The Uninvited

“As usual Milo, when my guest arrives, I will expect you to remain in your room,” said Jennifer. “I’m making some dinner you can have in there.”

Milo pushed himself up from his wheelchair to see spaghetti hoops bubbling in a small saucepan on the hob. The kitchen was littered with cooking detritus: chopped onion, tomatoes, garlic, green beans and two bloody chops on a plate by the oven. The kitchen was awash with an array of delicious odours. Milo’s stomach rumbled. He was weak and hungry, as usual.

[private]“I have two bottles of a marvellous Temperanillo,” said Jennifer. “Ribero del Duero. Spanish. Award winning.”

Milo grunted a reply. Jennifer paused, mid-stir over a large pot of sauce.

“I’m afraid there is insufficient for you to try it, Milo,” she said. “You can have one of the little Belgian beers you like.”

Milo mumbled in dissatisfaction. Jennifer thumped the meat with a tenderising mallet, the slipped both pieces into a bowl of oil, massaging them momentarily, before placing them in the frying pan where they sizzled enthusiastically. Milo strained up on the arms of the wheelchair again to watch the spaghetti hoops congealing in the bottom of the pan.

“Starters are chilling; wine breathing; vegetables drained. Now, how does Ronald like his meat?” she said, visualising her gastronomic agenda. Milo rolled his eye.

“Oh Christ!” she said, finally noticing Milo’s burning meal. She snatched the saucepan from the hob and slopped the contents into a plastic bowl. She located a spoon, slung it into the bowl and pitched the whole lot onto Milo’s lap. Milo rapidly began spooning the scalding hot muck into his mouth, barely tasting it as he swallowed.

Abruptly, the doorbell rang. Jennifer raised her hands in panic. Milo stopped eating and a number of spaghetti hoops fell from his open mouth onto the rug on his lap.

“Right, Milo,” she said, preening herself rapidly in the reflection of the toaster. “Make yourself scarce!”

Milo awkwardly turned the wheelchair and wheeled himself toward his room. The bungalow was small, with his room and the kitchen to the rear and the dining room at the front. He was barely through the door before he heard the bolt slide home behind him. He spun the chair around and pushed his ear against the door. The plastic bowl slipped onto the floor, ignored. He heard the front door open and Jennifer’s singing voice:

“Ronald! How marvellous!”

Milo heard the deep reply of a man, but could not decipher the words. He pictured obesity and jowls.

“Oh…” he heard Jennifer say and he detected a note of displeasure (which he recognised so very well). “…well, no, not a problem exactly…well no, I know you pay a lot of money, but some prior notice…Oh! Very well! Come in!”

Milo sniggered and readjusted his ear to the door. He loved to hear her when she was annoyed, unless she was annoyed at him of course. He heard the front door close and the sound of movement at the front of the house. A long silence, followed by music: Nora Jones, her dinner party music. Then he heard her irrate stomp, the rattle of the bolt. Milo rapidly reversed the chair away from the door. Jennifer appeared. She was seething.

“Ronald,” she said, trying to control her anger, “has decided to bring an unannounced guest.”

Milo moaned.

“You know what that means.”

Milo rolled up his lap blanket obediently. Jennifer went quickly into the kitchen and he heard the sound of the fridge opening and closing. She reappeared and instantly stabbed in the syringe, depressing the plunger in one motion. A euphoric warmth flooded his body. Milo relaxed in his chair and enjoyed the sweet numbness which enveloped him. Jennifer appeared again, with the hacksaw and clamps.

“There’s enough of the tongue salad to go around, but not the main course.”

Milo gurgled quietly, as the morphine took hold proper. Jennifer quickly unravelled Milo’s bandages, revealing his crudely cauterised stumps.

“Keep the bloody noise down this time,” she said, as she leant down to begin.

Milo laughed silently, his shoulders shaking as she sawed.[/private]

Richard Rippon was born in Newcastle-upon-Tyne when Slade was at Number One with ‘Mama Weer All Crazee Now’. He has worked as a lab technician, HiFi salesman, labourer, cinema usher and bouncy castle doorman. His stories are widely published.