An Offal Business

How shall I kill you? Let me count the ways. 

            I’ve thought of baking you alive, rather like my signature pig’s head en croute, but my oven couldn’t really manage all of you. Not all at once, anyway.

            Perhaps a bomb would be better. Faster, cleaner. But I don’t want fast. Or clean. I want slow and dirty so you get just an inkling of the pain you’ve caused me. No, agony. Pure, lacerating, mental agony. 

            Yes, I have to destroy your peace of mind, your heart and soul. Especially your heart. 

            Like you destroyed mine, you bastard swine! 

            All those times you laughed and joked with Caroline and me, except it was Caroline’s jokes you laughed at. You smiled at mine. 

            ‘I think he fancies you,’ I told her. ‘Matt! Fancy me?’ She roared with laughter. It wasn’t that funny. ‘You’ve got an over-active imagination, Vernon! Go and put the carrots on.’ 

            Sleek and elegant was Caroline, and she got sleeker and more elegant the longer we were married. While I just got fatter and squatter. Like I could defy the nature of my calling!

            Poisoning. I gave that serious thought. But LEEDS’ PREMIER OFFAL CHEF HOSPITALISES LOVE RIVAL isn’t a happy headline. 

            And then it hit me. I couldn’t poison you, but I could get you to poison yourself. Brilliant, eh?

            All those niggling little comments from Caroline about Matt’s amazing Vietnamese recipes – ‘Well, he’s been there, hasn’t he? Studied with the locals. You can’t do better than that.’

            ‘By “you”,’ I ask her, ‘you mean “me”? And how do you know his recipes are amazing?’

            That shuts her up. She mutters something about ‘all the compliments he’s had’ and immediately changes the subject.

            And I know she’s had a meal with you – and at your place. No one takes a steaming bowl to a park bench. And if you’ve put hot food in my wife’s belly, then what else – ? 

            I can’t finish the thought. My stomach’s a tight fist. My brain’s boiling with rage and pain. Look what you’ve done to me, Caroline, when I love you so much my heart’s fit to burst! 

            So, when I can find a spare moment, I look up Vietnamese recipes and – bingo! – there it is. Lemongrass chilli mushroom stir-fry. With shiitake mushrooms. 

            Mushrooms and I have a history. When I was young and stupid, some really stupid mates persuaded me to drop some magic mushrooms. Only there was nothing magic about them. I’m not even sure they were mushrooms. Six hours later, when I’d finished throwing up, I vowed never to touch a mushroom – any mushroom – again.

            Of course, I have. Well, you can’t offer a full offal menu without the odd button or beefsteak. But that’s beside the point. 

            What if smarty pants Matthew  - yes, you, you treacherous sod! - picked the wrong mushroom? I’ll have warned you enough – in front of witnesses, I’ll make sure of that. But you breeze ahead, anyway. Which, of course, you’ll do. I’ll make sure of that, too.

            ‘Invite Matt to dinner?’ says Caroline when I suggest it. Her face can’t decide whether to show disbelief or panic. The panic gives me a little twist of triumph, and pain. ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’

            ‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘I just fancied trying one of these Vietnamese dishes you rave about. A chef has to keep learning.’

            ‘Oh,’ she says, just puzzled now. ‘But you’re an offal specialist.’

            ‘That’s why Matt can do the cooking,’ I beam. ‘I’ll pay for the ingredients. I’ve even got my eye on a recipe. Apparently it’s one of the best.’

            Her face is back to disbelief.

            ‘But if you don’t think he’s up to it,’ I say. ‘Obviously he’s bound to find me a bit intimidating – ’

            ‘Oh I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ Caroline steps in quickly. 

            ‘Well,’ I smile reassuringly, ‘if you really think so.’

            It still takes over a month to fix a date. Caroline tells me you’re very busy. Or perhaps it’s just the bowel-draining terror of confronting your lover’s cuckolded but still pathetically loyal husband? Especially when your culinary skills are about to be exposed as worthless crap!

            Actually, I can do with the time. What I’m looking for is something reassuringly lethal, and you won’t find that in the local wholesaler’s (no, really, I’ve checked).  

            My extensive researches on Google tell me my best bets are the encouragingly named Deadly Webcap, Death Cap or Destroying Angel, all of which, apparently, grow wild in the UK. But how to find them? I’ve precious little spare time as it is and Caroline’s bound to notice if I spend it skulking around the local woods. 

            Next thing I know Fatiq, my unusually hairy sous-chef, and my usual relief cook both go sick and I’m working double shifts. Days pass in an offal-scented blur, which leaves little enough time for sleep, let alone scheming.

            Then one morning, as I leave, I can’t help noticing Caroline’s scrubbing the kitchen worktop like she’s trying to remove the Formica. ‘Well, I don’t want Matt thinking my kitchen is anything less than spotless, do I?’ she says. And, with a sickening jolt, I realise the date. The meal’s just two days away.

            I’m going to have to eat this bastard’s culinary catastrophe without even the pleasure of seeing him die in agony!

            ‘And don’t think you’re leaving all this to me!’ Caroline knees the overflowing waste bin towards me. ‘You can empty this for starters.’

            I calmly point out that I am understaffed, working eighteen hours a day and currently late and, when we’ve finished shouting, I take the bin out. 

            The dustbin is at the bottom of the garden by the door to the ginnel. An area that doesn’t get much attention, and only gets it now because I manage to knock over the dustbin and upend the contents of the waste bin onto the weed-strewn path, all in one smooth movement. 

            But it’s as I kick the spilled waste into a patch of leaf mould, that I see it. Deadly Webcap, as I live and breathe. Though you won’t for much longer, Matthew matey! 

            I’ve stared at the images long enough. Two fattish yellowy-brown stems, each about three inches high. I even find a paper bag in the rubbish to pick them up with. What’s left I grind into the leaf mould with my size tens. No point in leaving evidence, is there?

            Checking I’m unobserved from the house, I hide the paper bag in the garden tool store, and scoot out through the ginnel, grinning like an idiot. 

            That night I finish late. Caroline’s asleep when I get in. I’m so knackered I can barely stand, but pulling on a pair of old Marigolds, mincing the webcap and popping it into a small deli pot which I hide on the topmost kitchen shelf – the one Caro can’t reach – gives me all the energy I need. I chuck Marigolds and mincing knife in the bin and go to bed happy. Which is more than you’ll do tomorrow, soon-to-be-a-memory Matt! 

            ‘You will be on your best behaviour, won’t you, Vernon?’ Caroline asks warily fifteen minutes after he should have arrived. She only calls me ‘Vernon’ when she’s annoyed with me, or feeling guilty. Looks like a double whammy today.

            ‘Sweetness,’ I assure her, smilingly. ‘I’ll treat him with kid gloves.’ ‘Sweetness’ only makes her even warier. Must stop that. Then the door bell rings.

            Enter my love rival. Imagine the tigerish charisma of a young Harrison Ford, the wisdom of a Mahatma and the glasses of Clark Kent. Well, that’s Caroline’s view. 

            All I see is a long thin streak of piss, leaning over me with watery eyes, slobbery lips and a what-did-I-just-step-in look. Oh and the glasses are round, wire-rimmed Nazi torturer style. Funny how Caroline missed that.

            Naturally I’m left standing like an over-ripe lemon as they spend the first five minutes gushing over each other. Finally, I snatch the two carrier bags the piss-streak’s holding.

            ‘Tonight, young Matthew,’ I announce, ‘I am your sous chef. I’ll just set up in the kitchen.’

            His face drops. ‘Oh no. I'm used to working on my own.’ Suddenly we’re playing tug-of-war with Waitrose bags for life.

            ‘I’m sorry, Matthew. I have professional standards in my kitchen. I can’t possible compromise them.’

            ‘Oh Vernon, you make beans on toast in your underpants!’ snaps Caroline. ‘Let the man get on with it.’

            With magnificent restraint I say calmly, ‘But how else am I going to learn his wisdom, darling?’

            Caroline’s face is wide-eyed disbelief. But you, you narcissistic twat, you buy it! ‘Well,’ his grip relaxes, ‘if you’re happy to give me a free hand – ’

            Why not, I scream silently. You’re fingering everything else I hold precious! 

            In the kitchen Caroline hovers, clearly hoping to keep the peace. We watch you set out the ingredients. I prod a container. 

            ‘So are these the shit ache mushrooms, then, Matthew?’ 

            ‘Actually it’s pronounced “shi-tar-kay”, Vernon,’ you say. ‘And do call me “Matt.”’

            ‘Right you are, Matthew,’ I smile, ignoring Caroline’s quick glare. ‘Got to be careful with mushrooms, you know. Mistake could be very nasty.’

            ‘I’m sure Matt knows what he’s doing,’ Caroline chimes in. I’m sure he bloody does, too, but not in the kitchen!

            ‘To save time,’ you say, ‘I’ve already minced the lemongrass and the garlic in my mini-blender at home.’

            ‘I’d never have known to do that, Matthew,’ I say. ‘Do tell me more.’

            And you’re off. I can’t express the joy I get from being patronised by a literally steaming idiot. Even Caroline sidles off after five minutes – ‘to set the table’, which she did two hours ago. Ten minutes later all my nods, smiles and ‘wows’ of admiration have reduced me to a seething frenzy. 

            ‘And we’re done,’ you beam at me. I look at you blankly, befuddled by the red mist.

            Your beam broadens. ‘Plates when you’re ready, Vernon.’ I hand them over. ‘You know,’ he adds as he fills them, ‘when Caroline first mentioned what you did I thought she said you were an “awful” chef.’ You chuckle, spindly shoulders heaving.

            ‘That’s hysterically amusing, Matthew,’ I say. 

            Your face straightens. ‘Actually, Vernon, I’m glad we have this chance to talk. I have a little confession to make. About Caroline and I.’

            My blood freezes. If I were holding a meat cleaver, which sadly I’m not, the handle would be splintering in my hand. At least you have the decency to look nervous.

            ‘But let’s eat first,’ you say brightly, reaching for the plates. Then start as I squeeze in front of you.

            ‘Let me do that, Matthew. After your incredible generosity, the least I can do is provide the service.’ 

            Wisely, you nod. ‘Of course.’

‘Make yourself comfortable. Be there in two shakes.’

            I stand deathly still, heart thumping, till I hear voices from the front room. Then I whip open the cupboard, scramble around the top shelf for my deadly deli pot. Just as my fingers snag the lid, Caroline bursts in. 

            ‘Vernon, what’s the hold up? Matt says it has to be served steaming!’

            The pot snaps upright under my fingers. The lid pops off. Mushroom fragments spray the worktop. They’re in my face, my hair, the FOOD!

            AAAAAGH!’

            ‘Vernon, what are you doing!’

            ‘It’s a garnish,’ I gabble. ‘Last minute touch.’

            ‘Touch? It’s more like a punch! It’s everywhere!’

            She reaches for a plate.

            ‘Don’t touch! DON’T TOUCH!’

            She’s staring at me as if I’m going mad. I am going mad. Grabbing a knife I begin scraping the top layer off each serving, sweeping dollops into the sink.

            Caroline’s still staring at me. ‘Vernon,’ she says, ‘you’re wasting half the meal! Let me - ’

            ‘NO!’ I make her jump. ‘I’ll be there – I’ll be there!’

            ‘Vernon,’ she warns, ‘you come straight in.’ And, thank God, she goes.

            I want to bite my knuckles. I want to scream. OFFAL CHEF SLAUGHTERS SELF, SPOUSE AND FANCY MAN IN MUSHROOM MISHAP. The headline burns itself into my brain. 

            How can I have been so maniacally stupid? How can I have put my beloved’s life at such an insane risk! What was I thinking!

            Actually, at the minute, I’m finding thinking a teeny bit hard. But I know I have to face you and Caroline. 

            I gather up the plates. I may have piled them on top of each other. 

            ‘Vernon!’ Caroline shrieks at me as I walk into the living room. ‘Why have you piled the plates on top of each other!’

            I look down. Fried mushrooms are mysteriously dripping all over the carpet. You and Caroline stare at me, which strikes me as quite rude. You’re sitting at opposite ends of the dining table, leaving an empty seat between them. It feels like an inquisition.  

            ‘Why don’t you join us, Vernon?’ you say. You look as if I might attack you with a meat cleaver, which feels like a familiar thought. 

            ‘OK.’ I nod, but I have to put the plates down first. For some reason the floor has started billowing like the sea and I’m afraid I’ll drop something.

            Sitting helps a bit, but it doesn’t stop the walls and the ceiling gently billowing, too.

            ‘Vernon,’ you say, ‘I’m afraid I’m here under slightly false pretences.’

            I try to look at you, but your face seems to be subtly changing colour, like you’re getting sunburned and sea-sick in alternating waves. It’s quite distracting.

            ‘I think Caroline has given the impression we’re friends, and in a way we are now, but I’m actually her therapist.’ You peer at me, as if you’re expecting something. ‘You do know what a therapist is, Vernon?’

            ‘Vernon!’ Caroline snaps. For a second I’m afraid I’ll throw up. ‘I was worried about you. About your anger issues.’

            ‘Me? Angry?’ Her face is a picture of such furious disbelief I burst out giggling. She stares at me in horror. And then I feel very ill. 

            My head thumps onto the table top.

            ‘I’d avoid the stir fry if I were you,’ I say. ‘I think it’s – off.’

I wake up in Leeds Infirmary. Turns out I have abnormal sensitivity to psilocybin-based fungi. It takes me a while to realise they’re talking about magic mushrooms. One touch and I’m higher than Eckersthwaite Pike. 

            Apparently shrooms are easy to confuse with Deadly Webcap, or any other wild mushroom when you’re stressed out of your mind, sleep-deprived and deeply depressed, which, of course, is normal in any decently run restaurant kitchen. 

            But that’s all behind me now. Caroline’s insisted I take a break. I’ve even had a session with you know who. Apparently I do have anger issues. Who knew! Apart from Caroline, that is. 

            Luckily, though, you assume my lacing the stir fry with hallucinogens was a crude attempt to make you confess to knocking off Caroline. An understandable delusion in my over-stressed state. ‘We’re very lucky, Vernon,’ you tell me, ‘you didn’t mistake it for something far more deadly!’ 

            How we laughed. 

            I’m a little disappointed, though, that Caroline decides to regard my behaviour as a slur on her virtue rather than a sign of my deep, abiding love. But once she lets me back into the bedroom, and I’ve weaned her off takeaways, I’m sure we’ll be fine. 

            Next week, though, I’m back in the kitchen and back to normal, thank God! And the first thing I’m going to do is wring the thick hairy neck of that malingering mound of rancid offal fat Fatiq for bunking off when I’m clearly at screaming point. 

            He is DEAD, DEAD, DEAD!

/ends