The Tasting Menu

Course 11 The Witch’s House

Gingerbread Rubble with Maple-Candied Crackling and Honey-&-Sea-Salt Ice Cream

The Chef emerged from one of the gloomy alcoves and opened the third door, revealing an array of bars, like the other cell.

But Michael just stared at Alex. “How could you?”

The Concierge shook the rain from her scarlet cloak. “Ms Raith is Am Bòrd Mòr’s new head of security. As she says, this... unfortunate incident has clearly demonstrated the need for one.”

The Chef twisted a key into the lock and swung open the bars.

Alex cleared her throat. “See, I realised something — why should people like you and Victor get all the nice things in life? The book deals, the luxury trips, the fame, fortune, flash cars, and fancy holidays? What do I get: a pitiful pension and a lonely old age?” She looked away. “Besides, what was I supposed to do? I’m not going in the cooking pot, Michael. Not for you, not for Victor, not for anybody.”

The Chef put a hand on Michael’s chest and pushed him backwards, into the cell.

“But... You can’t eat me! I’m an international bestseller...”

The bars clanged shut.

The lock clicked.

“Hmmm...” A frown from the Concierge. “That is true. Even a minor celebrity such as yourself can’t just disappear.” She paced to the main door, then back again. “Ms Raith tells me you drove up from Edinburgh in an electric car? I understand those are, most regrettably, prone to catching fire. Especially after losing control on our winding Highland roads.”

Alex nodded. “Wouldn’t even hurt if you were blootered.”

A nod. “Then it’s settled. Burnt to death in a fatal traffic—”

“Wait!” Michael lurched forward, grabbing the bars. “It... What... Erm... How about a compromise?” Come on, think! “Erm... What if I kill the next person you’re going to eat? You can film me doing it, so you’ll have that and all the forensic evidence tying me to the crime, right? No publisher would touch me with a stick if that came out. Not to mention getting banged-up for twenty-years-to-life.”

Which sounded ridiculous, when he said it out loud — but, to be fair, he was lifting it from a weird crime novel he’d been sent to blurb a couple of years ago. So it wasn’t really his fault.

No one moved.

He licked his lips. “Come on, you know it makes sense! You’d have me in your pocket. And I... I could bring you, like, an endless stream of publicists! There’s thousands of them working in publishing; no one would miss two or three a year...”

The Concierge peered at him for a bit, with her head on one side. Then, “I shall present your proposal to the Manager. In the meantime...” She pointed at the Chef, who thumped the heavy wooden door shut, cutting off the torchlight and leaving Michael in darkness.

“ALEX? TELL THEM IT’S A GOOD IDEA, ALEX!” Michael pounded on the bars. “TELL THEM THEY CAN TRUST ME!”

Her voice was muffled, but you couldn’t miss the sadness in it. “Bye, Michael.”

“ALEX!”

There were some scraping noises, then the outer door thunked, then silence.

“Alex?”

They’d gone.

Michael slumped against the bars and had a damned good cry.

Sunlight poured in through the high, barred window, which did little to cheer up the horrible little cell — with its single mattress on the straw-strewn floor, composting toilet, and a little table that looked as if it came from a child’s Wendy house. A plastic plate sat on top of it, bearing a congealed portion of eggs Florentine. Untouched. Because he wasn’t an idiot.

The fingernail marks gouged into the rough plaster walls didn’t exactly lend a festive atmosphere.

The only other piece of furniture in here was a plastic lawn chair — presumably because if they gave you a wooden one, you could snap the legs off and use them as weapons.

Michael wedged it against the back wall and clambered up onto the seat, then wobbled his way up onto the back, reaching for the window’s bars. But the sodding things were just... out... of... reach...

A clunk came from the cell’s outer door, and when it opened, there was the Concierge. Smiling at him through the bars, with the traitorous Alex standing at her shoulder.

Michael scrambled down from the shaky seat. “I was just—”

“Congratulations, Mr Harris, the Manager has graciously accepted your proposal, so...” Creases marred the Concierge’s forehead. “You didn’t touch your breakfast. Chef will be most upset.”

“How do I know you didn’t put drugs in it?”

“And waste perfectly good food?” The Concierge seemed genuinely offended by the suggestion. “No, Mr Harris. No, no, no, no, no.” She unlocked the bars. “It’s time for you to uphold your end of the arrangement.” A curt nod, then she swept from the building.

Michael brushed the straw from his muddy trousers, keeping his voice low so only Alex could hear him: “This is all a big fake-out, right? You’re only pretending to be on their side till we can make our big escape and—”

“It’s too late for that.” Alex shoved the bars open. “Now, don’t make me drag you out of there.”

Bugger.

Michael took a deep breath. Bit his lip. And stepped out of his cell.

The next-door cell was open too, with the same decor as Michael’s, only whoever was in there had gone. But they’d been bright enough not to waste their eggs Benedict.

And now Michael was probably going to have to kill them on an empty stomach.

He straightened his back, trying not to tremble as he marched into the morning light.

At least they had a nice day for it — the wind and rain had vanished at some point during the night, replaced by sunshine and high fluffy clouds.

Looked as if he was getting a wee guard of dishonour to accompany him to the execution. There was the Bellboy with his battered face; Cameron sported a shiner too, but the Gamekeeper seemed to have survived the battle unscathed. He still carried that shotgun, but now a pair of enormous dogs sat at his feet, like some sort of Alsatian/wolf hybrids. All teeth and lolling tongues.

The Concierge waved a hand back towards the boathouse. “This way, Mr Harris.”

They all set off, the wolves padding within mauling distance of Michael’s backside.

He shuffled closer to Alex, lips barely moving as he hissed the words out the corner of his mouth: “There’s still time to—”

“Shut up.” She shoved him forward. “Walk.”

No one said a word, all the way past the boathouse, through the woods, and out the other side.

Up ahead, something resembling a half-arsed village fete had been erected by the lochside, with bunting and deckchairs and a buffet table. But pride of place was given to a large wooden gallows.

In addition to the hotel staff, in their familiar black-and-red uniforms, a bunch of older men and women were gathered around, sipping morning champagne and laughing — dressed in the kind of casualwear you had to be worth a fortune to afford. Brother Waiter oiled his way through the crowd of just over a dozen, topping up glasses, while Sister Waiter cruised by with canapés on a silver tray.

The Misses Selkirk-Prentice raised their glasses — toasting Michael as he was escorted towards the gallows.

Someone else was already there, slumped back against the thick wooden upright, dressed in a hotel dressing gown and hotel slippers. Bare hairy legs showing off that Costa del Crime tan.

“VICTOR!” Michael shoved his way past Cameron and the Bellboy. “We thought you were dead!” Kneeling beside Victor. “They told us you were dead!”

Bruises and welts marred his face, a track of dried blood meandering out from one ear. “Hey, Mikey.” He sounded old. Tired. “They told me it’d be you.” A nod. “Could be worse, I suppose.”

Michael gave him a hug. “Hang in there, I’ve got a plan.” Then stood, squaring up to the Concierge. “You can’t eat him.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “Oh, aye: that’ll do it.”

“I understand it must be difficult for you, Mr Harris, but this is the agreement you brokered. Mr McAllister is here to pay a debt, and that debt must be paid.” She held her arms out. “Our patrons understand that an establishment like this isn’t cheap to run. We use only the finest ingredients, the best wines, employ one of the world’s top chefs. The services we provide are both exclusive and expensive.” Gesturing at the crowd. “Some of our patrons choose to settle their bills with cash. Others pay in kind.”

The Misses Selkirk-Prentice gave a cheery little wave.

Muriel grinned at him. “It’s awfully sporting of the Jehovah’s Witnesses to keep sending people round for a chat. They’re frightfully polite, well dressed, and jolly tasty to boot!”

Her sister nodded. “And no one ever seems to miss them.”

The Concierge tipped an imaginary hat at the ladies, then turned back to Michael. “Which is why Mr McAllister’s associate, Mr MacDougal, arranged for your visit here this weekend. Mr MacDougal has eaten most splendidly at our table, and now it’s time to settle his account.” She held out a hand and the Bellboy passed her a huge carving knife with a fat blade — at least fourteen inches long.

Victor wheezed out a grimacing laugh. “The sneaky old bastard...”

“Screw him.” Michael stuck his chest out. “Let ‘Bonecracker Bill’ MacDougal pay his own bloody debts!”

Her smile cooled. “You three have also eaten most splendidly, have you not? Mr McAllister represents your first down payment.” The Concierge clapped her hands. “Cameron, if you would be so kind as to assist Lachlan. It’s time to prepare Mr McAllister for slaughter.”

Cameron reached beneath the buffet table’s white linen cloth and hauled out a big tin bath. Hefting it by the handles so he could waddle over to the gallows.

The Bellboy produced a set of leather shackles and a coil of rope with a hook on the end. “Don’t worry, Mr McAllister, it’ll be nice and quick. We fasten these around your ankles, hoist you upside down, then Mr Harris will slit your throat. I’ve sharpened and sharpened and sharpened the knife. You won’t even feel it. Be over in an instant.”

Cameron shuffled the tin bath into place, beneath the gallows. “And I promise nothing will go to waste. It’ll be scallops and fresh black pudding for starters tonight, with lemon caviar, apple emulsion, calvados foam, and a petit-pois-and-sorrel sorbet.”

“Doesn’t that sound delicious, Mr Harris?” The Concierge handed Michael the knife. “We find a nice confident stroke, from just below the left ear, round to the right, is most humane.” Then she pulled out a smartphone and fiddled with the screen. Held it up with the rear camera pointing right at him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Victor struggled to his feet. “Can a man at least have a drink before he goes?”

“Of course. Magnus?”

Brother Waiter appeared alongside them, with a fresh champagne flute and a bottle of something fizzy. “Dom Pérignon, Brut, 2013.” Half filling the glass before holding it out.

Victor accepted it with a raised eyebrow. “Bit late for short measures, son.” He plucked the bottle from the waiter’s hand and topped his drink up till foam spilled down the side of the glass. Then toasted them all with it. “I’m gonnae kill every last one of you bastards. Hope you choke.”

The Bellboy knelt by Victor’s ankles, getting the shackles ready as Cameron hoisted the hook-end of the rope up and over the gallows’ arm.

This wasn’t how the weekend was meant to end...

“Wait! Wait!” Michael rushed forward. “You can’t eat him, he’s riddled with cancer!”

The Bellboy and Cameron froze, gazing up at Michael with horror. The guests all did the same, then a smattering of outraged muttering filled the fete.

“Cancer?” The Concierge’s face darkened. “You never mentioned cancer on your medical history, Mr McAllister! This is simply unacceptable!”

“See? So you can’t eat him.”

“Certainly not.” Nose in the air. “We refuse to serve up substandard produce to our honoured guests. But a debt is a debt, and as Mr McAllister is no longer acceptable payment, that burden falls on your shoulders, Mr Harris. Minor celebrity or not.”

Michael swallowed. “Oh fuck...”

Victor tutted. “Aye, you’re a silly bastard, right enough.” Then he took a big gulp of champagne, burped, and tossed the flute straight up, high into the air.

Brother Waiter scrabbled to catch it, which was a mistake. Because while he was distracted, Victor flipped the heavy champagne bottle over and swung it like a tennis racket, catching him right in the face with a splintering crunch.

Tipping over backwards, leaving a spurt of blood behind, Brother Waiter splashed into the loch. But before he’d even hit the water, Victor was swinging the bottle again — crashing it down on the back of Cameron’s head, making a deep dent in the man’s skull. Leaving him sprawled across the grass, twitching.

By which time the champagne flute had returned from its vertical round trip.

Victor caught the thing and slashed it sideways into the Bellboy’s cheek. Shattering the glass. Leaving the stem, sharp as an ice-pick, to rip the eyeball clear out of the guy’s head.

He went down screaming, clutching the ruined, bloody mess. And now that he’d let go of the rope, the hook clattered to the ground.

Sister Waiter reached for her brother’s sinking body, but Victor’s hand jabbed out, burying the flute’s broken stem in her neck. Leaving her choking and gurgling as scarlet bubbled out between her lips. Painting the lochside bright, bright red.

Victor threw his shoulders back. “OH YEAH! I’M A FUCKING ANIMAL!”

Holy shit.

Michael backed away. The whole thing had taken less than a minute.

Sixty seconds, and three people were dead.

The Gamekeeper released the dogs. “Donner, Blitzen: vorstoßen!”

They surged forward, teeth snapping, straight past Michael — standing there like a varnished turd — and making for Victor. The first dog leapt, and the champagne bottle struck again, cracking down on her skull and sending her tumbling into the loch, like a hairy sack of tatties. The other one danced out of reach of the flute’s jagged stem, snarling and barking as she lunged.

The Concierge lowered her phone. “Somebody do something!”

But her new head of security just stood there, with her mouth hanging open, staring at the carnage.

“ENOUGH!” The Gamekeeper raised his shotgun and fired a round into the air.

Which was obviously meant to subdue everyone, but Michael wasn’t as thick as he looked.

Instead, he grabbed the fallen hook — still tied onto the end of its rope — and charged, swinging the thing overhead like a lasso, aiming the sharp lump of metal at the Gamekeeper’s face.

The Gamekeeper batted it away with the shotgun’s barrel, setting both ringing. Then snapped the gun down to shoot Michael in the chest. Only Michael’s momentum kept carrying him forward, so when the bloody thing went off, he was just far enough past the shooty end not to get his guts spread all over the heather. Something slashed across his ribs, though. Taking a chunk of leather jacket and T-shirt with it.

He smashed into the Gamekeeper, the pair of them tumbling onto the tussocky lochside. Fighting for the gun. Snarling and kicking and punching and biting.

Over by the buffet table, one of the richer-looking guests’ eyes bugged as a deep-red stain spread across his chest. Then down he fell, face first into the grass.

Which is when the screaming started and the hotel guests scattered — getting the hell out of there before “friendly fire” claimed another victim.

Somewhere, near the gallows, Victor howled in pain.

Michael and the Gamekeeper struggled, turning over and over, trying to land blows, or find something fleshy to sink their teeth into, down the loch’s bank and into the peaty water. Where everything went horribly wrong, because the Gamekeeper was on top. Ready to play “Drown The Crime Writer” — hands wrapped around Michael’s throat, pushing him down beneath the surface and holding him there.

Michael tightened his grip on the hook, using it to hammer against the bastard’s head as the world began to fade and yellow spots swirled at the edges and his lungs screamed and the sky darkened and every single cell in his body begged for just one more breath.

Hammering away, again, and again, and again, the hook twisting with every blow.

And then something horrible happened.

The hook’s pointy end swung far enough around to meet the Gamekeeper’s temple — with enough force behind it to punch straight through skin and bone, and into the grey matter beneath.

Slack-jawed, the Gamekeeper pitched over sideways, disappearing into the loch as Michael flailed his way to the surface, coughing and spluttering, wheezing and choking. Hauling in great tortured lungfuls of air.

He’d killed someone.

“Oh Jesus...”

He’d actually killed another human being...

A high-pitched yelping burst out from the lochside, and the second dog scarpered away into the distance with her tail between her legs.

Then a hand thumped down on Michael’s shoulder, dragging him upright.

It was Victor — bleeding from a brand-new collection of dog bites, breathing hard, but grinning away like this whole thing was a great adventure.

Michael wiped the water from his eyes and squinted out at what was left of the fete — out of focus now, because his glasses had disappeared somewhere during the fight. All the guests had scarpered, leaving their dead friend behind. Brother Waiter’s body bobbed at the water’s edge, his sister on the shore; Cameron, crumpled by the gallows. No sign of Alex, the Bellboy, or the Concierge.

Hold on — there they were, hoofing it around to the far side of the loch, making for Am Bòrd Mòr’s main building.

The Gamekeeper’s corpse slowly rotated in the water — showing off the big metal hook sticking out of his head — till it was floating face down, tendrils of bright red twisting out into the peaty water.

Michael flinched. “I... I’m sorry.”

Victor thumped him one. “Why didn’t... you just stab... the bastard?”

Stab?

Oh yeah — he still had that dirty-big butcher’s knife clutched in his other hand. “Ah...”

“Amateur.” Victor dragged the Gamekeeper’s corpse back to the shoreline and rummaged through his pockets. “Tell you, I might be dying... but man, I feel more alive... than I’ve done in bloody years.”

“I can’t believe I killed someone...”

“Was him or you, right?”

“But I killed him!”

Victor flipped the body over and went through the back pockets too. “Aye, well, think of it as research and stick it in the next book. Till then, stop whining. Aha! Here we go.” He pulled out a handful of shotgun cartridges. Water dribbled from the puckered plastic ends, but he seemed happy enough to give them a shake and slot a couple into the shotgun before pocketing the rest.

He hobbled his way up the bank to what was left of the buffet table. Every scrap of food was spilled and trampled into the ground.

“Here.” Victor plucked something from a mass of meringue and cream, and held it out.

Michael’s glasses.

Sod.

They were all greasy now.

“Thanks.” Michael popped the knife on the table, freeing up both hands to wipe pavlova from the lenses, then polished them on his soggy, bloodstained T-shirt. Turned out, that shotgun blast had removed a chunk of skin as big as his palm. Probably going to sting like a bastard when the adrenaline rush was gone.

Victor sniffed. “Don’t know about you, Mikey Boy,” he clacked the shotgun shut, “but I’m feeling a mite peckish.”

Vision restored, Michael picked up the big knife. Wielding it like a machete. “Oh, I’m starving.”

Because that’s what he got for skipping breakfast.

A big, evil smile. “Let’s go eat.”