Writing for Fun
October 2017
Secrets - Pete Norman
Faisal Hussain was struggling; he hated all this fiddly paperwork. The running of the business itself had never been a problem to him, in fact he quite enjoyed that part of it but the financial side was a constant nightmare. The restaurant counter in front of him was covered with waiter order books and credit card receipts and he was doing his best to match the receipts to the orders so that he could single out the cash payments. You always had to leave a certain number of those in the accounts to keep things looking normal and to keep the Taxman sweet but every cash order that he could pull out and slip below the radar was good for his profits.
He was busy riffling though one of the less legible order books when the door opened. Without taking his eyes off his work he said, ‘Just put it all down there and I’ll sort it later.’
When there was no reply he looked up and saw an Asian youth standing in the doorway.
‘Put what where?’
‘The delivery, you idiot.’ However even as he was saying the words it was abundantly clear to him that this was not the usual delivery man and that the youth was looking distinctly puzzled.
‘Who are you?’
The youth walked up to the counter. ‘I am Mohammed Bashir and I’m looking for a job.’
Faisal glanced down at the chaos which represented the best part of his morning’s labours and sighed.
‘Well you’ll have to come back tomorrow. Can’t you see I’m busy right now?’
‘But I heard you needed a chef.’
‘How could you possibly know that? I haven’t even advertised it yet.’
‘The word on the street is that you lost one of your chefs yesterday and that you are looking for another one . . . for someone who has not outstayed his welcome?’
Faisal shook his head. ‘That miserable individual was never that welcome in the first place.’
It was true that he was desperately in need of a new chef before the busy weekend rush but he was also curious how the gossip had spread so quickly.
‘So who is this
‘Sorry, my informant would probably prefer to remain anonymous but if you are looking for a new chef then you might well be looking at him right now.’
‘Give me one good reason why should I hire you.’
‘Because I am the best there is.’
‘You’re a cocky little bugger aren’t you?’
Mohammed grinned. ‘You can’t really call it cocky if you’ve earned the title fairly.’
‘And where exactly have you earned this title? Where do I go for a reference?’
‘Ah – now that way the problem lies. You see the last job was in Bradford but I’ve come down here to London to put as much distance as I can from that awful place. I’m afraid there’s no way you can go to them for a reference.’
Faisal was losing his patience. ‘Look, you should know the score by now: no reference – no job, simple as that. Either cough up or there’s the door.’
Mohammed threw up his hands. ‘You have to believe me that there was a very good reason why I left that job and hell will freeze over before I open all that up again. Look, what if I offered you a deal? I’ll give you one day, I’ll work for free and if you don’t think at the end of the day that I’m the best chef you’ve ever seen then I will walk.’
The two men stared at each other in absolute silence while Faisal considered the merits of the offer but the moment was interrupted by arrival of the delivery man.
‘Alright. For your cheek you have a deal. Be here at 4:00 this afternoon and you can show me what you’re worth.’ He smiled. ‘A most discerning customer of mine will be in tonight. He is a very difficult man to please. If he likes what you cook for him then I might just consider taking you on.’
Mohammed grinned. ‘You won’t regret this, I promise you. Now, would you like me to deal with that order while you get on?’
Faisal looked from the cocky youth to the mess of paperwork on the counter to the tottering pile of boxes by the door. The proposition was indeed very tempting but he shook his head. ‘If I decide to employ you, then maybe another day. I will see you at four.’
* * *
The early evening midweek trade was slow which gave Faisal time to relax a little, to chat to the customers and to keep an eye on the meals as they were ferried out from the kitchen. The waiters had been primed to identify the meals prepared by each chef and he paid particular attention to the customers who received meals from the new man. The food certainly looked to be good and the comments were all very favourable but there was one customer in particular that Faisal knew had the power to really clinch the deal.
It was nearly eight o’clock when a tall man in a very expensive silver grey suit came through the door. He ignored the counter staff and without waiting for invitation walked straight through the restaurant to the table in the corner, the large round table with the RESERVED tag.
Faisal hurried after him. ‘Good evening, Mr Greenwood. I hope you are well.’
The man looked up. ‘Thank you, Faisal. The Lamb Pasanda Nawabi. Everything else as usual and . . . a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.’
Faisal leaned in closer and whispered, ‘Mr Greenwood, I am trialling a new chef tonight. He does come very highly recommended of course but I would appreciate your judgment on his worth.’
He scribbled the order onto his pad and handed it to the nearest waiter. ‘Make sure the new man does this one.’
When the meal was served it certainly looked to be up to standard but still he hovered, watching from a discreet distance. First impressions seemed quite promising. When the waiter finally went to clear the table he moved closer. Greenwood offered him just two words of advice. ‘Keep him.’
At the end of the evening, when the last customer had left, Faisal made his way through to the kitchen. Mohammed was leaning back against the freezer chatting to the other chef as if he had been here for years. He looked up as the door opened.
‘Be here at 2 o’clock sharp tomorrow to get the kitchen set up. You can sort out the delivery as well if you’re up to it.’
Mohammed smiled. ‘Does this mean you agree that I’m the best there is?’
‘I guess you’ll do me for the time being.’
* * *
Faisal was reassured when Mohammed arrived fifteen minutes early, he certainly appeared to be trying to create the right impression but there was still something about his reticence that troubled him. He had made enquiries with everyone he knew in Bradford but even though Mohammed Bashir was not that unusual a name he could find no trace of the man having worked in the trade anywhere in that city. Everything else about him seemed good so he guessed that eventually he would have to put it down to either a toxic problem with his family or some kind of relationship breakup and stop asking.
However, it never hurt to have one last try. As Mohammed was struggling to fit the last of the chicken into the freezer Faisal stepped up behind him. ‘I myself have worked in Bradford.’ He paused for a moment to allow the point to sink in. ‘And I know a lot of people in the restaurant business up there.’
Mohammed closed the freezer door and turned to face him.
‘And no one in Bradford appears to have heard of the best chef in the world, this Mohammed Bashir.’
Mohammed dropped his head. ‘No, they won’t have done. Look, boss, I got myself into a bit of difficulty up there and I have taken myself as far away from it as I can . . . for my own safety.’ He thought for a minute. ‘I really am sorry for the white lie. I meant no harm. I never have worked there. It wasn’t too far away but it wasn’t in Bradford.’
Faisal looked at the youth. He appeared to be genuine but he just needed a little more. His voice softened. ‘Tell me what you are running away from and I promise I will ask no further.’
Mohammed took some time before he answered, the youth appeared to be frightened stiff of the consequences.
‘I screwed the manager’s wife. He will kill me if he ever gets his hands on me.’
Faisal smiled. So that was all it was. He offered his hand. ‘He will not hurt you, Mohammed – you work for me now.’
* * *
As the days went by Mohammed slotted into the daily routine of the restaurant seamlessly. He was always punctual, he produced top quality meals under pressure and he had such an easy manner that he was popular with all of the staff. Faisal was certain that his judgement had been impeccable.
On the following Thursday, a little more than a week into the job, Mohammed arrived early as usual to deal with the delivery but today Faisal was in early too.
‘You can leave this delivery to me today, Mohammed, thank you.’
‘But I’m here, now. I’m happy to sort it, boss, save you the trouble.’
Faisal hesitated. He looked at the large brown box on top of the stack – the one box without a label. ‘Ok, Mohammed, you win but that box on the top is mine, alright?’
Mohammed looked at the box and he looked at Faisal, a puzzled expression on his face.
Faisal groaned. ‘Look, there is more than one wholesaler locally and our trade with them is valuable. They like to keep on my good side, alright?’
Mohammed grinned. ‘No worries, boss.’ He reached up and pulled the box from the top and handed it to Faisal. It was very heavy. Then he set about transferring the other boxes to the kitchen.
Half an hour later Faisal came through the kitchen carrying the box towards the rear doors.
Mohammed asked, ‘Do you want me to keep it chilled for you until tonight, boss?’
Faisal shook his head. ‘No thanks, it’ll be fine in the car.’
* * *
At 5:30 Faisal unlocked the front door and greeted the first customers. Parked across the road he could see a large white van but he took little notice of it until the back doors burst open and four police officers poured out. They were dressed in ‘swat team’ gear. He turned and ran through the restaurant, through the swing door into the kitchen and past Mohammed who was warming up the hotplates. He threw open the back door and there right in front of him was parked his pale blue Mercedes but standing between him and his car were two more policemen. One of them was holding a large black Labrador on a tight lead.
He froze.
From behind him came a familiar voice. ‘Hello, Faisal.’
He spun around and there stood a tall man in a very expensive silver grey suit.
‘Faisal, that Lamb Pasanda Nawabi last night was exquisite but I am afraid . . .’ He held out his hand. ‘I require your car keys.’ He unlocked the boot of the Mercedes and opened the box inside. He smiled.
Detective Chief Inspector Ron Greenwood, Specialist Crime Directorate. Faisal Hussain you are under arrest under Section 4 of the Prevention of Terrorism Act.’
As Faisal was led off to the waiting Police van Greenwood turned to Mohammed. ‘Very good work, Sergeant.’