‘Me? No!’ Oleg rubbed the spoon handle vigorously. Then he stopped and sighed. ‘We’re all Savages, Titus. We always will be in name at least, no matter how many of us gather round the table in future.’
Titus looked baffled. He was standing over his father, who next selected a fork to polish.
‘Well, every one of us shall be eating this evening as we welcome little Kat to the fold,’ he said, and clapped Oleg on the shoulder as if that might reassure him. ‘You don’t need to worry about your grandchildren. It’s my duty to make sure they understand the importance of dining like this on a regular basis.’ Titus turned to leave the room. At the door, he stopped and addressed his father one more time. ‘You know, it’s true what they say that the family who eat together, stick together.’
‘Maybe not the family who eat people together,’ muttered Oleg.
‘I’m sorry?’
The old man looked up and around. He seemed startled to find Titus was still there.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he said quickly and held the fork up to the light.
Angelica hadn’t stopped all day. The menu, which she’d written out by hand, was stuck to the fridge using painted magnets from a local art fair. With Sasha’s help, the potatoes were peeled, the vegetables chopped and herbs picked from the garden. The only thing missing, in fact, was the meat. Still, Angelica had everything under control, with help from her eldest daughter. Sasha was at the stove, stirring a pepper and port wine sauce, while little Kat was on the floor by the French windows, her hands pressed to the glass, babbling at the birds on the feeder.
‘It’s going to be a late night for her,’ Sasha said.
‘You know how it is,’ said Angelica. ‘We don’t sleep until everyone is full.’
By now, the sauce was beginning to simmer. Sasha turned the heat down by a notch.
‘Ivan says there’s a lot to share out this time.’
Angelica had just finished refilling the salt cellar. She stopped and faced her daughter.
‘There’ll be even more to go round if you don’t join in,’ she said.
Sasha focused on the sauce, which was still bubbling even on the lower temperature.
‘Will Grandpa be eating down here or in his room?’ she asked, in a bid to change the subject.
Angelica wasn’t surprised, but persisted anyway.
‘This feast might be all about Katya,’ she said, ‘but I want it to be a celebration for you both. A welcoming to one daughter and a farewell to the other.’
Sasha stirred the sauce a little quicker.
‘Mum, I really appreciate how supportive you’ve been to me these last few weeks. I’ll be at the table with you all. Nothing changes there.’
‘Everything changes,’ said Angelica to correct her. ‘A vegetarian will be eating among us.’
‘I’m not sure about the whole label thing,’ Sasha replied, as the sauce finally began to thicken. ‘It can feel a bit suffocating.’
‘Which is why we never call ourselves cannibals,’ said Angelica, prompting her daughter to catch her breath.
‘Mum!’
Sasha looked scandalised. Like Angelica, she then scrambled to look as busy as possible when Titus appeared in the kitchen.
‘Did I just hear the “C” word?’ he asked, and inspected several dishes. Sasha stirred the sauce madly. Angelica tightened the top of the salt cellar, well aware that Titus was gazing directly at her. Just then, Ivan appeared at the doorway in his dressing gown. He yawned, stretched, and then dropped his arms on realising he had just walked in on something. Normally, his mother would scold him for lying in throughout so much of the day. Instead, Angelica shot him a look that told him he needed to be elsewhere.
‘I just wanted something to eat,’ the boy grumbled, and headed for the back door. ‘I’m starving.’
As soon as he was outside, Titus addressed Angelica and Sasha once more.
‘We’re not cannibals,’ he said as if to remind them. ‘Cannibals boil people alive in cauldrons. I prefer to think of ourselves as evolved eaters. As a family, we’re at the forefront of fine dining. Human flesh is an acquired taste, and I’ve worked hard to give you all the chance to appreciate it for yourselves. It’s what keeps us tight, am I right?’
Angelica glanced at Sasha, who looked back at the sauce, sighed to herself and then nodded.
‘Let’s all take a seat,’ said Angelica, and gestured at the kitchen table. ‘Sasha has something to share.’
Vernon Savage saw a bright light. Having been dangling from the beam for so long, and in total darkness, the opening of the hatch caused him to blink and wince.
It was the sight of the crazy kid, Ivan, easing his way down the rungs that persuaded him to stay still and silent. Vernon knew he was supposed to be dead. If he started shouting and screaming, Ivan might have another go with the bolt gun. Fortunately for the private investigator, the boy’s lack of practice meant the weapon had recoiled when he pulled the trigger. Instead of punching through his temple and into his brain, the bolt had simply knocked him out. Vernon considered this to be a small mercy given the indignity and horror of what had evidently followed. When he resumed consciousness, he found he had been stripped of his clothing, washed and shaved from head to toe with the barber’s clippers. Finally, he realised he’d been swaddled in what felt like a nappy made from kitchen foil. It crinkled every time he moved, which he tried to keep to a minimum on account of the pain he was in. Even without being able to see anything, Vernon knew that Ivan had hit him with the tenderiser at least a few times, but not enough to have much effect on his flesh. It left him wondering whether the boy was incapable of carrying out the job properly. If so, thought Vernon in his traumatised mind, Ivan’s inexperience might just save his life.
It was for this reason that he played dead before Ivan hit the light switch. He then held his breath as the boy circled him. Whatever happened next, Vernon hoped this young psychopath would continue his hapless streak. With his head just above the ground, Vernon dared to glance up to see that Ivan, wearing his dressing gown, was clutching a short blade in one hand. He stifled a gasp. This wasn’t looking good, but what option did he have?
‘Oh yeah,’ said Ivan, as if he’d suddenly remembered something, and turned for the cabinet behind him. ‘A bucket for the bleed out.’
On hearing this, Vernon’s heart began to hammer so forcefully he could almost hear it with his own ears. He let his eyes go glassy as Ivan came back and slid a rubber trough underneath him. On feeling the cold edge of the blade against his jugular, however, the man could take no more.
‘No!’ yelled Vernon angrily, and blinked back into focus. ‘Get away from me!’
This time it was Ivan’s turn to cry out. He scrambled backwards, knife in hand, but not before scratching Vernon’s throat with the tip. It was enough to produce a bead of blood that swelled and dropped into the trough.
‘Ouch!’ said Vernon with a grimace. ‘Will you leave me alone?’
Ivan looked aghast.
‘But I killed you,’ he said. ‘You’re dead.’
‘And so are you when I’m free,’ growled Vernon, the foil crinkling wildly as he writhed and bucked against his bindings. ‘Help!’ He cried out, filling his lungs. ‘Help me!’
Panic-stricken, Ivan looked to the open hatch and back again at his captive.
‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘Shut your mouth or I’ll fetch my dad!’
‘Help! Someone, please help!’
It was all too much for the boy. Dropping the knife, he raced for the rungs as Vernon continued to raise the alarm. Even with the hatch back in place, and the pit returned to darkness, the stricken private investigator continued to bellow while the trough below him collected his blood drip by little drip.