Mangetout

By Guy Portman

Trouble has a habit of finding some people.

Kitchenhand Deron thinks he’s hit the jackpot when a routine delivery of vegetables turns out to be contraband. Unfortunately, it belongs to somebody else. And they want it back.

Financier Hamish has got involved in the arms trade and business is booming. However, over in Yemen he’s made a formidable foe. One who will stop at nothing for revenge.

Solicitor Ken is fed up with the nine-to-five. An illegal venture with girlfriend Laura brings the job satisfaction he craves, but also attention from organised crime. This could all go horribly wrong.

All three men are in over their heads. If they don’t find a solution fast, it could be the end of them.
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‘Dangerously droll crime capers’ – Adam Riley, Comedian

'I absolutely loved this collection of dark and twisted stories' - Goodreads Review

'Interesting characters, decent set-ups, satisfying payoffs. What else do you need?' - Review

'... a blend of believable violence and black comedy' - Goodreads Review

'I loved how dark the stories were, definitely not for the faint of heart! It is dark and violent' - Reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guy Portman
• Release date: Mar 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005127237

Guy Portman

As far back as anyone can remember Guy has been an introverted creature, with an insatiable appetite for knowledge, and a sardonic sense of humour.Throughout a childhood in London spent watching cold war propaganda gems such as He Man, an adolescence confined in various institutions, and a career that has encompassed stints in academic research and the sports industry, Guy has been a keen if somewhat cynical social observer.Humour of the sardonic variety is a recurring theme in Guy’s writing. His first novel, Charles Middleworth, is an insightful tale of the unexpected. Like the author, the protagonist in Necropolis and Sepultura is a darkly humorous individual – though, unlike the author, he is a sociopath. His latest effort, Tomorrow’s World, is a satirical book of vignettes about the future.

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MANGETOUT

Guy Portman

Published by Guy Portman

Copyright Guy Portman 2021

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

MANGETOUT

I

II

III

IV

PAYBACK

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

GROWER

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

Mangetout

I

On awakening, the youth rolls over in bed and looks at his mobile phone. It is 10:31.

‘Bollocks.’

He is late for work. Having clambered out of bed, he rummages through a chest of drawers and extracts some boxer shorts and two vaguely similar socks. From a pile of clothing on the floor, crumpled trousers and a shirt are plucked. After hauling on the clothes, he goes to the bathroom, where he urinates, splashes water on his face, and swirls toothpaste around in his mouth. Downstairs in the kitchen, the youth scours the contents of a cupboard.

‘Where’s the cereal?’

From the direction of the living room, one of his housemates says, ‘Ate it.’

‘Bollocks.’

The youth leaves the house. He stops at the village shop to get a can of Coca-Cola and a Bakewell tart. At the till the shopkeeper says, ‘Same as usual then.’

‘Breakfast of champions.’

The shopkeeper chuckles. She says, ‘What with all this sugar, how do you stay so thin?’

‘Stress.’

*

Two hours later – The youth is depositing chopped parsley into a pan of pottage. On the other side of the kitchen, his fellow kitchenhand shouts, ‘Where’s the parsley? I need it for the braised Puy lentil salad to go with the seared scallops.’

‘It’s over ’ere.’

‘Well bring it here. I’m busy stirring in the tomatoes and basil.’

The youth grabs the bunch of parsley, stomps across the room and plonks it down on a chopping board. No sooner has he commenced stirring the pottage than the chef storms through the door.

‘Where’s the seared scallops for table five?’

‘Nearly ready,’ says the female kitchenhand.

‘Hurry up, they’re late.’ As he struts over to the youth, the chef barks, ‘Where’re the peeled russet potatoes?’

‘Ain’t done ’em yet.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘’Cos I’m doin’ the pottage.’

‘Get a move on.’

The chef walks off. When he exits the kitchen, the youth says, ‘Tosser.’

A hatch in the wall opens, a piece of paper is shoved through, and the waitress who shoved it shouts, ‘Scallops times two plus a pottage, table seven.’

No sooner has the hatch slammed shut than the female kitchenhand screeches, ‘Peel the carrots, will yah?’

‘Nah, you do it.’

‘I’ve got lentils to do, garlic to crush, bay leaves and thyme to sort out.’

‘Stop screechin’, I’m on it.’

Having peeled a carrot, he squares off its edges, cuts it into four long batons, then dices them with a large knife at considerable speed. He stirs the pottage with a wooden spoon, prepares several more carrots and peels a mound of potatoes. He wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his apron and says, ‘It’s boilin’ in ’ere.’

The youth is guzzling water directly from the tap when the door springs open and the chef strides in.

‘Oi,’ says the chef. ‘You’re meant to be working, this isn’t a holiday camp.’

The hatch opens and a waitress’s face appears. She says, ‘Pottage, table two. Where is it?’

‘Done, almost,’ says the youth.

‘Almost isn’t good enough,’ says the chef.

The youth employs a ladle to spoon pottage into three bowls. The bowls are then embellished with a smattering of finely chopped parsley and a twirl of cream. He is in the process of adding cream to the third bowl when the waitress says, ‘Hurry up, they’re waiting.’

‘Comin’.’

He places the bowls on a tray and passes them through the hatch. Following a tut, the waitress disappears with the tray.

‘Don’t just stand on parade,’ says the chef. ‘Get back to it. Spuds don’t boil themselves.’

Two hours later – ‘Lunch shift’s over,’ announces the chef. ‘You’ve got an hour and a half break. Go on, piss off.’

The youth removes his apron and flings it on a hook. He then dollops several serving spoons worth of chocolate mousse into a bowl; these being leftovers from lunch. Cradling his lunch, he goes through to the restaurant’s garden, where he devours the chocolate mousse and chain smokes several hand-rolled cigarettes. Afterwards, he heads out into the woods behind the garden. There he takes a nap under a tree.

Beep beep bee—

The youth turns the mobile phone alarm off. He gets up, sighs, brushes himself off and then traipses back to his place of work. On entering the kitchen, he is met by his fellow kitchenhand and the chef, who is holding a skinned animal up by its hindquarters.

‘Listen up, skivs,’ says the chef. ‘Missy, wipe the surfaces. You, clean the pans. Properly.’

‘What’s that thing you’re holding?’ says the female kitchenhand. ‘It’s gross.’

‘I was getting to that bit.’ The chef points at the skinned animal with his spare hand. ‘This is a lapin. That’s French for rabbit. As for this particular specimen, it is a Champagne d’Argent; a breed that since the seventeenth century has been utilised for its meat.’

‘AWWW,’ goes the female kitchenhand.

‘Shut it!’ says the chef. ‘Tonight, we’re serving lapin with butternut squash and mangetout, hence why I’m holding this skinned rabbit. The recipe is lapin à la moutarde. That’s rabbit cooked with Dijon mustard to you Philistines … There are two pitfalls when it comes to cooking lapin. Listen up, because both are sackable offences; Champagne d’Argent don’t come cheap. Eating undercooked rabbit can make you ill, really ill. Pitfall two – its lean, dry flesh means it tastes bloody awful if it’s overcooked … We’re going to cook ours slowly and submerged in liquid. We’ll be employing thermometers. The temperature required is one hundred and sixty degrees. Got it?’

‘Yeah,’ reply the two kitchenhands in unison.

As the chef continues, the girl, who has finished wiping, leans against a counter and listens. Meanwhile, the youth continues washing up pots and pans.

‘Because of the slow cooking time, we’ll be getting them on now. My guess is customers will lap them up. If they don’t, we’ll use them for pâté … Right, chop it up into bits like this. Then smear the pieces with mustard, salt and pepper.’ The youth twists his head to look. ‘Focus on them pans.’

He has just finished the demonstration when someone calls through the hatch, ‘Your vegetable delivery’s arrived. It’s out back.’

The chef sends the youth to collect it. There are numerous items, including a large bag of mangetout. On his second trip to get the vegetables, the youth is poised to pick up a sack of potatoes when he notices the chef slouched against a wall smoking a joint. The youth waits, in the vain hope of being offered some of it.

‘Oi,’ says the chef. ‘Get back to it. I pay you to work, not do statue impressions.’ The youth hoists the sack of potatoes onto his shoulders. ‘One hundred and sixty. Make sure those lapins don’t exceed or fall below it. Got it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Check every nine minutes. Rest of the time prep veg. I’ll be in and out.’

‘Awight.’

19:21 – The youth is heaping finely chopped vegetables into oven trays when his colleague holds a mangetout aloft and says, ‘These mangetouts are weird, they are.’

‘Weird, how?’

‘They’re fat. They’re supposed to be flat.’

The youth glances at the dangling vegetable. He says, ‘It is fat, yeah. Looks more like a sugar snap.’ He commences seasoning a veal chop. ‘What’s it say on the pack?’

His colleague examines the three-kilogram wholesale bag of mangetout it originated from.

‘Says mangetout.’

‘Well then, don’t worry your pretty little ’ead abaht it.’

‘But they’re fat,’ she says while rummaging in the bag. ‘Mangetouts are not meant to be like this.’

‘Take it up with the boss. Mangetout analysis ain’t in my paygrade.’

‘Well he’s not here.’

‘Get back to work then.’

Adeptly, the youth slices potatoes into small cubes. These he dumps into a large saucepan of boiling water. The peelings are brushed into a bin. The door bursts open, revealing the chef.

‘How’s the veg coming along?’

‘Fine,’ says the youth.

‘Good, keep it that way. And the lapins?’

The youth looks at a magnetic timer attached to one of the fridges. He says, ‘Checkin’ in forty-two secs.’

‘Okay. And don’t keep table five waiting for their vegan tofu salads, yeah? Let’s start as we mean to continue.’

‘The mangetouts, they’re weird,’ says the female kitchenhand. ‘They’re fat, they’re meant to be flat …’ But the chef has gone and her words peter out. Moments later, she pipes up again. ‘They can’t eat these mangetouts those vegan lot at table five. There’s stuff coming out of them. Look!’

‘Jesus Christ. One sec.’ The youth trots over to the oven and checks the temperature of the lapins. He then goes to the other side of the room, where his colleague is stationed in front of a stove.

‘Look,’ she says, as she removes the top from a pan.

Pungent fumes come billowing out.

‘Ack, ack, ack,’ goes the youth. ‘Stinks. They smell chemically not vegetably.’ A white substance is oozing out of the mangetout. ‘’N that white stuff don’t look appetisin’.’

His colleague replaces the lid. She says, ‘I told you they weren’t right. And I feel weird. I think it’s because of them mangetouts.’ The youth taps his fingertips against a counter. While he does this, his fellow kitchenhand says, ‘We can’t serve it; not smelling like that with white stuff coming out. It’s horrible. What will we do? Loads of tables will want them. Table five already do. And it’s not just the vegan tofu salad starter, the lapin comes with mangetouts.’

‘Where’s the bag the mangetout came out of?’

‘Over there.’

‘I’ll take a look. Start on the red cabbage.’

‘Okay.’

‘Finely shredded. Apples for it need to be cut into wedges. Also, caster sugar, vinegar ’n cinna—’

‘I know, I’ve made the red cabbage dish.’

She starts assembling the ingredients. The youth goes over to the bag of mangetout, extracts one, holds it up and examines the engorged vegetable. He mutters, ‘Thick as a sugar snap … And it’s made out of plastic.’

Having plonked one on the counter, he takes a paring knife and slices it open down the middle. White powder tumbles out onto the counter.

‘Bloody ’ell!’

The youth dabs his fingertip in the powder and then presses it to the tip of his protruding tongue. He looks up at the ceiling. When he feels his tongue going numb, he says, ‘Gak.’

‘What’s going on with them mangetouts?’

‘I’m lookin’ into it.’

‘Well hurry up, table five are waiting. I need help with the cabbage and there’s all the veg to do. More orders will be coming through any minute.’

‘Check the lapin.’

The youth slices open another mangetout, revealing a white-powder-crammed interior. He dabs some of the powder onto the tip of his little finger, shoves it up one of his nostrils, and sniff.

A moment later he says, ‘Dog’s bollocks.’

‘We’re running out of time.’

The youth rotates the bag of mangetout until he locates the country of origin – Peru.

‘That explains it.’

On the other side of the kitchen, his colleague twists her plain, chubby visage in the youth’s direction and says, ‘We’ve got to tell the boss about the mangetouts.’

‘Nah!’

‘But we’ve got to.’ She heads for the door. The youth races across the floor. Sliding the final metre on the soles of his shoes, he beats her to it. Standing with his back to the door, he blocks her exit. ‘Move!’

‘You’re not goin’ anywhere.’

A pssss noise precedes water pouring