Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

chef’s knives or utensils that had anything approaching an edge. On a thick wooden chopping board sat a fillet steak, half a dozen chopped mushrooms, a sliced onion, a plastic bottle of olive oil and three new potatoes. On the stove was a heavy frying pan and a small saucepan. A wooden spoon rested against the frying pan. She couldn’t quite take it in. Did he want her to cook his dinner? Had he gone to all this trouble to have her wait on him? She’d seen plenty of crazy people at her hospital counter but this was madness of an order she had never previously encountered.
    ‘So get on with it.’ He sat on the stool, looking perfectly normal and relaxed, apart from the little black box that rested casually on his thigh. She wasn’t fooled, though. She knew he was alert for the slightest reason to hurt her again. She shrugged and spread her hands wide, as if to indicate she wasn’t sure what he wanted.
    ‘Cook the fucking dinner,’ he shouted, exploding into sudden loud anger. ‘I can’t make it any more clear, can I?’
    Bev lowered her eyes. Avoid confrontation. She picked up the saucepan and crossed to the sink. There was just enough play in the chain to allow her an awkward reach to the taps. She half-filled the pan with water and returned to the stove. It was a gas hob, similar to the one she had at home, but she pretended to struggle with the ignition. Maybe he’d grow impatient and come over to light the gas himself then she could deck him with the frying pan.
    ‘What’s the problem?’ A mocking drawl from the other side of the room. ‘Are you too stupid to light the gas? Do I have to beat the instructions into you?’ The sarcasm darkened to threat as he tapped the taser against the breakfast bar.
    Scrap that idea. Bev lit the gas under the pan and dropped the potatoes in. She poured a little oil into the frying pan and put it on a medium heat. Fear and incredulity were taking turns in her head. Why would anyone pick her if they were looking for the perfect wife? She hadn’t been that good a wife when she’d had a husband, and Tom at least had professed to like his women with a mind of their own. If her kidnapper had bothered to find out anything about her, he’d have learned pretty quickly she was never going to make housewife of the year. Well, if she was going to stay alive, she’d better start working at it. She stared at the bleeding meat, trying not to think how it got that way. Thank goodness she was a half-decent cook, according to her ex, her son and her friends.
    When the potatoes came to the boil, she added the onions to the hot oil and stirred them around with the spoon. At least the frying onions killed the smell of piss that hung around her. But how in the name of God was she supposed to know how he liked his steak? There was a world of difference between blue and well done. She picked up the steak and turned to face him, shrugging a question at him.
    He laughed, sounding genuinely delighted. ‘Medium rare,’ he said. ‘Good girl. The last one didn’t even ask. She turned my steak into shoe leather. Useless cow.’
    The last one. Bev blinked back tears as she turned her attention to the stove, trying not to show a reaction to those distressing words. She remembered a poem she’d learned at school that had the same murderous chill. What was it? ‘That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive.’ Scary then, scarier now. Blindly, she tossed the mushrooms in the pan, mixed them with the translucent onions and cleared a space for the steak. She slapped it into the pan and started counting in her head. When she got to a hundred and eighty, she flipped it over and began the count again. She lifted a potato and tested it by squeezing. Almost there.
    Bev was startled by the sound of a plate hitting the granite top of the island behind her. She whirled round. He was on the far side of the island, just feet from her, pushing a dinner plate towards her. For a mad moment, she thought about grabbing the pan and swinging for his head, but common sense prevailed. She wasn’t fast enough, he wasn’t close enough. If she was going to make it home to Torin, she needed to choose her ground well.
    Instead, she picked up the plate and turned back to the stove. She switched off the heat under the pans, drained the potatoes as best she could at full stretch, then served up the meal. She placed it on the island then stepped away, lowering her eyes, determined to