Ketchup

Diane was getting tired of returning home with grease and smell of fried food clinging like a baby monkey to her skin. She hated the uniform and the way that her hair needed washing daily in order to stop it from looking like it could fry the eggs the café served on it. She worked hard for minimum wage, she dealt with all the shitty general public and the idle colleagues that had been assigned to work with her. She regularly swore at the chef and slammed plates around when someone had pissed her off. She was out of bed at six and in the café by half past, she usually left by seven in the evening, or if someone was feigning sickness, midnight. The boss left her in charge, she thought that she should mention next time he was in that she was entitled to a cut of the profit for all her hard work while he sat on his arse. She knew that he would laugh in her face though so she thought better. She could get it another way perhaps, follow him home and seduce him? Then he would marry her and she could hit him round the head with a blunt object when he really wound her up, hack him up into miniature pieces bury him in the garden and then claim all his earnings in the will. She had been surprised when he hired her in the first place; his eyebrows had risen almost into his hairline when he read her CV before her in the interview.

“Tell me why you had to leave your last job,” he had said as he looked over the paper at her, she swallowed and pursed her lips,

“I was fired,” she stated boldly, “For what I did to a customer,”

“What was that?” he lowered the paper onto the desk before him and surveyed her with interest.

“Well, I worked for a catering company. They dealt with business dinners that kind of thing. I was serving coffee to a table of men, and us waitresses had to wear little black skirts and white blouses with heels. And one of the blokes put his hand up my skirt so I poured hot coffee onto his lap,” she smiled as she thought back upon it. She had been leaning over to reach his friends cup on the other side of his table, she could feel her skirt rising higher up her thighs as she stretched but she was even more annoyed when she felt a hand sliding up it as well.

“You pervert,” she had shouted standing upright and shimmying her skirt down again. The men laughed and then stopped short as she tilted the coffee jug and watched smiling as it poured onto his grey suit trousers. There was a loud cry of pain and he stood, his face inches away from her own. She had smiled, staring back at him into his small piggy eyes. Then the head waiter had hurried over to see what the commotion was. She had been fired on the spot, but she didn’t mind. She had been looking for something new anyway. Her mind wandered back to the interview room and him smiling at her.

“You would work well here, you don’t take any crap, tomorrow? Ten o’clock?” he had asked her. She had gazed at him in bewilderment for a moment, in disbelief that her honesty had won him over. “Diane?” he had called to her,

“Yes that’s great thank you,” she smiled at him and leant over the desk to shake his hand. He looked taken aback and she could feel his eyes watching her as she left.

She now knew why it had been so important for her to be a person who didn’t take any crap. She was the one, who ushered the drunken punters out when they came in asking for a lamb kebab,

“This is a greasy spoon, go down to that even tackier looking place down the road if you want food poisoning,” she always said. She even dealt with the fussy old women who shuffled to the counter complaining of tea that was too sweet, too bitter, too god damned hot. She would tell them that she was sorry, turn around and pretend to sort it out then pass back the same tea that they had complained about. She noticed that they never came back. British people rarely complain twice. They just have a good moan if it isn’t right second time, or in this city knife the person to blame.

There were always regulars, as there is in every greasy spoon in the country. The sad losers who couldn’t think of going to a different place for a coffee that would taste exactly the same. These people were afraid of change, they couldn’t have come to the café for the sheer fun of it, for the alluring décor or friendly staff. The food was fried in the same cheap grease that every other place used; it offered tea and coffee, hot chocolate, orange juice, tap water. Inside there were around eight tables with rickety chairs that didn’t match and tacky posters that were clinging on to Blu-Tac which was slipping from the greasy wall. These advertised Pukka Pies and freshly made food, both statements were lies. Diane often felt sick when she served the food to customers. Even more so after watching them take a bite and then lick grease from their lips and wipe the stuff that oozed onto their chin. She once watched a bloke stir his coffee so that its film of grease which lay across the top dispersed, then drank it. She would have left it, or sent it back. She was surprised with how little complaints there were, she supposed that it didn’t matter, she didn’t care enough to sort their issues out anyway. The people who came must enjoy the food anyway. She could usually time their arrival perfectly.

Thomson would be in at nine thirty for a coffee and a bacon sandwich. He would always sit at the same table by the window, fan out his newspaper upon the sticky surface and read while waiting for his order. He had a habit of licking his fingers before turning a page which made Diane turn her nose up in disgust. He never complained about the coffee’s film or the stale edges of his bacon sandwich. She would watch him chew slowly upon it gazing out the window, contemplating the busy people outside. He was always alone and carried his money in a clip in his back pocket.

Around nine forty-five Dave would turn up. Slamming open the glass door and stomping to the counter in steel capped boots. His clothing appeared to be attacked by dust and cement mixture, his head was shaved and Diane always noticed a tattoo of a woman’s name on his left arm. A mistake apparently. She was an effin slag and he didn’t wanna see her effin face again. Diane always nodded in agreement when he told her this, he would regularly fill her in on how the bitch wasn’t letting him see his kid this weekend, that her new boyfriend looked like a Nancy boy with a small dick. That he was the one who left her, not the other way around. Diane always nodded to these remarks as well while pouring his tea. Then he would sit and devour his full English breakfast, eating the beans first, then the toast which he would also use to mop up the bean juice. Then he would eat the sausages after smothering them in red sauce and finally the egg, he always left a smear of yolk upon his chin. She couldn’t be bothered to let him know though.

Thomson would leave whilst Dave was half way through eating his meal; usually minutes after him leaving Annie would arrive dragging her worn leather bag behind her on the floor. There was a story about this bag, some said that she carried all her money in it and that she was rich and slept on the streets for attention. Or that she was a prostitute and in the bag she kept all her dress up clothes. Some said that she had a body in it. Diane didn’t believe either of these rumours. Annie was the most worn looking human being she had ever witnessed, her hair hung down in lank strands around her pale sunken face. Diane thought that she would have to be mentally insane to subject herself to a state like the one she was in if she was carrying thousands of pounds in that leather bag. And she definitely wouldn’t get picked up by some desperate old man looking like she did. She was curious to find out though. Annie would struggle up to the counter, breathing heavily from the effort of tugging the bag along the lino floor.

“Water,” was all she ever said, dark eyes glaring at Diane over the counter. Diane would pass her a glass of tap water and she would drink it hungrily. Diane would stand and watch her throat move with each gulp, her eyes shut with satisfaction and her right hand clutching the glass so tight her knuckles blossomed white in colour. When she finished she would slam the glass upon the counter, grunt in what seemed to be a thank you and shuffle out again. Dave always laughed at her and raised his eyes at Diane who in turn rolled hers back at him. He’d been attempting and failing to get into her knickers since she had started working there. He would lean over the counter shoulders hunched and eyes leering as Diane got him change. He would smile when she placed the coins into his hand, and sometimes grab her hand tight and not let go until she dug her nails in. Or he would pull at her apron if she came out behind the counter to clear up his plate. If he managed to undo it he would laugh loudly but always stop when she scowled at him. If he didn’t manage to undo it he would still laugh but leave straight away. Diane often wondered how he could begin to think that his Neanderthal mating tactics worked at all. But everyday he would try it on. Diane was beginning to become tired of it. She often wondered what the Boss would say if she attacked Dave with a pan full of hot fatty grease and slammed it onto his huge shaved scalp, and then while he was reeling in pain on the floor smack a salt shaker round the side of his head and give him a hard kick in the face for good measure. She imagined it might have been like the incident at her last job, she would most definitely be fired. She thought against the idea when she watched Dave’s broad back leaving the café each morning. When he left there was usually a half hour period where no one came in so Diane would stand playing with the sugar, spooning it from the bowl it was in and tipping it back in. It reminded her of fake snow and she escaped from the dingy café as she watched it fall into the bowl and settle.

Her half hour of peace was usually disturbed by Ed, a young good looking guy who worked in the florists up the street. He attracted the old ladies into the shop who glanced continuously from the geraniums in small pots to Ed back to the geraniums to Ed, all thinking naughty thoughts as he stood behind the counter wearing a tight white shirt and arranging a bouquet of flowers for some unsuspecting wife or mistress. Diane often wondered how many men went in there actually buying flowers for their wife. Ed told her as he coolly leaned over the counter one day how some guy had wondered in, wringing his hands and sweating a little and requested a dozen roses. When Ed took his name for collection he had asked if the flowers were for Mrs. Whatever the Bloke’s Name Was. The bloke had then fainted. When he woke he stumbled from the shop glancing in a paranoid way about him.

“He was blatantly buying them for some slag he was banging,” Ed had laughed.

“You are a charmer,” Diane had replied wiping the counter. Ed was gorgeous, but his trap could have been the Hunchback of Notre dam. His voice was deep husky and had a slight London dialect, his mouth was filled with white straight teeth and sealed with full pink lips but it spouted the most coarse and offensive language. He never stayed in the café to eat but left with his bacon sandwich wrapped in a napkin to eat when he got back to work. Diane would watch him stroll past the windows then continue cleaning or refilling pots when she lost sight of him.

Ed was sometimes followed by Robby, a thirteen year old junkie who never went to school and smelt as though he took the idea of only having a bath on a special occasion seriously. Diane would try and stand as far away from him as possible as he ordered a slice of chocolate cake that the café served. She would watch him shovel the slice into his mouth as soon as he received it, eyes bulging from his head and mouth working furiously. It was a sorry sight. She wondered what kind of person could allow their child to skive school and shoot up. Maybe his mother supplied him with the drugs. His eyes were always glazed over when he fumbled in his pocket for money. He would usually hold out his hand for Diane to count out how much the cake was. He was that off his face that he was incapable of speaking to her most of the time and when he did all it was was nonchalant grunts like Annie. She often thought about taking a little bit more for her tip jar, maybe if she took all his money he couldn’t buy the drugs anymore. But when his small hand offered coins she always thought better and plucked two pound fifty from his palm. He would shuffle from the café pulling his cap down lower over his face and scuffing his trainers on the way out. She’d stand and then glance down at the change in her own palm, thinking that it was most likely covered in a cornucopia of drugs.

She had tried marijuana once and decided that it was a waste of time. Everyone else had sat around her laughing their heads off, rolling around the floor finding everything hilarious while Diane sat and felt empty watching them. As she had lain back after finishing the joint she had been overwhelmed, by a feeling of drowsiness, hollowness and the thought that life was pretty pointless at this moment in time if she was feeling this way. She had stood and in a drowsy state stumbled from the room littered with tired bodies.

Never again, she always thought to herself as she placed Robby’s money in the till drawer. She’d then glance up at the clock above the counter and sigh that it was eleven and Susan still hadn’t arrived. She would always make her way over to the phone to call the dozy girl and then hear the door open to find her strolling in yawning and messing up her hair as though she had just woken up.

“Morning,” she would say as she passed through the back door into the cloakroom then emerge again mousy brown hair scraped back and a thick smudge of eyeliner stretching up to her hairline. Her face was not the same colour as her neck because of the amount of foundation she had pasted onto it. Diane never bothered to mention that she should blend the make up to match the rest of her body. She enjoyed watching people sman at her. Susan was the human equivalent of a sloth, she’d stand at the counter her chin resting on her hand, peering through half closed eyelids out on the café that was littered with discarded coffee cups and messy plates. Diane would sigh and direct her to clean up, then sigh again when she didn’t return from the kitchen because she was talking to Carlo, the chef. He was a slim Italian guy with an olive complexion and dark green eyes. He sweated continuously from his brow and mopped it with a small white hankie, presumably given to him as a present as he was never without it. He had a short temper and if a customer complained they would hear his reaction from the counter.

“They no like my food?” he would scream in his exotic accent, “Show me them!” and Diane would have to restrain him from storming into the main restaurant where the customer was standing warily after complaining. Diane thought he was just a Drama queen, but he was a Drama queen that was in that café every day, all day. She thought back to her plan of seducing the Boss, maybe Carlo could be her lover and when the Boss was dead they could share the money from the will and leave the country. Go somewhere nice and hot. Maybe buy a boat and sail away somewhere where no one would know them. But then she would look at him as he slammed pans and screamed through the wall at customers and thought better of the idea.

Today Susan and Diane were supposed to finish at five and Laurie, another supervisor like Diane was meant to take over the shift and work on her own. The café could have become a mortuary after five o’clock. If Diane was covering the evening shift she would flick through a newspaper or do a crossword as she sat around while Carlo sat outside the back door smoking one cigarette after the other leaving the door open and allowing the smell to drift into the counter area. Today however, Diane received a phone call from Laurie’s husband telling her that she had gone into labour. Diane remembered listening to his stressed voice on the phone and the six other children, that they had, running around in the background. How they managed with that many children Diane never could understand. She believed that she would never have a child, never mind a husband. She had watched all seven of Laurie’s bumps grow, she had felt the babies kick and it had made her feel sick. The idea of something invading your body, stealing your nutrients, causing stretch marks and weight gain was disgusting. But still she had smiled and congratulated Laurie each time she had announced that Rick, her husband had got her “up the duff” again as she liked to call it. Rick was a skinny pale faced man, with a pointed nose and a habit of continuously pulling up his trousers. As he did it he would kick out one of his legs and shimmy the waistband around higher up his hips. Diane wished he would buy trousers that fitted him. Laurie thought he was gorgeous, she had met him in the café. He used to be a regular and come in everyday for a sausage sandwich and a tea with seven sugars. Laurie had been the one chatting him up, bending over to get his plate and undoing the top button of her blouse. Diane would watch as his eyes bulged from their sockets as they looked down into her cleavage. She said she thought Rick was gorgeous but not one of their kids looked the same and she did the same with every man that came into the café. Diane had studied the children when they had been brought in once when Rick had come to collect Laurie from work, Diane had noticed a boy of around the age of seven with olive skin and dark green eyes.

Diane had rolled her eyes after putting the phone down from Rick and told Susan to go and that she would cover. It never made any difference to Diane as to whether she was working or not. She lived alone with no pets or plants to water and her flat wasn’t the most pleasant of places to be so sometimes, she preferred to stay. Around half five she smelt Carlo’s cigarettes and looked up at the time knowing that she had another seven and a half hours until she could shut the café. Around seven o’clock she was startled by the front door opening and two men walking in. They were extremely contrasting in height and weight. She could only describe them as the big guy and the skinny guy when she was asked questions. They made their way to the counter and Diane stood up straight waiting for them. The big guy had a deep voice and a furrowed brow. His jaw line was so square it gave him the appearance of a box with a beefy body attached. The other was thinner and slim with wide eyes and an anxious mouth, that repeatedly bit down on its bottom lip and opened as though to speak then would stop, making him look like a nervous goldfish.

“Tea,” the big guy said,

“Right. One or two?” Diane stood hands on hips, irritated already with how rude he was.

“Two, one with two sugars. How many do you want shorty?” he turned to the skinny guy who winced at his question.

“Six,” he said, looking at Diane with his twitchy eyes and his mouth opened again, Diane waited for him to speak, realised he wasn’t going to then turned to make the drinks. She heard chairs scrape along the lino and the creak as both men sat down. As she brought the tea over she noticed that the skinny guys eyes were darting everywhere as he sat at the table playing with salt spilt upon it. When he saw her approaching he shoved his hands deep into his parka coat pockets and began to hum loudly. The big guy looked at him in annoyance. Diane placed the drinks upon the table,

“Anything to eat?” she asked.

“Yeah, give us a plate of egg and chips, what you having shorty?” he looked at the skinny guy who pursed his lips and took his hands from his pockets to play with the salt again,

“Do you do Panini’s?” he asked quietly,

“Panini’s, are you serious? You raving queen,” the big guy laughed surveying the skinny one.

“No we don’t sorry,” Diane frowned at the big guy as the skinny one began to shake in his seat.

“It’s okay, I don’t want anything,” he murmured.

“Shut up you twat, get him some egg and chips as well. Feed up the miserable prick,” Diane raised her eyebrows and made her way to the kitchen to give the orders to Carlo.

“Go get us some red sauce off that table,” the big guy ordered the skinny guy frowned and stood. His hands thrust into his pockets again as he walked to the nearest table. He stopped for a moment after picking up the glass bottle half full of red sticky sauce. He looked at the bottle intently and grasped it tightly around the neck. Then he walked back to the table, stopping behind the big guy’s chair.

“What’s taking so long?” the big guy asked turning round.

“Sorry Harold,” the skinny guy said, the big guy turned properly in his chair, his brow furrowed more than usual. He saw the bottle in the skinny guy’s hand and watched as it was swiped at his face. It made contact with his forehead causing the him to fall from his chair with the shock. Then the skinny guy lunged at him hammering the bottle into the big guys head, teeth gritted and breathing heavily with effort. The bottle smashed with one blow after the other, the sticky red sauce blended with the sticky red blood seeping from a wound on the big guy’s head. And still the skinny guy continued to hit him, he hit him until the bottle cut his hand and he gasped with pain and clambered over the big guy’s body to get away. Diane had returned from the kitchen and stood at the counter watching the event in disbelief.

“Shit,” was all she could manage to utter. Blood and ketchup were splattered upon the freshly painted wall. Diane knew the Boss was going to like that, he’d paid a lot of money for some rip-off painter to come in and run a roller over the place, for it to just get ruined again because some maniac decided to wield a tomato sauce bottle at his mates head.

“Call the police, I’ve killed someone,” the skinny guy stated fumbling with a cigarette and roughly placing it in his mouth.

“You can’t smoke in here,” was all Diane could say, the skinny guy pointed to the tomato sauce bottle discarded upon the floor and she nodded, taking the hint. There were plenty more inanimate objects lying around in here that he could use as a weapon. What if he got hold of a spoon? Never mind a fork. He was resourceful, she gave him credit for that.

She stepped back cautiously near to the phone on the wall, unsure as to whether to dial for an ambulance or police. Unsure as to whether he really wanted to be taken in. She picked up the receiver and tapped in three nines. She watched the skinny guy closely as he slowly inhaled on his cigarette.

“Emergency, what service do you require?”

“Police,” Diane spoke into the receiver, the skinny guy looked up at her.

“Please hold,” the line went dead then a woman’s voice spoke to her.

“Police, emergency”

“Yes, I need someone here. Some guy’s, just beaten someone to death with a red sauce bottle,” her eyes met with the skinny guy's and he smiled at her. She cringed and tried to move back further but the wall prevented her.

“Okay where are you and we’ll send a team straight away,”

“Dell’s. On the main high street in the town centre. Please it’s just me and the chef here and this guy, he asked me to call.”

“He asked you to?” the operator sounded confused.

“Yes,”

“Okay, what’s your name?”

“Diane,”

“Alright Diane, I want you to remain calm and not try to hold the man there okay. The police officers who arrive will deal with the situation, what injuries has the victim sustained? ”

“I dunno,” Diane stood on her toes to peer over the counter at the big guy slumped on the floor. “Head injuries? There’s blood everywhere,”

“Okay, an ambulance is on its way as well Diane, just remain calm and stay away from the culprit,”

“Uh huh,” Diane mumbled into the receiver and placed it back onto its holder on the wall. She was surprisingly calm. The skinny guy was sitting on the floor cross legged like a small child; he was watching the big guy almost contemplating his motionless body. Diane cleared her throat.

“The police are on their way” she said.

“Yeah?” the skinny guy stubbed out the rest of his cigarette on the lino and immediately produced another from his parka coat pocket. He lit it and inhaled deeply upon the thin white stick. Diane watched him, she always thought back to how her Granddad had always told her people who didn’t use roll-up fags were effin idle and that the ones that were ready made tasted like shit and should be banned. Diane, seven years old when being told this, would ask why. Because those white and orange pieces of shit aren’t real tobacco. They’re effin chemicals and shit. Then he’d produce a small tin brimming with tobacco, and a slip of paper. She’d watch as he tipped the tobacco onto the white paper lick the side and roll up with ease. Then he’d light it and smile. If you ever smoke doll, this is what you should smoke. But Diane had tried her first cigarette when she was eleven and vomited onto the pavement. The older kids who’d made her try it laughed loudly and told her to sod off home. Her mum had blanked her for days after smelling the smoke on her. She looked at the skinny guy blowing out plumes of pearly smoke into the restaurant.

“Can I, see if he’s okay?” Diane asked him motioning to the big guy’s body.

He nodded taking another slow drag upon his cigarette. She picked up a tea towel from the side and approached the big guy. His chest wasn’t moving and his eyes were shut, she was glad of this. She hadn’t wanted to see them rolling up into his head. What if they suddenly moved and he sat up, what if they were looking at her when she leant over him. But she let out a sigh when she saw they were closed. She made her way towards the motionless body,

“Do you mind, moving away a little?” Diane asked the skinny guy. He cocked his head as though in thought.

“But I’m happy sitting here,” he said slowly. His mouth began to open then shut like a goldfish again. “I don’t like being told what to do,” he said to her looking up. Diane shrugged,

“Okay,” she said bending down beside the big guy. He was lying on his side after slumping down the table leg onto the lino. Blood seeped from the side of his head that was lying on the ground. Diane made sure she didn’t kneel in it as she felt his neck for a pulse. She couldn’t feel one, so she grabbed him by the wrist and attempted to feel one there as well. She looked at the skinny guy, eyes wide open and he nodded.

“Thought as much, he took a battering,” he chuckled and stubbed out the cigarette again on the lino. As she knelt there trying to absorb the fact that there was a fat dead guy lying on a café floor she also tried not to look at the side of his head which appeared to be indented now and a bloody mess of bone and flesh. She suddenly gagged as the big guy let out the remaining gas that was inside him. The smell was worse than the sight of his indented head. She stood up quickly and slapped her hand over her mouth,

“Dirty bastard,” the skinny guy laughed kicking out and hitting the big guy in the side. Diane backed away. She looked out onto the street then up at the clock on the wall. It was around eight o’clock. She took some keys from her apron pocket and jingled them at the skinny guy,

“I’m gonna put the shutter down a little, so people think the place is shut,” he shrugged and stubbed another cigarette out on the lino. Diane stepped towards the shutter key hole. She only lowered it half way, so it was easy for the police to get in. She looked out onto the street and wished she could just walk away from the scene. He had never said that she couldn’t leave actually, but she thought that it was best not to try.

“Anyone else here?” the skinny guy asked raising his head and surveying her in interest.

“Oh, yeah. Carlo. The chef,”

“Send him home,” the skinny guy said.

“Why?” Diane asked.

“Because I can’t be fucking asked with some twat winding me up, trying to restrain me or whatever,”

“He won’t. I’ll tell him not to,” Diane made a promise that she knew she had no certainty she could keep. She looked the skinny full in the face, she could feel her bottom lip trembling. She wanted to leave now.

“I don’t believe you,” he snarled. Diane pursed her lips, she looked down at the floor.

“If I make him leave can I go as well?” Diane asked. The skinny guy shrugged,

“You could, but I would like some company before the filth get here,” he replied. He stood up and advanced towards her, she froze and watched each step, he grabbed her chin from across the counter and turned her head to face up into his. He was taller than her and she felt pathetic in his grip, she noticed he had a splatter of red across the bridge of his nose. Possibly sauce, more than likely blood.

“You look just like my ex,” he whispered pushing back a strand of hair that had fallen into Diane’s face. “Same hair colour,” his eyes darted over her face down at her chest. He smelt of sweat and tomato sauce.

“That the only similarity?” Diane replied, she tried to stop shaking as his eyes continued to scan over her.

“Yes, but there’s something else,” Diane felt her mouth fill with saliva, she swallowed. He smiled at her now; “You’re very beautiful, no boyfriend?” she shook her head.

“You won’t be alone for long, someone will snap you up,” as suddenly as he had touched her he released her as though she were harmful. He stepped back thrusting his hands into his parka coat pockets. Diane watched him breathing heavily and continuing to swallow the build up of saliva in her mouth.

“Where is he then?” the skinny guy asked. It took Diane a moment to realise who he was talking about then she pointed to the kitchen door.
“Come on then,” the skinny guy approached the counter again and Diane backed away from him groping for the door handle and opening it.

“Carlo?” she called entering the kitchen not turning her back on the skinny guy.

“Yes?” he called back in his exotic accent. She could hear the fryer and the hot fat bubbling as he cooked the chips that the two men had ordered when they had first arrived.

“You can go home early today,” she said turning to face him. The skinny guy stood close behind her right shoulder. She could smell him again, musky sweat and tomato sauce. The smells clashed with one another. One was sweet the other offensive. Carlo frowned,

“Diane? Who is this man?” he asked motioning to the skinny guy.

“The police are dealing with it okay, just go home,”

“Police?” Carlo looked confused.

“Yes, they’re coming for him,” Diane replied. The skinny guy was opening and closing his mouth again, she could hear his lips smacking shut then popping open again.

“Well I should not leave you. Sir, go into the seating area now. Diane come here,” Carlo said in a stern tone. Diane went towards Carlo noticing that in his hand he was holding the pan with hot chip fat. He gripped it so tightly that his tanned knuckles had turned white. The skinny guy grabbed her wrist,

“Go home mate,” he told Carlo. She heard him fumbling around on the side counter for something.
“Knives are over here,” Carlo told him. The skinny guy laughed.

“I don’t need a knife,” he told him in a smug tone. His hand was making Diane’s wrist burn, he was twisting his arm as he held her, giving her a slight “Chinese Burn” like her brother had given her as a child. She thought back to him grinning obscenely and twisting the skin on her arm until she was crying and hitting him with her free hand while kicking at the same time. But still he would stand grinning at her. He was now in prison for GBH, last time she had seen him she was seventeen. When she had heard about the charge it hadn’t surprised her in the slightest. He was better off locked up, she thought that he more than likely needed a padded cell. Maybe he could share one with this skinny guy who was clinging onto her wrist, they had so much in common.

“Let’s all go to seating area and wait together,” Carlo said slowly. Diane nodded trying hard not to wince or show that she was in pain.

“That sound good?” she asked the skinny guy. He was doing his goldfish impression still, glaring at Carlo across the room. After a few minutes he nodded releasing her wrist and left the kitchen, holding the door open for them to follow. Diane rubbed her sore arm and looked at Carlo, she recognised fear and anger upon his tanned face. She watched as he reached for a large knife in its holder on the counter and dropped it into his apron pocket. He made his way towards Diane and the door resting his hand upon her shoulder in reassurance and leading her into the café after the skinny guy who had sat himself back on the floor and was lighting another cigarette. Carlo stood in front of the counter his hand resting upon his apron and concealing the knife. Diane stood beside him watching the skinny guy.

“What is this all about?” Carlo asked. He stood, stiff, his shoulders hunched up making him appear broader and chin raised as well.

“Bet you wanna know why?” the skinny guy chuckled to himself. Carlo looked at Diane, he had been staring at the big guy’s body upon the floor. His eyes wandered over her face and then towards the skinny guy.

“I asked why you here,” he snapped. The skinny guy scratched his chin and looked towards the big guy,

“I killed him because he treated me like absolute crap because I owe him big time,” the skinny guy said. Diane could see Carlo becoming irritated with the situation, he hated to be ignored. The skinny guy was know undoing his parka coat and pulling it from his arms. He let it drop on the floor where it laid, the arms bent at odd angles and the pockets lolling open like a drunkards mouth. She saw Carlo scratch his head then co operate with the conversation the skinny guy was creating.

“Owe him?” he asked, he pulled his white handkerchief out from his trouser pocket and dabbed at his forehead with it.

“Yes owe him dumbass, you know like he did something for me so I have to give him something back,”

“You just killed him with a sauce bottle, that’s not exactly returning the favour,” Diane said staring straight at him.

“I really do like you,” the skinny guy smiled. She looked away. “You wouldn’t have taken his crap. I did for a long time. Then today he pissed me off so much I just decided to twat him with that sauce bottle. Then once I’d hit him with it I wanted to keep hitting him,” Diane could feel the hatred spitting from his mouth, it seemed to scald her skin and she flinched with each word he said. Carlo was looking at the big guy again. Diane could tell that his eyes were on the red liquid that was thickening around his head. It was congealing, darkening in colour. The thought made Diane feel ill.

“What did he do then? To deserve that?” Diane asked, motioning to the big guy trying to ignore the dull feeling of sickness in the bottom of her stomach. It felt as though something were moving in there, mixing up all the acid and her lunch, churning it up until it bubbled so much it needed to be released. But she didn’t want to vomit or run away now, she didn’t want to look weak in front of this maniac of a man.

“He deserved it. He deserved it,” the skinny guy mumbled. “Always ordering me around, taking money from me, sleeping with my wife,” he hit the floor with a clenched fist. “Slept with Holly didn’t he? Bastard. She was all I had, bitch,” he hissed at the dead body. “He put me in his debt. Said I owe him everything for what he gave me. Said he had always fancied Holly, fancied a bit of her,” he played with a sleeve of his parka coat which still lay on the floor. “Caught them didn’t I? She said she’d done it because he told her what he’d done for me, that it was fair. Screwed in the head she was, always was. You wouldn’t do that would you?” he directed the question at Diane. She shook her head. Not that she’d been offered sex in a while, but she still wouldn’t do that. Carlo looked at her and she continued to shake her head.

“Good girl you are,” the skinny guy said.

“What did he do for you then?” Diane asked him.

“Gave me a kidney. We were going cross country on our bikes. I took the corner too fast. Impaled myself on some twats garden railing. I mean who uses metal railing round their house? It should be wood. A big wooden fence that what it should have been, that’s what I would have had. But yeah, I impaled myself, damaged both kidneys. Wanna see the scar,” before either of them could reply he was lifting his t-shirt. Just above his hip bone on both sides was a scar. A perfect slit on each side where the doctors had sewn him up and on his lower back, on the right, was a long scar that stretched down into his jeans. “He said because he gave me a kidney, I should return the favour,” he turned to them, his face displayed upset. “We were close, until the crash,” It was then that the skinny guy began to cry. This sudden change in his temperament startled Diane and she watched him closely. He was digging his nails into the cheap flooring and Diane could see the strain he was putting upon them.

“Oh God,” he sobbed now clawing at the floor “He gave me a kidney, I’ve got a part of him, in me!” he clawed at the shirt to reveal the scar again. “I’m worse than him, ungrateful. He gave an organ. That’s not like borrowing a tenner,” the skinny guy sobbed rocking back and forwards now. He began to grab at his flesh on his back, pulling and crying louder and louder. Carlo looked at Diane eyes wide open,

“Go behind counter,” he said to her, she saw him reach for the knife in his apron. Diane shook her head,

“No leave him,” she hissed. The skinny guy instantly stopped crying.

“Why are you whispering?” he snarled. He stood yanking his shirt down and stepping towards them, Diane moved away from him sliding along the counter her palms pressed against the side of it. She could feel her heart racing as she watched him moving closer.

“Get back,” Carlo ordered him. The skinny guy stopped and watched Carlo, contemplating him. He then moved so quickly that it took Diane a moment to register what had happened. He had lifted one of the wooden chairs and flung it at Carlo’s face. It struck him in the side of the head, causing him to fall to the ground, the knife slid across the floor and spun for a moment. The skinny guy stood chest heaving from the effort, looking down upon Carlo lying still on the floor. Diane cried out loud and rushed towards him. He was breathing still and as she sat with him as he opened his eyes and muttered something in Italian.

“Are you okay?” he nodded and reached to touch his face.

“Bloody immigrants, don’t know how the British do it do they?”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Diane turned and screamed at him.

“He had a knife, self defence!” the skinny guy screeched raising his hands in mock surrender.

“He had a knife cause you just murdered someone with a sauce bottle!” she sat back breathing heavily looking up at him from her position on the floor. She knew she was in a vulnerable position, knew that he could attack her with another chair or the knife that was lying near his feet. She watched his face, it looked confused as though he were trying to process what she had just said,

“Yeah, but you know, why I did it right?” he said slowly.

“I do,” Diane replied. He looked down at the knife now and she felt herself take in a sharp intake of breath. In her mind images danced in her head of what he would do to her. Maybe he would just stab her once and leave her to die there on the floor. Or he’d hold her down and stab repeatedly. Maybe he’d slit her throat and she’d watch the blood creep out from under her head before her. She tried to stop thinking. Tried to look for a way out as he reached down to pick up the knife, she felt as though she were underwater when she attempted to scramble to her feet reaching for the counter work surface for aid. She became confused when the café’s ceiling displayed dancing blue and red lights and she could hear sirens. It was only when she saw the silhouette of a person banging on the café door that she realised that the police had arrived. She and the skinny guy looked at one another,

“Can I, let them in?” she asked him. He twirled the knife in his hand, it glittered in the flashing lights. She could feel her mouth filling with saliva again and she swallowed loudly. Eventually, he nodded and watched her stand up slowly never taking her eyes from his hand. He sat down on the floor again, cross legged, watching her tiptoe round the big guy’s body to lift the shutter. She stood back as officers hurried in grabbing his arms and binding them behind his back with metal cuffs. He didn’t fight back, just lay there and allowed them to disarm and control him.

As he was led out he turned to her standing by the doorway, she flinched as he spun his head round to talk to her. His mouth was opening and closing again. She took a step back and studied his contorted face.

“I killed him because he asked me to go fetch the sauce for him,” Diane grimaced, “Takes the piss,” the skinny guy muttered “but he got it, he got some sauce” he laughed loudly glancing at the blood on the floor.