Death & Back

Chapter 4

4

The next day, I'm working another long shift, starting with lunch. It's quiet. A few business types.

Dubois sees his place as a swanky high-end French bistro. The truth is it's a couple of rungs below. The British version of French cuisine. Steak, garlic bread and triple cooked fries the most popular things on the menu. Still, the food is good here. There's a few times I've sampled the leftovers with the others. But so far, I've resisted the urge to nick one of those cheese tarts, hot off the tray. And I'm only borrowing one of the spare forks I found lying around on a worktop. No, if I'm gonna play it straight, might as well go the whole hog.

As we hit two in the afternoon, the restaurant goes dead. Dubois leaves his assistant chef in charge of the kitchen. Piotr punches out for the day.

I'm sitting at the bar at the back of the restaurant, when in walk those two heavies stiffing Dubois for cash. They take a seat in the middle of the restaurant, wearing the same suits as the night before. The one in black waves me to their table. I grab a couple of menus off the bar and carry them over.

I greet them as normal. "Welcome to Gastronomy. Can I get you something to drink?"

I hand over the menus. They throw ‘em aside.

"Two pints of whatever Frog lager you've got on tap," the one in black says.

"And two garlic breads to start," the guy in navy says. "The ones with the melted cheese."

"Coming right up," I say, putting on a smile.

I return with their pints. Dubois' second in command knocks up a couple of garlic pizza breads.

I take 'em over. "Here you go gentlemen. Enjoy."

As I clear another table, I see 'em watching me. Talking as they demolish their food. As if they're talking about me.

I act like I don't notice. The last thing I want is to get involved with a pair of local hoods. Instead, I clear their plates, get 'em fresh pints and take their order for steak and fries. I return to the table with their mains. I turn to leave 'em to it.

"Hang on mate," the one in black says. "Don't I recognise you?"

“Uh-uh. Don't think so.”

"You look familiar," the one in navy says. "Where are you from?"

"Here and there," I say.

"Sounds like a northern accent to me," the guy in the black says. "What you reckon, Gaz?"

"Yeah," Gaz says, "Manchester, I'd say, Daz."

Gaz eats his fries with his fingers. "You hear about what happened up there with that Rudenko geezer? I heard one of his own men put him away."

"Ah, yeah," Daz says, cutting into his steak. "Fella was supposed to pop a witness. But he helped the little s**t instead. f****d Rudenko over. Can you believe that?"

I stand there and keep quiet.

"So you heard about it or what?" Gaz asks me.

"No pal," I say. "I've not been back there for years."

"Is that right?" Daz says, supping on his pint. "Then you also won't have heard about the price on the geezer’s head."

"Sorry gents," I say, "but what's this gotta do with me?"

"Just making conversation," Gaz says. "That a crime, is it?"

I fake a smile. "Course not. Enjoy your mains."

I walk away, watch them from the kitchens. By the time I return to clear their plates, Dubois is back and they're up on their feet.

I head over with the bill in hand, about to remind 'em they've not paid. I feel a feather-grip on my forearm. Dubois takes the bill off me and rips it in two. Shakes his head.

Daz turns as they head out the door. ”Be seeing you," he says to me.

It's chaos in the kitchens. There's a works party—got the whole place booked out and two cooks haven't turned up. Which means I'm doubling up for the night. Scrubbing pots. Taking things out of the ovens.

I'm a fish out of water in the kitchen. My experience limited to holding faces over stoves. Hitting a bloke over the head with a wok. Chopping off a mobster's finger with a meat knife.

As I dash out of the restaurant into the kitchens, I smell something burning.

Shit, the garlic bread.

I fling an oven door open. Black smoke pours out. The pizza-shaped dough looks like it took a hit from an RPG.

I slide the smouldering black wreck in the bin and grab a fresh bread off the counter. I wave the smoke out of the oven with a towel and slide the replacement dough inside.

I set the timer and take a full-scale assault from Pepe Le Pew.

"Pointer you imbecile, you were supposed to be watching that!" He shouts as he stirs a sauce in a pan.

"I can't be in two places at once," I say.

"You'll be any f*****g thing I tell you," says Dubois, pointing to the cremated garlic bread, sticking out of the bin. "Now get that monstrosity out of my kitchen. The smell offends me."

"Yes, chef," I say, grabbing two overflowing bins and heading to the fire exit.

"And make it quick," Dubois says. "We're behind as it is."

I push open the fire exit door and head into the alleyway. Feel the cool air on my face. Breathe in the smell of piss.

Night has already fallen. I turn left and carry the bins towards their big blue and orange counterparts. I throw the lid open on the nearest one and get a lungful of something rotten. A raw chicken turning into a sea of maggots.

I empty the first one in. Then the second. As I'm closing the lid on the larger bin, I notice a car driving up the alley. The driver dips the headlights. I blink the spots from my eyes. Two men climb out and walk around the front of the car. Mere shadows until they break into the light spilling out from the kitchens.

Oh great, it's Gaz and Daz.

Gaz has a baseball bat and Daz a tyre iron.

"Evening lads," I say.

"Get in the car," says Gaz.

"You what?"

"You heard," Daz says. "Get in the f*****g car."

"But I've got a garlic bread in the oven."

"I don't care if you've got the Queen's birthday cake in there," Gaz says. "In the f*****g motor, now."

I hear Dubois shouting me in from the kitchens. Yelling at me to get my arse back inside.

I put down the bins. "Look, what's this all about chaps?"

"You know what," Gaz says.

"Ah, the Manchester thing," I say. "News travels, eh?"

"There's a pretty penny on your head, sunshine," Daz says. "Lucky for you, Rudenko's boys want you alive."

"And did they happen to tell you who I am?"

"Just that you're a f*****g turncoat," Gaz says. "Thought we recognised you last night. Your ugly mug's doing the rounds on a text."

"I see . . . Well, before we do this, do you mind if I take my apron off?"