Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

2

ENGLAND LOOKED TIRED AND ILL as the train shuffled north-east, picking its way through the blasted suburbs of Basingstoke and then into South London. Particles of brick dust hung in the air, disturbed by the passage of the train. Slag heaps were choked with weeds and thick grass. Whole terraces had been flattened. Long lines of industrial chimneys stood smokeless, stiffly naked against the sky, in huddles over empty workshops. The cellars of demolished houses had been turned into static reservoirs, waters glittering darkly in the fading twilight. A pack of feral dogs, their owners dead or disappeared, clambered onto a pile of rubble and howled at the train as it passed. Familiar roads and streets had been rendered unrecognisable.

The carriage was full of soldiers, loaded down with kitbags, mementoes, trophies. Edward’s own bag was jammed into the overhead rack, the curved blade of his kukri tucked into a loop of fabric. The atmosphere was pensive. They could all see it: things had changed. England had changed. There had been female railway porters at Portsmouth, for goodness sake. Edward had heard, like everyone, that women had been working in factories. He assumed things would have quickly settled back down again and returned to normal. But the Axis had been defeated and there they were, women, still doing men’s work. And they had gone butch. At all ages and on every social level, they had taken to uniforms. They wore jackets, trousers and sensible shoes. It was a rum lot. Vexed comments were exchanged between boys to whom this was not a welcome development. It was certainly going to take some getting used to.

The door to the compartment opened and a soldier hauled his kitbag inside. “Well, I’ll be,” he said, a delighted smile upon his face. “It’s the brawler from Calcutta.”

Edward beamed back at him. “Costello, isn’t it?”

“The very same. What are the chances, eh?”

“Did you just come ashore?”

“Yesterday. What about you?”

“A week,” Edward said. “There were a few things to tie up and now that’s that. Done.”

“You’re out?”

“Seven years later. You?”

“The same. And not a moment too soon.”

Joseph Costello sat down opposite and dropped his kitbag to the floor. He untied the toggle, tugged the mouth of the bag open and reached inside for a bottle of gin. “A little something to celebrate?”

“Where did you get that from?”

“Ways and means. Want to wet your whistle?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

They both took their army-issue tin cups and Joseph poured out two large measures. “So what are you looking forward to most?”

“How do you mean?”

He settled back against the seat. “Now we’re home–what are you looking forward to?”

Edward sighed expansively. “A chair to sit in for breakfast and the day’s paper to read–on the day it was published without people peering over my shoulder. You?”

Joseph tried to light their cigarettes. He had a beautiful silver lighter, but it did not work reliably. Edward finally produced his ugly, flaring lighter, as ugly and efficient as a piece of industrial equipment, and lighted it for him. Joseph passed one to Edward and he lit that, too. Joseph sat back and rested his legs on the bench opposite. “Proper food off a china plate,” he suggested, “and tea from a china cup with my own dose of milk and sugar.”

“Somebody else to do the washing and make my bed.”

“A shirt with a collar and tie, and shoes.”

“To go to bed when I like in a room of my own and put the light out when I want to. And no more bloody jungle.”

Joseph laughed. “No more jungle. I’ll drink to that. Another one?”

Edward proffered his cup and Joseph poured again.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked. “For work, I mean?

“I’ll take it as it comes. There’s a family business. I’ll probably end up there.”

“What do they do?”

Joseph paused, as if searching for the right words. He settled for, “A little bit of this, a little bit of that.”

“Is it successful?”

“Oh, yes. Big house in the countryside, places in London, a fleet of cars in the garage, more money rolling in than they know what to do with–at least that was what it was like before I left and I shouldn’t think much has changed.”

“What do they do?”

“Well, I’m not going into details, but let’s just say it’s the kind of thing that’s probably even more popular in an economy like this”–he gestured out at the dishevelled landscape passing by the window–“than what it was like before.”

Edward was intrigued but he decided to let it go for fear of appearing too keen.

“What about you?” Joseph said, changing the subject.

Edward’s story was well rehearsed and he relayed it naturally and easily. “I studied medicine before the war. Haven’t practiced since I graduated, though. I’m sure there’ll be refresher exams to take, that sort of thing. And Mr. Beveridge is promising all sorts of changes, isn’t he? ‘The National Health Service.’ Goodness knows how that will affect things.”

“Socialism!” Joseph snorted. “My God, we can do without that.”

The train started to slow as they drew into Waterloo station. They hoisted their packs over the shoulders and joined the queue of men in the corridor, all of them anxious to disembark. Edward felt his stomach clench as he stepped down from the train. He foresaw figures standing at the end of the platform, near to the barriers, policemen waiting for him, patiently waiting with folded arms and handcuffs hanging from their belts. He grew suddenly tense. He had hoped that seven years would have been time enough for the fear inside his stomach to have been quashed, but it was not. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. No use thinking about that now. He pulled his shoulders back. No use spoiling his return worrying about imaginary policemen. Even if there were policemen, it wouldn’t necessarily mean anything. He had to be realistic–they couldn’t still be after him, not after all this time.

As far as they were concerned, he was dead and buried.

Joseph paused on the concourse and shrugged his pack from his shoulders.

“Alright, pal,” Joseph said. “This is me. My uncle’s coming to pick me up. I’d offer you a lift, but he’s not really the friendly type–”

Edward lowered his own pack to the ground. “It’s quite alright–I’ll get the tube.”

“It’s been good to get to know you, Doc,” he said.

“Doc?”

“Doctor? The medicine?”

Edward had almost tripped up. “Oh yes, of course,” he said, remembering to smile. “Doc–very good.”

“Listen–I reckon we ought to keep in touch. We’ve got plenty in common.” He shadow-boxed for moment, firing out a gentle combination. “The noble art and all that.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m thinking about keeping it up, doing a bit of sparring. You should come along, once your foot’s better.”

“It’s nearly better now,” he said. There had been nothing to do on the voyage home except put his feet up and read and the rest had done wonders for the wound. “I’d love to.”

“Here, hold on.” He took his travel pass and a pen from his pocket. He scribbled a number on the docket and handed it to him. “You should be able to reach me here. Give me a ring when you’re settled. We could have a spar and then go for a pint.”

“Capital idea.”

“That’s settled, then.”

Joseph pulled him in and pounded him on the back. “Good to meet you, Doc,” he said. “Enjoy being home. And call me–alright?”

Edward said that he would, and he meant it.

3

EDWARD TRANSFERRED ONTO THE UNDERGROUND. When he emerged from Tottenham Court Road station half an hour later it was into a warm dusk. The damage that had been done to the city since his departure was difficult to credit. Even now, with peace a year old, windows were still missing and there were holes in roofs. Some buildings had been pulverised, as if crushed by a giant’s fist. Others, the remedial work more advanced, had been removed neatly from the surrounding terrace as one would remove a slice of cake. It was as if they had never even been there, weeds already growing in their foundations. A fine film of dust thickened the city’s usual smog, coating everything with a patina of grime.

He passed into Soho. He had grown up on its exciting grill of good-time streets and he retained fond memories of it. It was like a tiny international resort with an ozone of garlic, curry, ceremonious sauces and a hundred far-flung cheeses. The war had not changed it. The carrier cans in the windows were still full of salad and cooking oil and you could still find dozens of Spanish cheeses, snails, octopus and Chinese cheesecake. There was Dijon mustard; Rajah-like Eastern dishes costing pounds or modest four-bob curries; sex books; strip-tease shows; exotic clubs and thirty-odd different kinds of bread. Edward walked towards his destination and passed a woman reverently dusting bottles of wine, adorned with a whole picture gallery of labels, handing them to her small son who squatted in the shop window arranging them for display. Outside, the father stood, both arms extended, directing the whole operation like a temperamental stage manager.

Eating was still a serious business and there remained sophisticated restaurants that laid on discreet shabbiness like a sort of make-up, knowing that serious gourmets do not bother much about decor. The Shangri-La was one such establishment. It was on Dean Street, one of the bisecting thoroughfares that ran north-to-south, connecting Oxford Street to Shaftesbury Avenue. It had twenty tables offering eighty covers and a small bar. Edward’s father had taken out a loan for a hundred pounds in 1936 and had spent it on a thorough refurbishment: wooden panels had been fitted to the walls and intricate stained-glass windows had been installed. The carpet, table clothes and curtains were all in dark colours and a fire burned in the grate. The intention had been to make something that felt exclusive, the kind of cosy clubbable charm that one might find in a Mayfair private members room. It had worked, to a point, but that was back then; now the carpets were tatty and the edges of the curtains had frayed. The room, like the city outside, looked faded and tired, like an elderly relative who had seen better days.

Edward made his way around to the kitchen entrance.

The small kitchen staff was busy. Jimmy Stern was working in front of the range, chopping vegetables, two large saucepans sending clouds of steam up to the ceiling. He was slick with sweat and his whites were slathered with blood and grime.

“Hello, uncle,” Edward said.

The old man gaped at him, dropping his knife.

“You want to be careful with that–you’ll have your finger off.”

Jimmy hugged him and then released him, clutching him by the shoulders so he could look him up and down. “Good lord, Jack–you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

It was the first time he had been addressed by his real name for seven years. It took a moment for him to reply, “It’s not Jack anymore, uncle, remember? It’s Edward.”

“Hell, I forgot. Edward–?”

“Fabian.”

He chuckled. “Edward Fabian–that’s right. We really should have found you a better name.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. I was in a rush. It wasn’t like I could wait around for something better to come along.”

The two nodded at the thought of it. Edward Fabian had been the victim of one of the first Luftwaffe bombs of The Blitz. He had been a promising medical student, just graduated from Trinity Hall, Cambridge. Jimmy had a friend in the coroner’s office and he had been paid a pound to look out for a casualty who matched Jack’s height, build and hair colour. Fabian had been the first to meet the criteria, and they had simply switched papers. The local council was at sixes and sevens as the bombs fell and it had been easy to cover their tracks. Fabian’s body had been cremated hastily and that was that: as far as the authorities were concerned, Jack Stern had died in the wreckage of a collapsed terrace. Jack had become Edward.

“What do I call you? Jack or Edward?”

“Edward,” he said. “It’s been years. I’ve got used to it now. And Jack’s dead. Let’s not tempt fate.”

“When did you get back?”

“Last week.”

“And you’re out?”

“I am.”

“Properly? For good?”

“I’m officially demobbed. I’m a free man.”

Edward noticed a new, manic quality to his uncle. Jimmy had always been highly-strung, prone to mood swings, but it seemed that he was wound even tighter than usual.

“Have you eaten?” Jimmy asked.

“A sandwich on the train.”

“‘A sandwich on the train.’ That’s not good enough, is it? Go and find a seat. I’ll fetch you something.”

Edward was hungry and didn’t complain. He made his way through into the restaurant. It was quiet, just a few diners quietly going about their meals, cutlery ringing against the crockery. He checked his watch: it wasn’t late. They should have been much busier.

Jimmy brought out a plate of Baked Pig’s Cheek and sat down opposite him. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing special.”

“It’ll do fine.” Edward sliced a piece of pork and put it into his mouth. He chewed; it was rubbery and dry, barely edible. Jimmy had prepared an excellent apple sauce to mask the poor quality of the meat but there was only so much he could do.

“So? How was it?”

“Up and down” he said. “Some days were good, some were bad. Most of the time it was boring.”

“Boring?” Jimmy said.

“You’d be surprised.” He had no desire to talk about the war and changed the subject. “How have things been here? It’s quiet.”

“Slow.”

His face showed the signs of strain and worry. “Are you making money?”

“Not really. Not enough.”

“What do you mean?”

He dismissed the question with a brush of his hand. “We don’t need to talk about that now–you’ve just got back. It can wait.”

This was more than enough to make Edward nervous. “No, tell me.”

Jimmy slumped a little. “It’s been difficult. Bloody difficult. We’ve been losing money. The rent, the cost of staff, the ingredients.” He pointed at Edward’s half-finished plate of food. “I can’t charge proper prices for that. The food is the same as a National Restaurant. Worse, probably. It’s impossible.”

“It’s not so bad,” Edward said, poking at the remnants of the meal.

“I’m not an idiot, Edward. It’s awful. You saw the menu? The beef is horse, we don’t have any bread…”

“Bread isn’t rationed?”

“It wasn’t during the war. Soon as we bloody well get through that, though, and it is. Ridiculous. The vegetables need the mould cutting out of them and the snoek–my God, if there’s a worse tasting fish than bloody snoek I haven’t had it. Who’s going to pay a quid to eat that? Look, I was going to tell you tomorrow but I might as well get it out of the way now. I’ve had to make some difficult decisions.”

“Like what?”

“I sold my house. There was no more money. I would’ve had to close otherwise.”

“When was this?”

“January.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There was no point in worrying you about it.”

“But—”

“There was no point, Edward,” he said firmly. “You were out of the country—what good would it have done, you fretting about it over there?”

“How much did you get?”

“There wasn’t that much to be had. I’d already remortgaged twice.”

“How much is left?”

“Not much.”

“Anything?”

He shrugged disconsolately. “Fifty quid.”

Edward could hardly believe what he was hearing. This was not the return he had been expecting. There was more to ask about the state of the restaurant, but it could wait. Jimmy looked tired: blue-black bags bulged beneath his eyes and his skin was pallid and grey.

“Where are you living?”

“Here. It’s not so bad.” Jimmy stared out of the window, his conviction unpersuasive.

Jimmy fetched a bowl of spotted dick and custard for dessert. Edward felt deflated. He also felt a little shocked. Things were different, and not for the better. The last customers left. Jimmy shut the door and switched off the lights. Edward put on an apron and helped him clean the kitchen. They worked in silence. The news had shaken him, and it was going to take some time to absorb.

“Where do we sleep?”

“In here,” Jimmy said, opening the storeroom door and stepping aside to let his nephew pass. A bedroll had been laid out on the floor between shelves of produce, bags of flour and rice. A hurricane lamp rested on the floor. Jimmy knelt down and lit it. He worked his boots off.

Edward lowered himself to the floor. “Did anyone come around for me?”

“After you went? Of course they did. The police were here just about every other day and when I convinced them I didn’t know where you are I had the others to deal with. I preferred the police.”

“What did you say?”

“That you were dead. I think they believed me in the end.”

“And that was that? No-one else?”

“The last one was a private detective. Three or four years ago. I think it was just routine by that point. There hasn’t been anyone else since.”

Edward extinguished the lamp, lay down and stared into the darkness for a good half an hour, unable to sleep.

“Are you awake?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Jimmy said.

“How’s my father?”

There was a pause, and then Edward heard his uncle give a long sigh. “Not good. Getting worse. You’ll have to go and see him.”

The day was a terrible anticlimax and, now, it ended with worry.

4

AFTER SEVEN YEARS IN THE SERVICE Edward’s body had become conditioned to rising before first light. It was a habit he would never grow out of and, that second day home, he awoke at four. He had slept fitfully, anyway, waking up and each time finding himself surprised that he was not under the canopy of the jungle and that he couldn’t hear the chirping of the crickets. It took him several moments to remember where he was.

His earliest childhood memory was of the kitchen: the clouds of steam, the smells, the clamour and clatter of preparation. The first thing he could remember clearly was an image of his father, wearing an old-fashioned cook’s smock with a huge tureen of soup cradled between his elbows. He could see the flour on his arms, his glasses pushed up on his forehead and sweat pasting his thinning hair to his crown; a cleaver brought down onto the bloodied carcass of a pig; his mother going around the dining room to adjust cutlery by infinitesimal degrees; the sound of her calm voice as she explained to a customer why their dinner was delayed; the bitter taste of chocolate that he furtively licked from a bowl. He could remember being taken through the kitchen as a young child, the heat that was as wet as water, the waves that pulsed out of the open ovens, scorching the back of the throat and crisping the hair inside the nostrils each time he took a breath. And, most evocative of all, the smells: roasting meat, the intense aroma of the bread oven, pastry sweetness.

Edward used the customer bathroom and changed into a pair of checked trousers, chef’s jacket and clogs. He put on an apron but couldn’t remember how to tie it. Jimmy corrected him, crossing the strings at the back, tying it at the front, the bib tucked inside. He paused at the front of house, took the reservation book and thumbed through it. Today promised to be much busier than last night. Perhaps there was hope. Even a broken night’s sleep had reinvigorated him and he felt full of determination. He was home now and he wasn’t going to let the restaurant fail without a bloody good fight.

It was still dark outside when they got to work. Edward opened the door to the kitchen and switched on the lights. It hadn’t changed a bit while he was away: a long, thin space with the service line arranged against one wall with a narrow pass-through opposite it. Six months after acquiring the restaurant, his father had knocked through two of the walls and extended the kitchen into what had once been a store-room. There was a cold station next to the exit door, a row of deep-fryers, two big ranges, a pull-out broiler, a salamander, a brick hearth for charcoal grilling. Opposite, and separated by a slender work space, was a long stainless-steel counter with wooden cutting boards, sinks and a new Frigidaire at the end. He lit the ranges, flames curling up the blackened wall, and Jimmy switched on the steam table. There was no way for the air to circulate in the kitchen and within five minutes the temperature had ticked up to an almost unbearable level: a wall of radiant warmth on one side and clouds of wet steam rising on the other. He remembered his first proper session in the kitchen as a fourteen-year old pot boy: he’d fainted dead away in the broiling swelter.

They went outside to the alleyway where the bins were kept and smoked their first roll-ups of the day. If Jimmy was nervous, he didn’t show it. He had always been a brilliant cook, and since Edward had been away he had become as good as Edward’s father had been.

“It’s going to be hard work today,” he warned. “We’d ideally need another two or three in the kitchen but we can’t afford it.”

“I’m back now. We’ll manage.”

They went back into the steaming kitchen. Edward opened the Frigidaire to check the ingredients: some mackerel that was beginning to turn, a tray of sickly-looking pigs’ livers, a dozen poor quality steaks. He held up a slab of meat. “What in buggery are we supposed to do with this? It’s all gristle.”

Jimmy looked up from rolling another cigarette. “I had to pay over the odds for that, too. We’ll make a nice sauce and hope for the best.”

He took out a tray filled with salted water. Two medium-sized birds, de-feathered and skinned, had been left to soak overnight. “What are these?”

“Rooks.”

“Rooks?”

‘Somerset Rook Pie with Figgy Paste. Legs and breast only–get rid of everything else, it’s bitter. You make a paste with bacon fat, currants and raisins and serve it with gooseberry jelly.”

“And it tastes–?”

“Bloody awful.”

The staff drifted in during the half-hour prior to the start of the shift. There was Pauline, a matronly East-Ender who made the fish stew and, during service, doled out the vegetables and side dishes; she had a problem with drink, and the glass at her side was kept topped up with gut-rot gin from a bottle she no longer went to the trouble of hiding. Gordon, the fry chef, had a history of mental illness and plenty of gaol-time. Edward’s father had always met him at the prison gates and offered him his job back again although it wasn’t purely philanthropic; Gordon was a devil behind the grill with unflagging energy and a high threshold to pain evidenced by the litany of burns and cuts on his arms. He kept a speed pourer topped up with rum in his rack and he sucked at it like a baby with a bottle. Stanley Smith dressed like a pirate with the arms hacked off his chef’s coat, lank hair kept out of his eyes with a faded headband and prison tattoos inked onto his forearms. He was the pastry chef, and knocked out row after row of delicate deserts. The kitchen staff had been unchanged for ten years, and it was only the supporting roles–the pot boys, the waiting staff–that were different.

They made their preparations: sharpening knives, folding side-towels into stacks, arranging favourite pans, stockpiling ice and boiling pots of water. Edward took an empty space and arranged his mise-en-place. He found a half-bowl of sea salt and cracked pepper, softened some lard, slotted cooking oil and cheap wine into his speed rack. He added breadcrumbs, parsley, brandy, chopped chives, caramelised apple sections, chopped onions and a selection of ladles, spoons and tongs. He arranged the pots and pans into a logical order and slotted his knives into a block so that they could be drawn quickly, as required. The others went about their work, well-practiced routines and roles that complemented each other perfectly. Pauline roasted bones for stock, skinned the pigs’ livers and scooped snoek from tins; Gordon blanched carrots, made garlic confit and a mayonnaise sauce with custard powder, powdered eggs and margarine; Stanley caramelised apples, lined dishes with pastry, took the plate of steaks from the larder, separated the worst and turned them into Salade de Boeuf en Vinaigrette, prepared a raspberry vinegar sauce to serve with the livers.

Edward did his best to fit in, aware that he was hopelessly out of practice. He took a bowl of scrapings and made pâté and galantine, boiled off-cuts and knocked up a strong horseradish sauce, caramelized sugar to mask the taste of over-ripe fruit. He filled a huge steam kettle with stock, a darkly simmering mixture of ground beef, meat scraps, chicken bones, turkey carcasses, vegetable trimmings, carrot peelings and egg shells.

It was awful. He wouldn’t have given any of it to a dog.

Edward went through and checked the reservation book again. They were busy for both dinner sittings. Twenty tables, four covers per table, two sittings. They would need to put out one hundred and sixty dinners. He knew it was going to be hard, bordering on the impossible, but he kept his doubts to himself.

Soon the kitchen was full of noise: profane yet affectionate insults, curses that would make a navvie blush, the bubbling of boiling water, whisks rattling against the sides of bowls, the rhythmic thudding of knives against chopping boards as vegetables and meat were diced. The ovens were turned to their highest settings and the doors left open; heat ran out of them like liquid until it seemed that the air was scorching the lungs. The temperature soared and it was soon difficult to see from the fryers at one end of the line to the ovens at the other because of the wavy heat-haze, the air squirming, like staring through the water in a fish tank.

Jimmy leant against a tiled corner, drank a beer and smoked a cigarette. He watched through a crack in the door as the diners arrived and were shown to their tables. “Here they come,” he called. The first order arrived, Jimmy taking it from Mary, the waitress, and slapping it on the pass. “One Potato Jane, one dried egg omelette, one Marrow Surprise, one Tomato Charlotte.”

That was just the first table. Things were fine to begin with but fresh orders arrived at shorter and shorter intervals and it wasn’t long before they started to back up. Starters were finished and orders for the main courses began to arrive and Edward was soon up to his wrists in meat and blood, crouching at the locker to pull out stringy steaks that already smelt as if they were on the turn. They yelled at Peter, the thirteen year old runner and pot boy, to bring more margarine and oil, and when they weren’t yelling at him they muttered at their stations, cursing, talking to the meat, urging it to cook, begging more fire from the burners, flipping steaks, poking them and prodding them to gauge how well they were done, how much longer they needed.

Jimmy called out a running commentary: ‘Sending tables seven, thirteen, twenty, thank you. Table six, two fillets, medium. Four well, two medium, one blue. Hold six, waiting for Rook Pie. Five wants Beef Salad, where’s the vinaigrette? Two rare, waiting for potatoes on two, where are the bloody potatoes, Edward? Thank you. Away we go.”

The heat got too much for Edward at around half past eight, right in the middle of the rush, the dizziness increasing in frequency and pitch until it felt as if a vice were being tightened around his forehead. He dropped to his knees, unsure of his balance and wary of toppling forward onto the burners. Jimmy yelled at the pot boy to fetch ice buckets for each of them and Edward bent down and dunked his head, the sudden shock chasing away the woozy light-headedness, at least for a few minutes.

The next four hours were a nightmare that he thought would never end. The waitresses cleared the first sitting but the second arrived before they could even catch their breath. A break was out of the question. Fresh orders for starters were delivered and they were plunged back into bedlam again. An oven went down and Jimmy had to attend to it, a bottleneck forming with orders arriving so fast that they couldn’t fight their way through it. A thick wad of them built up. The floor was ankle deep in debris: scraps of food, discarded packaging, dropped utensils and dirty towels. Edward ended up drinking the cooking wine to keep himself together, chasing glasses of it with strong black coffee and a cigarette that he stuck behind his ear until it was eaten down to the tip and burnt his skin.

Nine o’clock came and went and they were on the home straight. They cooked everything they had in a mad effort to keep ahead. The wooziness faded in and out, stronger the longer the service went on, the effect of the ice water diminishing each time Edward resorted to it. Burns and calluses marked his hands, his blood felt like it was boiling and salty sweat stung his eyes.

“Rather be in the jungle?” Jimmy called out.

“This is hotter than the jungle,” he said, “but at least I’m not being shot at.”

“Not yet!”

By the time midnight came Edward had been on his feet for twenty hours with barely any respite. He trembled with fatigue. “Keep going!” Jimmy yelled out.

At a half past twelve the last table cleared the pass. “Finished,” Jimmy shouted above the din. “That’s it.”

* * *

IT WAS GONE TWO BY THE TIME they had finally wiped down, stored the ingredients that they hadn’t used and cleaned the kitchen. They had been awake for twenty-two hours. They retired to the side exit, sitting against the wall and bathing in the coolness of the night air. Dog-ends were scattered around and an empty bottle of house wine was smashed in the gutter. Cockroaches skittered around the overflowing bins and hungry mice surfaced from the drains. The smell was overpowering: acidic like ripe tomatoes, yeasty like stale beer, pungent sweat coming off them damply. Edward was tired to the marrow of his bones, light-headed from exhaustion and cheap booze. The cold night air felt wonderful on flesh that was sore, scalded, steam-burned. He rolled two cigarettes and they smoked them in silence. It was a respite from the furnace heat of the kitchen, the yelling of cooks buckling under pressure, the crazy noise and exertion of the line.

Soho wound down around them, illegal shebeens and spielers offering late night drinks but the legitimate trade ending for another night. Drunks staggered through the alley, dragging their feet, wending left and right and somehow maintaining their balance. Neon signs buzzed until they were switched off for the night. A pair of policemen nodded at them as they passed. They looked like casualties of war, or murderers, their whites covered in blood and grime, sweaty hair plastered to their heads, nicks and scrapes covered by hastily applied sticking plasters.