Homecoming

[finncullen]

It had been a longer than usual day, and filled slightly more than brim-full with inconvenient complications which had started from the moment I had arrived at work and realised I'd forgotten my mobile phone which meant I was chained (metaphorically) to my desk all day.  By the time I arrived home, much later than usual, I was in no mood for anything except an evening of vegetating in front of television or computer screen and then an early night.   Not even enthusiastic about cooking I'd decided to  treat myself to a take-away from the marvellous new Indian place nearby.  They delivered too, I wouldn't even have to stir.  Heavenly.

Consequently the smell of cooking as I opened the door came as quite a surprise, and not a pleasant one.  He had not expressed an interest in cooking before, certainly not cooking for me.  And as always anything he did that was outside his normal routine triggered instant panic in me, it was usually a prelude to some well crafted unpleasantness.



I hung my coat on the hook in my study and realised there was no point delaying the confrontation.  My kitchen is located in the converted cellar on the floor beneath my living room (an efficient use of space, and much more pleasant now I've sorted out the occasional risk of flooding) and I opened the door and descended warily.  The cat was sitting across the stairs halfway down and glaring at me as I approached.  We played the inevitable game of 'I'll sit still till he tries to step over me, then run under his foot' which she won as always, so I was hardly quiet as I entered the room beneath.

It was tidier than normal (he is quite orderly in his way and cannot abide clutter) and a couple of pans were on the hob.  I didn't look too closely however, as I was more distracted to see him leaning back on one of the kitchen chairs watching the small portable television in the corner of the room.  A children's programme, 'Big Cook, Little Cook' featuring two unintentionally sinister brightly dressed figures one of whom is no more than six inches high.

"What..?"  I began

He didn't turn to face me, just held up an admonishing finger.  "Sssh.  I'm watching."

Past experience assured me there was no point in trying to converse with him after that, so I turned my attention to the pans.  Potatoes boiling in water in one of them, some form of stir fry (not being stirred!) in the other.  Looked like onions, peppers, mushrooms and chunks of soya.  I gave the meal a perfunctory stir, lacking any appetite for it.  On the television the two presenters sang and capered their way through the "tidying up song" (the bigger one scares me, he looks like he's a football hooligan doing this job as a community service option) so I waited for the show to finish.

The moment it did he leaped up from his chair and came to face me, standing too close as he always did.

"You can't let me have any peace can you?  Pestering me when I'm watching those simpering buffoons," he said, "Still, I'm a forgiving fellow, look.  I've prepared a meal for you."

He gestured expressively with one hand toward the pans.  Something about his phrasing concerned me (as it so often did).

"For me?  Aren't you going to eat?"  I didn't particularly want his company, but I did want that point clarifying.   His face became suddenly deadpan and he leaned a little closer, whispering conspiratorially  "I don't think it would agree with me, mushrooms seldom do."

Dear heaven.  I turned away at once and switched off the heat under the pans.  Grabbing up a kitchen towel to hold the handle of the frying pan I picked it up and tipped the whole lot into the kitchen bin, a steaming mess of oil and ingredients, dark slimy mushrooms sticking to the side of the bin and slithering down.   He laughed uncontrollably, slapping his thighs with mirth.

"Did you think I'd poison you?" he crowed, "Is that what concerned you?"

That is exactly what had crossed my mind and he knew it precisely.  I didn't dignify his obscene amusement with an answer, pushing past him to climb the stairs back to the living room.  His voice, angry now, followed me.

"Well I don't like being poisoned either," he said, "and don't you pretend innocence, I'm not so easily fooled, not for a second!"

This was not a conversation I could endure, not now.  I stormed into my study and switched on my computer, determined to find some refuge from him for a while at least.  Something 'beeped' on my desk and I picked up my mobile phone, noting the 'Low battery' warning on the screen.  Sighing I went to connect it to the charger and then remembered...   I'd charged it fully the previous night, that was why it had been on my desk and not in my jacket pocket.  And now it was near empty of charge..

His chuckle confirmed my sudden suspicion but I didn't turn round to face him.   I knew the gloating expression that would be on his face and I knew I would (try to) strike him if I saw it.  That would not end well.

"Have you been using my phone?" I said in a voice as calm as I could manage.

"Oh yes," he said happily.

I didn't dare pull up the call log.

"Have you been speaking to my friends?"  I asked.

He walked a little closer and stood directly behind me, saying in a perfect imitation of my voice.  "I am quite sociable when the mood is on me.  Bet you can't wait to check your emails." 

I didn't hear him leave.