“Have you seen Beebee?”
“No, where’d he go?”
“He was out of whisky, out of smokes; he went to the liquor store.”
“Where the fuck is he now?”
“He must still be there man.”
“Did he take…?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did you give…?”
“No.”
A siren screams in the night.
“Beebee.”
The Sous-chef was on the floor. I left the knife where I found it, in a red puddle beside his foot. Its blade pointed towards the door, as if indicating the escape direction of the guilty party. The stainless steel worktop dripped and I noticed more splatters up the wall, behind the sink. A saucepan had overturned, spilling its now-smoking contents over the hobs.
A constable came in. “We have him sir; he was outside the rear entrance, behind some dustbins,” his face registering shock as he looked around at the scene.
“Where is he now?”
“In the car, sir.”
“Keep him there.”
The constable backed out slowly as I turned around, taking in details. A handprint, red and smudged, hailed me from the fridge door. I felt something drip onto my left shoulder. I knew what it was even without looking up, but I looked anyway – curiosity is like that. Then I heard a muffled voice behind me.
“Yes!”
Knee joints clicked as the Sous-chef rose to his feet, a look of triumph on his face as his arm withdrew from under the fridge with his prized wooden spoon, a gift from Keith Floyd apparently.
“So much for Hell’s Kitchen eh, officer?”
“What happened?”
“Well, when the Maître announced Gordon Ramsay’s arrival the chef became agitated, to say the least. Then, while he was plating Mr Ramsay’s Penne al Pomodoro, I happened to mention he’d forgotten the basil and then …” He waved his spoon around the kitchen.
In the cold January air flame and smoke disappear
but the sound goes on forever.
The pistol crack; the victim’s gasp,
dead before his wide-eyed head smashes against the pavement;
the screams of the passers-by;
the shouting policemen holding them back;
the wailing ambulance;
the knock, apologetic, on the door;
the crying, desperate,
left without a husband and father;
the monotone of the priest;
the 12 clicking heels take the coffin;
the sobs of the veiled
and the final, definite scraping of soil,
thrown from shovel to grave.
The shot was still ringing out.
© Christopher Farley, Chris Farley, 2012-2023. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christopher Farley with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. All guest content remains the property of the appropriate author – any reproduction is strictly prohibited without their prior written approval.
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