by Alex Bell
This interested me. What on Earth could Gordon want with something that resembled a clothes prop? He couldn’t have simply found it by chance. No… he must have hidden the pole in the bushes with the express intent of retrieving it. This was more than interesting… this was fascinating. What was my friend planning to do?
Stealthy as a thief in the night, I tiptoed through shadows. When I reached a stone angel guarding Major Archibald Bruddson’s last resting place (it said so on a slab) I crouched down. Gordon stood just thirty paces from me. He’s a big man, and he’s immensely strong (probably a result of all that protein we consume at the supper club).
And there I watched him set to work. My blood froze. I stared in horror as my friend committed a terrible act of desecration.
Gordon’s long hair fluttered in the breeze as he worked. His eyes gazed with a strange rapture at Ozzy Stambert’s grave. The same kind of gleaming stare I imagine a drug addict would adopt when staring at a crisp, white batch of heroin. Gordon drove the metal pole point first into the broken soil that formed the grave fill. His powerful arms forced the pole deeper and deeper. When he couldn’t drive the shaft any further he used a handle near the top to twist it. I now recognised the device: it was an auger. An instrument for boring into the ground in order to extract soil samples.
But Gordon works in a bank. Why does he need soil samples? Come to that, why does he need soil samples from a graveyard?
With a final, mighty downward thrust the pole suddenly descended easily. Gordon had broken through. Proof of this came in the form of a rush of gas that must have built up quite a head of pressure inside the coffin. The force of the gas blew Gordon’s long hair upwards. In my hiding place, I caught that stench – a powerful smell of decay: an aroma similar to that found in a fish market’s waste bins on a hot day.
Gordon connected a rubber tube to the top of the auger, which was now at the height of his waist, meaning the other end must be about six feet underground. Gordon moved with such eagerness… dare I say impassioned eagerness? Gordon, it seemed, had been deprived of something he craved. Now he possessed what every atom of his body desired.
Placing one end of the rubber tube in his mouth, and holding the other end where it connected to the auger, he began to suck. With huge, heaving gulps he drank. This had the appearance of someone drawing a particularly thick and viscous milkshake up a straw.
To my horror, I understood what Gordon was doing. The auger was a hollow steel pipe. He’d used this instrument to penetrate the coffin. The mortal remains of our friend lay in that oblong box six feet underground. After six weeks the corpse would have liquefied. It would be cadaver broth. If you could have looked six feet down through the soil you would have seen a coffin filled to the brim with crimson liquid – a vat of putrefaction. A tub of rotting flesh rendered down to slime.
And Gordon sucked those fluids. His expression of satisfaction was uncanny. He’d become the gourmet enjoying the ultimate in taste. Hungrily, eagerly, blissfully he siphoned out the wet fruits of the grave. Then he closed his eyes… swallowed. He loved the flavour. I could tell that from his expression. This was the best food ever. The man was in taste heaven.
For twenty minutes I watched him feasting, until something snapped inside of me.
I stumbled from behind the angel. ‘Gordon! What the hell…’
The big man couldn’t part his mouth from that rubber pipe any more than a hungry baby could be parted from the teat of its bottle. He stared at me with bulging eyes as he sucked with such manly force. Smears of red glistened wetly on his chin.
I managed to choke out the words, ‘Gordon. That’s Ozzy’s grave. Why? For God’s sake, why?’
The tube made a loud crackling sound. Gordon groaned with dismay; he realized he’d sucked the coffin dry. With a sigh of regret he pulled the tube from his mouth.
‘You’re expecting me to say how sorry I am,’ he panted. ‘But I won’t do that. I don’t regret what I’ve done.’ He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Jeff, we’ve been on a quest to track down the best food. And now I’ve found it.’
‘You disgusting man. You evil, disgusting man.’ I wanted to hit him. ‘You’ve violated Ozzy’s grave. You’ve devoured his body!’
‘And now he’ll live on inside of me.’
‘I’m going to the police.’
‘Jeff. Wait.’ He gave the auger another turn. It slipped downwards another inch into the earth. He held out the wet end of the rubber tube. ‘Okay, tell the police what I’ve done. But first… why not try a taste for yourself?’
‘Are you insane?’
‘Just one sip.’
‘No!’
‘Remember what we always say at the supper club: A DISH NEVER TASTED IS AN OPPORTUNITY WASTED.’
I stood there in the cemetery. The cold, spectral light from the solar-powered lamps made the liquid dripping from the tube glisten – it shared the same rich red lustre as rubies.
‘Try, Jeff,’ he murmured. ‘For old time’s sake… for our friendship’s sake… try one little taste… just for me…’
*
Gravy Soup. Our code name for that secret and most delicious delicacy piped from the tomb. Of course, it’s easy to see how we concocted the name. Soup of the grave: grave soup: Gravy Soup! We chuckled to one another on crowded trains, or in busy bars, and said loudly that we were looking forward to Gravy Soup tonight. Gordon and I even chatted about Gravy Soup in front of members of the Gymnasium Supper Club as we sat in our favourite Indian restaurant, loading pickles onto golden shards of delectable poppadum, and our companions didn’t know what we were talking about. But then supper club members constantly discussed food. Or we shared tips on extracting the most flavour from a meal. For example, after frying steak do not wash that oily gunge from the pan. Wipe clean the frying pan with bread and devour – that meaty, unctuous residue is to die for.
I’ve already mentioned that Ozzy Stambert formed the Gymnasium Supper Club. Wisely, he chose the word ‘Gymnasium’ to avoid any suggestion that its members were a bunch of gluttons, who did no exercise and simply met once a week in order to gorge on vast meals. Of course, that’s exactly what we do. We eat to excess. We bite, nosh, chew, chomp, gnaw and masticate to our belly’s delight.
Ah… Ozzy Stambert. A man of good taste. A man who tasted very good indeed. You will recall the night in the cemetery when I followed Gordon. Yes, I admit it, I finally gave in and accepted Gordon Clumsden’s invitation to suck on the rubber hose – the one connected to the hollow steel pipe… a pipe which penetrated Ozzy’s grave. I savoured a few fluid ounces of my old friend’s liquefied flesh, and… oh, yes… I was converted. The flavour hit me with the overwhelming power of a tidal wave: a tsunami of oral delight. In that midnight cemetery I experienced my Road To Damascus-style revelation: DEAD PEOPLE ARE DELICIOUS.
That night, in the Bombay Star in West Kepplington, we washed down a chicken chat starter with ice cold Cobra lager. After that, waiters served our feast with that characteristic efficiency that you find in even the humblest curry house. Plate after plate of food arrived – Madras, Vindaloo, Bhindi, Tikka Massala and Kofta. There were side orders of Bombay Aloo, Tarka Daal and assorted Bhaji. Platters of golden pilau rice steamed so fragrantly they just begged to be smothered with delicious curry sauce.
Gordon and I clinked tankards, saying, ‘Here’s to Gravy Soup.’ We laughed, and other members of the supper club laughed, too, though they didn’t understand the joke. I noticed the way Spencer cocked an eyebrow at me, hinting that he wanted to know more about our secret delicacy.
Spencer smiled. ‘Yes, here’s to Gravy Soup – whatever that may be.’
I daresay you’ve seen film of ravenous wolves feasting on reindeer… well, to be completely honest, supper club members resembled those hungry carnivores. We attacked our food with a passion.
Gordon tore apart a gigantic naan bread that wore an attractive mottling of toasty brown markings. I couldn’t delay a moment longe
r and spooned Butter Chicken into my mouth. Fragrant chunks of chicken released even more flavour as my teeth chomped.
‘What a feast,’ I laughed. ‘What amazing food.’
‘It is amazing,’ Gordon agreed. ‘Food of the gods.’
‘Heaven on a plate.’
It isn’t enough. I looked into Gordon’s eyes and realized he was thinking them same. This is a wonderful meal. But we need more. We need …. Dare I speak its name? Yes, I dare. WE NEED GRAVY SOUP.
After the meal, Gordon and I said our goodbyes to the rest of the supper club. In no time at all we hurried toward the nearest cemetery that West Kepplington had to offer.
Yes, we’d gorged on fantastic Indian cuisine. Yet we were hungry again. Ravenous.
Gordon caught my eye as we rushed through the night time streets. ‘Gravy Soup?’
‘Gravy Soup.’ I nodded eagerly.
‘Gravy Soup,’ came a third voice from behind us, ‘can I have some, too?’
We stopped dead.
‘Spencer?’ I said in surprise. ‘Were you following us?’
Spencer is a broad man with curly, blonde hair. He can smile in such an oily and smarmy way that it feels as if your skin is being brushed with warm, melted butter. ‘Of course, I was following you. I want Gravy Soup as well.’
‘It’s just a private joke between us,’ I told him.
‘It doesn’t even exist.’ Gordon nodded. ‘Gravy Soup is–’
‘–is something that makes the pair of you hurry,’ purred Spencer, ‘and I’ve never seen you two gentlemen hurry before. Not ever. Not even when we attended the all-you-can eat buffet at the Fat Sow. Gentlemen, I’ve seen the way your eyes light up when you say the words Gravy Soup.’
‘It’s just a little extra supper for Jeff and me,’ said Gordon.
‘I want some.’
‘Well, you can’t.’
Spencer smiled his buttery smile, yet there was a cruel glint in his eye. ‘I’ll tell the others in the club that you’re keeping a delicacy from them. That’s against the rules. We always share information about food. You’ll be expelled for withholding a new discovery.’
‘You won’t like Gravy Soup,’ I told him with growing desperation (I didn’t want to reveal where Gravy Soup was extracted – after all, sucking out the contents of a grave is illegal, isn’t it?). ‘It might even make you ill.’
Spencer linked arms with the pair of us. ‘Okay… you give me a bowl of Gravy Soup, and we’ll keep this between ourselves. Is that a deal?’
*
This was tantamount to blackmail. Neither Gordon nor I wanted to be expelled from the supper club for withholding information about our secret delicacy. But we didn’t want the club to know about Gravy Soup – that ineffably gorgeous nectar found in graves. Yes, we might be reported for desecrating burials and arrested. Worse, much worse, we feared that fellow members would develop a taste for Gravy Soup themselves. What if we found that graves were being sucked dry? Being deprived of that luscious goo was my worst nightmare.
So, we caved in. We took Spencer with us. For what happened later, please may God forgive me.
Just after midnight we collected the auger from where we’d concealed it earlier behind a stone tomb in the shape of a boat. A full moon illuminated the churchyard. Naturally, the place was deserted – deserted by the living, that is, for there must have been thousands of burials, dating back many centuries. We’d already pre-selected a grave beneath the huge overhanging branches of an oak tree. Spencer nonchalantly leaned against its trunk as he watched us begin work with the auger. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by what we were doing. If anything, he enjoyed the proceedings as he lit a large cigar. Spencer, with his blonde curls and green cravat around his neck, regarded himself as a sophisticated intellectual – as well as a connoisseur of fine food (the man had the appetite of a ravenous hippo, of course).
‘That’s an auger, isn’t it?’ He pointed at the device with his cigar. ‘For extracting soil samples from underground.’
‘It is,’ I panted as I helped Gordon drive the steel tube down through the soil of the six week old grave. Already my mouth was watering.
Spencer blew cigar smoke up into the night sky. ‘It would be remarkably stupid of me to ask you what you’re doing. It’s obvious: you are drilling down into the grave in order to extract this thing that you’ve named Gravy Soup. Even the name is a dead giveaway. Dead giveway, ha?’ He laughed at his own display of wit.
‘Aren’t you shocked?’ asked Gordon.
‘Shocked?’ Spencer smiled. ‘I’ve made it my quest to taste every delicacy known to man. In Botswana, I’ve eaten bush-food: that includes crocodile, hyena, lion, monkey and God knows what else.’
Gordon and I twisted the auger, forcing it deeper. About five feet of the pole remained above ground, meaning we only had to bore down another foot or so until we struck the coffin lid.
I pointed out, ‘What we are doing is illegal. We could go to prison.’
‘Tut, Jeff. I once visited a man in Burma who took care of a hospital’s incinerator. For a small fee he was more than happy to supply me with tasty bits and pieces from operating tables. Did I fear arrest? Did I worry about imprisonment? Absolutely not. Illicit snacks are the tastiest of all. So… what will you extract from the deceased in his tomb? Fermented brain? Belly jelly? Succulent marrow?’
Gordon continued to help me twist the auger. Without pausing, he said, ‘After a few weeks underground putrefaction sets in… flesh liquefies. Fluids leak from the body until the coffin fills up like a wooden bath.’
‘Interesting. Go on.’ He exhaled cigar smoke.
‘Timing is everything. The liquid is at its most perfect state after the body has been in the ground for six weeks. The juice of the cadaver has matured, developing a uniquely spicy flavour. If you go in too early, putrefaction won’t have had time to produce enough liquid – there’s nothing worse than a dry cadaver. If you try extracting fluid after seven weeks then it begins to congeal. It’s impossible to draw liquid up the tube because it becomes too thick.’
‘So, six weeks? The perfect stage of ripeness?’ Spencer nodded his approval. ‘You’ve obviously spent a lot of time perfecting the process.’
The point of the auger clunked and stopped as it struck the coffin lid.
‘On the count of three,’ Gordon said. ‘Push down as hard as you can.’
Spencer beamed. ‘Like puncturing the shell of a lobster in order to extract the soft, sweet flesh within. How delicious.’
A worrying possibility occurred to me. ‘Take a few paces further back, Spencer.’
‘Whatever for, old boy?’
‘When we break through the lid it will release gas produced by decaying matter. It’s mainly methane so it will be inflammable.’
‘Oh, you mean the cigar might make it go: boooof!’ He mimed an explosion with those languid hands of his. ‘As you wish.’ He moved back a few feet. ‘Okay, gentlemen, time to crack that nut.’
Gordon nodded. ‘Ready? One, two, three. Go.’
We drove the steel pole downward. After a brief resistance, the coffin lid yielded. The point penetrated the woodwork. As I predicted, the tomb exhaled gas. It gushed into our faces, fluttering our hair. Because I now associated that grave burp with the delicious treat to come the vapours no longer smelled foul to me. In fact, my entire body tingled with excitement. The feasting was just about to begin.
‘Can I come close? Has all the inflammable gas gone?’ Spencer waved the cigar; its glowing tip revealed itself as a dancing spot of yellow.
Gordon connected a flexible tube to the hollow end of the auger. ‘It’s safe now.’
‘Ah.’ Spencer glided from the shadows. ‘So you suck Gravy Soup up through the tube, just as a youth slurps milkshake through a straw.’
By now, Gordon and I were shaking with excitement. We wanted Gravy Soup. We ached for our after-midnight treat. And, dear God, we longed to fill our bellies to bursting point.
&
nbsp; ‘Tighten the jubilee clip around the hose,’ Gordon told me. ‘We don’t want it slipping off like last time. I must have lost almost a pint, and it was good stuff.’
Meanwhile, Spencer pontificated in that highfalutin way of his. ‘The Aghori people of India ate dead loved ones. This wasn’t barbaric cannibalism; far from it, this was a sacred act, joining the flesh of the living with the dead.’ He watched us checking the hose connection. ‘Of course, technically, the pair of you are ghouls… after all, in folklore ghouls steal corpses and devour them – a terribly sinful act, of course.’ He licked his lips. ‘Then all of us in the supper club are self-confessed gluttons…. and gluttony is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, punishable by being despatched to hell.’ He smiled and ran his tongue over his lips again. ‘But I have committed worse sins than gluttony.’ He nipped out the cigar and placed it in his jacket pocket. ‘Okay, suppertime.’
‘My turn first, Gordon.’ Despite eating a huge meal earlier, hunger pangs were driving me crazy. ‘You went first last time.’
‘Ah.’ Spencer held up his finger. ‘I’m your guest. It’s only polite to let me have first taste.’
‘He’s right.’ Gordon had begun to sweat… not with exertion but with anticipation. He wanted to fill his mouth with that tasty brew. ‘Spencer must go first.’ He handed one end of the rubber tube to the blonde man in the cravat.
‘Ah, I can see it all in my mind’s eye,’ Spencer murmured, enjoying the moment of anticipation as he stood there in the moonlight. ‘The coffin containing the mortal remains of…’ he checked a card on a floral tribute. ‘Uncle Toby lies beneath our feet. After six weeks Toby’s flesh has rendered down to something that has the consistency of tomato soup. Now you have taken a hollow steel pipe and you have driven it down through the soil to penetrate the coffin. Essentially, you have done something akin to inserting a ten foot straw into a very large carton of juice. In this case, it–’
