In the Kitchen by Monica Ali Read Free Book Online

That girl, the porter, Lena, kept inserting herself into his brain.
    Whatever he had felt, some kind of sickness, when she showed her ghoulish self in the catacombs had quickly passed but she had become a headache now. The police had questioned everyone else. She was a loose end to tidy up.
    He wondered what colour her eyes were. He had spoken to her once, he thought, about polishing the wine glasses before they were racked up again. Her hair trailed out from beneath the green plastic porter's cap and caught in the side of her mouth. Yes, he remembered. He remembered now. How she looked. How she had looked at him. She was nodding and staring down at a spill of soapy water and then she raised her eyes. They were dark, dark blue, wide and deep, and she parted her lips and he reached for her and kissed her. He kissed her hard and then harder still because that was what she wanted, he was sure of it, and the harder he kissed her the more she wanted, he knew it, and then she pulled away and he saw what he had done: there was blood all over her face.
    The chocolate that was still in his mouth when he dozed off had melted and dribbled down his chin. Gabe went back to the kitchen for some paper towels and rinsed his mouth and spat. He noticed the answerphone blinking and pressed the button.
    'Gabe, it's Jenny. I know you're busy – aren't we all – but I spoke to Dad today and I can't believe you haven't even called him back. Call him, Gabe, all right?' There was a pause and Gabe could hear her breathing. 'Right,' she said without much conviction. 'Cheerio.'
    When had his little sister turned into the kind of woman who said 'cheerio'?
    Dad had left a message a few days ago. 'Hello, Gabriel. This is your father calling you on Sunday afternoon, approximate time of three o'clock.' Messages from him were rare, invariably laborious and gloomy, as though the Angel of Death had called to make arrangements. ' I would like to speak to you. Would you call me please on the Blantwistle number. Thank you.' His telephone voice was both clearer and more strained than his normal speaking voice. If you were over a certain age, it seemed, it was impossible to speak normally into an answering machine. Call on the Blantwistle number – as if there were other numbers on which he might be reached.
    Gabe had meant to call but it had been a bit of a week. It was too late to call anyone now.
    He was about to switch off the light when the shrill of the phone sent a charge through his body.
    'Gabe,' said Jenny. 'Is that you?'
    'Jen, are you all right?'
    'I'm fine, yes, fine, it's two o'clock in the blessed morning and I'm roaming around the house picking up socks and checking for dust on top of the picture frames and I've just unloaded the dishwasher but, you know, when you can't sleep the last thing you want to do is be in bed. I mean, that's not the last thing you want to do, it's the first thing you want to do but you shouldn't because it's not good sleep – oh, what's the word – hygiene is what my doctor says and we're trying to steer clear of the pills, though I wouldn't mind, sometimes I think, well, why don't I just give them a little try? Then I say to myself, Jenny, that's not a road you want to go down, not if there are other roads you can take, and there are. And, anyway, I wanted to call you and I know you're a night owl and so I picked up the phone and ... I didn't wake you, did I? I mean, I called earlier and you weren't in so I guessed if I left it a while but not too much of a while—'
    'Jenny,' Gabriel cut in. 'I was still up. I'm glad you called. How are the kids?'
    He heard her sucking in and blowing out. She could have been lighting a cigarette or taking a puff on her inhaler.
    'Harley's got a girlfriend, she's called Violet and she works over at Rileys on the Crazy Glazes stand and she's got her nose pierced and her belly and some other bits and pieces too that I wouldn't like to think about, and she doesn't look it but she is what I would