Pedigree Crush with a Twist of Passion Chapter nine

Chapter Nine

‘Where’s the damned artichoke? Morley, you snivelling moron, stop playing with yourself and get the artichoke here now. I told you to prepare it ten minutes ago.’
Keith Morley wiped his nose hastily on his kitchen whites and blushed to the roots of his ginger hair. ‘Yes Chef,’ he muttered.
‘Yes Chef, yes Chef,’ mimicked James in a whiney voice. ‘Just get it here now, dickhead. If you’re not up to the fucking job, get out of my fucking kitchen and don’t come back.’ He was screaming at the top of his voice again. ‘Bloody hell, it’s not as if I ask you to do anything challenging, is it? Did your mother fuck the village idiot to have you? Fuck me.’
The young boy with the tearstained face crossed the busy kitchen carrying a bowl of prepared vegetable. James snatched it from his hands and Keith Morley turned to scuttle back to the relative safety of the prep area.
James poked the artichokes with a finger. ‘What the hell is this?’ he bellowed. ‘Oi, Moron, get back here. Do they look crisp to you? They’ve gone limp! You’ve taken so bloody long doing them that they’ve wilted. You’re a waste of fucking breathing space!’ James had taken Morley’s surname and morphed it into Moron. The nickname had stuck from day one.
Keith turned back to the enraged chef. He began to cry again and hung his head.
‘Look at you. You’re like a whipped dog. Why are you so soft?’ Keith didn’t respond but he raised his eyes, silently pleading with James to lay off him. ‘Answer me, you pathetic cretin. Why are you so bloody soft?’
‘Dunno Chef,’ whispered Keith.
‘Go and prepare another bowl. Go on, get out of my fucking sight.’
‘Yes chef.’
Keith ran back towards the prep station without another word.
James threw the bowl of artichokes at him. The stainless steel bowl smashed into him in the middle of his back and fell with a clatter on the tiled floor. The food spilled and fanned in a semicircle around him.
‘Clean it up, arsehole.’ James was red in the face and sweating with the exertion his tantrum had brought about.
The new boy was suffering the fourth hour of the first day in his second week at The Halcyon Woods Hotel. He didn’t think he could take much more.

Marcus had taken to James when he first met the lad as a rebellious three-year-old. In busy periods, the Woods children were not allowed in the bustling hotel kitchen, but between shifts, when it was quiet, Marcus always had time for them. He would give them cake and tease them as he prepared the bread for the next shift. Sometimes he’d give them a piece of pastry to roll, or a small bowl with cake ingredients to hand-mix. It was a passing fancy for all of the lads except James. The kid loved to be wrist deep in butter and flour. He learned to knead dough before he could recite his alphabet and Marcus enjoyed teaching him new things as his ability matured.
As a teenager, it was easy to see that he had a flair for cooking that couldn’t be learned. Marcus always said that true chefs were born with flour in their blood and even at that age, James had the making of a remarkable chef. It was obvious that he would go straight into the kitchen when he left university, just as Simon Peter would go into hotel management. The difference was that the eldest Woods’ boy had been groomed to take over the family business from the day he could walk. With James, it was a gift that he already possessed.
Marcus was happy to take him on as his apprentice but his pleasure was short lived. The cheeky young lad had become a surly, bad-tempered thug. From day one, James was difficult. He was eager enough to learn the rudiments of his trade from Marcus and was a keen and able student. He loved to bake the bread and cakes and produce fine and exotic pastries. He had flair and imagination, often marrying flavours that only the foolish or incredibly brave would ever think of putting together. He was creative and temperamental, both signs of a good chef. What he couldn’t do was take criticism or discipline. After his regimented upbringing he should have been used to following orders, to knowing his place and observing the rules of his rank. He wasn’t.
After nineteen years of being repressed first by his mother and then by masters of school and university, the boy was done with being told what to do. He was the son and heir, if not of the hotel, then certainly of the kitchen within it. Because he was Violet’s son, he considered himself to be the master and Marcus merely a lowly employee. It caused many heated debates and bruised egos on both sides.
Violet bribed Marcus heavily that first year. A dramatic increase to his salary made coping with his apprentice’s inflated ego bearable. On a weekly basis, he flew into Violet, and later SP’s office, threatening to walk out, but he never did. A bonus usually slaked his feelings of being undermined.
With SP as hotel manager, he and James fought bitterly until some months later SP learned not to interfere in any way with the running of the kitchen. He stopped querying invoices and left his brother and the head chef to sort out their own hierarchy. At the same time that Violet and Donald gave the running of the hotel to their eldest son, they also called a meeting with Marcus. The chef who had served them loyally for many years had become one cook too many in the broth. He was given a hefty golden handshake and two months notice to leave. His final day would coincide with the official end of James’ apprenticeship. Marcus had enough saved to buy his own restaurant, a dream that contentment in his work had always kept on the fringe of his fantasies. James walked out of his apprenticeship and into the head chef position of his parent’s hotel.
Marcus had taught him well. By the end of the second year of training he had learned everything that he should have done in his third year. Marcus was an excellent chef, but James was better. The transition was a smooth one.
With a certificate of power, James became a bully. He persecuted everybody who came into his kitchen. What had been controlled while Marcus remained in charge was left to run wild when James took the reins. The turnover of staff in the hotel kitchen was rapid. Only the very strong-willed survived more than a couple of weeks. The pay was above most in the county, but it had to be to keep the few loyal staff that could tolerate working for James, he was an artist of extreme highs and volatile lows. The kitchen ran like clockwork, standards were everything, and anybody who couldn’t keep pace was quickly dispensed with. He had inherited his ambition and willingness to work hard from his mother. But like an unwatched pan, James was never far from boiling over.

Things came to a head the day after the artichoke incident. James was in a foul mood. A fillet of veal had been returned to the kitchen with a complaint of it being tough. James wasn’t working the main meals that day but he took any complaint personally and saw it as an attack on him. The whole kitchen staff was in line to catch the fall-out, he didn’t single Keith out. Morley just managed to irritate him more than the other members of his staff.
James resented the apprentice. Morley flew through catering college as a grade-A pupil. Oh his first day in the kitchen he had dared to suggest that James might want to prepare a skate the way Morley was shown at college. James couldn’t believe the audacity of the little cunt. How dare he come into his kitchen showing off his school-taught ways? Morley had the makings of a decent chef. He should, by right of his qualifications, have gone into the kitchen on a second-chef salary, but James made it company policy to start all of his staff at the bottom. If they had what it takes, they rose quickly through the ranks in a matter of weeks. If they didn’t, they were out. Keith didn’t mind starting on veg prep. He knew of James’ reputation and wanted to please him and rise to second chef on merit. He had all the knowledge and all the skills. What he lacked was the flair and impulsiveness that makes a great chef.
From that first hour, and Keith’s fatal error, James decided he didn’t like the lad and would bring him down.
Morley knew what hotel kitchens were like; he’d done his placements. It was all screaming and temperament one minute and then best buddies in the bar when the shift was over. James was in the bar talking to some people after Morley’s first shift. The lad in baggy jeans and Adidas T-shirt excused himself and tapped James on the shoulder.
‘I’d like to buy you a drink, James, just to show there are no hard feelings and to say that I understand why you were so tough on me today.’
James turned round slowly, until he faced Morley. The lad was only two years younger than the head chef. In other circumstances they could have been brothers or drinking buddies. The look on James’ face told Morley he had just made his second big mistake. From that moment on, war was declared.
On the second day James took Morley down. He broke first his spirit and then his will to live. By the time the shift ended, Morley didn’t know if he could face another day working for the spiteful bully. He saw the week out in misery, becoming increasingly withdrawn. By day four he had no confidence left. He’d been making stupid mistakes in the kitchen, things he would never have done in college. He was emotional, burst into tears several times during the course of the workday and wanted desperately to turn things around and prove himself worthy of the job. It wasn’t about pleasing James any more; it was about showing that he could do what he’d been trained for. He stopped sleeping properly had headaches from the stress and exhaustion. By the first day of the second week, he was a shadow of the boy he’d been eight days earlier.
The last day of Morley’s life was not a happy one. Several times he’d been at the biting end of Chef’s temper.
‘Moron, get the eggs on.’
‘Yes Chef.’
‘Moron, you gay boy, prepare the garnish.’
‘Yes Chef.’
‘Moron, do me some onions. Did you hear me? I said do me some fucking onions.’
‘Yes Chef.’
‘Moron, Where are the tuna? Get them over here now.’
‘Yes Chef.’ Keith took the pan off the hob and hurried across the kitchen. He was about to place it on the board next to James when the head chef turned round and collided with Morley and the hot pan.
‘You stupid, dumb, fuckwit. What have I told you about walking round with fucking hot pans? You really are a useless fucking tosser aren’t you? Get me some spinach.’
‘Yes Chef.’
Morley was preparing the spinach when an almighty roar echoed round the sterile cavern of the immense kitchen. ‘You stupid, incompetent wanker. You fucking little queer.’ James ran up behind Morley and grabbed him at the back of his jacket collar. Knocking the boy off balance, he dragged him backwards across the kitchen and to the large range of different sized cooking rings. One glowed an intense red, throwing out a blanket of heat. ‘Look. Just look at it. You’ve left it on, you imbecile. Surely basic kitchen safety tells you that you don’t wander off and leave a burning ring unattended. You need to spend less time sucking your boyfriend’s cock at night so that when you come to work you are aware of what you’re fucking doing.’ He grabbed the sobbing boy’s left hand and forced it down onto the burning ring. There was a fizz of burning flesh. Keith screamed. His hand was in contact with the ring for a split second, but it was long enough for the ring to burn into the meat of his palm. James had lost it. He was out of control, sheer bloodlust clouding his vision and his rationale.
‘You’re finished in this hotel. Do you hear me? I’ll see that you never work again.’ He pulled Morley away from the stove and rammed him hard against the seven-foot freezer. Morley was holding the wrist of his burned hand and screaming in terror and agony. Lucy ran to get SP while Dave, the commis chef, and Darren, the kitchen porter, tried to pull James away from Morley. James turned, punching Dave Hill full in the face. Pandemonium erupted in the kitchen. SP came in ranting at his brother. He and James started fighting in the hotel kitchen, knocking dishes and utensils onto the floor.
Lucy looked for Morley, she wanted to check his hand, assess the damage and call for an ambulance if necessary. He had slipped out when the violence distracted everybody’s attention. She assumed he had gone home to lick his wounds.
Morley ran from the kitchen and out of the rear entrance of the hotel. He didn’t stop running until he was surrounded by the cool greenness of trees. The woods were deep. Tears rolled down his face and he was white and shaking. The pain throbbed in the palm of his hand and up through his arm to the shoulder. He was in agony, body and mind abused and debilitated. James had taken the last of his confidence and made him believe that he was useless. His feeling of failure hurt more than the circles of pain radiating from the centre of his palm.
With his good hand he slid the knife from the sleeve of his kitchen whites. He’d hidden it there quietly, when SP and James had started arguing. He listened for any sign that he’d been followed. All he could hear was birdsong. A squirrel stopped in the path ten feet in front of him to observe this trespasser in his territory. Even here Morley felt that he didn’t belong. He backed against the trunk of a tree and slithered down until his buttocks came into contact with the cool, damp moss. He worried about staining his whites. James would go ballistic if he marked them. Morley gave a rueful laugh. What could he do to him now that he hadn’t already done?
He sat for two full minutes contemplating the eight-inch blade and solid wooden shaft of the lethal knife. He felt no fear. What he was about to do meant nothing; he had gone beyond worrying about something as slight as his own death. His only concern was that he would be found before it was over. His only fear that he’d have to see James Woods’ face again.
He cut calmly and professionally. He might feel useless but he could still prepare a cut of meat. He bit deep into his wrist just below the base of his hand. He winced but only slightly, in truth the pain of the incision was nothing compared to the pulsating throb of the burn. His arm was resting against his thigh, palm up. The knife was so sharp and his compulsion so strong that he cut clear through his arm and into his leg with the force of penetration. The knife tore through muscle, tendon and cartilage. He had to pull the knife back out to make the downward pull. He grunted with the exertion of removing the point of the knife from his femoral artery on the inside of his upper leg. That was a mistake, but an added bonus nonetheless. The cut to his leg was insufficient to do much damage, but it gave him the idea to improve on it. He stabbed the knife hard into his thigh, going incredible damage with the butcher’s blade. This time it did hurt and was far worse than the deep throb that it had been going into his arm. He cried out clamping down on the noise in his throat so that he wouldn’t be heard. He made a second cut to his wrist, less aggressively this time. There was no pain, shock had gone to his brain and shut down the valves that sent messages to the nerve endings. His cutting hand was weak. He even forgot about the agony of his burned hand. He was deep in concentration. There was a lot of blood now. His knife hand was trawling through it. His whites spread with a deep crimson stain that washed through the material the way a wave washes up a shale beach. The blood was warm and felt pleasing. Satisfying. He was mesmerised as it poured both from his leg and bubbled through the wound in his wrist. He wondered if he had already done enough but didn’t want to take any chances. The knife was the best. Eight inches of brutal stainless steel that could cut through a rabbit neck, releasing bones from their anchorage with a single chop. Going clean through the underside to the back of his arm had been no trouble at all. He was already feeling the weakness enervating him. His eyes had black spots dancing somewhere to the left of his vision. He went to work fast. It only took one more movement. The knife was already home, He drew it smoothly through the flesh of the inside of his lower arm from wrist to elbow, neatly separating his meat into two fillets, attached only by the layer of skin on his outer arm and bones. As delirium claimed him, his final thought was of suitable herbs and sausage meat to stuff in his arm before cooking could commence. He died beneath the bough of an oak tree, a disgruntled squirrel his only witness.

Violet took over and did what Violet always did when James went too far. She bought everybody off. Silence cost her dearly on that occasion and even she had to admit that James had become a liability. SP wanted to force James into anger management counselling, but Violet wouldn’t hear of it. The Woods family did not air their dirty laundry in public. The inquest heard that Keith Morley had been suffering a depression. Girlfriend trouble was hinted at, subtly suggested by Morley’s best friend who also worked at the Halcyon and had been bribed by Violet. A verdict of suicide was heard and that was the end of it. Everybody has their price; Violet knew this to be a statement of fact. She bought loyalty and after Morley’s death she also bought silence. ‘Dinky’ Johnston, Morley’s friend, hated himself, he hated the hefty bonus cheque in his back pocket, but he couldn’t stop a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he dreamed of the hi-fi he was going to buy from Currys. And then, he remembered that his best friend would never listen to it with him. He was dead and Dinky was weighed down by the solace of his thirty pieces of silver.
James was finished at The Halcyon Woods. It would be many years before he could return. Mother funded his first solo venture, a nice little restaurant of his own. ‘Somewhere near Marcus. You like Marcus, don’t you dear?’ Yes, London would be far enough away. Violet cried as she waved him away in his Jaguar XJS. She’d packed him some macaroons for the journey. He liked those.