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GREGORY WAITED FOR the Maître D’ to greet him before returning the acknowledgement.
‘Ah, hello,’ he said. ‘Yes, you can help me. I’ve a table booked for four people. We’re guests of Lord Viscount. You should already be aware of our arrival.’
‘Of course, and it is a pleasure to welcome you, Mr Roles. I was prepared for your reservation, but I’m afraid we no longer have that table free for you. You are two hours late.’
‘So?’
‘We only hold our tables for fifteen minutes before releasing them. And there was no warning to let us know-’
Gregory raised a hand to the man’s face, cutting him off.
‘I guess you didn’t hear me correctly, so I’ll repeat myself for your benefit. We are guests of Lord Viscount. We are due a private dining room. I doubt you’d want Lord Viscount to hear his close friends being denied entry, no?’
The Maître D’, known as Arnold, had Gregory cared to ask his name, remained impassive to his demanding guest. He’d been through this kind of weight throwing many times. Everyone knew someone and therefore they were due privileges or special treatments or last-minute tables. It was the only reason Hawk kept a separate room free for these types of walk-ins. It came with the territory, with this kind of establishment that one would only hear of if they frequented certain circles. While many of their customers could inevitably buy their way into a table at Hawk in secluded Northumberland, that money could not buy manners. Arnold, at least, was paid to accommodate rather than argue. So Arnold did what he was paid to do.
‘Come with me, sir.’
The private room was old and grand. Some may have considered it must, but diners had been whetting their premium appetites in this room since knights wandered the land in search of damsels in distress.
Gregory took the seat offered by Arnold, declining to thank him. He was infatuated by the ornate, regal, and stuffy atmosphere. He could smell the ancient money practically leaking out of the fibres of the wood of the furniture, the walls, the carpet. It was pungent like cheese. This was old money here, not just flashy riches but wealth that was accumulated off the back of centuries of work and political wrangling, and would likely never be lost. This was the type of wealth that generated more interest than one could hope to spend in a year.
Gregory lit a cigarette, procured from a leather case with his name—Gregory Roles—stitched across its front in fine gold thread.
‘You can smoke, here?’ James Cormack said, astounded. He was Gregory’s newest ‘friend’ and one of his fellow diners.
‘Of course. This place is... outside of normal laws, shall we say? Isn’t that right, Arnie?’
Arnold smiled lifelessly. ‘We have attained certain privileges over the years that are not offered to other establishments.’
‘That’s “don’t sue me” speak for “we know the right people”,’ Gregory said. ‘You can do anything if you’ve got the right lawmakers in your pocket.’
James and Elizabeth, sat at the table with Gregory, erupted into laughter, knowing that this was meant to be a joke.
‘You know just how it is with all these... politics, don’t you, Greg?’ Elizabeth said.
James caught Arnold’s eye, hoping for some enlightenment, but none was forthcoming.
Hawk, as an establishment, featured a list of prestige ingredients; something local, something foraged, a list of wines from far and wide that only a seasoned taster recognised the notes of. There were no price tags on the menu because Hawk charged a flat fee for dining that would pay for many people’s cars outright. There were nibbles with narratives, dishes served out of wooden lock boxes, and drinks poured into crystal goblets, course numbers that resembled a cricket score, and every bit of deliciously deconstructed gastronomy.
Indeed, Hawk was the kind of place that didn’t see a pigeon as a flying rat, but instead as a bird to be mounted on a gueridon trolley and crushed between two presses by a band of six staff who performed their choreographed service with an elegant, precise flair.
Anjou squab pigeon, raised on corn grain and wheat in western Brittany—as explained by Arnold—slaughtered at twenty days old to provide a moist, delicate, succulent flavour. James was practically drooling when the pigeon was laid before him with its accompanying pudding of its own offal, fermented salsify, and roasted kogi. His hand twitched, eager to tuck in as the peppercorn sauce was drizzled over the chick.
Gregory only brought James along to give him a taste of the life James would never normally have access to. Gregory was a saint really, sharing his hard-earned wealth with the likes of Elizabeth and James. He liked Elizabeth but didn’t see her lasting much longer. She was too subservient, laughing even when he told jokes he knew weren’t funny. They were maggots feeding on the rubbish—his rubbish—only when he said they could.
Gregory picked at his dish, disinterested. The chick was headed for the compost heap because Gregory had already dined at his favourite burger joint before he got here, only ordering the dish because Lord Viscount was insistent he try it.
What Gregory wanted wasn’t allowed to be on the menu of Hawk and by the time Arnold came round to check on their satisfaction, Gregory’s patience was worn thin.
‘Arnie,’ he said, not looking at the Maître D’. The room went silent except for the tiny clatter of plates touching one another as they were cleared by the waiters.
‘Sir?’
‘I want the casu martzu. Now.’
‘I’m afraid, sir, that is a request we cannot fulfil. The sale of casu martzu is illegal.’
‘Come now, Arnie baby,’ Gregory said. He fiddled with his fine linen napkin, deconstructing it gradually into smaller pieces as though it were one of Hawk’s deconstructed beetroots. ‘I know you’ve got some back there. Lord Viscount, our mutual friend, told me so.’
‘I’m sorry, but we cannot offer you that particular dish at the minute. Might I suggest-’
‘No.’ Gregory slammed the remnants of his napkin onto the table, making it rock. Gregory’s companions started, wine sloshed from recently filled glasses, staining the table cloth the colour of squab blood. Gregory turned to face Arnold now. ‘Lord Viscount assured me I would be served what I demand. Price is no object if that’s your worry. The fine is a meagre £60k, and that’s only if you get caught. We both know that’s not going to happen, don’t we? I expect a casu martzu in front of me before I leave tonight.’
Arnold puckered his lips. Sure, he was accustomed to these types of demands, but it irritated him nonetheless that these customers spoke to him like a servant rather than a head waiter, whose only desire was to provide them an enjoyable evening. People like Gregory seemed to think Arnold owed them something just because they were paying to eat at Arnold’s place of employment.
He waited for his staff to exit, then said: ‘You have seen the news?’ As much to Gregory as for the room’s benefit.
‘Yes, I’ll be fine,’ Gregory said.
‘No doubt you will. But due to recent events, casu martzu is only being offered under the strictest controlled environment.’
‘Yes, yes. There have been no documented cases in humans. It’s been wild animals and some cows only. Humans will be fine. I’ll be fine.’
‘Very well, sir, as you insist. Hawk’s policy dictates that you must now sign a waiver if you wish to order casu martzu. They are adamant on it, even our mutual friend Lord Viscount.’
‘Whatever,’ Gregory said with a dismissive wave. ‘I’ll sign it.’
The contract was laid before him. Gregory took his favourite Sharpie out of his pocket. Scribbled his name in thick, black, flowing ink. The waiver was removed, leaving behind a faint copy of Gregory’s scrawling signature on the tablecloth.
There was silent anticipation amongst the group, waiting to see what he was so adamant to procure. James thought it sounded Italian, but it wasn’t a dish he was aware of. Not that he knew about Anjou Squab Pigeon before tonight, either. If this dish was only half as tasty as the pigeon, he hoped Gregory was willing to share. He assumed he was going to, considering he hadn’t given James and Elizabeth a chance to order for themselves.
When the casu martzu was brought before Gregory, James covered his mouth, puffing his cheeks out. The colour from Elizabeth’s face drained. Gregory revelled in the emotional responses that he was creating.
The smell was what struck James first. Even though the dish was covered with a cloth, it was pungent and powerful. He suddenly wished they were not dining in a private room but in an open-air beer garden so that this stench would waft freely away from them.
‘I presume this is made the traditional way, yes?’ Gregory asked.
‘Of course,’ Arnold said, as if they would break from tradition on such a delicacy. ‘We adhere strictly to our Sardinian roots. We use fiore sardo. The eggs come from the piophila casei.’
‘James,’ Gregory said, turning to him. The boy wrenched his eyes away from the covered dish. His mind had been racing, trying to render the image of what could possibly create such a smell. ‘Arnie baby uses fancy words, but what he means is there’s little maggots crawling around in a sheep’s milk pecorino. You know what pecorino is?’
Elizabeth released a steadying breath, trying to find her calm centre.
‘I know what pecorino is,’ James said in a subdued voice. He’d worked on the Tesco deli for years before they decided to turn it into a Yo! Sushi counter.
‘Why would you eat that?’ Elizabeth said.
‘You want to tell her why, Arnie baby?’
‘I would be delighted,’ Arnold said with a slight bow. ‘The piophila casei, also known as the cheese fly, lay their eggs in the pecorino. The maggots hatch from said eggs and digest the proteins of the cheese, making what they release exquisitely creamier and tastier.’
‘So you’re going to eat maggot excrement?’ Elizabeth said. She wiped away a bead of sweat that had appeared on her forehead.
Gregory ignored the question. Instead, fixated on the covered dish, he grabbed the cloth and yanked it away. The plate in front of him held a small block of cheese, about half the size of his hand. At first glance, it was nothing out of the ordinary. It could have adorned the counter that James used to work on part-time without a customer batting an eyelid at it. At a closer glance, however, Gregory could see the maggots writhing around in the cheese. They were tiny things, no thicker than a line drawn with the tip of a Sharpie, their colour blending in with the yellow of their home. They moved lethargically, stirred by the unusual light that was gripping their blind bodies, poking their sightless heads up like meerkats. They wanted their darkness back. The middle of the cheese block appeared melted, as though it had been churned up and spat back out.
‘You’re really going to eat that?’ James said.
‘We’ve always eaten worms. What’s the harm?’ Gregory said with a wry smile.
He took up a fork, but Arnold stopped him.
‘I’m afraid you cannot eat the maggots... live, anymore. After what has been happening, and yes, I understand that the incidents are rare and isolated to animals, but policy stands firm. It was in your waiver. We only do this to show the authenticity of our produce.’
Gregory began to protest, but quieted at the mention of the waiver. Maybe he should have read it before signing it, then paid double the fine if they’d been caught. Instead, gripping his fork hard until his hand turned white, he sullenly pushed the plate away from him as though he were a child being forced to eat a fruit salad for dessert when all he really wanted was cheesecake.
‘Get on with it.’
Arnold produced a paper bag and slid the slice of casu martzu into it. Some of the maggots, already agitated, like coiled springs, jumped straight into the open mouth of the bag, back into the darkness they desired. At first there was nothing, just Arnold standing there with a paper bag in his hands, the opening now twisted tightly shut. Gregory checked his watch. Then the pitter-patter began. Like popcorn bursting free from its shells, the maggots desperate for lost air, began throwing themselves against the paper prison.
Pop pop pop
A chair scraped against the floor and Elizabeth fled the room. James wanted to join her, but he was transfixed by morbid curiosity. He couldn’t look away despite the fact that was all he wished to do. Gregory tapped his fingers against the table, mimicking the rhythm of the perishing maggots. He checked his watch once again.
Finally, the popping ceased. The maggots, condemned to asphyxiation, were no more. Arnold brought the slice of cheese back out, inspected it, then placed it carefully back on Gregory’s plate.
‘Carasau bread,’ Arnold said, adding the flatbread to the table. ‘And a serving of cannonau wine.’
Gregory licked his lips in anticipation. He couldn’t wait to tell everyone at his next conference that he was one of the few people to have tried casu martzu outside of Sardinia.
He lathered some of the cheese thickly onto the flatbread, then brought it to his mouth. He inhaled, breathing in the strong, pungent odour, earthy and nutty. He took a bite.
‘Wow,’ he muttered after a few bites. ‘So good.’ The taste was intense, spicy, tinged with a delectable bitterness. It was the strongest, most flavourful cheese Gregory had ever tried. He couldn’t believe how easily the cheese yielded under his teeth. It was so soft. As he chewed, he was aware of the crunching he was making from the tiny bodies of the maggots. He grinned, seeing James’s reaction. ‘You want some?’ he said to him.
‘No, thank you,’ James said. ‘I’ll have some of the wine, though.’
Gregory lay in the hotel’s bed, gazing up at the ceiling. James went straight to the bar when they’d got back, no doubt to run Gregory’s tab up. Gregory had already told the staff that James was to be billed separately when they checked out. That was going to be something, seeing his face drop when he realised he’d need to use his savings just to pay for all the old-fashions he’d thought Gregory was treating him to.
Elizabeth had refused to come back to his room, had insisted on sleeping in an empty one because he still stank of the cheese. Never mind, he’d find someone new soon and Elizabeth could go back to her mundane life doing whatever it was she did for a living.
He could still taste the casu martzu lingering in his mouth. He burped, relishing the repeated sensation of his earlier experience. The release of gas stirred something in him. He gripped his stomach, grimacing. It had been playing up since he returned to the hotel, a sharp pain here and there. It was probably all the drinking he’d been doing today. He’d started early with champagne for breakfast, dunking his face into a bowl of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay Blanc de Noirs Brut as part of his morning routine then had a few glasses of his limited edition Bollinger R.D. Extra Brut ‘Spectre’ edition to wash down his McDonald’s breakfast muffin. He couldn’t drink like he used to, he knew that, as much as he tried to reenact the early days of university before he dropped out to start his own app. He missed those days. Actually had friends back then. Now everyone wanted to be associated with him because of his money and influence. They knew he’d be able to provide them an easy life if they wooed him or he could provide unparalleled investment into their ‘disruptive’ idea because they wanted a venture capitalist to fund their excessive expenses. He loved seeing their reactions when he suddenly cut them off, like a little enamoured puppy suddenly dumped at the side of the road. They’d had a sample of the highlife and now they were back to their boring lives or having to count every penny in case they ran out of cash.
Gregory winced, spat on the floor, as though he could spit the discomfort out. It was around the belly button, more towards his abdomen. Maybe it was his appendix. They could give up the ghost doing their mysterious job at any time. Maybe he’d end up in hospital, needing emergency surgery. Elizabeth would come running back then, begging his forgiveness. He’d enjoy that.
The pain was climbing now. Gregory got to his feet, paced around the room. That eased it a little. Could just be trapped wind. He forced himself to burp. Felt a little better. But what was this? Something flew out of his mouth from the burp.
Gregory bent to the floor but he’d only left the bed-side lamp on. He couldn’t see anything. He turned the main light on, went back to the spot he thought he saw whatever it was land. Still he couldn’t see anything. He checked for all his teeth and yes, they were all intact. He hadn’t burped loose a tooth.
‘Whatever,’ Gregory muttered.
He turned the TV on more out of boredom and because the remote was right there. He flicked through a few channels until he landed on the news. The reporter currently speaking to the camera was a slim blonde. He thought he knew her from one of his many interviews that his PR team said would be good for recognition, make him come across as a normal human being. As if any of the people watching could be like him. He tapped his lip, trying to remember the reporter’s name. Yes, that was right. She was the bitch that asked him the same question twelve times before he finally had enough and left the interview chair. She’d rebuked his advances, too. Yes, that was right, Hillary, he thought her name was. He was meant to order her sacking but must have forgotten, otherwise why would she still be here presenting the news? He couldn’t even recall what the question had been, just that he’d been incensed by it.
Gregory took his phone out of his pocket, tried to unlock it with his fingerprint, but the damn thing kept denying his entry.
Fingerprint doesn’t match.
He tried again.
Fingerprint doesn’t match.
‘Fucking thing.’
It’d been playing since he got back to his work.
He tapped his passcode in, but still the phone refused him. It was difficult to see. His eyes swam, and the phone appeared to roam in a figure of eight right before him. He must have drunk more than he realised to feel like this. He threw the phone away, making a mental note to have the woman fired in the morning when he could see straight again.
‘—we have been receiving reports that the infection, having previously been confined to wild animals such as foxes and badgers, is spreading to livestock now. Scientists are theorising that the combination of antibiotic resistance and the unsanitary condition of factory farming has contributed to this phenomena where maggots—’
Gregory doubled over, crying out at the shock of the sudden intense stabbing in his stomach. The agony caused him to dry heave, retching so aggressively that dribble dangled from his mouth and a pool of spit grew where his face almost kissed the carpet.
Gregory wondered if he was going to die in that moment, but thankfully the stabbing ceased, fading away like a puddle evaporating under the sun. Gregory steadily got to his feet, testing one leg first, then growing confident that his appendix wouldn’t attack him again. It had to be his appendix, because what else could it be? He’d had sudden pains before from drinking too much and had his stomach pumped once, but that was a tickle compared to what he had just experienced.
Tentatively, Gregory pressed his belly. It was sore all right. He needed a doctor.
‘It’s these factory farms!’ a man on the TV was saying. Gregory thought he couldn’t have been a more stereotypically British farmer if he’d tried, decked out in his flat cap, tweed jacket, his muddy Land Rover sitting forlorn in the backdrop. ‘I blame the chicken farming personally. Bird flu, innit. They’re all caged up, too fat to even move, sitting in their own... excrement. You ever heard of hock burns? It’s the factory farms, I tell you. Mutations. We love our chickens, let them actually roam free before we slaughter them and they ain’t ever getting sick. Cows are getting sick as well, I heard.’
Gregory didn’t make it three steps before he collapsed again. He rolled over onto his back, wiping away a tremendous amount of sweat that had gathered on his face. His breath was heavy. He groaned, pleading softly.
‘Liz... Liz... James, please help me.’
He needed to get to the phone, but his body was lead and his arms didn’t feel like they were connected to him anymore.
He moaned. His stomach was bulging. He could feel slug-like things wriggling around inside his body, scratching at the surface of his belly, intent on escape. He managed to get his body against the room’s one lounge chair. With fumbling hands, he was able to rip his shirt apart. Indeed, he witnessed his stomach moving, tremors coursing up and down his skin like savage waves out at sea. He went to poke one of them, but stopped. What followed almost made him faint. A white creature emerged from his belly-button. Where once he was fed by his mother in her womb now a maggot crawled out, feeding on him, hungry and with one purpose: to eat. Gregory cried out as he felt the minuscule teeth gnawing at his skin. More maggots emerged. More and more and more, an endless stream of them.
Gregory wanted to scream, but words were getting caught in a net in his throat. His diaphragm pushed, but only air came out.
It didn’t take long for Gregory to pass out from the shock and pain. His eyelids fluttered shut, and perhaps it was for the best that it happened so quickly. He was shielded from seeing what was happening to his body as the skin and flesh and bones that were left untouched by the maggots began to convulse. Over the early hours of the morning, Gregory’s body gradually transformed into maggots itself, little wriggling companions to the ones that had crawled out of his belly. Before long, there was nothing left of Gregory except a writhing mass of small larvae that resembled a quivering puddle of mud.
James knocked on the door to room 12 for a third time.
‘You think he might have left already?’ he said to Elizabeth. She stood away from him, eager to get moving. She wanted to remain here no more than James did, but they were both reliant on Gregory to get them going.
‘Probably,’ Elizabeth said. ‘He’s done this before. Just gets up and leaves without telling anyone. I think it makes him feel important, like he’s got these big exclusive meetings that he has to drop everything for at the last minute to fly out and attend.’
‘You sound bitter,’ James said. He knocked once more. ‘Greg, you in there?’
‘I just want to go home,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’m tired. That’s all.’
‘Come on,’ James said, ushering Elizabeth away and out of the hotel. ‘I still know how to use the train. Although I don’t have any money on me. I’ll get us home some way. I just need to check out first.’ |
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