The Meat It Feeds On

        

The hour has finally arrived for morning exercise. I am standing in the yard, taking in the glorious weather. I close my eyes, feel the heat on my eyelids and am reminded that they are red on the inside. My face is warm all over with happy sunshine. I know it’s a cliché but this is how I feel; I am so glad to be alive and I wish everyday was like this. The weather reminds me of when I was on the outside, in my back garden, attempting to read Hardy one late afternoon, under an old oak tree, watching the flickering origami-like shadows dance on the pages. The bird orchestra was in full swing. What better accompaniment to Hardy’s descriptions of nature! I had a great seat in my verdant auditorium. The three dimensional surround sounds of the hierarchical choir voices filled the air. What splendid acoustics! Better than the Royal Albert Hall. And all free. The sopranos were particularly shrill that day. The voice that was particularly reminiscent of the traditional Happy Birthday song added a touch of humour; could this have been its original author? The singular cackling alto added a much darker edge to the symphony by its staccato sounds.  

    

     I’m done with exercising. Now off to the canteen to get a cool glass of water. Here comes the guard. It’s here.

       ‘There you are, Governor. Nice weather we’re ‘avin, in it?’ Trev says, as he hands me a letter.

        ‘Thank you so much. It certainly is beautiful. A day to remember’ I replied.

       I return to my cell and lie on my bed. I slowly caress the top of the letter knowing that Lucy had touched it too. I carefully open it like it is made of the most delicate lace, afraid to snap a single thread. I gingerly pull out the multicoloured picture of Lucy. I add it to my wall collection and then I will look at it. I stand back a few steps and look at her. She smiles at me and I smile back. She’s sitting on the beige leather sofa at home, looking relaxed.  Her natural smile radiates warmth and love. I can feel it. Lucy is still beautiful; petite frame, gorgeous long, brown, curly hair that rests on her shoulders and contrasts with her twinkling, emerald eyes. She’s wearing a burgundy dress and that sapphire necklace I gave her for our anniversary. Her beautiful, elegant hands are clasped in front of her. She is wearing my ring. Lucy is such a pretty woman. I miss her. I quickly scan the letter; only four pages, but lots of Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger. Roger took this picture especially for you darling Roger is ever so good at photography Roger went to a night class in photography Roger has a new car it is a red one with leather interior it is ever so nice and Roger helps me with my shopping you know I suffer with backache Roger is ever so helpful you’ll like Roger you’ve got so much in common I can’t wait until you get out it won’t be long now Roger is a good looking bastard but there’s nothing in it honestly really swear to God.

      Swear to God the solid, heavy weight in my stomach contracts and spreads like a cancerous invader, only much faster. It is now part of me; part of who I am. I know it will never leave me. It loves me. It needs me. Two more things than you do. I will never be alone in my cell again. It is my cruel best friend; my painful parasite; my nerves and sanity are its culinary delights. An evil gastronomic feast; help yourself; buy one, get one free, as much as you can eat banquet.

      My spit splatters her picture on the wall, and I watch the slime slowly slide down, like a slug. I rip the picture off the wall, and try to tear it into tiny fragments of kaleidoscopic confetti. I violently throw the pieces up in the air, some of them stick to my hands but most of them flutter to the ground. Oh, how pretty.

Five

I was enchanted by The Swallow’s Tale. As a voracious reader, I devour, cosset, treasure, relish, and adore books. The Swallow’s Tale was one of those books that comes along every few years and has a dramatic impact on me. I must have read it continuously, maybe five or six times in the last few weeks I felt even closer to R. Curnion after the radio interview; it was a kind of affinity. Smiling, I took my black, oval headphones off and placed them on my desk, next to a signed, hardback copy of his masterpiece. I adjusted my headphone hair and swivelled my leather chair to the right and stood up. R. Curnion took this as his cue to leave, but as he got up from his chair, his foot got tangled in one of the microphone wires. We both chuckled. I asked R. Curnion if he would like to go for dinner that same evening. Italian. Turkish. Greek. Spanish. Japanese. He raised his left eyebrow and his face became even more animated by a gentle smile. The offer was just as much a surprise to me as it was to him. R. Curnion was genuinely flattered, although he must have known that the offer wasn’t sexual. He was much older than me. His grey, receding hairline made his large forehead even more pronounced. They say that people with protruding foreheads are intelligent. His jacket was of grey and brown tweed, with leather patches on the elbows and his red cravat was ostentatiously arranged under his neck.

We decided on Turkish. Fish, simit, meze, köfte and baklava. Perfect.

The restaurant had a whitewashed brickwork facade that contrasted with the warm, cosy orangey glow of the inside. The warmness continued in the manner of the waiter, who could not be more obliging. I asked R. Curnion about his other books. He seemed reluctant to talk about his work, and began to ask me about my life as a presenter.

He slowly dissected his fish as if performing an intricate operation. He pushed the bone remnants into a neat little pile on the right hand side of his plate. It looked like an unlit, miniature bonfire. As we finished that course, he adjusted his fork so that it was perfectly vertical in the middle of the plate, leaving two equal halves of pink patterned bone china. I smiled at him, thinking how similar we were; it really unsettled me when people carelessly abandon their cutlery on finishing a meal. It was at that moment that I was suddenly inspired. I could write a book of my own, based on R. Curnion. I didn’t tell him; he would have to wait until after I had written it.

The soft and flowing rhythm of unfamiliar words in the Turkish folk music echoed through the building, through the dining room, towards the short hall that lead to the place of culinary creation. I saw the chef through the hall. He was mouthing every word.