The Tasting Menu

Course 12 Three Blind Mice

Selection of artisanal Cheeses, nitrogen-frozen Sable Grapes, Wholemeal crackers, Morello Cherry butter, and Fig-Apple-&-Habanero chutney

Victor lumbered along the path, making for the restaurant. Shoulders hunched, shotgun pulled against his chest. Blood oozing from half-a-dozen wolf bites on his legs and bum.

Michael limped along behind him. “What’s the plan?”

“Why’d we need a plan?”

“They want to eat us, that’s why!”

“Nah, they want to eat you. I’m all cancery, remember? ‘Substandard produce’.” He led the way up to the main building, then down the side. Past the empty dining room. “Besides, half these rich pricks will be barricading themselves in their rooms, waiting for someone to fix the problem for them. The other half’ll be in the Manager’s office, queueing up for a go on the satellite phone, so they can call in whatever private security firm they’ve got on retainer. Place is gonna be swarming with mercenaries and ex-cops before you know it.”

“Then we should be heading for the boathouse! Nick their launch and sod off out of here.”

A snort. “Oh, aye? And how we going to start it without the key?”

“You’re a career criminal: HOT-WIRE THE BASTARD!”

Victor shuffled to a halt, outside a set of glazed double doors. “You ever hot-wired a fancy-arse boat? Cause I haven’t. Wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, they’ll come after us. This type always do. And they’ve got those private security firms, remember?”

Sod...

“So, what’s — the — bloody — plan?”

A shrug. “I was thinking something like this.” Victor raised his boot and slam-kicked the doors wide. They bounced off the walls, booming and rattling as he marched inside.

Bloody hell.

Michael hurried in after him, palm sweating on the knife’s grip.

Paintings hung on the corridor wall, interspersed with floral arrangements, four doors leading off: one at the end was marked “RECEPTION”; one on the right, “DINING ROOM”; and a matching pair on the left, “KITCHEN — IN” and “KITCHEN — OUT”.

Michael tried not to sound absolutely terrified. “What if they’re gathering the rest of the staff?”

“Course they are. Wouldn’t you?” Ever the rebel, he shoved his way in through the “OUT” door, shotgun at the ready.

It was a large, well-equipped working kitchen, bustling with activity as the Chef and his staff prepped for lunch. Some sort of classical music wafted out from hidden speakers, all lilting woodwind and strings, because apparently this wasn’t the sort of sweary-shouty culinary battleground you saw on TV.

A wall-mounted board sat on the wall, above the prep area, with a ten-by-two grid on it. Four of the squares were blank, but the other sixteen each contained the photo of a guest, their name, and any dietary requirements. A young man in chef’s whites was up on a chair, taking down Victor’s picture, while everyone else chopped and sliced and whisked and simmered...

The kitchen brigade came to fourteen in total: a mix of male and female, all wearing Am-Bòrd-Mòr-branded whites with their name and position embroidered on the chest. The only things missing were the stupid soufflé hats.

The Chef stood in the centre of his kingdom, thinly slicing raw meat. Could be beef tartare, could be carpaccio of Jehovah’s Witness. With this place, who could tell?

And nobody seemed to have noticed that two bloody and dishevelled, weapon-wielding — and in Michael’s case, dripping-wet — middle-aged men had just staggered into their domain.

That is, until an electronic chime sounded from the speakers, and the music fell silent.

It was replaced by the Concierge’s voice: “Valued colleagues, I’m sorry to say that the unthinkable has happened and two of our guests have made a mockery of our hospitality and become violent.” A long-suffering sigh crackled free. “If you see either Mr Harris or Mr McAllister, please consider them to be extremely dangerous. Especially Mr McAllister.”

With that, the music swelled again, and every head in the place turned to stare at Victor and Michael.

The Sous Chef grabbed herself a meat-tenderising hammer; the Friturier a paring knife and a frying pan; while the Plongeur satisfied himself with a heavy-bottomed saucepan from the pot sink, still dripping with soap suds. The three of them advanced through the maze of stainless-steel worktops.

The Chef put down his knife. “Now, now, let’s not have any trouble. Put the gun down, Mr McAllister.”

Victor’s jaw clenched. “You wankers was gonna cook me.”

The Sous Chef edged closer. “Nothing personal, Mr McAllister. And we’ll make you very, very tasty.”

“Oh, definitely.” A smile from the Friturier. “Sweetbreads in tempura batter. Maybe a nice sour-cherry béarnaise to go with them. Delicious.”

Michael shifted his feet on the white tiled floor. Keeping his voice low. “What are we going to do?”

Victor raised the shotgun. “Hands up, any fucker wants to get in the walk-in and live.”

No one raised their hand.

“Ah well, can’t say I didnae offer.” And just like that, he shot the Sous Chef in the chest.

She flew backwards over a workstation, sending a Commis Chef’s chopped veg exploding into the air — a brunoise of carrots, onion, and fennel mingling with the mist of blood.

The thundering BOOM echoed back and forth between the metal-lined walls.

Victor waited for it to fade away, then sniffed. “Let’s try that again. Hands up, any fucker—”

The entire brigade grabbed their nearest weapon and charged.

Victor’s second shotgun blast took the head clean off the Plongeur, bright red fountaining up to the ceiling as his heavy-bottomed pan clang-clattered down against the floor.

The Friturier must’ve slipped on the spilled washing-up foam, because she went over backwards — her skull bounced off the floor with a sharp crack.

A berserker’s howl tore through the classical music, and the Saucier leapt over the Plongeur’s headless corpse, swinging a big bottle of sherry vinegar. Victor didn’t even have time to break the shotgun, never mind reload. So he used the thing as a baseball bat — the gun’s butt smashing into the Saucier’s face, sending him spinning like a top. And down he went.

“YOU’RE RUINING LUNCH!” The Poissonier hurdled the fallen bodies, wheeching a filleting knife around her head like a bendy-bladed samurai sword.

Victor grabbed her arms, but she was a big lass — pushing him against the worktop, bending him over backwards. The blade inched closer and closer to his eye. “Little help!”

Michael blinked at the dirty-big butcher’s knife in his hand, then at Victor. Yeah, no way he was ready to stab anyone. But he couldn’t just stand there, doing nothing, while she filleted Victor...

So Michael grabbed the Plongeur’s fallen, soapy pan and whanged the Poissonier in the face with it. Teeth and blood sprayed out across the stainless-steel surfaces, but she stayed upright. A second blow took care of that.

Yeah! That was more like it.

He could do this.

Michael surged forward as Victor reloaded, parrying the Boucher’s cleaver with the pot.

The Boucher snarled and swung again, but Michael ducked — only just in time, because the blade lopped an inch off his hair, before embedding itself horizontally across the Commis Chef’s face. As if he’d just grown a metal shelf in the middle of his head. Eyes wide, the Commis Chef slumped forward into a hot frying pan and stayed there, sizzling.

“Now look what you’ve done!” The Boucher lunged for another knife, but Michael shoulder-charged him — sending the big bastard stumbling forward. Bringing his reaching hand into contact with the bacon slicer. Bits of finger bounced off the worktop as screams ripped free and bright scarlet spurted all over the splashback.

Victor’s shotgun roared again, and the Boulanger parted company with her lower jaw.

A narrow-faced, muscly bastard advanced on Michael, Frankenstein-tall, with a red beard and “RÔTISSEUR” embroidered on his chef’s whites. He held a big metal roasting tin in his left hand, while the right clutched a meat thermometer like a stainless-steel stiletto — the metal spine flashing forward, straight at Michael’s face.

Blood sparked from Michael’s cheek, swiftly followed by stinging, searing pain. He retaliated with the pan, but it clanged against the Rôtisseur’s roasting-tin shield.

The meat thermometer stabbed again, catching the sleeve of Michael’s jacket, jabbing straight through the soggy leather, inflicting what had to be terrible damage to his arm, then out the other side.

Michael screamed and flailed his mortally punctured arm, tearing the thermometer from the Rôtisseur’s grasp as the big pot skittered away across a workstation.

The Rôtisseur grabbed him by the face, shoving him along the stainless-steel surface towards the built-in deep-fat friers and their roiling tanks of scalding fat.

No...

Another BOOM rattled around the kitchen, red mist tainting the air with copper and salt as the Entremetier lost a big chunk of his chest.

The friers loomed closer.

OK, Michael was officially ready to stab someone.

But the butcher’s knife just bounced off the Rôtisseur’s shield.

A snarl and the big bastard slammed the roasting tin down on Michael’s hand, sending the blade clattering off to join the heavy-bottomed saucepan. Then he went back to dragging Michael towards his deep-fried doom.

There had to be something...

Michael’s fingers latched on to what looked like a turkey baster. But jabbing it into the guy’s neck achieved bugger all — the bloody thing wasn’t even sharp enough to break the skin.

A smile ripped across the Rôtisseur’s face. “Just be glad I didn’t panné you first!”

Jesus, buggering, wankfuck...

The Rôtisseur reached out and cranked up the temperature on the friers, setting the hot fat crackling and spitting. “I think... medium rare.”

Ah!

Michael thrust the turkey baster’s nozzle into the boiling oil, squeezed the bulb, then let it swell with an in-rush of grease. He snatched the thing up, bringing the nozzle an inch from the Rôtisseur’s eyes, and crushed the bulb again. Turning his own head away, covering his face with a leather-and-temperature-probe-clad arm as the scalding splashback rained down.

There was a moment of shocked silence, a hard intake of breath, and the Rôtisseur howled. Rearing back, both hands over his freshly cooked eyes. Screaming and screaming and screaming.

The shotgun barked again, and this time everyone... sort of shuffled to a halt. Well, everyone who was left: only the Pâtissier, the Garde Manger, the other Commis Chef, and the Chef himself were still standing. The rest of la Brigade de Cuisine were either unconscious, screeching in pain, or dead.

“Last chance.” Victor reloaded, then aimed the gun at the Chef’s bald head. “‘Hands up, any fucker who wants to get in the walk-in fridge and live.’”

One by one, the survivors raised their hands.

“Aye, I thought as much. Mikey, get the door.”

Clutching his punctured arm — and being really brave, because that was clearly a life-threatening injury — Michael limped over to the walk-in and opened the door.

Victor nodded at the remaining staff. “In. And take these bastards with you. Even the deid ones.”

Took a while, but eventually they dragged their fallen comrades into the walk-in fridge, then went back for the walking wounded. Including the Rôtisseur, whose eyes now looked like soft-poached eggs in his bright-red, blistered face. No tears, though. Either because he was phenomenally stoic, or because Michael had cooked his tear ducts...

Soon as they were all inside, Michael slammed the heavy door shut and secured it with a sharpening steel through the hasp. They were going nowhere.

Victor picked the big knife off the workbench and held it out. “You OK?”

Seriously?

“No!” Michael held up his arm with the temperature probe sticking through it. “Look at me! HOW COULD I BE OK?”

“Hud on.” Victor hooked two fingers around the display and yanked the whole thing free. “Better?”

Michael screamed — scrambling out of his leather jacket to expose the pumping fountain of arterial blood that painted the... Hold on. A teeny red welt snaked across his bicep.

“Oooo, nasty. We may have to amputate.” Victor flipped the cover off the walk-in fridge’s controls and poked at the buttons, sending the numbers on the display tumbling down from four degrees centigrade to one. But no matter how many times he prodded, it wouldn’t go any lower. “With any luck the bastards’ll still get hypothermia.”

Michael grabbed a handful of J Cloths and wiped the grease from his face. Or at least spread it around a bit. “What now?”

“Now we get ourselves a wee insurance policy, then we nick the boat keys, and then we do a runner, before the professional vicious bastards arrive. OK with you?”

“Bloody wonderful.”

Michael limped back out into the corridor, the skin on his neck and the top of his head beginning to itch where the boiling-fat splashback had hit. Because he wasn’t sore enough already. With his burning throat, throbbing knees, and aching fingers. Hair was greasy as hingin’ mince too.

Victor hurpled along behind him, taking bites out of a chicken leg he’d found in the kitchen. “Sure you don’t want some?”

“Lost my appetite.” What with all the bloodshed and destruction.

“Shame, it’s got a chimichurri sauce that’s really...” He stopped dead as the door at the end burst open and two small figures leapt into the corridor, both dressed in grey-and-black housekeeping uniforms with red pinnies on over the top. One male, one female, with delicate, doll-like features and identical haircuts — like the waiters. Only shorter.

They glared at Victor and Michael, then launched into a whirling display of martial-arts punches and kicks, sweeping legs and arms, ending the display poised like cobras, ready to strike.

Michael swallowed and tightened his grip on the dirty-big knife.

Hadn’t they been through enough?

And this pair looked really sodding dangerous, so, maybe—

Victor’s shotgun bellowed, and blood Jackson-Pollocked across the white walls. The woman stared at her fallen comrade/brother, then bared her teeth and charged. The shotgun roared again. One more scarlet painting added to the hotel’s collection.

Michael frowned at the fallen bodies, then at Victor. “Alex said you were just a bagman. A glorified bean counter.”

“Did she?” He broke the shotgun, ejecting the spent cartridges, and slotted two more into place. “That’s nice.” Clack. He stepped over the housekeepers and shoved through the door into Reception.

No sign of anyone, but a smear of dark red marred the desk’s polished surface — the only hint that things might not be OK in Hotelworld.

Victor marched round behind the desk and kicked the Manager’s door open. Shoulders back, shotgun up. Glowering at whoever was inside. “Aye, I want to complain about my room last night!”

Michael limped in after him, knife at the ready.

It was a large office, with a tartan carpet and lots of hunting prints. A leather-button sofa sat beneath an array of Scottish mountaintops, a pair of matching armchairs bracketing an olde-worlde coffee table, while a row of filing cabinets sat against the opposite wall.

An ugly modern desk looked very out of place at the end of the room, topped by a slim laptop, an ashtray, and a United-Nations-style microphone with two red buttons. And the whole place was bathed in the sweet, leathery scent of cherry pipe tobacco.

The Concierge leaned against the windowsill, still dressed in her cloak, the hood thrown back. No sign of the Bellboy or Alex.

A man sat behind the desk: thin, with gravestone features; shoulder-length grey hair; a tweed three-piece suit; and a clipped public-school accent. “Ah, Mr McAllister. I understand you’re unhappy with your stay at Am Bòrd Mòr?”

“‘Unhappy’?” Victor’s eyes bugged. “THESE BASTARDS TRIED TO KILL AND EAT ME!”

A small sigh slipped free. “I understand Elizabeth has informed you of Mr MacDougal’s intentions in sponsoring your visit here? If you’re unhappy with the arrangements you really need to take it up with him.”

The shotgun pointed right at his grey face. “How about I take it up with you?”

Michael hobbled over to the filing cabinets and tried a drawer. Locked. “Bet you keep all sorts of files in here, don’t you. On your ‘guests’.”

“That information is confidential under the Data Protection—”

A rattling BOOM ripped the air apart, and a watercolour of the Aonach Eagach ridge exploded, raining glittering shards of glass and splintered frame onto the tartan carpet. A trio of bright-red dots appeared on the Manager’s face, welling up then weeping blood down his cheek. He didn’t even flinch.

The Concierge stepped forward, fists clenched.

But the Manager waved her back again. “Really, Mr McAllister, this kind of melodrama is beneath us both.” He reached for his pipe, setting a match to the bowl as he puffed. As if baldy gangsters blowing paintings off his wall was an everyday occurrence. “I’m sure we can come to some form of understanding.”

They could indeed.

Michael banged a hand down on top of a filing cabinet. “We want the keys to these, and the boat.”

“That wasn’t the ‘understanding’ I was thinking of.” Puff, puff, puff. “How about we guarantee you safe passage to the mainland? Mr MacDougal will have to find alternative arrangements to settle his account.”

Victor shrugged. “And how do we know you’re no’ gonnae come after us?”

“A man’s word is his bond, Mr McAllister.”

He chewed on that for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, I suppose it is.”

Which is when the Concierge made a lunge for the gun.

Too slow, though — Victor snatched it back out of reach. “Naughty.”

She shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for try—”

The blast punched a hole where her eyes and nose used to be, making the back of her head pop like a San Marzano tomato.

The Manager sat there, lips pursed, as brains and blood spattered down all around him — filling the room with the scent of raw meat. Which actually went quite well with the sweet cherry tobacco. He brushed a clot of glistening bits off his desk. “That was... regrettable. Good help is terribly difficult to find these days.”

Victor reloaded.

Michael banged the filing cabinet again. “Keys. Or you’re next.”

Another long-suffering sigh. “Mr Harris, you seem to misunderstand the gravity of your situation. You and your friend have now killed five members of my staff and mutilated a sixth.”

Michael glanced at the shotgun. “Yeah... The number might’ve gone up a teeny bit since—”

“Which would be bad enough, but your actions also resulted in the death of one of our most honoured guests! I shudder to think what the American Embassy will say when they find out. They can be most... vindictive.”

Victor sniffed. “You wanna see vindictive, son? I once skinned a man with a Stanley knife. Now give us them keys.”

“You’d be wise to accept my offer, Mr McAllister, because if you don’t, I guarantee you’ll spend the rest of your life—”

The shotgun bellowed.

“Oh...” The Manager raised both eyebrows, then slumped forward, forehead banging down against the desk.

“That’s the thing about stage-four cancer — rest of my life’s no’ that long.” Victor hurpled around behind the desk, and rummaged through the drawers. Then tossed a set of keys to Michael, on his way to the door. “Grab what you can, but be quick.”

“Where are you going?”

“Sort out a couple wee things.” Victor pointed at the Manager’s body. “Like the deid guy said: a man’s word is his bond.” And he was gone.

“OK...” Michael stood for a moment, blinking at the two corpses, then gave himself a shake. Weird how quickly you became accustomed to this kind of thing.

Anyway: files.

He worked his way through the keys, and unlocked the first cabinet — scooping out folders and piling them on top. Which was no sodding use. Not without something to put them in.

A holdall would be nice.

But there was nothing like that in the Manager’s office.

Unless...

Michael grabbed the seat cushion from the sofa and turned it over. OK, so it didn’t have a zip, but the dirty-big knife sliced through one end easily enough, meaning he could dig out the stuffing. Then replace it with the files.

Took a bit of doing, but eventually the thing bulged like a leathery testicle.

He unlocked the next cabinet and went to work again.

Ten minutes later he had three overstuffed cushions, which weren’t exactly easy to carry. But with a bit of awkward fiddling, he got them all picked up. Just.

Time to go.

He’d almost made it to the door... then hurried back to the desk, doing his best not to step in any lumps of Concierge.

Michael grabbed the microphone.

Those two buttons were clarted with gore, but the labels were still readable: “INTERNAL” and “EXTERNAL”. He flicked away a nugget of skull and pressed both. “Attention all guests and staff.”

His voice echoed back at him through the open office door — so that was working.

“We’ve got proof you’re involved in this whole cannibal horror show. And if you try causing trouble for us, or come after us, or any of that shite, it’ll hit the internet faster than a D-list celebrity’s sex tape.” That should do it.

Bit rude, though.

Michael pressed the buttons again. “Thank you for having us.”

Much better.

He gathered up his sofa cushions and legged it.

It should’ve been nice and warm, standing in the sun, but somehow... wasn’t. The longer he stood there — on the far side of the loch, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for Victor to finally show — the more ice spread through Michael’s bones.

Maybe he was coming down with something?

Pfff...

Wonder if you could get tetanus from stainless-steel temperature probes?

Surely a professional kitchen would clean and sterilise things like that.

Wouldn’t they?

Finally, Victor lumbered up the path, shotgun held across his chest. “Had to check for wee dogs.” He bustled straight past Michael, heading for the woods. “Shall we?”

“It’s OK, I don’t need any help!” Michael gathered up the file-stuffed cushion covers before hobbling after him. “Wait, ‘wee dogs’? Victor? What did you do?”

No reply — he didn’t even slow down.

“Victor? Victor!”

Michael hauled the boathouse doors open, revealing the inlet’s sun-sparkled waters. High overhead, a sea eagle circled in the pale-blue sky. But he was sore and tired, so it could fuck off.

He was just getting the second door locked back, when the boat’s engine growled and gurgled into life.

Victor’s head poked out of the wheelhouse. “Cast off!”

Took a minute to figure out how to do that, but eventually Michael got the ropes untangled and clambered aboard. Collapsing into one of the nice, upholstered seats.

Victor piloted them out of the boathouse. He’d found a yachting cap from somewhere, and it perched atop his bald head at a jaunty angle as The Selkie’s Grace puttered away from the shore. Off in the distance, a thick pall of black smoke reached up into the air. More or less where the hotel should be.

Michael sat upright. “You didn’t...?”

“Didn’t I?”

Then a flash of brilliant white lit up the dark plume from below, tearing the smoke apart as a huge ball of flame appeared, followed by a muffled crump. A couple of Calor Gas canisters seared up into the sky, leaving brown contrails behind. One of them splashed down in the water ahead of the boat.

“Jesus...” Michael ducked, staring as the fireball faded and the smoke thickened once more. “At least tell me you let the kitchen staff out the fridge first!”

“Knew I forgot something.” A wink. “That’s the trouble with dementia, Mikey: makes you a wee bitty absent-minded.”

The inlet swept around a bend, and there — straight ahead — was open sea.

Off to the left, a figure staggered out of the forest, onto the clifftop.

Bloody hell, was that Alex?

It was! Looking more than a little singed, as if she’d just escaped from a burning building moments before it blew up. She stared out at the launch, then rushed towards them, waving her arms. “HEY! OVER HERE!”

Victor curled his lip. “Can you hear anything?”

Michael scowled. “Maybe it’s the wind.”

“COME ON, YOU KNOW I WAS ON YOUR SIDE ALL ALONG, RIGHT? IT WAS A TRIPLE-CROSS! THEY THOUGHT I WAS WORKING FOR THEM, BUT I WAS UNDERMINING EVERYTHING THEY DID!”

Bollocks.

“WHERE DO YOU THINK I’VE BEEN THIS WHOLE TIME? BREAKING INTO THE COMMUNICATIONS SHED AND CONTACTING THE AUTHORITIES!”

“You listening to this, Mikey?” Victor stuck his head out the wheelhouse window again. “FUCK OFF, YOU TRAITOROUS SHITEWANK! THEY TRIED TO KILL US, AND YOU HELPED THEM!”

“MICHAEL? COME ON, MICHAEL, YOU DON’T BELIEVE THAT, DO YOU?” She was struggling to keep up now, moving slower. “I SABOTAGED THE PHONE LINES, SO THEY COULDN’T CALL IN THEIR BLACK-OPS TEAMS! THE BLOODY HELICOPTERS WOULD BE ON THEIR WAY NOW, IF IT WASN’T FOR ME!”

Maybe she had a point.

Michael limped his way to the railing. Cupped his hands around his mouth to make a loudhailer. “ALEX!”

Her smile flashed out like a lighthouse beam. “MICHAEL!”

“YOU DON’T GET TO REWRITE THIS SO YOU’RE THE HERO. YOU’RE JUST A BIT-PART MINOR VILLAIN!” Then he turned around, dropped his trousers, and mooned her with both cheeks.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Victor opened the throttle and The Selkie’s Grace surged forward.

“HEY!” Alex started running again. “COME BACK HERE, YOU BASTARDS! HEY!” Stopping at the cliff edge, swearing and swinging her fists about as they roared away.

Victor grinned. “Where we gonna stop for lunch?”

“After all we’ve been through?”

“Life’s short, Mikey Boy, you gotta take your opportunities for a good feed wherever you can.”

On the shoreline, a bunch of hotel guests were gathered together in a shell-shocked clump, still wearing their execution-party finery, with that column of smoke rising behind them. Staring after the boat.

Michael pulled his trousers up again.

“Mikey, did I ever tell you about this guy I used to know, called French Bob? The MacDougal brothers told him to get rid of a bunch of gypsies parked up on a mate of theirs’ land?”

Michael forced a smile. “Nope, never heard that one before.”

“Ah, cool. Right, so, French Bob’s not the sharpest spoon in the cutlery drawer, and he figures the best way to shift the gypsies on is burn down a couple of their caravans, only the silly bastard doesn’t know that there’s this wee dog in one of them, see?”

After all, what was the harm in listening to the same old story, if it made Victor happy?

He’d earned that.

And then some...