Novel: 'Food That Eats You' 1. Kidnapped!

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1. Kidnapped!

Voice like a gremlin on the phone, pouring aural poison down the line: ‘Delivery of filth, four o’clock.’

‘Not for me, thanks, don’t bring it here.’

‘Delivery of filth, coming your way.’

‘If you bring it here, I’ll call the police. They were just here. We’re on speaking terms.’

Gremlin pauses. ‘Uhhh… Special delivery…’

‘I’m hanging up, and I think you should either stop drinking coffee or see a trachiologist, you may need some tracheotomical (sic) surgery. I saw a documentary on it.’

Hang up.

Tinkling at doorbell. Drag knuckles on ground over to edge of void. Fight tide of boredom well enough to focus on what people are saying.

Men with knight-sticks, coffee-stained lips. Scratch my leg and look lopsided. ‘What?’

‘Yes, ah, can we come in?’

‘I don’t know, can you?’

‘Well, may we?’

‘I don’t know, I’m kind of busy right now… I’m just watching television, its my only creative outlet.’

Inspectors notice my foodscraps, probably from hunger, envious of my exotic lifestyle.

‘Reports have registered from this region, they’re of a suspicious nature, regarding the life-force of a gentleman known only by his profession… What was it, Higgins, a dentist? A drunkard?’

‘Doctor.’

‘Doctor, recently deceased, as late as last night.’

‘There’s no dead doctors here.’

‘Oh, really? We’ve had reports there were… from a certain Maitre’D at a certain revolving restaurant.’

‘Listen, the doctor lives next door and he’s fine. I thought I might have piledriven him into a table but you can see for yourselves he’s fine.’

Begrudge myself out into the corridor. Rap tap tap.

No answer.

Turn, toothy grin. ‘Look, he’s in there; he’s just not answering – he tends to do that.’

‘I think you should come with us.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Yeah, you better.’

‘I’m right.’

‘Higgins…’

Men with badges smell of overripe coffee grains. Breathing heavily, I look over, coffee grains frosted to a shoulder-pad.

‘Hey, coffee...’

‘Shaddup.’

Bumbling Looney Tunes music sees us down the network of corridors. Something tells me there’s a Russian Caravan at our backs with a giant rolling-pin steamroller. Panic sets in.

‘Quick, it’ll smoosh us.’

‘Shaddup.’

‘I can feel it…’ Primeval howl of anguish… begins to crush my legs, I’m going under… Oh the humanity.

‘Higgins, club ‘im.’

Lights out.

+

On the radio a simulcast of a political rally: General Chemistry, drumming up support for the nothing he’s done. A whisper’s been heard thorough the eaves of the sooty city. The Journalist Factory have not picked up on it yet, but no-one tells them things anyway. Decree that all sport shall be heretofore played with metallic balls for General Chemistry’s ancient-roman pleasure. A mere distraction tactic from the unexplained weirdness of the food piles. Can’t solve one problem, create one you can. The boys don’t seem to care one way or another.

‘Do you ever just feel like wearing a neck-brace?’

‘What?’

‘To take the pressure off a bit.’

‘Um…’

‘From holding your head up.’

‘Not really.’

‘What would you know Higgins...’

Open my eyes. Lights up on a cage which keeps me from scratching out inspectors brains, if so inclined. Sitting waist-high in fast-food wrappers: all the best chains. For some reason shouting... From the place where I'm sitting... Caused by something in body or out, it depends.

‘Is this where you keep your conquests… YOU’RE SICK!’

‘Someone just got up on the wrong side of the cop car...’

‘You drive like a prisoner of war – GET A LICENSE!’

Inspector not-Higgins about-faces. ‘If you don’t shaddup I’ll make Higgins sit back there
with you – and you won’t like that.’

‘There’s no room – it’s like my apartment back here. GET A CLEANER!’

‘We wouldn’t need one if Higgins wasn’t such a pig.’

‘I shouldn’t have to clean, isn’t it enough I do the driving – I thought you agreed…’

‘No, I agree on this: I’m your supervisor, you obey my commands. If I say you do the driving and the cleaning, and appear in the TV spots, and shine my shoes, you’ll do it, and all at once, if the situation calls for it...’

‘Now you’re being unreasonable.’

‘I’ll tell you when I’m being unreasonable.’ Pause. ‘Not yet.’

Phone rings for the unnamed man, the one who calls the other one Higgins every five seconds.

The face starts twitching. The hands tied, so… can’t rub it better… Won’t stop. Can’t remember if I set it off, but its really swinging now. Gets worse more think about it.

‘Like ta help ya out thar, Chucksta, but already have goods en route… Hang on a tic, mate. Higgins, he’s pulling faces, take care of that would you? Sorry, mate.’

About faces… once, then again. ‘Oi, cut that out.’

Amble along. Not-Higgins continues his personal call to possible drug-courier business contact.

‘Are we on this weekend?’ Mean laughter. ‘Poco loco!’

Burble of static from receiver, not-Higgins reels back, winces.

‘Fucken thing.’

For whatever reason, this strikes me as hilarious, so cackle uncontrollably.

‘Higgins!’

About-face: ‘Shaddap-you...’

But I was off...

‘Right, that’s it – pull over, Higgins. I’ll take the wheel - you get back there.’

Higgins sits on my lap, supposedly to hold me down, and just follows non-Higgins’ directions. Non-Higgins is a far less competent driver than Higgins, so because of his anxiety over concentrating over-hard on driving, he gets rather slap-happy with directing Higgins, who stays poker faced while he applies his palm liberally to mine, painting it all kinds of purple, as I can see in the backwards mirror.

‘Don’t flinch!’

Tongue begins to loll, blubber some jibberish about overseas aid workers and the sexually transmitted disease AIDS, and the import-export flow from cuba to the United States during the Cold War. Just the kind of thing I like to jibber when I’m half-conscious.

Lights out again.

%

The next cage is worse: its no longer moving. Smells like a log cabin: pine, perhaps. Up in the mountains. Soft flushing of the bottom of a waterfall nearby, constant replenishing. Candles, chatter. A party is in progress. Just a candelit evening at the Higgins’ mountain retreat. Appears they live together: partners in the line of duty and life partners too. How cute. Some painters arrive – The Higgins’ offer them what they have: a game of chess, refreshments, a sneak peek at their latest acquisition. They have to come inside and open a door to get from the party to me.

‘When’d this come in?’

They eyeball me, dressed white with technicolour yawn. They sniff.

‘Smells like teen spirit.’

Higgins’ sniff.

‘So it does.’

‘I’m older than that.’

‘So you are.’

‘I’d really rather not be detained her so long without medicine, I have a condition you know.’

‘And what condition is that?’

‘The condition of requiring regular medicine.’

‘Just sit tight. You’ll enjoy tonight: we're having you for dinner.’

$

Roll me out on cross, naked, wet dishcloth for modesty.

‘Maybe I won’t stay for dinner…’ I say.

‘No, I think you should...’

Guests... Painted faces, jockeys, flying kites and ducking between the trees leering down the hill to a river… Take it all in… Possible escape route: river. Appears an entire postwar generation of middle-aged doctors and mothers on call are invited to the Higgins tonight for a show, a play of some kind. Tribal music plays: someone beats the drum. Floor is moving. Woozy… maybe drugged, maybe paranoia, maybe fatigue… A bass-player, for no reason, stands in corner, fag lolling on lower lip, smoke effusive in humid night. One of them mothers a prepubescent daughter… Lovely thing, I’m looking at the insignia on her dress… There’s some historical signal on there… Catch the mother’s eye: she’s caught mine, or thinks she has.

‘He was staring at my daughter – the filthy brute!’

‘I never.’

Could mention the insignia, the dress, but who'd care...

‘I thought he might,’ non-Higgins says. ‘You should learn to look ahead.’

Wags a finger. Paints my chin with a kiss.

‘Higgins, bring out the fruit.’

‘No Higgins…’ I try.

‘We’re here to feed you… Think of the starving kids… How can you refuse?’

They wheel out a buffet-table filled with the ugliest torture weapons you’ve ever seen: heavy, misshapen fruit with spindles, small ninja-star fruit, the largest unpeeled carrot you’ve ever seen, which must only have been grown for one purpose… Some seriously perverted hydroponics was going on in these hills.

As the pineapple needles dig into my flesh my mind wanders. Send out a mental task force to investigate the neighbouring fruit-stalls. Dust for great-ape and monkey fingerprints. Issue a few directives. If I were General Chemistry I’d have the state issue nutritional pamphlets decreeing proper hygiene, food preparation techniques, instead of the current state of gastronomical laissez-faire. I’ve a few questions for this General Chemistry, should I run into him – like, what kind of cereal-box military academy did he attend, and what decorations does he have to recommend him? Build in my mind a corrosive explosive all-doubts-forgotten get out of jail device; from a no frills beer top and a reserve of creative energy didn’t know existed. Joy! Implement the device quickly, footsteps outside, pausing to give thanks to whoever I inherited this particular deus ex machina from and vowing to forever cherish no frills products and campaign for their domination of the market. Only, what name will I put on the banner… Have to invent a logo… Hmm… Dear Mr Frill, writing to inform of heretofore unimagined use for your product…

I’m running, I’m free… Somehow it worked… No time to wonder now. My feet find the boards outside the log-cabin – please no splinters – bundle my sore bones downhill, sticky soles thicken with soil as I go. Short trip down, mini-preview of the rapids ahead…

Boatdocked, loosen rope, speed… Over shoulder voices ricochet zigzag from tree to tree. Higgins this and Higgins that. Ladybug – what’s she doing so close to the edge! Ahh – rope burn!

Weathered old boat ambles along waters; plinking sounds at contact points. Suddenly a tranquil moment to look back and smile, lay back and look up, think about things I’m grateful for - watching TV with dad – our favourite cop shows – Him showing me how to… Building um… I’m sure there were times when I learnt something useful from him, but… they escape me. River’s not the most conducive to that kind of thinking, maybe.

Pictures crop up from time to time, projected on the fog – just the news reel... Or are they real? Careers advisers. Curmudgeons. Men kneeling in bushes buggering, downstream more men night-fishing and a congregation of feminist nudists nightswimming. River swims ahead, lucky someone’s marked it with streamers for me, or I might drift off course. Someone knew I’d come this way. There’s only one river, but still. Leaving behind the city of dun, gradually, as the river develops from rapids to Sunday afternoon walks the scenery becomes sleepy and green.

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