The Tasting Menu

Tea/Coffee and Petit Fours

It was always nice to get a good long queue. They stretched from Michael’s signing table at the back of the store, along “CHILDREN’S”, past “RELIGION & POLITICS”, via “CRIME & THRILLER”, and all the way out through the front door. Where the punters could amuse themselves while they waited by taking selfies in front of a very impressive window display featuring a big poster screaming “INTERNATIONAL #1 BESTSELLER M.D. HARRIS SIGNS HIS NEW BLOCKBUSTER THRILLER: THE TASTING MENU!”, stacks of books, and the cannibal dinner party one of the booksellers had mocked up out of papier mâché and a ton of red paint.

It was a good queue for Aberdeen — lots of excited chatter in the ranks as they waited to meet their literary idol and get their books signed.

His new publisher had even sent a publicist along to hold his hand, buy him dinner, and keep the more-obvious nutters at bay. Which made a nice sodding change. She prowled the queue with a packet of Post-its, making sure each book had a clearly printed note of who it was meant to be signed to. Didn’t hurt that she was young, blonde, and really rather pretty — in a spotty-dress, high-boots, and gleaming-smile kind of way.

Michael looked up from the table, Sharpie in hand as the latest in a long line of readers fawned all over him.

She must’ve been one of the regulars, going by the crime-book-festival sweatshirt clarted in cat hair. “I have to say I love your work! You’re just the best. Absolutely wonderful. I was up all night reading it!”

Michael gave her a modest little nod. “That’s very sweet of you to say so.” He flourished his Sharpie. “Who shall I make it to?”

The larger of the two could barely contain herself, clutching her copy as if it was a hot-water bottle on a cold winter’s night. “God, and when they said it wasn’t going to be a gangster book, I was kinda disappointed, but wow!” She pulled a face and bounced a bit, setting everything jiggling beneath her lunch-break-from-the-office clothes, lanyard flapping.

Her identically dressed friend nodded. “Wow!”

“Is it true Ewan McGregor’s going to play the writer? That’s so cool.”

Her friend whipped out a phone. “Can we get a selfie?”

“Yeah, can you make it out to my nan, Barbara?” The boy couldn’t have been a day over sixteen: slack of limb, round of shoulder, and bored of face. With a haircut that made him look like a massive twat. “She likes books and that, but I’m more Grand Theft Auto, you know?”

It was entirely possible that if the woman in the bank teller’s uniform blushed any harder, her head would pop. She stared at Michael, wide-eyed and trembling. Going “Eeep...” from time to time.

At least she’d brought a friend along to translate — a wee round woman with lots of tattoos, a biker’s jacket, pink hair, and Doc Martens. “Nah, she loves your books, don’t you, Madge?”

“Eeep...”

“I mean, a cannibal restaurant on a teeny island off the coast of Scotland’s right up her street, isn’t it, Madge?”

The blush got even darker, but her head didn’t pop. “Eeeeeeeeeep...”

“Yeah. She loves all that dark, gory stuff, don’t you, Madge?”

“Eeep...”

It was kind of sweet, really.

Michael’s publicist paced the bookshop floor, on her phone, a wee crease between her perfectly groomed brows. “Depends: how many Michelin stars has it got?... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Look, Mr Harris is happy to be interviewed, but you can’t just take him to Burger King, OK?”

The queue had finally gone, leaving Michael with nothing left to do but sign a bit of stock before the driver wheeched them up the road to the warm embrace of Elgin Waterstones. He scrawled his way through half a dozen hardbacks, then checked his phone again.

Still nothing new from Victor. Just the short exchange from yesterday.

VICTOR:

ME:

VICTOR:

ME:

Everything after that was just Michael texting into the void...

ME:

ME:

ME:

ME:

“Is everything all right, Mr Harris?”

Michael looked up from his phone to find an earnest young man with a big beard, a ponytail, and a Waterstones lanyard. Not quite hipster material, but not far off it.

“Would you like another tea?”

“No, I’m good.” Throwing in a “Thanks”, because only arseholes and idiots were rude to booksellers.

“Excellent. Great. Look, I know we’re officially way past the official signing, but there’s a couple more readers who’d love a book dedicated, if that’s all right?” Looking hopeful.

“Course it is.”

A smell, like oranges and washing-up liquid, coloured the air, and when Michael turned, Sharpie and smile at the ready...

Oh shit.

It was the little old lady. From the boat. And the island. What was it. Olive? No: Olivia.

She beamed at him, clutching a copy of The Tasting Menu, with the receipt poking out the top. “Mr Harris! It’s so lovely to see you again! Isn’t it, Muriel?”

Oh God, there were two of them.

The taller, jolly-hockey-sticks sister loomed over the table. “Got to say: this?” Waggling a copy of her own. “Bloody loved it. Especially the gruesome bits.”

He stared. “It... You...”

“Luckily, Olivia and I were out of the way when the place went kablooey. Dear Lord, the mess! Bits of kitchen and building and people everywhere.”

Olivia nodded, setting her jowls quivering. “Quite distressing really...”

“And what should we see, in the rubble, but the hotel safe. Cracked open like a walnut! Well, we jolly well got in there before any other bugger thought of it.” She plonked her book on the table. “Can you make it out to ‘My good friend Muriel: happy eating’?”

“Are you all right, Mr Harris? You look a little unwell. Doesn’t he, Muriel?”

“Tell you, there was quite the to-do when the emergency services finally showed up. Bit of a pissing contest between them and the private-security chaps, eh? But it’s amazing how quickly the bigwigs running the country can make things go away when they want to.”

“We had dinner with a crown prince and a prime minister, once.”

“Lovely table manners for a politician.”

Muscle memory finally kicked in and Michael signed her book.

“And now we’re opening a hotel of our own. Isn’t that something? Which reminds me...” Olivia dug into her handbag and pulled out an envelope. “Here. We’re having a grand opening! And it would mean so much to us to have you there.”

Michael stared at the invitation, then the old ladies, then the invitation again, then the old ladies...

He blinked.

Fuck.

His trembling finger pointed towards the front of the shop. “Is that...?”

Muriel checked, then nodded. “Hang on, I’ll call her over.”

It was Alex: dressed in a sharp black suit, red shirt, and white tie, carrying a hessian bag-for-life. She’d changed a bit since he’d last seen her on the clifftop — the new pixie cut suited her, but the eyepatch was a bit alarming.

She marched over as Muriel waved, coming to rest about six feet away from the signing table, by a display of Roald Dahl rip-offs “written” by functionally illiterate celebrities. Her voice was cold as a walk-in chiller. “Michael.”

He swallowed. “Alex.”

Muriel scooped up the signed book. “Miss Raith is our head of security now. Well, after what happened at Am Bòrd Mòr, we thought it would be best to hire one. Head off any trouble before it happens, eh? Not wait till half the staff are dead and the place is about to explode.”

“Ladies.” Alex performed a small bow. “The car’s waiting, and there’s a new intern for you to interview. A nice, young, fit, vegetarian one.”

“Ooooh.” Olivia bounced in place, eyes wide as she clapped her palms together. “We better not keep them waiting. Don’t want to seem rude.” She beamed at Michael. “It’s been lovely seeing you again, and we do hope you can come.”

A nod from Muriel. “Mr Harris.” Then she offered her sister an arm, and together they hobbled away. Leaving him alone with Alex.

Michael cleared his throat. “How’ve you been? You know, after the thing.”

The chiller’s temperature dropped to well below freezing. “Oh, I’ve been just... dandy since you abandoned me on that bloody island.”

“You screwed us over first.”

Silence.

Over in “HEALTH & WELLBEING”, somebody coughed.

Alex checked her watch — a chunky gold Rolex. “Did you hear? Victor went walkabout from the care home last night. Just... disappeared.”

What?

She smiled. “People with dementia are like that, though, aren’t they. Never know what they’re going to do next. I do hope nothing bad’s happened.”

Michael scraped his seat back and stood, fists clenched. “What did you do, Alex? Where’s Victor?”

“Here: for old times’ sake.” She dug into her bag-for-life, coming out with a clear plastic bag of what looked like sausages. Not the antiseptic, supermarket, comes-in-a-plastic-tray kind of sausages, but proper butcher’s snorkers.

Alex dumped the bag on the table. “You should come to the grand opening. You’ll love it.” A pause. “To paraphrase the great Hannibal Lecter, ‘We’re having friends for dinner.’” She gave Michael a mocking salute, then sauntered out of the bookshop, disappearing into the shopping-centre crowd.

He licked his lips, blinking down at the sausages. Then picked them up with trembling hands. Cold and slithery.

Michael dropped them as if they were poisoned.

Wiped his hands on his shirt.

Then grabbed his phone.

Yes, but who to call?

The files he’d nicked from the Manager’s office were liberally sprinkled with senior police officers, high-ranking politicians, newspaper tycoons, and the boards of several major broadcasters. Most of whom were probably involved in covering up the massacre at Am Bòrd Mòr, and might not be too keen on him opening that particular tureen of worms. And—

His phone rang, buzzing in his hand. Making him flinch so hard he had to scramble to catch the thing before it hit the carpet.

“JESSICA CAVENDISH” glowed in the middle of the screen.

He poked the icon. “Jessica, now’s not really a good—”

“Michael! How’s my favourite client?” Not waiting for an answer. “Great. Look, I’ve got a bidding war going on for the next book, and it would make my life so much easier if you actually told me what it’s going to be about.”

“It... I...” He stared at the glistening bag of unspeakable sausages. Shuddered. Swallowed. “Think I’ve just had an idea for a sequel to The Tasting Menu?”

“How wonderful, darling!” A purr of satisfaction came down the line. “We’ll make a killing...”