Le Petit Somme

John looked up from his newspaper. ‘Apparently, there are millions of stray cats in France. Can you believe it?’

Nick took a sip of his coffee. ‘Judging from our trips around Europe, yeah, I can believe it. Always cats everywhere. Every side street: cats and cardboard boxes. Not too many around here, mind.’

‘They’re making each town and village responsible for keeping the numbers down. Every mayor must find the money to neuter their local population,’ continued John.

Nick laughed. ‘You are still talking about the cats, I take it?’

John stopped to think what he’d just said. ‘Oh, yes, just the cats.’

They were still laughing when the waiter appeared on the terrace. He smiled as he approached their table. ‘Was everything okay with your meal, gentlemen?’ he asked.

‘Yes, great thank you. Can we have the bill, please?’ asked Nick.

‘Certainly, monsieur. I’ll get it for you.’ 

As the waiter went back inside the café, Nick finished his coffee and lifted the last remaining flakes of croissant from his empty plate. Licking his fingers, he turned to John. ‘I have to go back to the hotel to make some arrangements. The rest of the crew are due later this morning. I’d like to be there when they arrive. Can I leave you to visit that restaurant we passed?’

‘Yes, no problem,’ said John. ‘Le Petit Somme, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s the one. You have a walk up and see if they’re willing to have us film there later. I’ll pay the bill and go back to the hotel. Give me a call later. We’ll catch up for lunch, okay?’

‘Yes, sounds good,’ confirmed John, and he wandered off.

***

John came to Le Petit Somme. Driving past the restaurant on their arrival, they had been drawn to its decorative exterior and riverside location; the perfect place to start filming. 

The restaurant appeared closed, although it wasn’t unusual for the better establishments to have someone inside starting to prepare food by mid-morning. 

John walked up to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. He pressed his face against the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes to block out the glare of the sun. It was dark inside and he couldn’t see anybody, but he noticed a light towards the back of the restaurant, a door slightly ajar. ‘Perhaps there is someone through there?’ he thought. 

John rapped on the window. He stepped back, looking up at the apartment above, but nobody appeared. He stood, hands on hips, contemplating, and noticed a side gate. He held down the lever and it opened, a metallic screeching as it swung around its hinges. John hesitated, waiting for movement.

He closed the gate behind him and edged forward. He felt a little uncomfortable, like an errant schoolboy nosing around, but after years of working in media production, John had learnt that people were far more forgiving if they thought they might end up on TV. 

He pressed on into the yard and towards a side door. He tapped on the glass, and after waiting for a response, twisted the doorknob. It eased open. ‘Hello. Is anybody there?’ John shouted. 

He called again as he stepped inside a small room, cardboard boxes stacked around. There was a corridor beyond, housing the doorway he’d seen through the restaurant window, and a stairway down to a cellar. ‘Someone has to be down there,’ thought John. 

He felt increasingly uneasy about going further but remembered Nick. 

Nick was a nice guy, and he enjoyed a good working relationship with him, but Nick was the celebrity chef, very much the boss and expected results. John felt obliged to return with something from his morning’s research. 

He stood at the top of the stairs. They weren’t particularly well lit, and the room below was cloaked in shadow. ‘Hello,’ called John. ‘Is there anybody there? Is there somebody I can talk to?’ 

He thought he heard a noise, something moving around in the darkness. ‘Hello?’ John repeated. 

He started to go down, slowly. He could feel his pulse rising, throbbing in his throat, and a peculiarity to his legs. He forced himself to continue his descent, fighting the desire to turn and flee to the safety of the street. 

John heard the noise again. 

His eyes had started to adjust. There was a single bulb dangling above him, casting a feeble light, but enough for him to make out a large table in the centre of the room. A few chopping boards were positioned on the tabletop, assorted knives and cleavers about them, others housed in wooden blocks. He could see fresh blood and sinew on the boards, evidence that someone had recently been working there, preparing meat. 

The noise continued, and although intermittent, was regular enough for him to try and locate it. He thought the sound organic, like the tumbling of a manic creature. John’s ear rested upon the cold, stainless steel of a large, walk-in freezer. He saw that the door was closed, the latch across. If something was alive in there, it was locked inside. 

John slowly opened the freezer door, peering through the widening gap. He panicked momentarily as a fluorescent light flickered on inside, causing him to slam the door shut.

‘Come on, John, calm down,’ he said to himself. 

He threw the door wide open, as if inviting something to happen and get it over with. But as the ticking of the fluorescent tube fired up again, John saw nothing other than animal carcasses hanging, and a large aluminium chest against the far wall, its lid closed. 

He walked inside the freezer. He was dressed for a summer day and felt the cold air alighting upon his skin. He calculated that there must be at least fifty bodies hanging: some solid, perhaps frozen for weeks; others hung recently, pools of liquid forming beneath them. 

He looked closely, struggling to identify the animals. He wasn’t a chef but had worked long enough with Nick to be able to recognise typical cuts of meat. The carcasses had their heads and fur removed, and with their long back legs, he settled on hare, rather than rabbit. 

There was movement in the aluminium chest at the back of the freezer. He crouched down beside it, inspecting its shell, feeling over the exterior for air holes. Finding none, he shook his head, rising anger masking his trepidation. ‘That’s never right,’ he said. ‘They might be for the knife, but they can’t be left to suffocate.’ 

He stood up and thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps I can wedge it open a little whilst still keeping them inside?’ 

He loosened the latches at each end of the chest, and carefully raised the lid. He bent forward, trying to see. The light in the freezer wasn’t sufficient to illuminate the contents, so John lowered the lid and took out his mobile phone. As he switched on its flashlight, the chest burst open, a chorus of hisses and wails filling the chamber. John reeled back, slipping on congealed blood. He fell onto the floor, his phone jarred from his grip. 

He lay for a moment, overwhelmed by a searing pain in his skull. He groaned as he reached around and felt a liquid mess on the back of his head. As he lowered his hand to examine the damage, the freezer door slammed shut, and the light went out.

***

‘No news from your friend, monsieur?’ asked the restaurant owner. 

‘No, it’s going straight to answerphone,’ replied Nick. ‘It’s odd; we agreed to meet for lunch, but I haven’t heard from him all day. You say nobody here has seen him?’

‘No, monsieur. Nobody. It is just me and Serge, my chef. We ‘ave not seen your friend, I’m afraid.’

A man entered the restaurant. He was greeted by the owner, and they spoke quietly to one another. Nick understood enough French to know they were talking about him, and their body language suggested his impromptu visit may not have been convenient. He was used to that; chefs and restaurant owners often became defensive when they thought their food was about to be critiqued. 

The two Frenchmen broke from their huddle and moved swiftly towards Nick’s table, both wearing fixed smiles.  

‘May I present to you our maire, Monsieur Dupont,’ said the owner. ‘Monsieur Dupont, this is Nick, er…’

‘Klein,’ replied Nick. ‘Enchanté,’ he said, rising from his chair.

The mayor shook Nick’s hand. ‘So, you ‘ave come to stay in our little town? I ‘ope you like what you see?’

‘Oh, it’s very nice,’ replied Nick. ‘I must congratulate you on how clean it is here. You don’t seem to be plagued with the usual problems.’

‘Okay, Monsieur Dupont’, interrupted the restaurant owner, bustling the mayor away.

‘Your table is ready. You don’t want to lose your reservation.’

Nick slowly sat down, looking around at an empty restaurant. 

‘Now, monsieur,’ said the owner, returning from his shepherding duties, ‘chef has your special ready. Voilà, monsieur.’ 

He placed the dish on Nick’s table and stepped back.

‘Superb,’ said Nick. He cut off a slice of meat, and chewing it, began gesticulating his approval.

‘You like it, monsieur?’

‘Oh, it’s magnificent. The cat’s whiskers!’ exclaimed Nick.

There was a clash of cutlery and porcelain at the mayor’s table. 

‘The cat’s whiskers, monsieur? What is it that you mean?’ asked the owner, looking troubled.

‘Oh, that’s a good thing. It’s an English expression. It means it’s excellent.’ The owner looked across at the mayor who was taking a big gulp of wine.

‘It’s just a pity John’s not here to try it,’ said Nick.

‘Don’t worry, monsieur,’ said the restaurant owner, his forced smile returning. ‘I’m sure your friend will be passing through soon.’

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