Chapter 7 La Fourchette
LA FOURCHETTE
Johnny
Johnny was in the middle of photocopying something for Wendy when the sound of Amil’s voice made him look up. Taylor trailed a few feet behind, looking extremely pleased with himself.
“Do you want a fucking medal or something?” Amil snapped, loosening off his stab vest as he and Taylor walked into the report-writing room.
Johnny had been listening to the updates over the radio, and had waved Isla off as she set out to meet them at the hospital.
“Well, it was pretty heroic,” Taylor said, glancing across at Johnny and sticking out his tongue.
“We do it every fucking day. Me and Wendy have made way better saves than that.”
Taylor scoffed and slumped into a nearby swivel chair. “You looked pretty flustered to me. If anything, I thought you were the one that needed saving.”
Amil rounded on him, slapping the back of his chair. “That’s because I didn’t know if you were coming, dipshit. I was calling but you weren’t answering!”
Johnny sighed, hitting print on another ten copies and watching as a stream of poorly printed twenty-pound notes came juddering out of the finisher.
Wendy had assured him it was for an informational evening about fraud that she was holding at the town hall, but the mischievous smile that had spread across her face said otherwise.
“I didn’t respond because I was busy,” Taylor said, pushing himself out of the chair and leaving it spinning. He sidled next to Johnny and began pressing a load of buttons on the printer.
“Tay,” Johnny growled, grabbing his wrist. He sniffed, realising that Taylor smelled terrible, like cheap sweets and piss.
“Too busy? Too fucking busy?” Amil said, jabbing Taylor in the chest. “You had one job. Is it because they’re old? You don’t care? Or is it just impossible for you to take anything seriously?”
Taylor groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Would you stop pouting like that, you look like a… like a goddamned duck.”
“Taylor! For fuck’s sake,” Johnny said, smacking him upside the head. He turned to Amil, expecting him to start crying or something, but he was… nodding. And almost, almost looking pleased.
“Just come quicker next time.” Amil replied, slipping off his stab vest and resting it over the back of his chair. His chair, because if they’d learned anything during their first day it was that Amil was very particular about his desk, and his keyboard, and his mug.
Amil huffed, turning on his heel and heading towards the communal kitchen.
Johnny turned, pressing his temple to Taylor’s. “What was that about?” he said, hitting print again.
“Oh, just… something, something, old girl in the woods, took too long something, something.”
Taylor unzipped his stab vest, his scent stronger as it was released from beneath the Kevlar plates. Johnny’s nose twitched, because there it was beneath the sweet piss smell—the scent of Amil, of omega, mingled with Taylor’s.
Johnny clamped his mouth shut so he didn’t bare his teeth.
“Also,” Taylor continued. “The guy threatened to send me through the fucking windscreen. And did you know they have these things called hedgehog hotels? They’re boxes for the hedgehogs and they’ve got rooms and verandas made out of tea towels.”
Johnny laughed, relaxing when Taylor moved towards the window.
“Yeah, there’s one in the courtyard.”
Taylor gasped and looked out. “There is! I’m going to feed it. I’m going to feed the shit out of it. Fuck the custody cat, we’re going to have an obese station hedgehog called… called—”
“Inspector Pricklepants,” came Isla’s voice from the doorway. “His name is Inspector Pricklepants, and I already fed him today.”
Johnny straightened, hiding Wendy’s fake money behind his back.
“Sarge,” Taylor said, tipping his head. “How’s the old girl?”
Isla sighed, shaking her head. “Beatrice. Not good. Broken front leg and fluid on the lungs. She’s hooked up to a drip but they’re on about putting her in a medically induced coma. Her family was just arriving as I was leaving. But… Taylor?”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got to be careful with these old wolves. They think she might have a displaced hip from you hauling her onto your back.”
Taylor dropped his head. “Oh.”
“You did good, though,” Isla continued, touching Taylor’s shoulder as she walked past. “Don’t listen to Amil. You both did a great job and the family are grateful. Just… be more careful next time.”
Johnny saw the tendons in Taylor’s neck strain.
“Do they know what was wrong with her?” Johnny asked.
Isla shook her head. “They’re saying it’s possibly lupine fever, but there’s no history of it in the family.
We’ve seen a few like her recently, seemingly fit and healthy betas just wandering off.
More blood tests are needed, I guess.” She cracked her fingers.
“She was bloody heavy, bless her. Going to need an extra long yoga session tonight. Amil!” she shouted towards the kitchen. “Put the kettle on.”
“Yes, Sarge!” he called back in the nicest voice Johnny had heard him use all morning.
“Got the hots for sargie,” Taylor whispered when Isla was out of the room. “He said he doesn’t, but I think he does. Do you wanna have a blast around the woods later? I’m pumped.”
Johnny shook his head. “Can’t. Said I’d help Maman at the restaurant, Bonnie’s called in sick again and they’re short on waitstaff.”
Taylor sighed. “No rest for the wicked. Want me to drop you off?”
“Please.”
The day slipped into night, and although Johnny could tell Taylor was kicking himself about injuring the old wolf, they ended the shift feeling pretty damn pleased with themselves.
He’d expected Taylor to drop him off and go home, but he came back an hour later in a change of clothes—a pair of grey jeans that clung to his arse, Johnny’s old Converse and a black T-shirt.
Rather than making himself useful, Taylor was in the process of being crushed by Gabriella on Dance Dance Revolution. The old arcade machine flashed and beeped, and was about the only thing that fit inside the tiny storage room at the back of the restaurant.
“Hah! Loser!” Gabriella cheered when the scores came up.
“Tay! You said you were gonna win this time!” Marty called, sipping on a can of Fanta from his position on an upturned bottle crate. Clementine sat on another opposite him, textbook on one knee and a notepad on the other.
Taylor was sweating. Like, really sweating, and he crouched down to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. “I thought I had it,” he said, breathing hard as he looked up at Johnny. “But she’s… oh my God, she’s…”
Johnny leant against the doorframe, smirking. “You’ve never had it, dude. I thought you’d been letting the kids win all these years, but you really are just that shit.”
Marty hopped up, patting Taylor’s back as he handed him a fresh drink. “Even I’m better than you.”
“Yeah, alright,” Taylor said, disguising a scowl behind the rim of his can.
“If you just lift your legs eighty-seven millimetres higher and improve your reaction times by about three and a half seconds, you might stop coming last,” Clementine said, tucking the pencil behind her ear. “It’s just a rough estimate, mind you.”
“Cheers, Clem,” Taylor said, reaching across to flick her knee.
“Right!” came Maman’s voice as she bustled in through the doorway. She had her bright pink hairnet under her arm as she readjusted her braids into a tight ball. “Quick break. We’ve got a table of ten coming in and they’ve all ordered the nyamangoro. Some TikTok challenge or something.”
Johnny lifted a tray of food from one of the waitresses as she passed, and he shared the bowls and plates out. Beef and pepper skewers with bowls of spicy jollof rice. It was bright orange and he could already tell that it would probably singe Taylor’s delicate nostril hairs.
They all ate together, the kids sprawled across the arcade machine whilst he and Taylor perched on the bottle crates.
“This is some good beef, Maman,” Taylor said, biting a chunk off the skewer.
“Eat the vegetables too,” she said, handing him a bowl of greens. “And in exchange I need you to pot-wash. We’re falling behind.”
Taylor licked his lips. “Will do.”
“But before that,” she continued, plopping onto Johnny’s knee. He kissed her cheek and rested his chin on her shoulder. “How did it go today?”
She was looking at Taylor, but he seemed to be doing his best not to look at her. When Taylor didn’t answer her gaze slid to Johnny.
“It was good,” he replied, then explained about the lost wanderer.
Maman pressed a hand over her chest. “You rescued someone? Oh, Tay, that’s—”
Taylor shook his head, his leg beginning to bounce. “Yeah, after I broke her sodding hip. Honestly, I can’t—”
“Don’t you say it,” Maman said, slapping his knee. “You were about to say you can’t do anything right.”
Taylor looked away, voice growing quiet. “I broke her hip.”
“And saved her life,” Johnny added, running a spoon around the inside of the rice bowl. “The only person I saved today was the girl on table six from a shitty date.”
He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the restaurant. He’d told the long-haired omega that her date had been on Growlr all night, and although he didn’t usually meddle in customers’ lives, she had this vulnerable despondency about her.
“Well, aren’t you just a knight in shining armour,” Taylor replied, smirking. “Did you get her number?”
“Boys,” Maman sighed, gently squeezing Johnny’s knee. “Eat up, and let’s get this night over with.”
The restaurant hummed with the sound of quiet chatter, clinking glasses and tabletop grill plates.
Papa worked the bar at the far end of the restaurant, his bright yellow cap like a beacon perched on his head.
The only time he wasn’t reading the paper was when he was making cocktails, and damn could he make a mean dawa.