Strays

by Garrett Leigh

  Next up, he had to figure out what to do with it when it was ready. Urban Soul could dress any building up as some fancy hipster shite, but for it to mean something this time around, they’d need bread, and lots of it. Nero knocked up a rye dough and left it in the fridge to brew overnight. Then he threw together a simple white dough that he could divide and experiment with seeds and flavourings later when it had completed its first rise. He was mixing a batch of soda bread when Steph came to find him. “Heads-up. The boss is here.”

  Nero turned his back on her. The boss was code for the bloke who kept Cass and Jake on the straight and narrow, both at home and at work, and Steph had a penchant for crawling up his arse, all the while running around like God himself had come to call. Idiot. Despite Nero’s grudging respect for Tom Fearnes, God, he was not.

  “Afternoon, Nero.”

  Nero suppressed a sigh and tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Tom.”

  “Cheerful as ever, I see.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Tom chuckled, deep and low. “Good. That’s what I came to find out.”

  “You came all the way down here to see little old me?”

  “Actually, I was passing, but I would come and see you if you needed me to. You know I would.”

  Nero grunted. “Did someone get you a cuppa?”

  Tom ventured closer and waved a mug. “What are you up to here? Is this for the Vauxhall project?”

  “Yup. Sourdough won’t be ready for a few weeks, but I’ve got farmhouse dough I can play around with.”

  “What’s this?” Tom pointed to the loaves Nero had shaped during their short exchange.

  “Soda bread.”

  “That’s the one that doesn’t need to rise before you bake it? The bicarb one?”

  Nero nodded.

  “And you’ll use the sourdough for the pizzas?”

  “Some incarnation of it.”

  “So, a bakery by day, pizza and beer by night . . .” Tom appeared to speak to himself.

  Nero rolled his eyes and went back to his work. He’d danced this dance with Tom before. “It needs something else, though, right? You’ve done the street food and booze crack at Misfits.”

  “Do you think we can beat burgers and champagne?”

  “Champagne is for arseholes.”

  Tom laughed. “Yeah, yeah. So what do you suggest? The pizza and beer concept works, but you’re on point about it needing an extra layer.”

  “Why are you asking me? I’m just the hired help.”

  “You’re far from the hired help, Nero. You’re the backbone of this business.”

  “Piss off.”

  Tom sighed. “Suit yourself. I’ve got to go. Have a think on it and give me a call if you come up with anything good.”

  “What if I come up with something shit?”

  “Call me then too. What you think is shit might be gold.”

  Tom left. Nero loaded his soda bread into the oven and considered the fact that neither Tom nor Jake had mentioned Lenny. Perhaps they didn’t know about him, but that idea didn’t sit well. Five years ago, Cass might have kept this from Tom, but things were different now, Cass was different, and the longer Nero thought on it, the more certain he became that Tom and Jake knew all about his bewitching lodger.

  “Bewitching”? Enid Blyton now, are you? Nero had no idea, and he was no wiser when Lenny appeared in the kitchen ten minutes before evening service, dressed in his borrowed chef whites.

  “What you doing down here?”

  Lenny shrugged. “I’m bored. Figured I’d see if you needed a hand.”

  As it happened, the kitchen was a man down, meaning Nero had to spend the evening on the dessert section, a role he despised. “I don’t need a hand, I need a hammer. Gotta spin some sugar.”

  Lenny frowned, and his perfect brows knotted. Nero looked closer, noting the dark fan of his thick lashes, set off by a subtle smudge of eyeliner. Is that glitter on his cheeks? Damn. Aside from his pathetic crush on Cass, Nero had always had a thing for blokes in makeup, and Lenny? Yeah, he was something else.

  Not that Nero had a thing for him. No. Definitely not. You hardly know him, dickhead.

  The order screen above the starter section beeped with the first order of the night. Nero jumped, though he often heard the automated system in his sleep. The kitchen, which had previously been in that odd lull before service—the calm before the storm—surged to life, and after a brief moment took Nero with it.

  He turned his back on the counter full of half-finished bread products and beckoned Lenny to follow him. “You wanna help? Come with me. You can show me how to make Nana Dolly’s trifle look pretty.”

  Lenny trailed Nero to the dessert counter. “Who’s Nana Dolly?”

  “Cass’s nan.”

  “Is she nice?”

  “She was. Been dead a few years now.”

  “Oh.” Lenny watched Nero unload ceramic dishes from the upright fridge. “What about her trifle? Is it good?”

  Nero shrugged. “If you like that kind of thing. I don’t do puds.”

  “Why are you today?”

  “’Cause that’s my job, to fill in the gaps.” Nero laid the trifles on the counter. “But I got you to help me, right? There’s chocolate and shit over there. Do your worst.”

  Nero left Lenny to it and set about making sense of the rest of the dessert menu. Half an hour passed before he thought to check on Nana Dolly’s trifles. Or, at least, Lenny’s interpretation of them. “That a trifle or a stand at Chelsea Flower Show?”

  Lenny poked out his tongue. “Piss off. You gave me free rein.”

  True enough, and Lenny had clearly taken his loose words to heart—chocolate, edible flowers, the bundles of spun sugar Nero had butchered earlier, it was all there. Arranged by anyone else, it would’ve looked like a dog’s dinner, but Lenny’s light touch had, as usual, produced something magical.

  Nero sighed. “Stick them in the fridge and come whisk this meringue for me. It’s doing my bloody head in.”

  Lenny did as he was told and took a balloon whisk to the bowl of egg whites and sugar Nero had been glaring at. Belying his slender wrists, he made short work of producing a cloud of snowy meringue. “What’s this going to be?”

  “Not sure yet.” Nero tossed in corn flour, vanilla, and cider vinegar. “I’ve got about ten minutes to figure it out, though. Any ideas?”

  So far, Lenny had showed little enthusiasm for the eclectic array of food he’d seen at Pippa’s, only eating what Nero shoved in front of him, but he studied the bowl of sweet meringue mix with a new light in his eyes. “What’s the meringue thing called that’s all marshmallowy?”

  “Pavlova?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Can we make that?”

  Cracking out the piping bag was one of Nero’s least favourite kitchen tasks, but he couldn’t think of a sensible reason to say no. He fetched the kit they needed and piped tiny individual meringues onto lined trays. Ten minutes in the oven and twenty to cool, and his part was done. Then he let Lenny loose with the decoration, a task that kept him occupied for more than an hour.

  By then, Nero was distracted with running the rest of the dessert section, only yelling at Lenny when he needed an order of his precious pavlovas. Time slipped away, stolen by a busy dinner service, and it was gone nine when Steph came to the pass to ruin Nero’s night.

  “A guest wants to speak to you.”

  “Me? What the fuck for?”

  “To tell you how awesome their meal was.”

  “Let ’em tell Debs. then. She probably cooked it.”

  Steph smirked. “Actually, they want to tell you how amazing your cheesecake was. Sorry.”

  Liar. Nero wiped his hands on his apron, then took it off in a halfhearted attempt to appear presentable as Steph disappeared briefly, only to reappear a few seconds later with the guest in tow.

  The guest was a sweaty posh dude, half-sloshed and obsessed with touching Nero’s arm. Nero shot Steph an irr
itated glare—are you fucking kidding me?—then dug deep for his most amiable smile. It took ten minutes to get rid of him, and even then Nero had to escort him back to his table. Bellend.

  Nero returned to the kitchen, hoping Lenny hadn’t been swamped by orders in his absence. But Lenny was nowhere to be seen when he reached the dessert section, and his pavlovas had gone AWOL too.

  Fuck’s sake. Nero growled and glared at the stacked screen of orders that had come on while he’d been gone: four tables, each wanting half a dozen desserts. Working through them kept Nero busy, but he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder every time he sensed movement behind him. An oven opened, a fridge slammed, the back door closed—Nero saw and heard it all, but there was no sign of Lenny.

  The last order called for three of Lenny’s pavlovas. He came up blank on the dessert section, so he called Debs to watch over his baked plums and went to the bigger walk-in units at the back of the kitchen.

  He found Lenny in the last one, sitting on a box of lemons, his head in his hands. The tray of pavlovas was safely on the shelf behind him, but something stopped Nero grabbing them and leaving Lenny to whatever freak-out he was clearly having. Ice cream melting on Pippa’s achingly trendy gooseberry crumble? Nero didn’t give a shit.

  He took a seat on a crate of sweet potatoes and nudged Lenny with his elbow. “Whatcha doing in here?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Uh-huh. Don’t look like nothin’. I only hole up in here when I’m hanging out of my arse.”

  “You don’t come to work hungover.”

  “What makes you think that? You think I’m some kind of saint?”

  Lenny didn’t deny it. “You love your job.”

  “I love a skinful too. Don’t remember you having one anytime recently, though, so what the fuck are you doing in here?”

  “Hiding.”

  “Standard. From who?”

  Lenny shook his head and finally looked up. “I don’t even know anymore. That man . . . I thought . . . But it wasn’t, but I was in here before I realised, and then . . . shit, I couldn’t come out.”

  It took Nero a few beats to process Lenny’s convoluted stammer and match it with what little he knew about him. He was hiding from someone, that much was obvious. A dealer? A pimp? Nah, he ain’t the type, but what?

  Nero had enough demons of his own to keep his questions to himself. He laid a hand on Lenny’s chilled arm. “If it’s folk coming back-of-house you’re worried about, it don’t happen often.”

  “It’s not just that. Being here, indoors all the time . . . it sounded like bliss when Cass offered it to me, but it’s doing my head in. I can’t breathe.”

  Cell walls Nero would never forget flashed into his mind, as stark and real as they’d ever been. And then the thick, choking smoke that had led him there. He took a deep, shaky breath. “The way I see it, you’ve got two options: fuck it and go outside anyway, or if you really can’t—”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then you have to live the life you’re stuck with. Me and Cass, we’ll stand between you and any fucker comes near you, but we can’t protect you from the gremlins in your brain. You gotta fight them on your own.”

  Nero stood, but Lenny’s hand closed around his wrist. “Why are you nice to me?”

  I have no idea. Nero pulled his arm from Lenny’s grasp and retrieved the tray of pavlovas. “’Cause you’re good at all the shit I can’t be arsed with. See you back on the line.”

  Nero left Lenny in the fridge and dumped the pavlovas on Debs. Then, ignoring her glare, he stormed out to the bar and called Steph over. “No more guests in the kitchen.”

  “That bloke earlier was the local MP.”

  “Don’t give a fuck. No one comes in the kitchen.”

  Steph raised an eyebrow. “We always let guests in the kitchen if they want to talk to the chef. Jimbo likes it.”

  “He’s Australian. He likes people. I ain’t, and I don’t, so it’s banned. Got it?”

  He strode away without waiting for a reply. Steph was bound to grass him up to Tom—again—but who cared? Not Nero. Cass would back him on this. Always had, even without Lenny hiding in the fridge.

  Nero returned to the dessert section and served up the last few tables. It crossed his mind that Lenny might retreat upstairs, but he was cleaning out the blast chiller when he smelled the curious, sweet scent he’d recognise anywhere. “All right?”

  “Yeah.” Lenny offered up a watery smile. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Take the dirty shit to the pot wash. Clean the fridges down. Don’t forget the door seals and the handles.”

  Lenny nodded and got to work. He didn’t seem to want conversation, and that suited Nero just fine. Lenny’s demons echoed his own, and he needed the quiet, subdued buzz of a closing-down kitchen to keep him sane. Fire, smoke, blood. Fire, smoke, blood.

  Stop it.

  Nero scrubbed the countertops hard enough to rattle his bones, but phantom pain in his hand remained.

  Fuck this.

  He abandoned his psychotic cleaning and retreated to the test area to check on his dough experiments. All seemed well. He was poking at a rye base when Lenny came to find him.

  “I’m done.”

  “Good. You having a beer?”

  Lenny chewed his bottom lip. “Are you?”

  “Nah. Got shit to do.”

  “Like what?”

  Nero gestured to the counter of risen bread dough. “Finding a home for this lot.”

  “Can’t you put it in the fridge?”

  “I didn’t mean literally.” Nero pulled the basic white bread dough towards him. “I’ve told you about the Vauxhall project?”

  “Only that there is one. Not what it is.”

  “It’s a bakery—a proper one—and a pizzeria. This lot is the start of it.” Nero gestured at the array of dough on the counter. “There’s more in the fridge.”

  “Wow.” Lenny whistled. “I love pizza. Can’t eat it anymore, though. Gives me a right bellyache.”

  “I might have an answer to that. Ever tried spelt?”

  “Eh?”

  Nero pointed at a nut-coloured dough. “It’s not gluten-free, but it’s easier to digest if you’re . . . what’s the word that ain’t as bad as allergic?”

  “Intolerant?”

  “That’s it. We’ve used it before in crackers at Bites.”

  “The snack company?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Man, I forget how big Urban Soul is.”

  Nero grinned, and a little pride tickled his gut. He didn’t own squat, but he’d helped develop every business to Urban Soul’s name, and he couldn’t deny he was proud of it.

  Nor could he deny the warmth of Lenny’s answering smile, or the way it seemed to pierce his soul, or his not-so-sudden need for a distraction. He grabbed the bowl of spelt dough and a bag of flour. “Roll yer sleeves up.”

  An hour or so later found them on the fire escape, drinking beer, smoking weed, and sampling the various spelt pizzas they’d cooked up.

  Lenny was perched in the doorway, just his feet outside. “This is so good,” he mumbled around a mouthful of red pepper and manchego calzone. “Do you always use Spanish ingredients?”

  Nero shrugged, picking at the serrano ham and olive flatbread he’d made for himself. “Not on purpose. I guess I use what’s familiar.”

  “You don’t sound very Spanish.”

  “That’s ’cause I was raised in Hackney.”

  “To Spanish parents?”

  “My dad.” The bread in Nero’s mouth turned to dust. He put his plate down and reached for his beer. “He came over with my grandparents in the sixties.”

  “Are you close?”

  “No. He died when I was seven.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lenny swallowed the last of his supper. “So it was just you and your mum then?”

  “Not for long.” Nero dropped his empty beer bottle with a clatter and shoved his hands in his poc
kets.

  “Oh.” Lenny said nothing more for a long moment, then stood and took a hesitant step towards Nero, right up to the open door. It took an age for him to bring his other foot forward, and Nero’s heart ached. He stood too, and wrapped his fingers around Lenny’s slender wrist, putting himself between him and the outside world.

  “What about you? Are you close to your parents?”

  Lenny snorted softly. “No. They had my whole life mapped out for me, but I kinda ruined it when I dropped out of uni, dyed my hair blue, and told them I liked cock.”

  “‘Liked’?”

  “Still like, obviously, but either way, they weren’t impressed. They moved to Saudi Arabia last year, and I couldn’t give a shit.”

  “Do you have anyone else? Brothers and sisters?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Guess we’re both pretty sad, then.”

  “Speak for yourself, mate. I’m all right.” Nero released Lenny’s arm, slowly, like he was waking from the kind of dream he never had. “Want another beer?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  Lenny disappeared inside. He returned to the doorway a minute later with more beer and a jumbo packet of wine gums.

  Nero waved them away, hoping Lenny might venture outside.

  He didn’t.

  Nero rolled another spliff. Combined with the beer, he’d probably had enough, but the night air was warm and addictive, and so was Lenny’s company. He watched through heavy eyelids as Lenny polished off his wine gums. “Sweet tooth?”

  “Always. It’s worse when I’m stoned, though.” Lenny screwed up the packet and tossed it lazily over his shoulder, giggling as it ricocheted off the wall.

  Nero chuckled. He’d been smoking weed so long he rarely experienced the side effects Lenny was enjoying now. “So, the spelt worked for you?”

  “Huh?” Lenny blinked, then nodded as his weed-slowed brain seemed to catch up. “Yeah, I liked it. It was . . . nutty? But not bitter like brown bread is, you know? I hate that shit. My mum was obsessed with it when I was a kid. All my mates had white bread sarnies with plastic ham and Laughing Cow, and I had these hessian doorstops with beetroot in.”