American Savage

by Matt Whyman

  Amanda waited without word for the chips, drumming her fingers on the bar counter with military precision.

  ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t forget me,’ she told her boss when he came back with the bowl, and forced a smile that seemed to satisfy him.

  The customer was already halfway through his beer when Amanda returned with the chips. He looked unimpressed as she approached, having seen what she was carrying. Still, she hoped that if the encounter reduced the demand for pork cracklings by the bag then it would’ve been worth her while.

  ‘Thank you, sweet meat,’ said the man, as she placed the bowl in front of him. ‘I sure hope something tastes good here.’

  At the same time, Amanda felt the palm of his hand cup her buttock. She stood up straight and glared at him. The guy caught her eye and seemed surprised when her scowl softened to a smile. It was as if she had experienced a sudden change of heart, which aroused his interest all the more. Then, without invitation, she gestured at him to move across so that she could share the booth. He did so without hesitation, and even extended his arm along the headrest. Amanda responded by nuzzling his ear with her lips. In this dimly lit, crowded sports bar, with music blaring and girls working the poles, nobody paid them any attention whatsoever.

  ‘Taste means everything to me, too,’ Amanda whispered, before nuzzling his earlobe.

  ‘Oh, right there,’ purred the man, who was clearly surprised by such forward behaviour but also enjoying it. ‘Is this gonna cost me?’

  Amanda responded by taking the very edge of the man’s earlobe between her central incisors and then biting down by a millimetre. She did so with such finesse that the slither of flesh that came away could’ve been cut by a surgeon’s scalpel. The man gasped. She pulled back and found him looking utterly shocked.

  ‘The salt in your blood gives it body,’ she said, and pinched the slither from her tongue in order to inspect it. ‘In the oven, at a high temperature, this would be so much more rewarding than those miserable cracklings you ordered.’

  The man touched his ear, stunned by the stinging sensation and the drop of blood on his fingertips. He looked back at this crazy woman, lost for words. Amanda patted his knee before leaving him alone with his drink and the snack, both of which remained untouched when she glanced back a moment later to find that he had made a hasty exit.

  9

  Later that week, Titus Savage set off on his run, having first checked that no neighbours were cleaning their cars or watering the plants. He reached the junction out of the inlet community at speed, anxious not to be seen in the gear he’d picked up from the fitness store that morning. The shorts were OK – a little high cut for his liking – but it seemed that size medium for a vest was no longer a comfortable fit. Waiting for the lights to turn, Titus stood with his shoulders slumped, panting heavily. Looking down, even his new trainers seemed out of character on him.

  ‘You can’t give up,’ he grumbled to himself. ‘You owe this to your family.’

  Across the junction, Titus attempted to get into some kind of trot. What distracted him was the unpleasant sensation caused by his stomach rocking up and down in perfect synchronicity with his moobs. It brought his physical shape into raw focus. Jogging along the sidewalk, ignoring any pedestrian who so much as glanced in his direction, Titus was determined to turn the tide. He was a Savage, after all, and it was his duty to present himself to his family as leader of the pack. The kind of formidable hunter who was capable of bringing home a kill slung over his shoulder without risk of a coronary.

  With his pace dropping by the block, Titus lumbered past the nursing home that housed his father. As a boy, when first introduced to the pleasures of eating human flesh, he had looked up to his old man as someone who existed above and beyond the law. Oleg was a god through his young eyes. A culinary pioneer who had seen the light while others relied solely on whatever processed meats the food industry chose to force upon them. All those years ago, Titus had considered it a great honour to be initiated into the ritual sourcing and slaughter of the next feast, and was determined that his children should look upon him in the same way.

  Mulling over how far they had come as a family gave Titus all the more reason to pick up the pace. His face was flushed as he stumbled past the drug store, his forehead needling with sweat and his lungs threatening to shut down with every gulp of air. The will to get in shape was there, without a doubt, but not the stamina. Approaching the boat rental with the sandwich board on the sidewalk, Titus felt both ashamed and a little shocked at his lack of fitness.

  ‘I’ve become what I eat,’ he muttered to himself. ‘A bloater.’

  For too long now, Titus realised, he’d been picking off people who packed a few extra pounds. He only had himself to blame, having deliberately favoured a particular type of tenant. Those solitary tech heads lived in front of their computers, grazing on a steady diet of instant noodles and oven chips, and that was beginning to take its toll on Titus. If he wanted to regain his figure then pounding the tarmac in this way just wasn’t enough. Titus would have to become more selective, not just with his day-to-day food intake, but with the feasts, too. Yes, American-raised belly tasted good, especially when Angelica roasted it for several hours basted in garlic and cracked coriander seeds, but when that became a regular treat, all the fat just transferred to his arteries and waistline.

  Up ahead, Titus spotted a stop sign. Not fifteen minutes into his run, with his heart kicking like a mule, he read it as a personal message that had nothing to do with the cars at the lights. He slowed to a halt, panting hard, and placed his hands on his knees. One glance at his watch told him that he couldn’t go home just yet. Even if it was just a neighbour who spotted him, Titus had no desire to carry the shame inside. Instead, at walking pace, he followed the corner onto the beach road. Down there, in between the dunes, Titus knew of a little coffee stop. He could just pull up on a plastic chair there for a while, enjoy the sunshine and some light refreshment. They also did great pastries, he remembered. A moment later, Titus willed himself towards his destination at a trot, because that way he’d have earned a sugar hit.

  When Amanda surfaced from her room, she took one look at the kitchen clock and found another reason to dislike her new job. It was early afternoon and she had only just climbed out of bed. Not only did her shift end late, it was also exhausting having to constantly fend off advances from the saloon clientele. What was it with those guys that they felt they could disrespect a woman in that way? She had set each one straight without hesitation, and though they always left quickly, still more kept on coming. In Amanda’s view, it was like dealing with a testosterone-fuelled zombie horde. At one point, she had complained to Rolan about the manhandling. He had just shrugged in response, before suggesting that dancing for them might satisfy their needs while bringing in more tips.

  Amanda Dias considered her principles to be embedded in her genes. She couldn’t simply switch them off. Despite the heavy hints from Rolan, there was no way she was going to perform for those punks at the saloon. Instead, whenever they ordered a meat-based snack, she would cuddle up beside them, find their ear or take their hand and suggestively slot a finger in her mouth. A moment later, Amanda Dias would come away with a butter curl of flesh pinched victoriously between her teeth. It meant if they hurried back to their wives with a minor wound and second thoughts about their first choice of food then her job was done.

  ‘Well, good morning and good afternoon. That’s quite a lie-in you’ve had today.’

  Amanda turned to see Angelica at the kitchen door. Little Katya hung back in the lobby, cooing at a box on the floor that was covered by a tea cloth.

  ‘I’m on shift time,’ Amanda said by way of explanation. ‘I don’t suppose you want to join me for a very late breakfast?’

  Angelica smiled and placed her car keys on the counter. Then she peeled the sweatband from her head and breathed out long and hard. In her Lycra top and leggings, looking like a superhero without her c
ape, she gave Amanda no reason to ask where she’d been before picking up Katya from kindergarten.

  ‘All I need right now is a rest,’ Angelica said. ‘I’m beginning to think that Joaquín’s made it his mission in life to get me to the peak of fitness. He’s such a driven young man.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  Amanda turned to the fridge. The only thing she’d been driven to lately was distraction by all the slimeballs at the saloon. For a moment, she considered confiding in Angelica about what the job really involved. What stopped her was the belief that this was something she could handle on her own terms. So, instead of moaning about Rolan, she reached for a carton of chocolate-flavoured soya milk. Amanda had a shelf reserved just for her. It was completely meat free, in direct contrast to the other shelves. The sausages and the mince didn’t disgust her here as it might elsewhere. In the Savage household, she was prepared to make this concession given how they had shown her the way forward when it came to feasts.

  ‘Is Ivan home from classes yet?’ asked Angelica.

  Amanda detected the note of concern in Mrs Savage’s voice straight away. She turned with the carton in hand to see Angelica straining to see if anyone was down by the jetty.

  ‘It’s just me here,’ said Amanda. ‘Titus is out jogging.’

  This was enough to command Angelica’s full attention, but she chose not to pursue it. Instead, having glanced back at little Katya in the lobby, she leaned across the counter and addressed Amanda in hushed tones.

  ‘Kat has brought home the class gerbil. Tinky Dinks is with us for the week.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sweet!’ Amanda poured herself a glass from the carton. ‘We had a hamster at our school. A little pet like that is a great way of teaching responsibility.’

  Angelica didn’t look like she disagreed. Even so, she appeared pained.

  ‘Ivan is having a tough time at school,’ she said, still keeping her voice low, as if her son might somehow be listening. ‘You know what he can be like when he’s stressed.’

  Amanda was well aware of Angelica’s concerns. Ivan’s unwitting disregard for the welfare of other people was a constant source of concern to his parents. Looking at Angelica now, Amanda figured she was worried that the boy might extend the same thing to small, furry creatures.

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Would he?’

  ‘I’d sooner not put it to the test.’ Angelica glanced over her shoulder. Her youngest daughter was on her hands and knees, peering into the box at the new arrival. ‘It’s best that Ivan knows nothing about this.’

  Amanda lengthened her gaze to the lobby. In her view, any abuse of an animal’s welfare was punishable by death. As an exception, she recognised that Ivan’s seemingly cruel streak was an unforeseen result of his upbringing, rather than the instinct of an idiot. He was an impressionable boy, eager to please, who was being raised to compartmentalise his sense of compassion where necessary to become the ultimate hunter. He was bound to struggle with boundaries at this stage of his apprenticeship, but this wasn’t one that she felt happy for him to test. As she had come to like Ivan – and not just because she shared his commitment to the consumption of human flesh – Amanda agreed it was in everyone’s best interests that the gerbil stayed under wraps throughout its stay in the villa.

  10

  What sounded like an incoming tsunami filled Ivan’s ears just a moment before water flooded into his nostrils. With his head forced low into the toilet pan, this was the second flush in a matter of seconds that the boy had endured. He found it no more comfortable than the first one.

  ‘Stop it!’ he cried, coughing and struggling against the hand that clamped the back of his neck. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘What did we say about showing up for training?’

  The boy snarling over him was Ryan, while Chad held him down and Bryce prepared to pull the chain again just as soon as the cistern had refilled. Ivan had watched a documentary only recently about waterboarding torture. This felt like the high-school equivalent of that kind of hell.

  ‘You heard us good,’ snarled Ryan, after Chad had followed up the initial question by asking whether Ivan was deaf or something. ‘And yet still we find you here in the changing rooms!’

  ‘What’s the matter, dude?’ asked Bryce. ‘You have a problem respecting us?’

  Ivan was too busy coughing still to answer, which was Chad’s cue to haul him upright.

  ‘All I want to do is be a team player!’ the boy in their grip gasped. ‘Give me a break, guys!’

  Ryan repeated Ivan’s plea, having adopted the voice of a little girl. A little girl speaking the Queen’s English.

  ‘You can’t play,’ Bryce told him. ‘It’s not in your blood. You’re good for nothing but that stupid game you Brit fairies play with a bat.’

  ‘Baseball?’ asked Chad, looking across at his friend.

  ‘Like that but lazier,’ said Bryce. ‘Less running.’

  ‘You mean cricket,’ said Ivan, which earned him a third dip in the bowl. The next time the trio dragged him upright, they did so with such force that his spine slammed against the inside of the cubicle door. Before the boy had a chance to slump, Bryce gripped him by his throat with one hand and then jabbed him hard in the stomach with the other.

  ‘This is your final warning,’ he snarled, as all the air left Ivan’s lungs in a pitiful bark. ‘You’re not on the team. You’ll never be a player. Now go home, new girl, and stay out of our way! You don’t fit in here, OK?’

  It was Bryce who shot the bolt free, Chad who snatched open the cubicle door and Ryan who thrust the boy out. Ivan stumbled backwards onto the tiles, causing the small crowd of squad members who had been drawn to the commotion to step hastily from his path. Ivan looked around, on the floor now, his hair dripping wet and his cheeks hot with tears. Nobody met his gaze.

  ‘You’ll be sorry,’ he croaked, struggling to keep a sob at bay. ‘Every last one of you will regret messing with me!’

  ‘Get outta here,’ growled Chad. ‘Beat it!’

  Picking himself up, Ivan looked around as if each boy was shining a flashlight in his face. Then, having turned full circle, he scrambled for the door.

  ‘Way to go!’ cried Ryan from behind him.

  ‘Now that’s what I call a home run,’ crowed Bryce. ‘All the way back to Mommy!’

  Oleg Savage had elected not to notify his nurse that he was popping out to pick up some things from the store. Vince would only ask questions. Given his taste in meat, the old man had plenty of experience in concealing the truth. On this occasion, however, he figured it was purely the grin on his face that would give everything away.

  Zipping along the sidewalk on his mobility scooter, on his way back to the nursing home, he reflected on his time with Priscilla. She was such good company, and the frequent naps weren’t unwelcome. It gave him time to reflect on what a lucky man he was to be feeling this way at his age. It was late afternoon, but the sun still dazzled. A gentle sea breeze kept the heat at bay. It brought a salty tang to the air, which felt good on Oleg’s gum line when he ran his tongue inside his top lip. The old man relished the feeling, especially with the accelerator dial turned several notches beyond the cautionary mark made by his son. Even Angelica kept saying he really ought to be wearing a protective helmet, gloves and elbow pads, but the advice fell on deaf ears. Oleg wasn’t some kid fresh on a bike. He’d been on this earth through two world wars and had only surrendered his driving licence eighteen years earlier. In his white vest and mirror shades, he grasped the handlebars and imagined himself to be on a Harley Davidson, living the American Dream.

  ‘Hey! Wait a minute! Slow down!’

  Oleg normally ignored such calls from pedestrians, and they happened frequently. On recognising the voice this time, he opened his eyes, guiltily turned the dial down to zero and waited for Titus to catch up.

  ‘You’re in jogging gear,’ Oleg observed. ‘Is this a dare?’

  For a moment, Titus was too b
reathless to reply. He just stood there with one hand on the back of Oleg’s scooter, gasping for breath.

  ‘It’s a fitness drive,’ he said eventually, before standing straight. ‘You know, it isn’t safe to be riding this thing at speed. What if you knocked someone over?’

  Oleg glanced at his son’s new trainers and shrugged. ‘Do you remember that time as a kid when we took you on a driving holiday across the Highlands? That hiker crossed the road out of nowhere. She left me with nowhere to go.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Titus, but sounded as if he wish he hadn’t. ‘At least her suffering was brief at the speed you were travelling.’

  Oleg considered him for a second.

  ‘Well, we didn’t let her go to waste,’ he said. ‘In fact, you declared that roadkill tasted better than any meat you’d eaten before.’

  Immediately, Titus checked nobody was within earshot.

  ‘I was just a boy back then,’ he told him quietly. ‘And let’s not forget that we’re in this country under false documentation. That’s fine, so long as everyone is careful.’

  ‘I am careful,’ Oleg grumbled, affronted that Titus would even call this into question.

  ‘Careering along the sidewalk at full tilt on a mobility scooter isn’t careful. It could earn you a ticket for reckless driving, and then where would you be? At 103, you need to slow down in more ways than one.’

  Oleg sighed to himself and looked wistfully at the way ahead.

  ‘I don’t feel old,’ he said quietly.

  He didn’t need to spell out to Titus exactly why he felt younger than his years. That Oleg’s late wife had passed on at a natural age wasn’t something he liked to dwell on. If he could turn back time, he would’ve insisted that she had extra helpings of human flesh each time they enjoyed a feast. Something was behind his long life, after all. Oleg couldn’t say for certain whether his diet meant he might live for an eternity, but it often felt that way. He drew breath to remind Titus that, whatever the case, as his senior, he deserved a little respect. Instead, he watched his son’s attention turn to the brown paper bag in the scooter’s front basket.