CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

“THIS ISN’T BEACH Club.”

The Boss wedges a sliver of bone between his teeth, begins picking at a thread of pink meat. “No.”

I sit up. “This isn’t a dumpster either.”

“No. No, it’s not.”

“Or my apartment.”

“If that’s what you call that wasteland.” The Boss flicks his toothpick aside and steeples his fingers, leans forward in his chair to stare. Just. Stare. His spouses trade amused looks; a husband reaches across the table to daub at his counterpart’s blood-stained countenance. “And no, it isn’t.”

I knuckle at an eye, taking the interlude to examine my surroundings. Definitely not home. Definitely not in a safe place. And I have definitely—I glance down—had my personal space compromised. My original getup is gone. Instead, I’m dressed like one of the Boss’s help: black tie, black loafers, black pants, and a black shirt, of course. Black goes with everything, especially blood stains. I swing my feet from the table and hop onto the ground, fight the urge to pop my collar, a last-ditch fumble for personal identity.

“Nice threads.”

The Boss tips his head.

“So, to what do I owe the honor, boss?” I keep my gaze from the table, keep it fixed on my employer’s face, even as one of his wives spools a strip of muscle around a fork, unwinding it from the thing trussed up between them. It—I don’t check what it is, I’m too exhausted for it—thrashes in place and screams into its gag, a long, ragged gurgle, full of blind, animal desperation; leg kicking, the gnawed remnants of a foot scrabbling against expensive wood. I ignore it. Not my problem, not my place.

“We heard there was a complication.”

“I didn’t mention any of you, if that’s what you’re asking.” My response is immediate, guarded.

“Yes.” He beams. “We know.”

Crack. Their dinner screeches again.

I cough into a fist and take a meaningful step backwards, hear the slither of silk against steel. I don’t look; there’s no need. My imagination populates the gaps with demurely garbed valkyries, vacant-eyed, unsmiling, bodies and lives committed to the fulfilment of their master’s impulses. “Glad everyone’s on the same page, then. And since we all know that there was no foul and no harm, I’m going to—”

“I never said you could leave, Rupert.” The Boss removes his bib, an ostentatious flurry of white ruffles branded with a bright red lobster, and stands. Even without stage lighting, the man’s an impressive specimen: Olympian silhouette, custom-tailored Desmond Merrion in the most expensive shade of too-damn-much, a patina of make-up so expertly applied that you’d almost believe it’s his own skin. “We need to talk.”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.” I don’t quite keep the whine from my words but I have an excuse, damn it.

There’s something fundamentally uncomfortable about watching a ghoul walk towards you. Call it a lizard brain thing, if you want. It probably relates. The ghouls wrench at their limbs, dragging them on axes too wide by half, joints twisting and crunching through a boneless imitation of human locomotion, infinitely sleeker, exponentially more unsettling.

The Boss stops about three inches away, a distance best described as ‘unnecessarily personal.’ I can smell the carrion on him, a dull stink of rot and metal. He grins. I wish they’d all stop grinning so much. “Do you have a passport, Rupert?”

“What? I mean, yes. Yes, I do. But also, what?”

Crack. Then: crack again, but a flimsier sound the second time around, like eggshells being splintered, or a skull being opened.

“Excellent. Go home and pack up. You’ll be going to London.”

“What?”

His eyebrows rise. Behind him, a team of Amazonian blondes scurry to replace the carcass on the table, swapping the mangled detritus for a fresh entrée. I hear a whisper of silverware, before the muffled wailing renews. Female, this time. Healthy. Marathon runner, judging from that lung capacity.

“You’re going to London.”

“I heard that part.”

“And?”

I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “And I—well, I guess I’d like to know why exactly I’m going to London?”

The Boss rolls his eyes to the ceiling, where a blasphemous fresco of the Prophet straddles the dining space, lovingly uplit in gold. “Rupert. I’m disappointed. What happened to the snivelling yes-man that wouldn’t think twice about putting a foot through a man’s throat? What happened to your people-pleasing skills? Because I’m. Not. Pleased. With this. Oh, no. What happened to your understanding of our roles in this existence? Mine is to command. Yours is to roll over and beg.”

The Boss is fast. Faster than I remember, faster than human reflex can accommodate. He rams me into a wall, hand around my windpipe, elevates me so that my feet dangle over the floor. And squeeeezes. I twitch, impotent, every breath now a choking wheeze, saliva singeing tear ducts. “Boss.”

“Meat,” He spits. “You’re meat. Do not ever forget what you are. Meat. Food for the worms, food for the ghouls. Walking, talking, shitting food. And food, Rupert—food doesn’t talk back to its betters. Do you understand that? Do you get where I’m coming from?”

“Yes, boss,” I burble.

“If I tell you to jump, you ask how high; if I tell you to eat dog shit, you ask me for cutlery. If I tell you to gut yourself, you ask if I’d like to have your intestines braised, broiled or beer-battered and airfried—”

“But it’s really hard to cook when you’re disemboweled, boss.”

Unexpectedly, the boss laughs, airy and pleasant, a businessman on a cruise. He releases his grip and I plummet onto the ground, hacking convulsively, the air scraping my throat like the flat of a knife. I stroke fingers across my neck: the flesh is puffy, raw to the touch. Yeah, that will definitely bruise in the morning.

“Oh, that wit of yours, Rupert. I’d miss it if it were gone. Don’t ever lose it. We’d have to eat you otherwise.”

“I don’t doubt it, boss,” I rasp.

The Boss crouches down, his long limbs uncannily arthropodal, surreal. “But to answer your previous question, we’re loaning you to the Greeks. They’ve recently lost their cook and are dying to have some decent cuisine.”

“Wait, wait—”

“Quiet, Rupert. Before I make you eat your tongue.”

I clamp my mouth shut.

“It’ll be fun, I’m sure. Brisk English air. Terrible people, terrible traffic. Terrible fish and chips. An entire history of imperialist arrogance built into shit-colored walls and pretentious accents. You’ll absolutely love it.” The Boss unfolds, smoothing a crease in his shirt as he glides away, circling the rim of the banquet table to trace long fingers around his spouses’ silent, adoring visages, before finally reseating himself at the head of the charnel spectacle.

“Boss. You know I live for your enjoyment, but—but this is going to get me killed,” I blurt, staggering back onto my feet, without any consideration for the magnitude of my objection. “The Greeks have to know what we’ve done. And if they don’t, I’m—”

“What did we just discuss, meat?”

“Just tell me why. I’m practically on the way to the airport already. Context. That’s all I’m asking from you.”

The ghoul, older than his lineless countenance claims, cocks a playful smirk; a husband carves him a chunk of muscle from their dinner’s well-defined thigh. The nub of a tongue protrudes from the boss’s mouth, a sign of rumination; for a second, I’m optimistic.

“No.”

“Yes, boss.”

 

 

DESPITE THE URGENCY of his command, the Boss keeps me in the manor until well after midnight, entertaining a cadre of drunken penanggalans. It could be worse, to be fair. The kitchens that are my fiefdom have actual ventilation, albeit only in select sections (notably those unoccupied by squirming, sniffling ingredients). And the penanggalans rarely demand anything more strenuous than a Bloody Mary.

I make them finger foods, anyway. Not actual fingers—that’d be crass—but stacks of black pudding, accompanied by a fan of wafers, processed bone meal fried to a crisp; miniature char siew baus; nang kai tort, complete with edible bottles of homemade sriracha, sugar-glass glimmering copper in the dim. The penanggalans shrill over my offerings, gobbling hors d’oeuvres in between outbursts of gossip, intestines flailing wetly in the crepuscular light of the living room.

“Aiya, if you ask me, Muhammad has no idea what he’s getting into. America’s such a dangerous place, these days. Why lah they want to go there?” chirps one of the decapitated heads, finally exhausted of kittenish energy, hair and entrails delicately arranged along velvet bedding.

“Because very fashionable mah. Los Angeles, New York. All the big movie stars suka, you know. Some more, they say you can meet the new gods there!” replies a more matronly monstrosity. Her tresses have been clipped into a loose bun, skewered in place with enamelled chopsticks.

“Got meh? Like who ah?”

“Aiya, I don’t know. Like someone they call Big Money.”

A crooning chorus of admiring voices, blending into a single word.

“Seriously?”

The matron glances at me and juts her nose at the platter in my grip, intoning in a strained accent she probably thought of as ‘posh.’ “Do you have any more of those little cracker things?”

“Er.” I set the tray down, allowing the penanggalans to squelch closer, like birds descending on breadcrumbs. “The wafers?”

They assault the tray by way of answer, ropes of viscera pulsating, gleaming pink-gray. I retreat to the kitchen, double-doors opening with a plume of spiced air. Heat undulates against my skin, humid, comforting. But not untenanted. A male figure stands drooped over a pot of broth—tomorrow’s tonkotsu, brewed with genuine-article sarariman.

“Fariz! Dude! What you doing here?”

He peers up and beams, squirrelly cheeks emphasised by his wide smile, eyes vanishing into a cloud of wrinkles. Physically, Fariz is nothing like the other ghouls, skin sallow instead of brown, accent revealing his private school breeding. Innocuous and cherubic, he wears his station lightly, his shirts looser, preferring geek-chic to six-hundred-dollar suits. Case in point: today’s faded Ghibli T-shirt.

“I just wanted to see how the soup’s coming along.”

I veer closer, inspect the pot. A dessicated face, mostly bled of collagen, glares up. The soup itself looks fantastic: syrupy yellow, gelatinous, the steam silky with the promise of flavor. Absently, I scoop more Marmite into the seething cauldron; a dash of anchovies, another helping of shiitake extract. Almost perfect. If it wasn’t against six kinds of humanitarian laws, I’d put the recipe online. I grab the lid and close off the view, before smiling desperately at Fariz. “It’s going great. Better than I am, at any rate.”

Truth be said, I actually like the ghoul. Ignoring the dietary predilections, the unfortunate need to develop shisha blends from flavored man-rind, Fariz could almost pass for normal.

He scratches at the back of his scalp, nails only fractionally too long. “I know! I know. I’m sorry. We weren’t expecting the company. Uncle’s extremely big on courtesy—”

A lie, but I take it. He always means well. “Yeah, it’s fine. That isn’t my problem. I—”

“I know.” Fariz winces, retreating behind a rack of condiments, looking uncomfortable. “I know about the, uhm, London trip. It’s sudden. But there’s a point to it. It’s to keep you safe.”

“Are you serious?” I cross my arms. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“And Uncle, he—I—” Fariz deflates, palms fanned out. “Look, it’s meant to be a test. Do well and we give you a get-out-of-jail-free card. Do superbly, and Uncle might even consider a raise, or a place on the family property. You know. Stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff,” he repeats, hangdog, begging for a break.

I sigh, relenting, and sigh again when Fariz brightens. “You sure this isn’t some kind of double-crossing whatever-you-want-to-call-it?”

Exhaustion has clearly minced my capacity for language.

“I’m sure.” A beat. “Well, no. I’m not sure. But I’m sure Uncle likes your food, which counts for something. Cannibal chefs are in short supply.” Another pause, longer, more thoughtful. Fariz shrugs, meek, stoop-shouldered. “You know how it is with him. He schemes. Something is always up, but it’s not like he’s going to spend that much money just to get you shot, right?”

“I know you say that to make me feel better, but somehow it’s not working.”

“Best I’ve got.”

I consider needling him further, but there’s no point. I dig two fingers into my shoulder blade and rotate the adjacent arm, wincing as muscles realign and ligaments click into place. “I thought the Greeks were in Vegas? The Olympus?”

He shrugs. “They’re everywhere, but the big bosses are in London since, like, forever.”

“Fair enough. Mamak?”

“I guess Man Utd is playing tonight.”

“Liverpool’s going to win.”

“Hah. Sure. Let’s go. I’ll get the shisha.”