Mick nodded, slipped the gun away then placed an empty white plate in front of the seated Slater. Mick reached for an opened tin of tuna fish and sloughed its contents on to the plate, then took a bottle of maple syrup in one hand and a squeezable bottle of hamburger mustard in the other and doused the fish in these contrasting liquids. When the containers were empty Mick gestured for Slater to start eating. He did so, neatly, efficiently, without complaint or apparent distaste.
“Where I come from,” Mick said, “we don’t go out for meals much in the week. If we go out at all it’s only on a weekend and that’s only if it’s somebody’s birthday or anniversary or something.”
“I know,” Slater said, continuing to eat. “I’ve written about this. That’s why restaurants go bankrupt so regularly in the provinces. That’s why the provinces have so few good restaurants.”
“Maybe if we poor provincials had better restaurants we’d go out more often.”
“It’s possible,” said Slater. “But I think it’s more a question of culture, in the broadest sense.”
Mick had the feeling that he was being insulted, but he wasn’t quite sure in what way. Conversation ceased and Slater could attack the contents of his plate without distraction. He swiftly and professionally cleared his plate, then put down his fork and looked at Mick like a game but sad-eyed terrier.
“How was that?” Mick asked.
“Unusual,” said Slater. “Piquant, brave, assured. Am I right to suspect a Cajun influence?”
“Glad you liked it. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“No doubt,” said Slater.
Mick watched Slater sitting there at his own kitchen table, looking so at home, so in control, so poised, and for a moment he thought of coshing him with the gun. How else was he going to get to him? Mick felt as though he was the one being tested. He took the plate away and filled it again, this time with cornflakes, pickled onions, dried figs, raspberry vinegar, a few generous shakes of curry powder and ground ginger, and over the top he swirled thick worms of tomato puree.
“What’s your favourite kind of food?” Mick asked.
“Until now I think I would always have said eclectic,” Slater explained, “but looking at this…”
“You like Japanese food?” Mick asked.
“Some of it, yes.”
“I had it for the first time today,” Mick said, and then he stopped himself. Why did he need to tell Slater anything? He motioned for Slater to eat up. He had rather more trouble this time. With each forkful he grimaced, and Mick watched with pleasure as the face became flushed and blotchy. Nevertheless Slater persevered, gulping down everything on his plate. The effort looked brave and painful.
“How is it?” Mick asked.
“Ambitious, spirited, traditional ingredients, though icono-clastically presented.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Mick. “Something to drink? Sweet sherry? Ovaltine? Bovril? Vimto?”
“I suppose water would be out of the question.”
“Too right,” Mick said. “But if you need to throw up or any thing just say the word.”
Slater swallowed hard and shook his head. No, that wouldn’t be necessary. That would be admitting defeat and he wasn’t prepared to do that.
“You’ve got a good appetite,” Mick said.
“It has something to do with the gun in your pocket.”
“Even so—” Mick started.
“Look,” said Slater, “I don’t know who you are, whether you’re a dissatisfied reader of my column, or a chef I’ve insulted at some time, or a restaurant owner I’ve criticized too harshly, but, whoever you are, I’m sure your actions are justified. I’m sure I deserve it. And believe me, I’m not brave, not a hero. I’m not going to fight you. Tell me to eat my own faeces and I’ll do it.”
Mick was disgusted. It was a totally unsatisfactory offer. He was glad he didn’t have to deal with someone who was trying to be a hero, yet he had hoped for a bit more conflict than Slater was providing. Slater’s desire for a quiet life was profoundly at odds with Mick’s desire to see him suffer. Mick certainly had no intention of getting involved with faeces but he served Slater more food: cold stew with marmalade and mayonnaise and a chunk of lard and two heaps of instant coffee granules and a crumbled Oxo cube.
Slater began to eat. He wasn’t looking good. He was a man in distress, and yet he was still facing his distress all too bravely. He accepted the latest concoction Mick had given him and got on with it. But that was all wrong. Mick wanted him to be unable to get on with it. Mick wanted him on his knees, choking, gagging, weeping, vomiting, pleading and begging for an end to his tortures. Once those conditions were met, once Slater seemed sufficiently wretched and penitent, then the job would be over and Mick could be on his way. But while ever Slater remained collected and stoical Mick would have to continue punishing him, and he was running out of ideas.
“Unusual,” Slater said as he cleared the plate again. “What it lacked in poise it more than made up for in flamboyance.”
Furious, Mick assembled a final melange of cat food, cornflour, fish stock, brown sugar, Tabasco, mint sauce, defrosted raspberries, goose fat, mango chutney, gelatine and dried tarragon, then watched in dismay, though not absolute surprise, as Slater determinedly began to eat this too. There were tears in his eyes now, but that was because of the Tabasco, not because he was weak or defeated. Mick had had enough.
“OK,” he said. “That’s it. Time for the final course. Now take your clothes off.”
“Oh, really,” Slater said. “Do I have to?”
It was a complaint bom out of inhibition and natural modesty, not out of defiance. Mick assured him that he had no choice and Slater at once removed his clothes, reluctantly but with the minimum of fuss. He looked even fatter now than he had before his heroic bout of eating, and his penis looked even smaller.
Mick used his forearm to sweep the table clear. He used far more force and violence than was really necessary. Food and its packaging went flying across the kitchen, hitting the floor and the walls and then smashing or breaking open. Mick crunched through the mess to the cupboard beneath the sink and tossed the contents around until he found a washing line and some lengths of rope.
“Lie on the table,” he said to Slater.
Slater moved to obey.
“Face up or face down?” he asked, considerately.
Mick had to think about it. He decided that face up would be more humiliating and Slater assumed this position on the table top. Mick tied Slater’s hands and feet to the four legs of the table, so that he was spread like a star fish. Then he stepped back and scooped up food from the floor and began to pour and throw and slap it all over Slater’s fat body so that before long he was coated, caked with a layer of solids and thick liquids, powders and emulsions, morsels and chunks, that clung to his shape making his body look as though it was in grotesque ferment.
Mick surveyed what he’d done and felt no great pride in his handiwork, but then went to the dining room, pulled open the door and let out Slater’s three cats. They found their way, suspiciously but surely, to the kitchen and began to sniff around the food on the floor, before making a swift ascent to the table, following the trail to where the sludge of food was most dense.
Slater remained motionless, his body tensed as though in a dentist’s chair, his eyes closed, trying to keep his breathing steady, unsure whether his ordeal was nearly over or just beginning. Mick wasn’t sure either. He couldn’t shake the feeling that as an act of revenge this had been a pretty feeble, bodged job. Either way he’d had enough. He walked out of the house, carefully leaving the front door open, a golden opportunity for a more conventional kind of intruder.