Читать книгу Sex, Lies & Crazy People - John Hickman - Страница 23

As surely as salmon swim upstream, I knew I should replace their meals with an abject

apology. Not tip their meals over their heads hot enough to melt their faces like in the film The House Of Wax.

I calmed down.

Unlike Hitler I wasn’t about to bite a cyanide capsule or eat my gun. Where the fuck was Dad for this crapola? Nice and cosy holed up in his office, fussing with paperwork and gobbing off to lesser mortals like me.

When Chef Peter finished baking those plates under the new turbo gas grill we were surprised they hadn’t cracked or shattered.

“Well, that’s a good start,” I muttered, drawing deeply on my cigarette as though it were a lifesaver.

“A backhanded compliment to plates Made in Taiwan, if you ask me,” Gran said.

“But how do we carry them without looking like we’re juggling hot coals from

Krakatoa?” Justin asked in a hushed tone.

The solution came in a flash from Gramp’s darker side. “Hide the kitchen mitt under sheafs of serving cloths.”

I was in awe. “So obvious, so simple.”

“Aye, it’s a grand idea. Who’ll be taking them?”

“Justin’s the logical choice,” Gramps suggested, “he’s the waiter.”

“Aye, but slowly, lad. Not like a greyhound leaving starting gate at White City

Stadium tha’s just seen the rabbit. Remember to look like man serving at table,” Chef Peter grinned. “Not hell bent on getting away and slurping down alcohol by 3:00 pm.”

“That’s early,” Gramps kept a straight face. “But I suppose if he doesn’t start drinking by then, he could be up all night.”

“And don’t get so excited you start humming,” I added.

The plates concealed within a collection of cloths draped across his hand, he headed off, twisting and turning like a flamenco dancer, his thin cheeks flushed. I brought up the rear.

Justin placed the plates carefully in front of each diner while I served.

We stood back from their table to admire our handy-work.

One old wrinkly frowned, and said haughtily, “I—hope—these—plates—won’t—be—cold—this—time, young—man.”

Her speech had a sing-song quality to it like a scary nursery rhyme.

“No, ma’am, I’m extremely sorry,” I replied, and then almost as an afterthought, “please be warned ma’am, these plates are—umm—are certainly not—cold.”

Grand Duchess reached forward. She placed her finger tips on the edge of her plate, as if to test she’d been told the truth.

I was surprised how long they rested there.

When she withdrew her fingers, I heard a short gasp synonymous with a slight, if not ominous, hissing sound.

From the plate or her mouth, I wasn’t sure.

Her face became a gargoyle mask of malevolent distaste.

Justin and I hightailed it back to safety.

Back in the kitchen we giggled silently, until we burst. I lit a cigarette and another for Justin and Chef Peter.

“When you get older,” Gramps said, looking down at his hands, “signals of pain take longer to register from our bent fucked fingers to our tired old brains.”

“Or longer because they have more information in their brains,” Gran said.

The trio finished their meal without as much as a single obnoxious remark. They then paid their bill in full.