Tales From Beyond Tomorrow: Volume One

by Catton John Paul

  Such is the stalking ground of the Whispering Sisters.

  Take the young man standing in the queue, here at the Camden branch of Sainsbury's supermarket. Gradually he becomes aware of the slow burn feeling on his neck, telling him he is being watched.

  He has fallen under their spell.

  Looking around, he catches the eye of the woman standing next to him, hands resting on the shopping trolley. Chestnut-brown hair, swept back with a multi-colured headband. An expensive business twin-suit, in a shimmering colour difficult to name. Attentive eyes, with no trace of the glazed disinterest of ordinary city-dwellers.

  Full lips that open as she leans closer to his bewildered face.

  "I think the cashier's waiting to serve you," she says.

  After they have both been served, pleasantries are exchanged in the area where the trolleys are deposited, until the young man enthusiastically helps her carry her shopping to her car. The Sister has chosen well; the young man is absurdly open to hypnotic suggestion. He is left simmering for five minutes until the Sister has driven away, and his head finally clears. He comes to with a start sitting in his own Volvo, staring at the wrong bag of shopping lying on the passenger seat.

  Back in the security of her apartment, the Housewife carries the switched Sainsbury's plastic carrier bag to the kitchen table. The doors are bolted, the blessing is said, and the long, serrated knife is prepared for use.

  The bag is slit cleanly down the middle under the piercing thrust of the knife. The shopping spills out onto the formica kitchen top; canned, packaged, frozen, fresh, wrapped, bottled. The Sister's eyelids and lips twitch as she intently reads the entrails of this sacrificial offering.

  At length, once the augurs have been divined, she turns away with a frown. She retrieves her mobile phone from her handbag, and dials.

  "Charles? This is Allison. Look…I think you're in some sort of trouble."

  2: SALADE

  Slips of the Tongue in Madeira Sauce

  Boil tongue until tender (about 1 hour) in lightly salted water. Meanwhile, saute a handful of fresh mushrooms in butter and oil, with a tbs. of chopped onions or shallots. Add 1 cup of the water in which the tongue has been boiling and 1 tbs. tomato paste. Boil for several minutes until reduced to a few tbs. Add a glass of madeira with a tbs. of arrowroot stirred in. Boil until sauce thickens. When tongue is tender, remove the skin and cut into slips of about 2 inches each. Add Madeira sauce. Correct seasoning with salt and pepper and serve topped with parsley.

  – from Freud's Own Cookbook

  The absence of storm within the restaurant ceased momentarily, and Mr. X stepped from the kitchen into the interior. By the side entrance, a shadow stood in rain-drenched overcoat and hat. This was the belated arrival of Mr Y.

  "It's a foul night," the newcomer commented.

  "It is indeed." Mr X advanced, and the two men greeted each other with the customary clandestine salute. "I was starting to get a little concerned about you."

  "There's an all-night sitting in the House, and the Euro-Rebels are stirring things up again. There were some eyebrows raised when I slipped away, I can tell you."

  "No lasting repercussions, I hope?"

  "Nothing I can't take care of."

  "Good, because our honored guest is waiting. He's in the fridge."

  The two men stepped through the hushed shadows of the restaurant, the taller man taking off his dripping coat as Mr X led him to the cloakroom.

  "There has been talk," the visitor said as he slipped his coat onto a hangar, "that the annual dinner might not run so smoothly this year."

  "Problems?" Mr X's dark, narrow face was instantly alert.

  "Possibly. Charles got a call from one of the Whispering Sisters this afternoon. She was contracted to make a divination for us, just to be on the safe side. The augers say that the Benandanti might be planning something for us tomorrow, but I'm afraid she couldn't be more specific."

  A long, wheezing sigh. "Tomorrow…that doesn't give us much time to increase security arrangements, you know."

  "Awfully sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

  "I hope you're not suggesting…"

  "Cancellation? Of the annual dinner? Out of the question."

  There was a long moment of speculation in the warm, humid silence; then Mr X snorted and gave a shrug. "Well, time's getting on. If we're having Donald for dinner, we can't keep him hanging around all night."

  The restaurant owner guided Mr X through the brightly illuminated kitchen to the solid, intimidating entrance to the walk-in cold room. Throwing open the bolts, he swung it open, releasing a white mist of water vapour.

  "After you."

  "Much obliged."

  The refrigerator was stocked with segments of pork, beef and rarer animals that beared their exposed ribs and inner cavities to the two men stepping carefully along the slippery floor towards the back. Mr X switched on a flashlight that he held in his gloved hands. Sliding aside a metal folding partition, Mr X held up the torch to examine his guest.

  "Now then, Donald, let's have a look at you."

  Donald Oughton hung from a specially-made harness, naked, his body almost entirely plastered with thick, off-white waxed paper. The bumpy contours of his body hinted at the truth concealed by the paper; he had been gutted.

  Eight days ago, once Oughton had fallen completely under the sedative that Mr X had himself administered, the master chef set to work, draining blood from the still-living body. A three-foot catheter was inserted into the inferior vena cava then threaded through to the heart, with the pumping action of that organ emptying the body of its blood supply. Mr X had helped it along, of course, with a little shaking and pushing. That cut down the risk of bacterial infection, and considerably slowed the process of decay.

  With the accuracy of a surgeon, Mr X had skinned Oughton and removed the abdominal organs. Most of these were consigned to the restaurant incinerator. Specially selected organs were then removed and set aside, including the specialty Mr X liberated by sawing open the skull.

  Oughton was then slipped into the harness and hung in the cold room at a steady 5 degrees centigrade. Over the period of eight days, the rigor mortis gradually faded, as the glycogen in Oughton's muscles broke down into lactic acid and started to soften the fibre. To aid the conditioning process, he was liberally smeared with a certain tenderizing powder of Mr X's own devising, then covered up with greaseproof paper.

  Mr X led Mr Y to a rack of shelves. One of them slid outwards on rollers to reveal the liver, brain and selected cuts from the shoulder, back and rump of the late Mr Oughton, chilled and wrapped in clingfilm. The meat of the muscle held a dark, cherry-tomato color, looking slightly coarser than the smooth texture they had both been hoping for. The meat was ringed by ragged edges of yellowy-white fat. Although in texture and color it looked similar to beef, they both knew from years of experience that when cooked, it would give the lie to the cannibal jargon of 'long pig', and present the delicate flavour of good, fully developed veal.

  They also knew that if eaten uncooked, it would melt in the mouth like the finest tuna sashimi.

  "Very impressive." Mr Y clapped his hands together with a cushioned slap. "Right! Let the dog see the rabbit…"

  3: ENTREE

  Raw Meat torn by Trumpet Blasts

  Cut a perfect cube of beef. Pass an electric current through it, then marinate it for twenty-four hours in a mixture of rum, cognac and white vermouth. Remove it from the mixture and serve on a bed of red pepper, black pepper and snow. Each mouthful is to be chewed carefully for one minute, and each mouthful is divided from the next by vehement blasts on a trumpet blown by the eater himself.

  – from 'The Futurist Cookbook'

  In the first decades of the 21st Century, things had reached a point of complexity on planet Earth that could both poetically, and scientifically, be described as catastrophic. Every event in the biosphere, no matter how small, was of potential significance. The world, becoming mor
e and more unstable, was about to leap onwards to a new state of equilibrium.

  This was the age of the most powerful, and the most occult secret society; the Gourmet Parliament of the Malendanti and their constant struggle against the partisan Benandanti.

  On that night, in a certain restaurant in Knightsbridge, London, they gathered; the most powerful representatives of home sapiens. Politicians, diplomats, and civil servants. Directors of multinational corporate giants. Military officers. Deans of elite universities. Solicitors and doctors. Heads of newspaper, television and Internet media empires.

  Their creed?

  It was simple. The world was something to be relished, from the safety of their air-conditioned bunkers, their secret condominiums beneath the earth and sea, only deigning to notice the starving, witless public as entertainment.

  In earlier times, it was known for the warriors of tribal societies to take part in certain…culinary practices. Practices of eating certain organs from the bodies of men from rival tribes and clans, and sometimes their own. They sought to take on the noble qualities of the fallen by eating parts of their bodies. Ingesting the cooked flesh into their own bodies, their own gastric juices would break down the organs of foes and comrades, absorbing the proteins, the fats, the memories, the personal qualities, the very soul itself, assimilating them into their own bodies.

  For the Gourmet Parliament, this notion was not cannibalism. This was not even ritual sacrifice. This was immortality – 'a la carte'.

  At a specific night once a year, the Parliament would gather to feast upon a meal made from the organs of one of their own. A sacrificial victim, chosen in the Aztec fashion, a year before the dinner. A victim who had spent his or her final year as the honorary member of the Parliament, showered with hospitality and prestige. A victim who had been on a special diet to improve the quality of his or her meat.

  The latest guest of honour was Donald Oughton. Through their ritual consumption of the former Chief Constable of the Metropolitan Police Force, the Parliament sought to reassert their pledges to personal immortality, continued success and prosperity, and their continued financial and cultural world domination. While millions stupefied themselves with gene-modified narcotic swill, the Gourmet Parliament made sure the best of the world's harvest was kept for those bred to govern it.

  That Parliamentary Menu, in full:

  HORS D'OEUVRES: Mr Oughton's liver, lightly fried with spring vegetables, seasoning, and oysters.

  ENTREE: Salmon Florentine, to cleanse the palate, served with a 1985 Hock.

  MAIN COURSE: Brain Cakes (see receipe below).

  Steaks cut from Mr Oughton's back and "derriere", pan-fried in a coriander and mushroom sauce.

  Both served with wild mushrooms, croquette potatoes, and a tossed green salad.

  Accompanied by a 1979 claret.

  DESSERT:

  "Bavarais Clermont avec marrons glaces".

  Peaches Toscane, both served with stiffly whipped cream and accompanied by a vintage Taittinger's Comtes de Champagne.

  A selection of cheese, fruit and nuts, accompanied by a 1966 Dow port.

  The Gourmet Parliament Brain Cakes were made from the following recipe, first published by the notable Mrs Frazer, circa 1795: "When the head is cloven, take out the brains and clear them of any strings that may be amongst them. Cast them well with a knife, and mix them with the yolks of two raw eggs, a few crumbs of bread, parsley, pepper, and salt, a spoonful and a half of flour, and the same quantity of cream; when they are very smooth, drop them with a spoon the size of a small sugar biscuit, and fry them a light brown. Brain cakes make a very handsome dish, garnished with sliced orange."

  Just before the dessert plates were due to be cleared away, the liveried footmen became aware of the first signs of danger.

  A junior diplomat, seated towards the end of the second table, suddenly turned pale and belched in a most unseemly fashion. The guests around him politely ignored the indiscretion, but it was soon noticed that the gold cutlery and silver gilt plates near the young man were oscillating slightly, as if from vibrations affecting the table. The crystal Royal Brierley glasses were emitting a faint whine, a harmonic almost too sensitive for the human ear. A handful of guests began to complain of dizziness, a distant hissing in the ears, a faint ache in the pelvic region.

  The footmen had spotted the signs of imminent Benandanti attack. "Excuse me, sir. Are you feeling unwell? Would you care to come with me?"

  While the other guests resumed their conversations, the unprotesting junior diplomat was led away, covering his mouth with a napkin, fighting for deep breaths. They took him into a small antechamber and swiftly closed the door.

  Looking up, the young man saw the stern face of Mr X, and immediately doubled up in pain.

  "Get away from him," Mr X commanded. "Keep your tongs ready, don't touch him with your hands!"

  Under the strain of sudden, violent peristaltic action, the guest's whole abdomen buckled and swelled. At a touch of a button, a plexiglass shield snapped up from Mr X's desk, to protect the restaurant staff who quickly huddled gathered behind it.

  With a hideous noise that echoed around the high walls and ceiling of the antechamber, the young man ejected the contents of his stomach – and then the stomach itself.

  The prodigious vomit and viscera splattered across the length of the shield, and smoldered as it slid down to the floor. The red carpet corroded and burned under the violent filth sprayed upon it, and the young man's emptied body lay surrounded by his own work, its skin flaccid and pale.

  The Head Waiter entered the room, trying hard not to cover his nose against the stench.

  "Are the other guests on good form?" snapped Mr X.

  "Some of them suspect what's happened," the servant reported, "but they all seem to be calm. There are no further signs of psychic disturbance."

  "This is a love letter from the Benandanti", stormed Mr X. "Just one of their little surprises, to show us that they are still around. An attack, right here in my own restaurant. Think of it! Just before the speeches, and the announcement of next year's guest of honour! What if they had attacked him or her, leaving us without a sacrifice? What then?"

  The footmen flinched under the bombardment of rhetorical questions.

  "Clean this mess up," ordered Mr X, "and when dinner's over, I'll call the Butcher. "

  4: PLAT PRINCIPAL

  Megalomania Crown Roast of Lamb

  Let go! Buy a whole crown roast from your butcher! Tip your butcher! Put on a chef's hat! Turn your oven up to 500 degrees! Season the crown with salt and pepper and rosemary sprigs and everything else you have in your herb collection!! Stuff the crown with a mixture of 2 tsp. sage, 2 tbs. chopped onion, parslet, chevil, thyme, coriander, and whatever else you want. It is your crown roast, baby!!! Then come to your senses. Do you really want your roast to go up in flames?

  Place on roaster rack and bake, uncovered, at 300 degrees for 15 or 20 minutes per pound or less depending on desired rareness. But have it very rare! And instead of the usual paper frills over rib ends, try ten-dollar bills!! You can still fulfill your delusions of grandeur without burning down the house!!!

  – from 'Freud's own Cookbook'.

  Mr X regained his seat, and looked around cautiously at the faces of those around him. Beefy jowls, quivering as their owners laughed. Bellies that rippled in sympathetic mirth. Ladies who displayed delicately pointed teeth as white and as gleaming as the pearls on their necklaces. Cheeks and noses tanned a deep fleshy purple by the steady imbibing of port and claret. All awaiting the announcement of the next guest of honour, with the delightful 'frisson' of anticipation.

  This was the rule of meat.

  Meat could hunt. Meat could kill. If necessary, meat could consume itself to survive.

  "Eco-terrorists," Mr X tedious under his breath. "How tedious."

  He glanced up, and saw a waiter bringing an old-fashioned telephone on a velevet cushion towards him. Mr X straightened h
is back and prepared to give orders for the act of retaliation.

  He stiffened, snapped out of his brooding thoughts by the sight of the waiter slipping something from under the plate. A pistol. The snub business end was pointed towards Mr. X, a shape unreal and yet unarguably present.

  "You were mistaken, sir, " came a sibiliant whisper. "The real attack hasn't begun yet."

  Around him, a number of guests and footmen were shedding their disguises, synthetic flesh falling from depolarized faces as they stood and opened their tuxedo jackets. Candlelight gleamed upon serrated metal edges.

  The Gourmet Parliament descended into a long, stunned silence.

  Mr X's shocked face had time for one last, whispered curse, expressing the fury and despair in his eyes.

  "Gutted…"

  *

  The assembled ranks of those present at that dinner were driven, in a convoy of refrigerated trucks, to the rolling hills of the Cotswolds. Mr X and Mr Y were liberally smared with quicklime and stabbed deeply in the chest with carving knives (to release the gases that would later have bloated the corpses and revealed their graves). It was the whim of the Benandanti that the corpses of Mr X and Mr Y were to be partially preserved by the lime, their biomass gradually becoming calciferous, until in time they might resemble the fossils of another breed whose time had come and gone long, long ago.

  The rest of the Parliament were hung from trees, sunk into streams, seated in vertiginous rest upon treetop branches, or simply laid prone upon the moss. Sport for the flies, maggots and beetles, gradually turning to soup and bones within their tuxedos, flesh and muscle gently melting to bleed out fatty acids into the soil and the water, making their humble – and long overdue – contribution to the Green.