with how they had all tasted – and convinced that they would be entirely adequate for the purposes of an upmarket bistro – they were never quite enough. If I was to prove that Max had treated me unjustly then I would need dishes that were far beyond adequate. Beyond perfect was an absolute necessity. Moreover, if I wanted Kathryn to earn enough money to move her mother into humane accommodation, I realised that for me to take undue risks would be immoral. So I decided that, just for the time being, I would use a whisper of Earl’s Leaf in each sauce.

  Over those anxious days and heavy-lidded nights, I began to wonder if I might have exaggerated the herb’s effect to myself – really, in a sense, it wasn’t much more than a kind of seasoning. It lifted the flavours a little, that was all. When truly I thought about it, I decided that an untrained palate, in all likelihood, would barely be able to tell the difference – at least, not at the quantities I was using.

  As I worked, I was surprised to find that I was thinking about Max as much as ever. I remembered finding a photograph, tucked into the cover of one of Aunt Dorothy’s recipe books, of my parents enjoying a picnic in the grounds of Tonbridge Castle. They looked to be in their very early twenties and my dad had obviously said something that amused Mum – her laughter was such that she was leaning backwards, her gaze so worshipful it felt almost improper. How could such evidently powerful love transmute so cleanly
into hate? As I held that picture, years ago, I couldn’t understand it. But now I had experienced something of that nature myself. Where there had been wild adoration for Max, there was now a rage of equal force. I wondered if it was all made of the same essential material, if hate was just love in shadow. And I felt ashamed at how thoroughly my devotion to Max had spun its illusion around me. I couldn’t rid myself of the thought that he had developed such a vigorous dislike of me. Of me! The one who had loved him more than anyone!

  The mood in Dor seemed to alter itself as well. I couldn’t work out the extent to which I was imagining things, but the upstairs room that had once been Dorothy’s favourite had become, in some indistinct way, unwelcoming. I would go to sleep with the door and windows closed and still wake up to find flies buzzing over the bed.

  I found myself more and more adept at reading the different kinds of silence that were present in the house, as if they constituted a private language that was known only to me and the walls. Each version of quiet had its own pitch, texture and density. It was the density that I feared the most – that sense of crowding. I felt this, most commonly, in the kitchen and, of course, over the stairs.

  * * *

  As I worked in the Glamis kitchen that morning, I listened to the radio. The blank voice announced all the things that were going on out there: Neil Kinnock trying to isolate the far left of the Labour Party; Moscow warning Reagan against arming the Afghans; the Pentagon stepping up the use of lie detectors to determine employees’ patriotism; Iraq bombing border villages in Iran; the Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping planning to make his country an “economic powerhouse” in the twenty-first century; George Bush meeting Thatcher to agree ideas on combating terrorism. There was something strange about it. It wasn’t the same old news any more. It seemed different. It felt like the future.

  When the moment came to drop the Earl’s Leaf in, Andy was concentrating hard on cooking the quail, tongs in hand, bottom lip between his teeth, peering into the hazy heat. I retrieved an Old Holborn pouch which I’d cleaned out and filled with fresh Earl’s Leaf. I watched the smallest pinch fall into the pan in front of me and disappear amongst the rest of the fragrantly glistening greenery. That would be enough. Just a breath of it.