The flames on the stairs are finally dying and I must make my choice. I am stepping out onto the balcony...
· The Worm That Dieth Not
Voirrey Kaneen had always wanted to run her own restaurant, ever since she had been at school. She had known exactly what kind of place it would be: a little farmhouse offering rustic meals, with views over the hillsides down to the sea. Sheep in the fields would neatly reflect the melt-in-the-mouth lamb on the diners' plates. Those with discerning palates would gladly travel miles out of their way to visit her exclusive little taste of bygone days.
The problem was, Voirrey had the dream but not the experience. She was too impatient to take the proper catering courses which would have honed her skills, and her home cooking left quite a lot to be desired. Nor did she possess much business nous. She didn't have a farmhouse, she didn't know how to get one, and she had very little idea of how to operate a successful business even if she did.
But what Voirrey lacked in directly pertinent culinary and business skill, she made up for in obstinacy and imagination: characteristics which led her to the practice of witchcraft in order to attain her goals. Voirrey was always keen on taking short cuts where possible, failing to realise that there is always a price to pay.
It was her ego which led to her becoming a witch. She simply felt that she should have more power than other people, that her dreams should come true, regardless of their impracticality. She began by enchanting for money, and was encouraged by a few modest wins at the casino. Then she cast a spell to seduce her best friend's boyfriend. She dragged him into the toilets at a nightclub the following night when he was drunk and hailed it as a miracle when he screwed her in the cubicle.
Voirrey was beyond excited. She had been working as a shop assistant since leaving school and she hated every minute of it. But her spells seemed to get results, so she now decided to use her powers to achieve her ultimate dream, by hook or by crook: she would open that farmhouse restaurant. Her witchcraft would make it so.
It took less than a day for her spell to seem to be working. She had been sent to provide cover in her boss's other shop in the town of Ramsey, but she lost her way when driving through the hills following what she thought to be a short cut. This was strange in itself, as the Island was not large and she knew her way around pretty well. But as she drove along a narrow country lane, trying to find her way back to a place she recognised, she suddenly stood on the brakes. She had seen it: the farmhouse of her dreams, with a 'To Let' sign alongside it.
Voirrey was really hitting her stride now. She immediately phoned the letting agent and arranged to meet the farmhouse owner at the weekend to view the property. When she attended the appointment, she dressed to kill, wearing a short black dress, high heels, black stockings and bright red lipstick. She could see the middle-aged man in wellington boots who met her at the house trying to pick his jaw off the floor and she knew she had him snared.
Voirrey allowed herself to be led around the low-ceilinged house, though her mind was already seeing the conversion work being carried out. The kitchen was large and would need minimal alteration, but the remainder of the ground floor would need to be made more open plan: still with interesting nooks and crannies, of course, but with archways connecting the various rooms into a single space.
“Well, there you have it,” said the owner at last. “The rent is £850 per month and I think it'll make a good home for anyone who appreciates the countryside.”
“Oh, I certainly appreciate it, Mr Bell,” smiled Voirrey, moving closer to him, carefully standing right at the very frontier of his personal space. She gazed deeply into his eyes, aware of how the sweat was beading on his brow. “But I'd appreciate it much more if I was able to make money from it. What would you say if I told you I planned to run the place as a restaurant?”
“Well, I don't know,” he blustered. “We would need planning permission to approve the change of use, and we'd have to consider the needs of future tenants...”
“You can get the permissions, Mr Bell,” purred Voirrey. “It's not unprecedented, and you're a very influential man in the local community. As for future tenants? Forget them! I'm your tenant now, and I don't plan on going anywhere.” She stepped forward, moving fully into his personal space, the tip of her nose a mere millimetre from his, static crackling between their clothing. “But before you make a decision, why don't you show me the bedrooms again?”
Every good witch is an expert at sex magic, and Voirrey had poor Mr Bell enslaved to her will and eating out of her hands as she rode him. He cried out in ecstasy, promising her the earth in his bliss, if only she would continue their affair.
The affair continued, and Mr Bell made sure Voirrey got the permissions she needed. Once the premises had been secured, she borrowed money to fit it with the ambience she desired, she quit her job to focus solely on the restaurant, and she advertised its opening heavily. As the opening night approached, she drafted fancy menus on her computer and printed them out on beautiful parchment paper, presented in folders decorated with pastoral themes. She spent hours subtly adjusting the lighting and décor to her tastes.
Only one problem remained. Although Voirrey had an appreciation of fine food and wines, she was untrained and her kitchen skills were sorely lacking. She could envision the menu, but she certainly couldn't prepare it, at least not at a professional level. Still, she wasn't worried, even as she entered the final week before the grand opening. Her spells had provided all she needed so far, and she was confident they would give her what she needed once again.
Two days before opening, even Voirrey's confidence was beginning to waver. She was listlessly pacing the main dining area when she heard a sharp rapping at the door. This was curious, as she wasn't expecting anyone. She grimaced, hoping it wouldn't be Mr Bell calling for a little extra hanky panky because he happened to have freed up half an hour in his schedule. Now that she had got what she wanted from him, the man was turning into a pest. Perhaps she should consider cursing him? Musing over ways to do this without jeopardising her lease on the farmhouse, she strode briskly to the door. The sooner she dealt with him and deflected his attentions, the sooner he would be out of her hair.
But it wasn't Mr Bell at the door at all. It was a stooped old lady, leaning upon a very heavy looking gnarled walking stick. Her face was almost skeletally thin, with very fine lines on her skin. When she looked up, her eyes were so pale they were almost pure white except for the pupils. “Good afternoon,” she said in surprisingly deep, even tones, quite unlike the voice Voirrey had expected to hear from such a frail old woman. “I believe you may be looking for a cook?”
“I'm looking for a chef, actually,” began Voirrey, but her sarcasm could not sustain itself under the intensity of that gaze. “Why?” she asked lamely. “Do you fancy yourself as one?”
“Young woman, I have spent my lifetime cooking,” said the old lady. “I have learned every secret of the art through long experience. My food is to die for.” She grinned as she said this.
“I'm sure it's very tasty.” said Voirrey, “but I need someone who can handle pressure and prepare meals for a large number of people at once.”
“Then might I suggest you give me a chance to prove myself?” asked the visitor with dignity. “Arrange a trial tomorrow night, for invited guests only. If you'll agree to engage my sister as well as me – at no additional cost, I assure you – between us we'll cater for an army, with food so delicious they'll weep when it's finished.”
This was all seeming very strange, and Voirrey was beginning to suspect her magic might have a hand in events again, so she agreed to test the old woman's abilities as she had requested. The old lady gave her name as Mrs Mills and said she and her sister would be there the following evening to prepare a banquet with the ingredients Voirrey provided, plus maybe a speciality or two of their own.
Voirrey invited a number of very influential guests to her private, V.I.P., pre-opening dinner. There were a number of pol
iticians, reporters, rival restaurateurs and government officials, plus her main suppliers. She had invited Mr Bell, of course, but had invited his wife also to make sure he kept in line. She busied herself chivvying the waiting-on staff she had hired, ensuring that the guests were kept relaxed and entertained with drinks and hors d'oeuvres prior to being guided to their respective tables.
So far, Voirrey was satisfied. There were smiles on all the guests' faces and the waiting staff had not dropped or spilled anything. The head waiter, Chris, was moving calmly and efficiently about the place, directing the staff. He was much more calm and efficient than she herself was, if the truth be known. As the orders for starters and main courses were taken, she decided she had better look into the kitchen and see how matters were proceeding there.
Mrs Mills seemed to have matters well in hand. The old lady was bustling back and forth, bossing the kitchen assistants about and letting them know who was in charge in no uncertain terms. Voirrey had to admit that she liked her style. The woman's sister was another matter, however: there was something about her that Voirrey disliked intensely, some noisome sense of loathing that made her keep her distance. The woman seemed inoffensive enough: she was small and stooped and shuffled about slowly. She wore a heavy skirt that almost reached the floor, allowing only the brief glimpse of thick, opaque stockings underneath. Nevertheless, there seemed to be something wrong with her feet, though Voirrey couldn't see them properly. Her hands were tiny and podgy, with stubby little fingers, and her upper body was concealed beneath a shapeless grey cardigan. But the worst thing was her face: it was puffy and bloated, pure white in colour, and the texture was loathsomely soft and crinkly. The puffed features left her eyes in deep shadow and her mouth was a tiny, wheezing hole. A grey perm surrounded these strange features.
“How are the food preparations, Mrs Mills?” demanded Voirrey, striding across the kitchen, trying to ignore the weird sister who stirred a large pot in a corner of the kitchen that no one else seemed to go near. “Orders are being taken now, so we need to be ready to serve up the starters.”
“Don't you worry yourself, dear,” said Mrs Mills, a little condescendingly for Voirrey's liking. “Everything's under control here in the kitchen. You go on out there and keep your customers happy. Do what you're best at, and leave the cooking to us.”
Fuming, but somehow unable to bring herself to answer the old lady back, Voirrey cast about for some means of reclaiming her authority. Her eyes settled on the stooped, misshapen form of Mrs Mills' sister. “What's she preparing over there?” she demanded.
A tight smile twisted Mrs Mills' mouth and a strange light seemed to gleam in her eyes, just for a moment. “Well, that's our secret ingredient, my dear. That's what will have your lovely customers all baying for more and camping outside your restaurant door just in the hope of tasting the scraps from the tables.” She led the way across to the corner where her strange, puffy-fleshed sibling worked alone. She dipped a ladle in the pot and offered its thick, yellow contents to Voirrey. “Here you are, dear. Have a taste of our special cheese sauce.” She fixed Voirrey with her compelling stare, and Voirrey accepted the ladle and meekly tasted the sauce.
The thick, sticky substance filled Voirrey's mouth with a comforting warmth. The flavour was rich and deep, yet not overpowering. It left her craving just that little bit more. She licked the ladle clean.
“My God!” she breathed. “This is delicious!” Her brow furrowed. “But I don't understand! What dish is this for? We're not offering any cheesy choices on the menu tonight.”
“It's for all of them,” whispered Mrs Mills. “Just a little drop in them all, too subtle to overwhelm the other flavours, but just enough to instil an insatiable craving for more. You'll see. Here, why don't you try one of the lamb cutlets?” She flipped one on a plate and offered it to Voirrey.
Voirrey tasted it and nearly swooned. The meat was cooked to perfection, so tender and moist and rich. The texture and the flavour were absolutely perfect, the sauce just the ideal complement. She devoured it hungrily and looked longingly at the rest.
“Now now, my dear, there won't be any left for your customers if you eat them all, will there? And if you're wondering why it tastes so good, the meat was smeared with the cheese sauce prior to cooking. You won't taste the cheese, but the essence is there, a flavour just on the very edge of awareness that makes you desire more, more, more... Just imagine all your customers leaving here this evening with that feeling uppermost in their minds. Ready for some repeat bookings, dear?”
Mrs Mills' sister chose that moment to turn slowly around, feet painfully shuffling, and give Voirrey a smile. Her cheeks were bloated and quivering and her mouth stretched horribly, revealing a black, toothless void. Voirrey shuddered and left the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, her mind had pushed the memory of the dreadful smile aside. All she had time for was wonder as she watched her invited guests wolfing their starters. All conversation had ceased, for no one was willing to take their attention off the food. The only noise was cutlery clinking against plates, vigorous chewing and grunting snuffles. The yearning and hunger in their eyes as they finished and waited for their main courses to be delivered was like nothing Voirrey had ever witnessed before. She was onto a winner here.
The next morning, Mr Bell called at the restaurant early, catching her by surprise. She gritted her teeth when he walked in, but grudgingly prepared herself for the indignity of taking her knickers off for him. After all, it wouldn't do to upset her landlord just when things were so promising. But to her relief (and also to her personal chagrin), it wasn't the delights of her body that he was seeking.
“Ah, good morning, Voirrey,” he said, laughing a little nervously. “I'd been hoping you were here. Splendid meal last night, absolutely first class. You should be very proud of all the hard work you've put into this place.” He shuffled on the spot, uncertain of himself.
“Thank you,” said Voirrey coolly. When no further information was forthcoming, she said, “So, why did you hope to find me here this morning? Is there something I can do for you? I really am very busy, you know.”
“Yes, of course you are,” he said. “Official first night with paying customers, eh? Well, lots of luck! Actually … there is something you might be able to help me with. I mean, I know it's a little cheeky to ask, but … are there any leftovers from last night?”
“You want a doggy bag?” asked Voirrey in astonishment.
Bell looked embarrassed, but nodded. Then Mrs Mills' voice chimed in from behind Voirrey. “I don't think that will be any problem at all, dear. We made plenty, and we're so glad you enjoyed it. I'll ask my sister to warm something up and package it for you right away. A working man needs a good lunch, doesn't he, eh?”
“Yes yes!” grinned Bell enthusiastically.
Voirrey noticed with some disgust that he was clasping his clammy hands together as if he was some junkie about to get his fix. “That's Mrs Mills, my cook,” she explained rather coldly as the old lady shuffled inside.
They waited in silence for a minute, Mr Bell positively hopping with eager impatience, till Mrs Mills re-emerged from the kitchen, carrying a box which she handed over to him. “Plenty in here to keep a big lad strong and growing,” she chuckled as she handed it over to him.
With his prize in his hands, Bell couldn't get away quick enough. “Thank you, ladies, thank you both,” he called as he got into his car, placing the box of steaming, reheated food reverently on the passenger seat. “Best of luck tonight, I hope the customers love you as much as we all did last night.”
Voirrey watched him go, then turned to face Mrs Mills. “Thank you, Mrs Mills, but what are doing here already? I only employ you to work in the evenings.”
“Oh, I'm not one to stand on ceremony, dear,” smiled Mrs Mills. “Besides, it's going to be very busy tonight and we'll need as much of a head start as we can get.”
“Is … is your sister here with you?” Voirrey nervously asked.
“She is, naturally,” said Mrs Mills, her smile widening and her eyes narrowing.
Voirrey resolved to stay clear of the kitchen and to concentrate on the front of house.
It certainly was busy that evening. The phone had been red hot all day with bookings. Mr Bell and his wife had made reservations for every night that week. Tired of simply turning people away, Voirrey had hired in more kitchen help from the employment agencies and had started offering callers a takeaway service, since the restaurant was booked to capacity for the next several days.
The night was enormously successful and Voirrey was rushed off her feet tending to the customers. The till was overflowing, the queue for takeaway orders was yards long, and the compliments (and requests for doggy bags) just kept coming.
Finally, long after the official closing time, the last customer left (though only after making a repeat booking), and Voirrey was able to sit down and catch her breath. She was exhausted, but delighted. Still, if the money kept rolling in like this, she might be able to hire a manageress to do her work for her in a few weeks, and she could effectively retire. Or at least just swan about the place looking regal, but not actually working. She had to admit that she adored being the focus of customers' attention and adulation.
She walked through to the kitchen to congratulate everybody (and to make sure that the new staff were cleaning up properly). She needn't have worried, Mrs Mills had the place immaculate. All of the assistants seemed in awe of her.
Unable to help herself, Voirrey glanced into the far corner. The lumpy, cardiganed figure of the mysterious sister was there, tending to her bubbling sauce. The odour of the cheese seemed somehow more cloying and offensive tonight, but it had certainly worked its wonders once again. Then she noticed that the weird little woman was slumped on a high stool instead of standing. She seemed to have simultaneously shrunk, and yet swollen more. No feet could be seen beneath the heavy skirts, her legs seeming very short and stumpy. She made a quiet but intensely horrible mewling noise as she worked. Dark, coffee-like saliva bubbled around the black pit of her mushy mouth.
The Eldritch Isle Page 5