Catherine Shepherd
Amos was a hulking man. He moved through space aggressively, almost wounding the air as he went. He had always moved like this, even as a child. He was sweet-natured as an infant; his laughter crackled long into the afternoons as he amused himself with a ball or a beetle or a blanket.
When it came time for Amos to start school, his mother’s biggest fear was realised: Amos would not be accepted because of the way he looked.
‘Hey Quasimodo!’ shouted a skinny boy, as Amos walked up the path. His mother’s heart died a little. She would never get used to the taunts or the gaping jaws or the averted eyes. People were so unkind, and now Amos would be on his own, trying to show the other children that he was really just like they were. He tried very hard that first week. He tried to explain that he had been born this way and that there wasn’t actually anything wrong with him, that he was just different. But the lovely blonde children would have nothing to do with him. Realising that there was no persuading these children that he was not a monster, he assumed the role they had assigned him. In a remote corner of the schoolyard, far from the teacher’s watchful eye, Amos kicked and shoved fistfuls of dirt into crying little mouths. He began to enjoy it.
Those school days have long since passed, and schoolyard bullying gave way to other pleasures. One such pleasure for Amos—almost as electrifying as watching a victim struggle and gasp for breath—was food. He was hoping everything for tonight would be perfect. Tonight was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of dinner. Dressed in a navy pinstriped suit, Amos took his seat at the table, and bowed his head for a moment of thanks. The silence was palpable. After a minute or so, he looked up and nodded, indicating he was ready to be served.
When one plans a special meal—no cost too high—the extravagances that clamour through one’s usually quiet mind are outrageous: roasted pheasant with skin so audibly crisp it puts frolicking in autumn leaves to shame, truffles scouted by France’s most respected pink oinkers, and Maine lobster just like his mama used to make. No. Pheasant was far too medieval he decided, and he was swayed by something a little more Dickensian: roasted goose. He had always thought of himself as having a Dickensian name—Amos Cordington—and he had found solace and comfort in those tales in the years gone by. Those lonely years when it was just he and Pip and Magwitch and Estella. Yes. He would have a goose—a plump, succulent goose, adorned with lemon and thyme. But one cannot start an epic meal with such robust fare … there must be appetisers, snippets of heaven to dance across the palate.
A silver tray was placed in front of Amos. His grey eyes lit up and shone with delight. Scallops as big as your palm calmly sat there, flashing their pearly white smiles. They were so beautiful but not at all smug. Amos picked up his knife and fork, and with an elegance at odds with everything else he seemed to be, started to eat.
He savoured the texture. It was silky and almost forbidden. He paid particular attention to the sensation they made as they slid down his gullet.
‘Oh sweet, mercy!’ he cried out, banging his hand down on the table. The clanging of cutlery rang out through the small room. Amos didn’t bother picking it up. He finished the scallops with his bare, dangerous hands, and gave a contorted little laugh when he was done.
Soufflé was a must for this evening’s celebration. Triple cheese soufflé. It towered high above the ramekin’s edge and looked utterly gorgeous. Amos thought about how lucky he was to have such a special meal all to himself. He was so pleased there was nobody else opposite him, crowding him and making lame comments about the food—‘Ooooh, isn’t this yummy!’
When the goose arrived, Amos basked in its glory for a while. He remembered there was goose on the table, waiting to be carved, when he broke into that young woman’s house and slit her throat. The rest of her family was in the lounge room and didn’t hear a thing … they just saw the horror awaiting them when they went into the kitchen to see why dinner was taking so long. Amos smiled. Perhaps this is why he liked goose so much, as it reminded him of his first kill. Fuck all that Dickensian shit. It was the thrill of taking his first life that kept him forever craving goose.
That was twenty years ago now. There had been many more women since then. Amos had slashed, bludgeoned and choked his way through life. He had taken the lives of forty-two women, and tonight, his life would be taken. He had been on death row for three years and finally the time had come. He had escaped the chair twice already but the governor had denied this final stay of execution and at 10.30 pm tonight, Amos Cordington would be executed.
He gave a thumbs up to the warden. ‘Guess my goose is cooked!’ he roared and held his sides from the fits of laughter that ensued. The warden even chortled a bit. Managing to eat the entire goose, Amos leaned back in his chair and sucked the bits of flesh out from his teeth.
Desserts were always his favourite; ribbons of melted chocolate, lofty peaks of meringue, the pulse-quickening crunch of a crème brûlée. As he spooned the cherry pie into his mouth, he remembered a cherry pie that stood cooling on a windowsill and a certain curvaceous brunette in a green apron. He had kept that green apron and he had eaten that cherry pie. This one was not as good. But how could it have been?
As the wet sponge was placed on Amos’ head, he wished he’d ordered something else for dessert, perhaps some cheesecake or plum pudding or even tiramisu.