In the Kitchen (57 page)

'OK,' said Olek, 'Tymon saying, this boy illegal now, can't working nowhere.'

'Why have they got his passport?'

'For register – work legally.'

'But they didn't do it?'

'No. Now time has passed.'

'Bastards,' said Gabe.

'Yes.'

They thought they could get away with it, because they thought that nobody here was in a position to stand up for this boy. Gabriel tried to let this thought wash over him. He tried to let it go. The last thing he wanted was to lose the peace that he had found.

The shouting continued. Olek offered Gabe a slice of bread.

'It's not right,' said Gabriel. 'Someone should stop them.'

'Yes.'

But the thing was, you drove yourself crazy if you didn't accept the world for what it was.

'Someone needs to go over there and stick a rocket up Tymon's arse.'

'Yes,' said Olek. 'Who?'

It had to be Gabriel. There was no one else. He knew he had to act and at the same time he knew it was only his ego telling him that. Who was he? He was nobody. There was nothing he could do.

The boy remonstrated furiously with Tymon, who suddenly grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. Gabriel jumped up and ran over.

'Let go,' he yelled. 'Let the boy go, right now!'

Both Tymon and the boy started, and curious expressions spread over their faces, as if Gabriel had spoken in Japanese.

Tymon dropped the boy's arm. For a couple of moments he stared at Gabe in bemusement. 'English?' he said, at last.

'What you're doing is illegal,' said Gabriel. 'You're infringing this boy's rights.' He tried desperately to remember what Fairweather had told him about this kind of practice and the names of any laws he could throw out that would sound frightening. He settled for saying, 'You might like to know, I'm friends with a government minister. He'll be very interested to hear about this.'

Tymon looked at Gabe's unshaven chin, then down at his muddy trainers and jeans. 'You,' he said, his voice and face sharp with contempt, 'you wait there. I bring Mr Gleeson.'

An alarm went off in Gabriel's head, so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts. Way back, when he'd first started at the Imperial, Gleeson had told him that he grew up on a Norfolk farm. When Gabe had recognized that man – why didn't he trust his own instincts? – he'd been absolutely right. It must be Gleeson's father, no, think, think properly, his brother, more like. And ...

and ... there was something else ... what? The minivan. Hadn't he overheard Gleeson once, talking on the phone about a pick-up at Victoria?

But it was none of his business. Oh, why hadn't he kept his mouth shut? Just when he had found a refuge, some peace and quiet at last. He would let it go, let the whole thing go. Think about something else. He had to ring Jenny, don't forget. Ah, there was Dad, big strong hands, Remember, lad, the important thing ...

Tymon strode around the corner with Mr Gleeson in his wake.

'What's your name?' said Mr Gleeson, marching up, and Gabe could see he was poised between fear and anger and preparing to combine the two.

Gabriel hesitated. If he chose, he could back down and act dumb. But he wasn't the kind of person to ... or was he?

Gabe stood up straighter. 'My name is Gabriel Lightfoot,' he said, 'and I demand you pay this man. What is he owed?'

Mr Gleeson looked at Tymon, the boy and Gabe. Indignation set fire to his eyes. 'What are you?' he said. 'Who are you? What are you doing on my property?'

'And give him his passport back,' said Gabriel. 'Do it now.'

Mr Gleeson looked around the yard as if he expected to be ambushed. 'Who do you work for?'

'I'm currently employed by you.'

Mr Gleeson half lowered his eyelids so that he looked like a reptile basking in the sun. Languidly, he moved away from Gabriel and towards Tymon. In the flick of a tongue he issued a rapid instruction, and Tymon and another henchman, whom Gabe had failed to notice, grabbed him by the arms.

'Search him,' said Mr Gleeson. 'Take his notebook and tape recorder. Son of a bitch!'

Gabriel stood impassively while the two men went through his pockets. They came up empty.

'I'm not a reporter,' said Gabe.

'I'm losing patience,' said Mr Gleeson. 'I have a business – a legitimate business – to run. I'll ask you one more time. Who are you?'

'And I'll tell you one more time – pay that boy.'

Mr Gleeson came up close and looked Gabriel up and down. He smelt just like his brother, of aftershave and righteousness.

'Not a reporter?' He grabbed Gabriel's hands and scrutinized the dirt beneath his nails, the old burns and scars and calluses, the webbing between two fingers where a wound had healed badly. 'No, so I see. A bloody fruitcake.'

'Listen,' said Gabriel, 'I know a lot of people and you could get in a lot of trouble. One of my good friends is in the government, he's a minister, and one word to him about what I've seen ...'

Mr Gleeson burst out laughing. He slapped Gabriel on the shoulder as if they were sharing a marvellous joke. The henchman joined in the laughter and took the opportunity to give Gabe a friendly shove.

Tymon came out of the barracks, carrying Gabriel's rucksack. He opened it and, without looking inside, tipped Gabe's whites and the rest of the contents on the ground.

Mr Gleeson stood with his hands planted on his corduroy hips, and stamped one wellington boot on his green and pleasant land. 'Do we have any vacancies, Tymon, for a chef ? No? I didn't think so. Right, you – get out of here. Run, before I set the dogs on you. Go on, run!'

It took the rest of the day, walking and hitching, to get back to London. When he reached the outskirts of the city he went into an Underground station and hurdled the barriers. Eight thirty when he walked into the kitchen, and it was in full battledress, trays on every surface, the prep area overflowing. Victor nudged Suleiman when he saw Gabriel and within a few seconds everyone had looked up and stopped work.

An unnatural silence pressed down.

'All right, O-K,' crooned Oona, bustling over. 'Betta get on with tings.' She led Gabriel into his office and closed the door.

'Something happening tonight, Oona? Event?'

'Yes, yes, yes,' said Oona. She made it sound like a lullaby. 'PanCont Charity Gala. Not to worry, 's all under control.'

'Oh my God,' said Gabriel. 'Has Maddox been doing his nut?'

'Ho, no,' said Oona. 'Told him you ring in sick. Benny, Suleiman and Nikolai been working extra shifts.'

'I'm sorry, Oona.'

She crinkled her almond eyes. 'Look like you need a rest. Why don't you—'

'I've got to see Gleeson,' said Gabe. 'Do you know where he is?'

'Seen him go down to the lockers, but—'

'I can't explain things now,' said Gabriel, 'there isn't time. Could you make sure the petits fours don't come out of the pastry kitchen until it's nearly time to serve. They start melting otherwise, and last time half of them stuck to the trays. Right, I'll go and see Gleeson and then I'll go upstairs and check on ... oh well, I suppose I'd better get changed first. Any clean whites in the locker room? You know, I don't think our laundry service is really all that good. Maybe we should think about—'

Oona cut in. 'Chef, me an' the boys got everyting covered. You go on home.'

Gabriel looked at Oona's neat clipped ears, her large square bosom, the matronly way she filled his little sickbay. A lump rose in his throat. 'Don't know what I'd do, Oona,' he said, 'without my executive sous-chef.'

Gleeson was in the locker room changing his t
ie.
Still facing the mirror, he drawled, 'Look what the cat's dragged in. Where have you been?'

Gabriel rubbed his chin. 'Nut Tree Farm.'

The restaurant manager froze and unfroze in two rapid frames. He adjusted the knot at his collar. 'OK, let's go along with this fiction for a moment. What were you doing there?'

'Picking spring onions,' said Gabriel. 'For two days.'

Gleeson turned round so smartly that his heels clicked together. 'How amusing,' he said, raising one eyebrow.

'I met your brother. He looks a lot like you.'

'Dear, oh dear, what a state! There are hygiene regulations in a kitchen, you know.'

'I apologize,' said Gabriel, 'for my appearance, but the facilities at Nut Tree Farm are a little limited.'

Gleeson bowed. 'Well, it's been fascinating, as usual, to talk to you. You're so ... imaginative!' He stalked towards the door. 'By the way, have you managed to find a psychiatrist yet?'

'Don't you want to hear what happened?' said Gabriel. 'I think you should know.'

Gleeson hovered by the doorway. His tongue darted out and ran quickly over his lips. 'Speak, if you wish, and I'll listen, and we'll call it a talking cure.'

'Your brother threw me out.'

'You do surprise me. Can't imagine why.'

'I raised an objection to the way a worker was being treated, an Eastern European – I'm not sure which country he was from.'

Gleeson tutted. 'If you're going to make something up, make it good. Add some details, make it concrete.'

'Apologies once more for the messy presentation,' said Gabriel, peaceably.

'Anyway, as I was saying, this lad wasn't paid what he was owed, and your brother and his thugs had taken his passport, supposedly to get him legally registered. And now they're telling him that they didn't do it, and ...' He talked on without rancour, feeling only the inevitability of the situation, as if he were only a note being played in someone else's melody. '... and he's stayed too long without permission in the country so he can't go to the authorities, so that he's at your brother's mercy ... and mercy may be one of the qualities your brother happens to lack.'

'This is all very droll,' said Gleeson, polishing a cufflink with his thumb, 'but it may have escaped your notice that this is one of our busiest nights of the year. I only popped down here to change my tie, it had a spot on it. In any case, even supposing anything you say bore the slightest resemblance to reality, why are you telling me?'

Gabriel shrugged. He glanced down at his mud-caked shoes and clothes. How had it come to this? It all went back to Yuri. If Yuri hadn't been drinking that night, if he had dried his feet properly after his shower, if he had fallen a couple of inches further forward or to the side and woken up with a sore head, then Gabriel would never have seen Lena in the doorway, looking at him like that, and one thing would not have led to another. He would have travelled in a different direction. But Yuri was the first link in a tightly coiled chain thrown suddenly overboard, and there was no way to stop it unravelling. Yuri could have dried his feet. But he didn't. It was all random and utterly inevitable. Gabriel saw it both ways, and between these two ways of seeing he felt not the slightest contradiction.

'I don't know,' said Gabriel. 'Giving you fair warning, I guess. That kind of intimidation, you know, it amounts to forced labour, a kind of slavery. Your brother could end up in jail.'

'Oh, for God's sake! A bunch of lies and fairy tales.'

'No,' said Gabe, some heat entering his voice, 'I know what I saw. And I know about the girls as well.'

Gleeson laughed. 'Whatever that's supposed to mean. But what are you waiting for? Off you go to the police. You must have plenty of witnesses to corroborate your little daydream.'

Who would come forward? By the time he had left Nut Tree Farm it looked like the boy was the only person he had managed to scare. Perhaps Olek would be prepared to speak out. But the last time he did that he ended up sleeping rough.

'I won't let it go,' said Gabriel. 'And what about the hotel minibus? That's stolen property, you can't get out of that.'

'What stolen ... oh, that old bus. We bought it, you loon. Why don't you go and check? You know, I'm starting to feel rather sorry for you.'

Gabriel walked past Gleeson, who, throughout the conversation, had shimmied about the room as if engaged in a fencing match.

'I've said what I had to say,' he told him. 'And I'm going now.'

Gleeson dashed across to the door and began hissing. 'You sanctimonious little arsehole. What gives you the right? Passing judgement on everyone else. People want work, we employ them, it's called giving people what they want. There's a market price, it's called commerce, that's how everything works. Why don't you just get over it? Get real, Chef. Start accepting how things are.'

'What if I don't like how they are?'

'Oh, grow up!' Gleeson yelled at Gabriel's departing back. 'You arsehole!

Those workers come through an agency. What about you? What about your own kitchen? Where are your porters from? Are your hands clean? Are they?'

*

Up in the ballroom, amid a swirl of fancy dresses and penguin suits, the charity auction was in full flow. Although the place was crowded, Gabriel made his way through easily. People stood quickly aside for him. He spotted Maddox talking to a man with an important beard. The man kept raking it with two fingers as if there was much wisdom to be gleaned from it.

'Come on, ladies and gentlemen,' called the auctioneer. 'I know that's not the best you can do. Remember it's for a fantastic cause. Our charity tonight, I'll remind you once more, is the Helping Hands Foundation, and all the money raised will be going to help poor farmers in Africa. Now do I hear one thousand five hundred? One thousand five, I am bid. One thousand six, anybody?

Thank you, sir. One thousand eight hundred pounds?'

The item in question, being held up by a scandalous blonde, was a pair of knickers, autographed, and previously worn, by a mega-league pop star.

Gabriel hung back in an alcove, waiting for an opportunity to approach Maddox.

He looked around at the men, all dressed in black and white, a collective statement of certainty, no room for shades of grey. The women, with glossy hair and hoisted breasts, fiddled with jewellery that seemed to strobe under the lights. The knots of people standing closest to him drifted steadily away.

Discreetly, Gabriel sniffed his sweatshirt. He didn't smell too bad.