Silence of the Lamb, Or, Ewe Must Be Choking I Hope!


by Cat.

Retrospectively I should never have drop kicked the leg of lamb across the dining room. I think it upset Jack a teensy bit. That and I called Tristan a pretentious twat. Never goes down well with Jack that sort of language. And I suppose sweeping a tureen of delicately minted new potatoes off the table; sending them bouncing across the recently fitted shag pile, was an error of judgement. As was running out onto the drive as Tristan's car was pulling away, screaming: "don't say you're leaving before dessert? Here, do take it with you and I hope you choke on it!"

Perhaps it was the sight of his favourite fresh cream, raspberry Pavlova driving away at sixty miles an hour that really upset Jack? On the other hand, giving the old dear who lives next door the finger as she looked enquiringly over the hedge, just might have peeved him. He's _s_h_i_t_ hot on manners is Jack.

"Ready to talk?" The newspaper rustled as Jack turned the page.

I shifted my weight from my left leg to my right, crossed my arms and let out a _f_u_c_k_ you sigh.

"Fine," Jack turned another page, he must be speed reading, "I can wait."

Sadistic bastard, course he could wait. He was seated comfortably at the kitchen table with a large mug of hot coffee to hand and the newspaper for entertainment; in so far as the Guardian could be considered entertainment. I preferred the Dandy myself.

"Stand up straight, hands by your sides."

"I am standing up straight," I broke my hitherto sullen silence. "I couldn't stand any straighter if I had a brush shank stuffed up my jacksy!"

"You're in enough trouble Daniel, do you really think it's wise to speak to me like that?" Jack's voice had an edge you could sharpen knives on.

"It's not my fault, none of this is my fault." I fought an urge to kick the wall in front of me.

"Oh, and whose fault is it pray? Did the lamb insist you kick it across the room?"

Great. Sarcasm. I hate sarcasm, especially Jack's, all delivered in a-headmaster-talking –to-naughty-schoolboy-sort of voice.

He continued. "Were the potatoes possessed by a poltergeist? Did the meringue decide it wished to go for a nice drive out before being consumed, and did our frail octogenarian neighbour really deserve that hand salute you gave her? You could have caused her to suffer a fatal stroke."

I couldn't help myself, glancing over my shoulder, I snarled, "she survived Hitler and day trips by the _f_u_c_k_ing Luftwaffe for Christ's sake. I'm sure she'll survive a raised finger."

"You're digging yourself deeper and deeper little boy." Jack went back to turning the pages of the Guardian and I went back to staring silently at the wall, while fantasising about doing a Hannibal and brutally butchering the odious Tristan. It was his fault I was in trouble.

I gritted my teeth as his voice replayed on the memory tape of my mind: "Oh! You're surely not going to attempt to carve that straight from the oven are you dear boy? It needs to rest for at least fifteen minutes."

"What?" I glared at him, my hand tightening around the handle of the carving knife which I seriously considered plunging into his chest instead of the leg of lamb. He had a knack of making me feel ignorant and gauche.

"The lamb dear boy, the lamb, surely you know the rule about carving meat straight from the oven? It needs to rest." He said this last with a roughish wag of his finger under my nose.

Patronising berk! I saw red. I was relatively new to this cooking lark and a bit precious about my efforts, any criticism, implied or otherwise, cut deep.

"I'm not your dear boy!" I screeched, waving the knife dangerously close to the end of his nose, "and why does it need to rest? It's hardly likely to be _f_u_c_k_ing exhausted after spending two hours loitering in a hot oven."

Jack rose to his feet, his voice was deceptively soft, but his hand resting on my shoulder had a touch of steel in it. "Daniel, that's no way to speak to our guest, apologise at once."

"Your guest," I reminded him, recklessly shrugging his hand away, "not mine. I'd sooner entertain the Grim Reaper than him."

"You might just get your wish if you don't moderate your tone young man," hissed Jack giving me, 'The Look!'

"Please Jack, do sit down" Tristan's unctuous voice cut in. "Don't fall out with your young paramour on my account. I'm sure that, given time, he'll learn to cope with his feelings of inferiority where I'm concerned and realise that I'm no threat to him." He turned to me with a taunting little smile. "I intended no criticism dear boy. I'm sure that your culinary offering will be quite splendid. You go ahead, do it in your own unique way."

I hated the smarmy swine. He was everything I wasn't. Sophisticated, wealthy, well educated, immaculately attired, totally in control of himself. All in all, a complete bastard. For Jack's sake I swallowed my temper and attempted to redeem myself, mumbling a half hearted apology which he accepted gracefully, his grey eyes gleaming with malicious enjoyment at my discomfort.

He'd got my back up the moment he set foot in the house with his subtle little put downs. I'm certain he thought of me as Jack's bit of rough. Something he'd picked up and retained as having temporary novelty value. That was the bit that scared me actually. What if that's all I really was to Jack? I couldn't bear the thought that one day he'd tire of me, that the novelty would wear off and he'd go back to someone more his own sort. Someone like Tristan. 'Tristan,' for _f_u_c_k_'s sake! I didn't realise that anyone outside of Arthurian literature and All Creatures Great and Small was called that for real.

I faked a smile and opened the bottle of red wine that he'd graciously bestowed upon us.

"My dear boy..."

I froze, bottle paused in process of slopping a generous amount into a glass.

"May I suggest you let that breathe a little. I'm sure you noticed that it's rather a fine vintage. Why don't we start with that unassuming little supermarket wine you obviously grabbed off the shelf at Safeway's. Whether or not it breathes will be immaterial to how it tastes, I'm sure."

That was it! I banged the bottle down on the table and the rest, as they say, is history.

Tristan beat a hasty retreat as I erupted like a French farmer on a picket line, and began booting legs of lamb about, while cussing like a British lorry driver trying to get through a picket line of French farmers.

Jack wasn't impressed. I could tell by the way he shoved me briskly into a corner of the kitchen, virtually superimposing me onto the plaster.

"It's not fair," I yelled, then yelled even louder as he cut short my protests with a volley of sharp swats to my backside. He left me to brood while he went to apologise, on my behalf, to our bemused and ancient neighbour.

As far as I was concerned, I had been provoked into losing my temper and I was determined not to accept any blame. I blinked tears away. I thought Jack was being unfair; couldn't he see the way Tristan wound me up?

Of course I knew it was more than just tonight. More than just the fact that Jack had invited Tristan without consulting me, he knew I couldn't stand the smug git. It was more than the fact that he had told me I was cooking, and what I was cooking. I would not have served up tinned Ravioli as he implied, macaroni cheese perhaps, but not Ravioli. I hate Ravioli, nothing but little parcels of mouse droppings.

It was a hangover from the computer business, that's what it was. Jack had, as expected, been seriously de-chuffed with me. I had stood quaking, watching as the blood drained from his face down into his ankles. Like the proverbial weeble he wobbled, but didn't fall down. After several decades had passed he closed his mouth, cancelled Tristan's visit(every cloud etc.) and channelled his energies into attempting to smack my bottom from its original location at the top of my thighs, to somewhere in the vicinity of my diaphragm. What really hurt though, even more than my bum, was the fact that he had sent me to bed in the guest room. I had lived with Jack for almost a year and he had never banished me from his bed before. It could only mean one thing; he was tiring of me.

"Come here." There was a multitude of rustlings as Jack folded the newspaper.

I stayed stubbornly where I was.

"If I have to come over there Daniel I'll be even less happy than I am now, which means you'll be even sorrier than you're already going to be."

Jeez, he was talking in sodding tongues. With a heave of the shoulders, a roll of the eyes and a sigh worthy of Harry Enfield's Kevin the teenager, I sloped across to him.

He began to unbuckle the belt on my jeans, speaking quietly all the while. "Bad language. A temper tantrum worthy of a toddler on a tartrazine high. Rudeness to neighbours. All in themselves bad enough. However," he drew my jeans down to my knees and pulled me forward across his lap. "Rudeness to my friend, while a guest in our home, is inexcusable. This occasion was intended to make up for the last evening that had to be cancelled because of your antics. You may not like Tristan, but you will be respectful to him. If that isn't clear now, it will be when I've finished with you."

Rebellion was still flowing through my veins. "I'd sooner pour salt on the slimy slug than be respectful to him." I tried to wriggle free, but my meagre five foot five frame was easily held in his steel like grip.

A cool draught played briefly about my bottom as Jack took my underpants down. Cool quickly became a distant memory as he laid into me. The hand that slammed against my buttocks felt like it was made of adamantium, first striking one cheek, then the other followed by a cross section.

"You will apologise to Tristan," left, right, across. "You will apologise to Mrs Greenfield," left , right, across. "You will apologise to me," left, right, across. On and on he spanked a pattern of disapproval onto my bottom. It hurt-a lot.

I howled from the outset: noble suffering and taking it like a man were concepts that I'd rejected early in life. If I was in agony I wanted everyone within a ten mile radius to be aware of it. By the time he allowed me to slide, sobbing, from his lap, I would have seriously considered apologising to the leg of lamb and every individual potato I had sent bouncing across the floor.

He let me cry for a while, then calmly drew me to my feet and helped me pull up my underwear and jeans. "You're going to clean up the mess you made in the dining room Daniel, and then you're going to bed."

I tried to wrap my arms around him, desperate for a reconciliatory cuddle, but to my dismay he pushed me away. He'd never done that before.

"No Daniel," he said firmly. "A hug isn't going to make everything magically alright this time. You really embarrassed me this evening and so far you've not offered me one good reason why you behaved as you did. There was no excuse for it. I'm ashamed of you."

I was crushed, his words hurt more than the spanking. I felt he was being totally dismissive of my feelings. He was taking Tristan's side against me. Worse was to come. After I had straightened out the dining room he ushered me upstairs and sent me, once again, to sleep alone in the guest room. He must definitely be going off me. I refused to say goodnight to him and cried myself to sleep.

I got up next morning to find the house still and silent. My stomach turned, was he so disgusted with me that he didn't even want to spend Saturday in my company? There was a terse note on the kitchen table: Gone to the office to catch up on some work. Phone Tristan, make your apologies. We'll discuss things later. I crumpled the scrap of paper up and flung it on the floor. Then I got dressed, threw some things in a bag and headed for Alison and Den 's house.


More stories by Cat.