The Borrowed Kitchen

by Gilmour, SJB

  I groaned. I didn’t like this at all. Mitch and Sally could be in danger, and I had no idea from whom. If Trish wasn’t the murderer, and as much as I was now repulsed by the man, I couldn’t believe Father Brian was, then who could it be?

  Mitch’s phone rang. The screen showed it was from a blocked number.

  ‘Taylor.’ Mitch’s voice was gruff. Flat. He didn’t like blocked numbers one little bit. He relaxed a bit when he heard James on the other end of the line. I was happy too. Since he’d taken the call right there at my bench, I could hear all of the conversation.

  ‘Mr Taylor, It’s Constable Hewson.’

  I noticed he’d left out the “Leading Senior” bit.

  ‘We’ve got some results on the prints we found.’

  Mitch gestured to Sally to come and listen to the phone as well.

  ‘That’s great. Do you mind if I put you on speaker? It’s just me and Salls here.’

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  Mitch pressed the speaker button and set the phone down on my bench.

  ‘I can tell you your prints weren’t on the fuse-box.’

  ‘Is this where you tell us you can’t tell us any more?’ Mitch asked dryly.

  ‘See!’ Sally protested at the same time. ‘Told you we didn’t do it.’

  Mitch waved at her to shush.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mr Taylor. You know how it is.’

  ‘But you’ve still got more questions. Is that it?’ Sally was better at keeping her veneer of sweetness and light up when she was face-to-face with someone. Over the phone, her steel was beginning to show. I’ve had a-fucking-’nuff of these bastardi coming in here.

  ‘What kind of questions? You’re talking pretty freely over the phone now. Just ask us.’

  ‘Alright. Have you noticed anyone coming around more than you’d expect, or unexpectedly?’

  ‘No.’ Both answered at once, but Sally immediately thought of Kelly. You pricks leave her alone or so help me I’ll smack you over the head with a lump of wood.

  ‘Okay. Can you list all the people who have been around? You know, for dinner parties, visits? That kind of thing?’

  ‘I’ll email you a list,’ Mitch promised. ‘Was that it or did you want to get a look at our faces while we answered?’ What’s he doing suspecting us, for fuck’s sake?

  James chuckled. ‘No, nothing like that, Mr Taylor. Just one more thing. Did you or Mrs Taylor scratch yourselves on that step?’

  Mitch and Sally blinked at each other. They found blood from more than one person on that step! Their thought was instant and unanimous.

  ‘No—’ Mitch answered slowly. ‘Only time I touched it was when I found it. I’d been working with the wood chipper. I had gloves on though…’ Did I scratch myself when I did that? Fuck! That could put me right in it!

  ‘Do you mind if Officer Preeta came by to take a quick swab, Mr Taylor? Just to eliminate you?’

  Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck! ‘No problem! I’m here till Thursday.’

  James thanks them and hung up. Mitch slumped on the stool while Sally sighed, relieved.

  Mitch looked at her with disbelief. What is she so happy about? If my blood’s on that thing, I could be implicated!

  ‘Mitchell Taylor,’ she said firmly. She grabbed him by the shoulders and made him sit up straight. ‘You know as well as I do that the blood on that step is five years old. If any of your blood is on it, it’s only a few weeks old. Any lab in the world could tell that and know you’re not involved. The cops are just covering their asses.’

  Mitch nodded sourly. ‘I know,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m just getting sick of this. Wish I’d never found the fucking thing.’

  Sally smiled at him encouragingly. Poor baby. He needs a distraction. So do I, come to think of it.

  ‘Now, now, Mr Taylor,’ she said, imitating James’ business-like cop tone. ‘You’ve been a very naughty boy. Go to my room!’

  Mitch grinned finally and reached out to tickle her. Sally squealed and raced out of me towards the bedroom with Mitch chasing her all the way. When they came back into me some time later, they were both starving.

  ‘You start that list, I’ll make the sandwiches,’ Mitch told Sally. He grinned. ‘You’ve got a better memory than I have.’

  Yeah, right. Lazy bugger. You just don’t want to write anything freehand, thought Sally. Nonetheless, she sat down and began tapping at a pad with a mechanical pencil.

  Mitch began setting up chopping boards and paper towel on my bench.

  Sally looked up from her notepad and smiled at him. Damn it. How can I concentrate when he’s being all cheffy?

  Mitch saw her look and grinned. ‘You’re not the only good cook in this house.’

  ‘Huh. I’m a cook. You’re just a sandwich-hand.’

  ‘Hey, being a sandwich-hand helped me through uni and pay bills till I got picked up by Murdoch.’

  He remembered the busy cafe where he’d made sandwiches and pulled cappuccinos at all hours. He was still smiling to himself as he sliced up two tomatoes and a Lebanese cucumber. Eight slices per tomato, ten slices per cucumber, he repeated in his mind. He set the sliced vegetables on some paper towel and patted them dry then arranged them in neat piles on the board.

  Next, he sliced several rings from a red onion and also put these on the board along with a small handful of pale green curly lettuce leaves. Than he shaved some slices from a hunk of roast beef Sally had kept in the fridge, along with some pricey-looking swiss cheese. Lastly, he brought out a large jar of Dijon mustard.

  I’d never seen a jar so big before. Our local supermarket never had anything like it. I sank into his mind for the memory of the jar. Images of a continental delicatessen rose up. I knew the store vaguely. It was in Portman Street in Oakleigh. Mitch shut his eyes for the briefest moment as he enjoyed the memory I’d brought to the surface of his consciousness. The intoxicating smell of all those smallgoods always hit him like a brick.

  With the ingredients set out on one board, Mitch then set out four large slices from a round sourdough cobb loaf on another board.

  ‘Mustard?’

  ‘You bet. Now back to the list, mister. Who’s been round here?’

  ‘Megs and Kate,’ he supplied as he slathered the mustard onto the bread. Then I got to experience just another facet of his artistic mind. The ingredients I saw as just food, he saw as colours. The meat was a brownish grey. That went on first, then some of the lettuce. Onions and tomato next, followed by cheese and lastly the cucumber.

  ‘And your editor guy—’

  ‘Frank Webb. What’s his wife’s name?’ He held the sandwiches down and sliced them through on a diagonal with the serrated bread knife from Sally’s block. He then arranged them both on plates. With a ham-acted grin and an overdone flourish, he added a sprig of parley on each plate.

  ‘Hack!’ Sally half-groaned, though her eyes and thoughts said otherwise. Oh I could do you again just for that!

  ‘There were the removalists, the agent and the local priest… They all came round the first week we were here.’ Mitch wasn’t really concentrating on the visitors now. His mouth was watering. He sat down beside Sally and began eating.

  ‘Priest? You didn’t tell me the priest came here?’ Then she sneezed. Surprised, she blew her nose with a tissue.

  Mitch nodded and argued with his mouth full. ‘Eff I dib… Sorry. Yes I did. He came by to welcome us to the neighbourhood. Asked if we were Catholics. Told him I’m a Jedi.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘You alright?’

  Sally shrugged. ‘Think I’m fine. Just a sneeze I think.’ She took a bite of her sandwich.

  I sank into her mind now. She really didn’t remember Father Brian visiting at all. Confused, I drifted back to Mitch. He very clearly did remember telling his young wife. She’d been sorting out some cutlery, nodding along as Mitch spoke to her. When he told her, she’d just continued nodding.

  Ahh, thought Mitch then. Probably didn’t sink in. Can’t say I blame her. I was j
ust prattling on.

  ‘Never mind. You were busy,’ Mitch said with a smile.

  I couldn’t let this go by! I plunged into Sally’s mind and rummaged about until I found the thought I wanted.

  ‘Did he come into the house?’ she asked, surprised at the level of her own suspicion and the urgent way she asked.

  Mitch blinked and swallowed. ‘No,’ he answered carefully.

  Back in Mitch’s brain, I had his memory of Father Brian’s visit. The treacherous, two-faced blasphemer had met Mitch in driveway, all sweetness and light. He’d smiled and nodded as he’d looked around as if he was just admiring the place. Mitch certainly hadn’t noticed him paying any odd attention to the shed or the house or even showing any signs of want to come inside. Their conversation had been short. Once Father Brian had left, Mitch had gone back to work in the yard with scarcely another thought.

  Huh. Father Brian may have fooled you, Mitchell Taylor.

  I glanced down at Sally’s list. “Mama, Pops, Megs, Kate, Forbes’, Mr & Mrs Webb, Priest,” … That was it? I was surprised. In all the time they’d been here, they’d had very few visitors. Sally was surprised too.

  ‘We need to have more people around,’ she told Mitch firmly.

  Mitch recognised that tone. Guess we’re having a party then, he thought.

  ‘I’ll email this list to the cops, then I’m planning a party. We never really had a housewarming. We were too busy fucking in every room.’

  ‘Not so. The laundry and your office are still virgins.’ Mitch grinned and then glanced at my larder.

  Oh deary me, they weren’t going to do it in there, were they?

  Fortunately for me, Sally had other ideas. ‘Maybe later, juvenile. You go for a ride or something. I’ve got things to do and people to dob into the cops, don’t you know.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’ Even though he had nearly finished his sandwich, the thought of his next meal appeared in his head. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  Sally gave him a sideways glance as she took her plate out to the hall in the direction of her office. Since he’s being all cheffy, he can do dinner.

  ‘Surprise me.’ Then she left.

  Mitch glanced at the clock on my wall. Six hours is enough time. He polished off his sandwich and then quickly cleaned up and set out a chopping board and the knife again. Then he got out a Pyrex bowl, a bottle of soy sauce, a bottle of sweet chilli sauce and a squeezy bottle of honey. Into the bowl went three or four tablespoons of soy sauce, and about a tablespoon each of honey and sweet chilli. He stirred all this up and set it aside. Then he rummaged about in my freezer until he found a frozen packet of kangaroo fillet.

  I felt a sudden sense of revulsion. I know many people eat kangaroo, but I’d never eaten it myself, and certainly wouldn’t have dared to while I’d been alive.

  Mitch set the dark red meat in the microwave to defrost and then began chopping up what appeared to me to be an extraordinarily large amount of ginger and garlic. Six whole cloves of garlic and at least eight centimetres of the gnarly spicy root. When these were chopped up (in quite large chunks, I thought), he stirred them into his marinade. Next he fished about in my larder and came out with a large glass jar full of dried shitake mushrooms. These were another odd food I’d never eaten. He opened the lid and sniffed the contents.

  Resting myself in his consciousness, I was able to experience the fragrance myself. It smelled sweet and vaguely of chocolate and nuts. Hmm. Didn’t seem too bad, I thought to myself.

  Mitch retrieved four of these hard dry fungi from the jar and put them in a large saucepan. I was baffled. Why such a large pan for such a small amount of mushrooms?

  Once they’re soaked, I’ll boil the noodles in the stock. Add a bit of flavour.

  Ahh. Then I understood. Next I was amazed at what else he had planned. He was going to make his own noodles!

  Mitch then set the marinade aside, cleaned up again and wiped my bench down dry. Then he set out two more wooden chopping boards and dusted them with flour.

  Then he broke four eggs into a well of flour he’d spread out, and began mixing. Now I’d worked with dough plenty of times, and I’d seen Sally make her own fettuccine and lasagna sheets before, but what Mitch proceeded to do was far beyond anything like that.

  For starters, he used twice as many eggs and less water. It made the dough look much more yellowish than regular dough. He worked it, only adding a little more water now and then, until he had a very flexible and quite sticky blob of dough. I made sure to stay out of his mind while he did this. Not only was I fixated, but I didn’t want my influence to break his concentration.

  He rolled the dough out into a long rope, about a centimetre thick and a metre long. Making sure he had plenty of flour on his hands, he then held the dough at each end with his hands wide apart, letting the dough stretch under its own weight. He gave it a deft bounce then doubled it up and let it sit back down on my floury bench-top. Then he repeated the process six more times until he had a one long stringy cord of lovely yellow noodles. When he lay it down and cut of both ends, he had sixty-four metre long noodles. He cut the rope into three sections. From each section, he pulled out four small tufts, each of about sixteen or so noodles, and then curled them down into little birds-nest-type piles on the chopping boards. By the time he was done, he had twelve softball-sized little piles of curled up noodles on the boards. He then set them by my windowsill to dry.

  Once he’d cleaned up my bench again, he took the partially defrosted kangaroo fillet from the microwave and set it down on a board. Using the heaviest of Sally’s large knives, which he gave an extra sharpening with her steel, he then sliced the semi-frozen fillet into very neat, and very, very thin slices. That done, he stirred the meat into the marinade, covered it with cling-wrap and set in my fridge.

  Lastly, he quickly rinsed a couple of small heads of bok choy, sliced up a carrot and a red capsicum and a handful of green beans and set them in another bowl in the fridge to be brought out when he started cooking. When everything was done, he cleaned up for the last time, noting to himself how it had better be spotless because Sally always complained he made too much mess when he cooked. Before he left, he poured a full kettle’s worth of boiling water into the pot with the mushrooms. He recoiled a bit from the smell, which surprised me.

  I sank into his mind again to see why. I was almost shocked to realise the smell of the mushrooms when wet was nothing like the smell of them dry. How would they taste? I had to know and could hardly wait until he cooked dinner. Good thing for me, I’m an expert at waiting.

  Later when they returned to me, it was clear Sally’s random sneeze wasn’t so random. Her eyes were puffy and her nose was blocked. I touched her mind briefly and immediately felt all kinds of sorry for her. She was beginning to feel quite awful.

  Mitch hadn’t been about to see the cold take over his petite young bride. He’d done exactly as Sally had suggested and taken his bike out for a long ride. By the time he’d returned, it was beginning to get dark outside, and the wind was picking up. I could see dried gum-leaves hurtling past the house outside my window, and feel my fixtures creaking and shifting as the air-pressure dropped.

  ‘Good thing you got home when you did,’ Sally observed as she gazed out the window.

  Even in her state, I was a trifle envious. The bloodstain I still saw and was very used to by now, always looked black and especially forbidding when the weather was turning nasty. She couldn’t see it at all. All she saw was the fruit trees Mitch had planted, and the white trunk of the massive mountain ash gleaming in the last rays of the evening light.

  ‘Shit, Salls. You sound like crap. Better add some extra chilli to the stir-fry, yeah? Fix you right up.’

  Sally grinned at him, truly grateful for the work he was now putting in to make her feel better. Before he started cooking, he quickly whipped up a lemon, ginger and honey tisane with a shot of dark brown Bundaberg rum.

  ‘Drink,’ he ordered her, turning
his attention to the wok. ‘And don’t give me any of that poop about no booze. Cough mixture has more alcohol in it than my special tea.’

  Sally obeyed mutely and allowed herself to just sit still while Mitch stirred the sizzling marinated meat. He’d sliced the soaked mushrooms and put them back in the pot and brought them to the boil. As the meat in the wok was nearing ready, he popped four clumps of noodles into the simmering water in the pot with the mushrooms. After a few minutes, he strained them and tossed it all in with the kangaroo.

  He stirred it through a few times. A dash more of soy sauce brought the colour up and then he added the vegetables. Wedging the handle of the wok into his belly, he used a wooden spoon in each hand to continuously stir the mixture until the bok choy was wilted to his satisfaction.