The Borrowed Kitchen

by Gilmour, SJB

  ‘All of it?’ That’s a lot of cheese.

  ‘All of it. Nice and even.’

  When it was done, Kelly stepped back and admired it with pride. I did it! I can’t believe I did it!

  ‘Right, now bung it in the oven. Middle tray. Set it at one-sixty Celsius.’

  ‘How will we know when it’s ready?’ Kelly asked as she turned the dial on my oven.

  Sally shrugged. ‘‘Bout an hour, or when the cheese is browned up or you when the smell’s made you so hungry you could eat your own arm. Whichever one comes first. Always better to wait, though. You want the cheese crispy enough that you can pull it off like a lid and save it for last.’ She looked at the mess on my bench-top. ‘Now for the next part of being a good cook. Always clean up as you go. Even if it means you’re late for your own wedding, you clean up the kitchen.’

  Between them, they had me spick and span in about two minutes flat.

  ‘Right, now for stage two.’ Sally rubbed her hands together.

  Kelly blinked. ‘Huh?’

  ‘As much as I’d love to just sit down to a bigass slab of lasagne for dinner, we need veggies too. Otherwise, that much meat, pasta and cheese’ll block you up so you don’t crap for three days. What greens have we got in the fridge?’

  Kelly opened it and looked in at the crisper drawers. ‘Umm… Broccoli, asparagus, beans. Zucchini…’

  ‘Bring out the broccoli, asparagus and beans.’ Sally went into my larder and found a whole bulb of garlic. ‘Okay, while I’m getting the garlic ready, you go out to the poly-tunnel. I want two sprigs each of thyme and rosemary, and a couple of fresh bay leaves.’

  Kelly paused, suddenly scared.

  Sally shut her eyes and breathed deeply. Poor kid. She doesn’t even know her herbs. If her mother wasn’t in jail, I’d march down there and fucking slap her.

  She gave Kelly her most supportive and gentle smile.

  ‘You’ll learn. Ask Mitch to show you. ‘Bout time he did some work around here too, eh?’

  Kelly grinned and dashed out of me in the direction of Mitch’s study. While she was gone, Sally quickly top-and-tailed the beans, snapped off the flexible but woody stalk-ends of the asparagus, and chopped up the broccoli.

  I’d never bothered to be creative with broccoli, but Sally had turned it into an art-form. First she trimmed off the rosettes from two heads until she had two large green stalks. These she sliced up into thin fingers. It was almost as if she’d somehow managed to create two different vegetables from one. She then set the greens aside in individual piles on one of the boards. A few minutes later, she had twelve neatly peeled and trimmed cloves of garlic.

  Mitch and Kelly walked in, Kelly proudly clutching a small handful of herbs in her hand. Sally smiled at her.

  ‘Right, for the veggies, we’re doing them steamed and tossed with roasted garlic. Rinse those herbs off. Then, in that cupboard, you’ll find a big blue cast-iron pot.’

  Kelly washed the herbs then rummaged about in the cupboard for the heavy enamelled pot.

  ‘Right. Again with the olive oil, throw in the herbs, the garlic and a spoonful of whole black peppercorns. Stir ‘em about a bit. Get everything covered with oil then stick it in the oven with the lid on. When we bring out the lasagne, we’ll also transfer the pot from the oven to the stove, add a splash of… Well I normally use white wine, but tonight we’ll use lemon juice and water, and bung in the greens. Broccoli and beans first. Let ‘em steam for a few minutes, then add the asparagus.’

  I could hardly wait until dinner, but I think Kelly was even more anxious than me. I had no doubt the lasagne would taste delicious. Even if wasn’t super-duper, how bad could it be? Pasta, cheese and Bolognaise sauce? No matter how you mix it, it’s sure to taste good. When Kelly pulled the big hot tray of bubbling goodness from my oven, her cheeks glowed with pride.

  Sally was much calmer. ‘Now,’ she instructed, her big blues eyes shining, ‘do the veggies. Keep those oven mitts on. That pot’s heavy and it’s hot. Put the burner on low and throw in the first batch of the veggies.’

  Kelly did and stirred them about a bit with a wooden spoon, making sure to mix the now grey-tan cloves and oil and herbs up well. Then she splashed in about a quarter of a cup of water mixed with the juice of one lemon, gave it all another stir and shut the lid.

  Sally grinned. ‘Great. Plates, everyone! Kelly, you can do the honours. Your lasagne. You serve it. You want to serve it out a few minutes before everything else goes on the plate. It needs to settle a bit before you eat it.’

  Kelly’s hands were shaking as she cut out three slabs of the dish and scooped them onto their waiting plates. Oh, wow. This is nothing like that stuff mum buys from the supermarket.

  Again I found my heart going out to the poor girl. She’d never even eaten lasagne at a restaurant. Now, she’d just made what looked to me, and judging by the smell I sampled through Sally’s nostrils, a superior dish anyway. The cheese had turned a beautiful shade of golden brown, darker around the edges, lighter towards the middle. It reminded me of the beautiful shades of autumn oak and chestnut leaves that littered the footpath along Gembrook’s main street. Such a wonderful contrast of warmth and vibrant colours as the air around began to chill.

  ‘Asparagus now!’ Sally commanded, grinning.

  A few more minutes and the asparagus was done, wilted to perfection. Kelly turned off the heat and brought the pot over to a rack next to the lasagne. By the time she’d piled on generous helpings of the sweet-smelling greens next to the firm slabs of lasagne, she was about ready to burst.

  ‘Well?’ Sally asked her gently. ‘What are you waiting for? Let’s go eat.’

  Mitch hadn’t waited. He’d already shoved a forkful of the piping hot food into his mouth, singeing his tongue a little. I touched his mind again. Let me tell you, for a simple, mundane sort of dish, the recipe Sally used for her sauce combined with the fresh pasta and the fact that it was Kelly’s work, made it somehow taste magical.

  This wasn’t the last such meal. Night after night, Sally taught Kelly to cook some of her favourite and signature dishes. She made sure to write down the recipes as simply as she could, but always insisted Kelly cook more by feel than measure. Kelly’s confidence grew and the bond between the two grew stronger and stronger. It just blew my mind that the former Miss Popular was giving her all to the girl who would have been the dejected and rejected class dummy.

  School had gone back and Sally made sure she drove Kelly to and from school every day. She might not be able to watch her actually in class, but she sure as heck wasn’t going to let her out of her sight a minute more than she had to the rest of the time. One Tuesday morning when Sally returned from the school run, she joined Mitch in me.

  ‘Nice to have our kitchen back to ourselves,’ she purred, slinking up to him and wrapping those toned arms around his neck. Mitch responded, kissing her and reaching down to grab her bottom but stopped still, distracted.

  Sally flinched instantly. ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I just saw that car again. That Marney or Macy woman.’

  I shifted my point of view as far over to the side of me as I could to see down the road as best I could. Yes, that did look like Marcy Greenwood’s car.

  Sally went and rummaged in a drawer for a calico shopping bag. ‘Well, I’ll be off then. Time to play Miss Marple.’

  Mitch tilted his head sideways a little. ‘Umm, Salls, how are you going to get prints off a cotton bag?’

  ‘It’s calico, and I’m not going to. I’ll wave her down and ask her if she wants a cuppa.’

  ‘How do you know she’ll say yes?’

  Sally grinned. ‘This is a small town, babe. If she’s going up and down all the time, it’s because she’s curious. She’ll be easier to manipulate than you are when you’re horny.’

  Can’t believe I married such a wonderful woman, Mitch thought as he watched his perky little wife saunter down the driveway. God help me if ever she decides to u
se her powers for evil.

  Fifteen minutes later, Marcy Greenwood was cradling a mug of tea and walking around the outside of the house while Sally gave her the grand tour. I was nearly beside myself with frustration. Mitch was unresponsive when I tried to suggest to him that he invite the woman into me.

  Salls has her back up against this one, he mused as he came back in with the empty mugs. He was being very careful to hold all three with one finger crooked through the handles. He set them down on the sink, making sure he didn’t smudge any fingerprints the woman may have left for Sally to examine later. Don’t even think about inviting her in for a meal. The kitchen’s a sacred place in Salls’ eyes.

  An hour later, Sally was almost screaming down the phone to Detective Thompson.

  ‘Whaddaya mean you don’t have probable cause? For fuck’s sake! Do you think I’m making this up? Her fucking fingerprints are on a cup on my bench right now and they’re the same ones you dickheads found in my fucking fuse-box and I bet if you can get off your fucking arse to check, you’ll find at least one of them is match to the fucking step from my shed!’

  Phew! I couldn’t have put it better myself. No, really. I might have let a few curse words slip at Mason occasionally, and I’d certainly been steamed often enough to warrant using such language, but I still wasn’t up to it. If I were to try, even if I was every bit as outraged as Sally, I’d have just made a right mess of it and wound up sound like a babbling fool.

  ‘Look,’ Thompson replied calmly, as if he was shouted at every day. ‘The best I can do is trump up a reason to ask her a few mild questions. You know the kind of thing — she went to church with Mr and Mrs Owen, did she remember them having any enemies or rows with anyone?’

  ‘Gimme the phone,’ Mitch hissed at Sally. He held his hand out.

  Sally shook her head at him, her eyes flashing.

  Mitch wasn’t going to back down. ‘Gimme,’ he insisted, gesturing with his fingers.

  ‘Hang on. My husband wants to talk to you.’ Sally passed the phone to Mitch. I didn’t envy him right then. That look could have paralysed a lesser man.

  ‘Detective Thompson, Mitchell Taylor. I just had an idea. What if you told her new evidence had come come to hand and you’re asking for volunteers from everyone that might have known the Owens, to let you fingerprint them for elimination purposes?’

  There was a patient pause. ‘Do you know how long that’s going to take? How many man-hours, processing all the prints?’

  ‘You won’t have to do them all. Start with the ones at the top of the list. Marcy Greenway—’

  ‘Greenwood’

  ‘Greenwood then. Do her best buddies… Do the priest. Word will spread. If any get spooked and run or refuse, you’ve got a reason to look at them harder. You’re smart guys, you’ll come up with a way to compare their prints to the ones you’ve already got.’

  By now I would have expected some form of emotional response from Thompson, but all he gave was his usual deadpan tone.

  ‘You know, Mr Taylor, that might just work.’

  As it turned out, Mitch was right. Word did spread. Fast.

  Chapter Ten

  Mitch and Sally went to bed only shortly after Kelly did. As had become her custom, Sally checked on the teenager when she thought she’d gone to sleep. Of course, I couldn’t see what she saw or feel her relief at the sight of the dark-haired girl sleeping safely and soundly under her roof, but I knew Sally, and I could feel the subtle shifts of pressure in my beams and tiles which told me someone was upstairs, walking softly on bare feet.

  ‘She out?’ Mitch asked her as she came back down into me.

  Sally nodded. ‘Like a light.’ She gave him a meaningful look. ‘So should we be.’

  Mitch grinned and followed her out and down the hall to the master bedroom.

  Feeling happy that Kelly was getting some normality to her life at last, and proud that my Sally and Mitch were being so generous and welcoming to a young girl who was all but a stranger to them, I gazed out my window. Oh Ashleigh, I thought as I admired the towering eucalypt out in the yard, you’d be proud of them. They may not be Catholics, but there’s charity in them. What more could God want from His subjects than the kindness these two show to those in need?

  I hovered my consciousness over my sink for some time, thinking such thoughts and feeling as though all was right with the world, when I saw something that made me realise otherwise. Marcy Greenwood’s car.

  I moved as far as I could over to the far side of my window so I could watch the woman who had once tried to care for me, approach my house. She was carrying a single-barrel shotgun. I just managed to see her come up the steps of the front porch then she disappeared into the blind-spot in front of the door.

  Mitch had locked the door, I knew that much. Next she’d try the back door, if she had to, but it was close to the master bedroom and very risky. If I were she, I’d try to come in a window… A window! Yes! I had one chance. If Alec could do it, so could I. The smaller of my windows was the quietest to open and would no doubt be the easiest to work. I had to try.

  Sinking into people’s minds was difficult, as was dredging up my own memories, but compared to the effort I put into opening that window, they were a breeze. My vision retracted to the point that I could only see the window itself, and nothing beyond it. I could hear nothing but a dull roaring sound. I knew Marcy was taking slow careful steps along the porch to avoid making a sound. She was getting close now! I threw everything I had into it. Screaming to myself, I strained until I thought I would tear myself apart with the effort. The window jostled a little, then it slid open just a centimetre. But, it was enough. There was a visible crack, and Marcy saw it.

  I watched her carefully lean the gun against the outside wall below the window. She pried the fingers of both hands under the window. Oh how I wanted to slam it shut on those treacherous digits! I couldn’t risk it. I could inflict far more damage to her if only I could get her inside me for long enough. She pushed the window up then put the gun through and down onto the wooden part of the bench.

  Moments later, she was inside. It was dark, but there was enough light for her to see her way around me. The microwave and oven both had bright digital clocks on them and sufficient moonlight was coming in through my windows to bathe me in soft, bluish green. Were it not for the circumstances, it would have been a very pleasant night.

  I didn’t have time for pleasantries. At first, Marcy’s mind was closed to mine. Understandable really, considering the rage I felt towards her. A few quick glances at my own memories of the once charitable feelings of fellowship in the church I’d had with her were enough to break down the wall and I was in.

  I’d been in Mitch and Sally’s minds during all kinds of emotions. I’d felt them hot for each other, driven by various tasks at hand and even blind drunk. They were simple to navigate. Even Trish’s guilt-ridden consciousness was navigable. Marcy’s was a muddle of colours and temperatures and a cacophony of horrors. And, screaming over the chaos in her mind was one driving stream of thought.

  I lost him to that whore! I’ll not lose him to the police! I’ll not have that retarded spawn of a whore ruin everything! Then he’ll be mine. Then he’ll love me. I killed for him once. I’ll kill for him again and then he’ll be mine!

  What? Once? What was she talking about? I plunged into the maelstrom of her mind. There were flashes of her past actions swirling about me as though they were caught in a cyclone, and they had no sense of time or age about them. I saw a glimpse of my fuse-box and an even faster flash of her seeing me up the ladder. Then there was the image of Father Brian kneeling by Ashleigh only months before. The wooden, bloody step; she’d taken it from the woodpile where Trish had left it and put it in the shed. She’d caught her hand on one of the pieces in the pile. She’d cursed and fretted that the blood on the step would get into the bleeding scratch on her hand.

  I didn’t have time to ponder that any longer. I saw her seeing Father
Brian again and a huge rush of emotion washed over her at the image. He did it! She thought. He killed the Owens man. The nosey fool couldn’t keep out of our business! If The Prophet chooses to lay with the drunken whore, he’s free to do so! But now he’ll be mine. I’ll show him I’m better than his whores and sycophants…

  Then her murderous thoughts came back, hard and angry and strong. I’ll kill them all! She looked down at her shotgun and grinned, hefting it, relishing its weight.

  It’s a snake! I shrieked within her mind. I plunged through her thoughts like a woman possessed, finding every reptilian image I could find and hurtling them to the foremost part of her brain.

  Marcy reeled and blinked. Shaking, she dropped the heavy weapon on the tiles. It clattered and then sat there, still. Not enough. I held an image of a tiger snake right at the top of her mind, and that was what she saw when she looked down at the gun: not a cold piece of metal and wood, but a highly venomous local reptile. She backed away, shaking harder now. Tears were beginning to run down her cheeks and she lost control of her bladder.

  Scream, damn you! I thought, but Marcy would not scream. Instead, she merely whimpered and muttered in her madness. She cast her eyes this way and that, seeing snakes everywhere she looked. The knife block on my bench somehow managed to remain a mundane kitchen utensil despite my best efforts. She snatched the knife nearest her from it. It was the bread knife. Rounded at the end and serrated along one edge. It was long and flexible — too flexible to be a useful weapon, I realised. Good. If she had such a harmless weapon, but thought it was more dangerous, Mitch or Sally would have a slight advantage, even if they didn’t know it.

  ‘I wondered what all the fuss was about,’ Mason remarked as he drifted in. Oh dear Lord, if ever there had been a time I was grateful for the mercurial old spook’s presence, it was then.