In the Kitchen (46 page)

Fairweather, still on the phone, strode purposefully up and down by the plate-glass window. He raised a finger to Gabriel to indicate he wouldn't be long. A blonde passed by outside and Fairweather swept at his fringe. The blonde looked back over her shoulder.

Fairweather had a wandering eye. Women seemed to like him too. Gabe supposed he was not bad-looking, a little short, but not short of apple-cheeked charm.

'Excellent,' said Fairweather, pocketing the phone. 'How marvellous,' he added, in equal parts emphatic and vague. 'My God, you do look tired.'

Gabriel put a cigarette between his lips.

'Didn't kick them?' said Fairweather. 'Never seen the appeal myself, but then I guess you don't if you never start.'

'You don't mind if I?' said Gabe, searching for his lighter.

'No, no,' said Fairweather. 'We all have our vices, don't we?'

'What's yours?'

'Ah, well, you know,' said Fairweather. 'Now, did you want to see me about something?'

'Remember you were asking me about Yuri, the porter, I mean. Well, I've been having ... I've been thinking ...' It was the dream. But he wouldn't tell Fairweather that. The dream must be for a reason. He had to figure it out, and then it would go away. Last time the food had buried him. He'd nearly suffocated, come up gasping for air. 'Well, Yuri was definitely an illegal, though he had a National Insurance number, don't ask me how because I've no idea. So do you think that means he would have been – what did you call it? –

bonded labour, in debt to someone?'

'Inquest go off all right?' said Fairweather, encouragingly.

'Yes,' said Gabe, 'no problem. Accidental death.'

'Poor chap.'

'Do you think he could have been—' 'Does very little good now to speculate,'

Fairweather interrupted.

'Who does it help?'

'I don't know,' said Gabriel. 'Maybe the agency should be prosecuted. If that's what they'd done to him.'

Fairweather checked his watch. 'Look,' he said, 'why go down that road?'

'But you said, in cases like this—'

Fairweather began speaking quickly. He crisped up. 'You can't equate the two things. A worker might enter illegally and then find work without facing a situation like that. Many do. Conversely, the majority of people identified as, technically speaking, trafficked have come to the country entirely legally.'

'Go on,' said Gabe. 'Explain.'

'All right. If you really want to know. What happens is, the traffickers use regular migration routes and work visas, but then charge fees for arranging work which put the workers into debt before they've even arrived in the UK.

Sometimes their documents are removed, they're kept in poor housing and charged a fortune, charged for transport to and from work, and so on and so forth. Threats, abuse, all sorts of things. Don't forget that these people very often speak little English and they're not aware of their rights. Your porter, he could be a victim, should we say. Or he might not be. The fact that he was an illegal immigrant is neither here nor there.'

'But if he was ...'

'What you've got to understand,' Fairweather fired away rapidly, as if he had thirty seconds in which to deliver a brief, 'is that even if it did happen to your guy, you're not going to change the world by making a fuss. It's too widespread for that. It's endemic, it's a structural problem. You get the odd media story but that's only the tip of the iceberg.'

'So why aren't you doing something about it?'

'The government? Even a Labour government? We're trying but it's not that simple. There's a private member's bill coming up about equal rights for agency workers, but for very complex reasons we've been unable to back it.'

'What reasons?' said Gabriel.

'Look, we have to think about what business wants as well, and what consumers demand. Even if the bill does go through, it won't be a panacea.'

'But it would be better than nothing.'

Fairweather made a dismissive gesture. 'Here's the real issue. There's a constant pressure to decrease costs. The old union model of labour is dead and gone. You've got longer and longer chains of subcontracting and outsourcing, and employers want to buy labour as they buy other commodities – supplies which they can turn on and off as necessary without raising the unit price. So you see, if you want to be a crusader you've really got your work cut out. I'd drop it if I were you.'

'I want to drop it,' said Gabriel. He was so tired at this moment he thought he could sleep like a horse, standing up. 'I don't even want to think about it.'

'Well, you've said that your conscience is clean. That's what matters in the end.'

'I didn't say that.' His conscience was clean, but he'd say it if and when he wanted to.

'Didn't you?' said Fairweather, his demeanour changing, like he'd stepped out of the office and loosened his t
ie.

Was it his greatest political asset, this amiable vagueness, more useful than the sharpness contained within? It was largely impenetrable, it seemed non-threatening, and it swept you along.

'Didn't you?' repeated Fairweather. 'I'd rather thought you had. Maybe you should, you know. Have you heard of neuro-linguistic programming?

Say something often enough, you start to believe it and lo, it shall come to pass. Let's say you feel guilty about something. Keep telling yourself you don't. It'll do the trick in the end.'

'Isn't that – I don't know – psychotic behaviour? If you tell yourself things that don't relate to reality.'

Fairweather's laugh echoed around the naked room. He put his arm across Gabriel's shoulder as they headed for the door. 'Lot of psychopaths in Westminster, then. Ha, ha, I should say. Goes with the territory.'

In his hot tight cell, his legs crammed under the desk, Gabriel sat thinking it wouldn't be any worse doing solitary in a Bangkok jail; and he was thinking, too, that his mind kept wandering and ought to be dragged back to the task in hand, whatever that was, when Oona, all bustle and creak, installed herself in the corner, cradling a towel-swaddled object in her lap.

Gabriel wanted her out of there. There wasn't enough oxygen for two. 'Oona,'

he said, 'what's that you've got? A severed head?'

'Hooh,' said Oona, giving herself body and soul to her laugh.

'I'm in the middle of something, actually,' said Gabe.

Oona clucked and shook her head. 'Halways busy.'

She took up too much space. When she sat somewhere it was like she'd put down roots, would stay until her children, her grandchildren, were grown. You expected to trip over her knitting or the babies that would crawl out from under her skirts.

'That's right,' said Gabe.

'Brought you someting,' said Oona, creasing her almond eyes. 'Look how thin you got!'

Gabe nodded. He wished she would go. He closed his eyes and wished her away.

'Hexhausted, too, m'mm.'

What did she think this was? Who did she think he was? A housewife whose children were running her ragged, gossiping over the fence?

'Nice bitta stew and dumplin's, in a nice clay pot,' said Oona, 'thirty minutes at one hundred and eighty, darlin'. Know how it is when you only suppose be cooking for one. Easy to go without.'

Gabriel opened his eyes. He felt them bulge out of their sockets. Oona put the swaddled pot on his desk. On his papers, on his lists, on all his important stuff!

'Oona,' he said, choking with indignation.

She stood there making broody noises deep in her chest.

'I ...' said Gabe. 'I ...'

'Ho,' said Oona, 'don't need no tanks.' She folded her hands in front of her and began to move her lips silently.

What the hell did she think she was doing? Was she saying a prayer? He caught the last line as she shuffled off on leaden feet. God bless us and Amen.

He ran straight up to Human Resources and said that she had to go, he couldn't work with her any more. Gross misconduct, said the HR lady. Fill in this form.

He sat and chewed his pen. What could he put? Praying while on duty? Offering unwanted casseroles? He'd already given her one formal warning. Couldn't he add another, for being late or something, and then that would be the end of it? The HR lady consulted her files. There's no record, she told him. Has to be a record or it doesn't count. He protested. He pleaded. The HR lady tapped her pen. Gabe, undefeated, suggested redundancy. The HR lady said no. Not unless it was in Mr James's 'restructure initiative'. Gabriel said thanks very much for your help. She smiled and said, any time, and about the goods-in porter, don't forget to deal with him.

During dinner service he prowled the kitchen. He watched the dishwasher stacking plates and scouring pans. This one was from Somalia. The other was from Sudan. Or maybe the other way round. The man wiped his hands on his overalls and hosed down the sink. He dragged a massive stockpot over, ran the water and started scrubbing, nearly up to his armpits, his head sunk low as if doing his best to hide. As a dishwasher it wasn't good to be noticed. The only time you were noticed was if you'd done something wrong, dropped a tray of glasses, or left some grime in a pot.

Gabriel drifted away to the heart of the kitchen.

'Jeez,' said Victor, wheeling. 'Didn't hear you come up. You're like a ghost or something, man.'

He watched his boys, Benny and Suleiman, busy at their stations. Nikolai, too old for this work, pressed a hand to the small of his back.

Ivan stoked his fires.

A waitress came to say that a customer had a complaint and wanted to see the chef.

'About the food?' said Gabriel.

The waitress didn't know. She led him to the table and turned on her heel.

'Hello,' said Gabriel. 'How can I help you?'

'I've got a complaint,' said the man, 'I'm sorry to say.' He looked all right, shirt and chinos uniform, probably a corporate lawyer on a dress-down Friday, but not too full of himself.

'Sorry to hear it,' said Gabe. 'Hope I can put things right.'

'Take a look at my plate,' said the customer.

'You don't like the steak? Is it overcooked?'

'Steak's fine. But the plate. Look at it.'

The man's girlfriend pressed her fingers to her lips.

Gabriel leaned down and examined the plate. 'You'd like a different one?'

'See that,' said the man, pointing with his fork at a trace of something on the rim, 'that's not been washed properly. That's a bit of old cack on there.'

The girlfriend smiled beneath her fingers. It seemed to egg him on.

'When you're paying well over ten quid for a main you might expect a garnish, but you don't expect it to be made of old cack.'

The girlfriend sniggered. The man leaned back swelling his chest, splaying his legs as if his balls had suddenly grown.

'I'll change your plate for you, sir,' said Gabriel. 'I'll get you a fresh steak as well.'

'I mean,' said the man, enjoying himself too much to stop, 'you're serving this lovely meal, and it's decorated with sick-up. Could you have a word with whoever's responsible?'

'OK, David,' said the girlfriend, her back stiffening, her eyes on Gabriel.

But the man was dining out now on the sound of his own voice. 'Is it too much to ask for a clean plate, for a bit of spit and polish? Is it? I mean, come on.'

'Certainly,' said Gabriel. 'I'll do it myself, right away.' With a flourish he removed the man's plate and raised it close to his mouth. He spat on the rim.

'There, sir, that's the spit. Now for the polish.' He gave it a vigorous wipe with his sleeve.

He returned the plate to the table and bowed. 'Enjoy your meal. Bon appetit.'

'Have you finally taken leave of your senses?' said Gleeson. He closed the door to Gabriel's cubicle and leaned against it as if Gabe might seek to escape.

Gabriel shrugged. 'What's it to you?'

'Have you gone mad? Are you crazy? Shall we get the straitjacket out?'

Gabe chewed a fingernail.

Gleeson adjusted his cuffs. 'Do you realize everyone saw? Do you know everyone was watching you?'

'So?' said Gabriel.

Gleeson quivered with bright-eyed righteousness. 'I had to sort out your little mess. It took quite a while to calm him down.'

'I didn't ask you to do anything.'

Gleeson continued to bristle then he dropped it, advancing with a conniving smile, dripping snake oil all over the floor. 'Shall we just say, in that case, that I've done you a favour. One gentleman to another, a good deed, a good turn that may deserve another, should you so choose, at some future date.'

'I don't think so,' said Gabe.

'I smoothed things over,' hissed Gleeson. 'I could have got you fired.'

'Sorry you missed that chance?'

Gleeson crackled with hostility. It hung around him like static. 'You are crazy,' he said. 'You've lost it. You're bloody mad.'

Gabriel jumped to his feet as Gleeson flowed out of the door. 'I see right through you,' he shouted. 'You're not a gentleman, you're totally ...' he could barely get his words out, '... fucking ... fake.'

Gleeson put his hands to his tailored hips and turned out a shiny shoe.

'Fake?' he said, in his most affected drawl. 'And what, pray, are you? A genuine what? Do tell.'

In the morning Gabriel went up to see Mr Maddox without an appointment. He knocked once and went in without waiting for a reply.

'Come in,' said Maddox, 'don't stand on ceremony. Why don't you come right in and make yourself at home?'

'I need to speak to you about something,' said Gabe.

Mr Maddox waved him over to the sofa in the corner of his office, and turned back to Mr James who waited by his desk like a schoolboy in fear of the cane.

'Explain to me again, Gareth, why I have to get involved.'

'It's like this, Mr Maddox,' the deputy manager began.

'Problems,' said Maddox, rubbing his jaw, 'why do you always bring me problems? Can't you bring me a solution once in a while?'

'If I could just outline for you—'

'I don't want a bloody outline,' said Maddox. 'What will I do with an outline?

Colour it in?'

Mr James smiled and said nothing. He lowered his head and his gaze.