through the room, so strong I was all but knocked off my feet. It took all I had to force myself through

the buzzing wall of energy, and plant myself at Ginger’s side. “Wait,” I whispered in his ear. “Say,

thank you.”

“Thank you,” Ginger said, not all that convincing.

Ryan visibly deflated, and offered a weak smile. “No worries.”

“Night.”

“Yeah, night.” Ryan left, trailing disappointment in his wake.

Sorry, lad, I snickered to myself. But this is far too much fun. It’s time to shake things up around

here.

Chapter Six

“Shit!” Matt knocked pots and pans aside. Why had all his best chopping knives taken to hiding

recently? He crashed through more utensils, knocking a pile of cutlery onto the floor with a deafening

crash. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Chopping knives still nowhere to be found, Matt fought against the impulse to curse someone’s

name for hiding them. Someone in particular. The knives weren’t the only things that had gone

missing lately. Certain ingredients for the lunches, the washing up liquid, his oven glove, and

generally anything useful that Matt wanted to lay his hands on had mysteriously vanished.

Hell, even his phone had gone for a walk.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who it was. Sammy was obviously pissed off with him, and

exacting his own brand of childish revenge as punishment. Although Matt felt that was incredibly

unfair. Just because that stupid note saying “Sammy’s boudoir” had apparently turned up in Sammy’s

bed of all places, Matt had got the blame. As if he’d go into Sammy’s room anyway, and put that note

in his bed. It was ridiculous.

All right, so he’d admitted to starting the whole thing, and putting the note on the toilet door last

week, but that didn’t mean he was the one who kept fishing the damn thing out of the bin and mucking

about with it. For all they knew, it was Sammy doing it himself.

Matt could just imagine it being the sort of thing that moronic kid would dream up. The perfect

excuse to get Matt in trouble. Sammy seemed to be gunning for him at every opportunity lately. Well,

it was bound to come to a head sooner or later. Sammy had been itching to pick fights with Matt since

getting dumped by his boyfriend. It was like Sammy was taking out his frustration on him. They

hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye since Sammy had moved in six months ago, and insisted on engaging in

noisy, late night activities with his then-boyfriend.

All Matt had asked them once was to keep it down. He was the one who had to get up early every

day to prep the kitchen, and their bedrooms were right next to each other. Sammy had taken that

request as to mean Matt was homophobic, which wasn’t fair at all. Matt didn’t care who was having

sex, he just didn’t want to hear it every Goddamn night. Was that so unreasonable?

Two months after that, Sammy got dumped anyway. Matt had admittedly made a poor joke about

being able to get some sleep now. Sammy hadn’t taken it well, and things had been tense ever since.

Matt wanted to apologise for the joke. He didn’t realise Sammy would be that upset by it. He’d tried

to say sorry a couple of times, but Sammy had a way of throwing everything back in his face, and

annoying him even more.

Matt didn’t think there was anyone on God’s green earth that irritated him more than Sammy.

After yet another spat yesterday, Ginger had told them to shut the fuck up, or he’d tell Pete to

demote them both. Well, that had worked for now. But what about Matt’s kitchen? How did they

expect him to work when he was being sabotaged like this?

Matt heaved in a sigh and rested his hands on the counter. Working in his own kitchen was

supposed to be a dream come true. No one else got under his feet, and he could play his favourite

music at whatever volume he liked. Up in the gods of the building, no one gave a damn about the

noise. On weekends, he occasionally had a helper to carry plates, but truth be told, Matt preferred to

work double the speed in order to work alone. He liked it that way.

But recently, with everything reaching boiling point – so to speak – he wasn’t sure any more. It

wasn’t as if good chef positions were abundant these days, and he definitely didn’t want to go back to

a shared kitchen. Aside from Pete and Ginger, Matt had been here the longest. With any luck, certain

irritating members of staff would soon move on, and his life could get back to normal.

Matt grabbed a tea towel and yanked open the oven to check on his pies. It didn’t feel hot enough.

Carefully, he stuck a hand in the oven, feeling the air.

No, definitely not right.

Annoyed, he slammed the door shut and checked the dials yet again. Everything had been prepped

the same as it always was, on a typical Friday lunch time. So why was the oven now playing up?

Everything was obviously determined to go wrong today.

The air was close and stuffy, even with the windows thrown open. The breeze just couldn’t seem to

penetrate the inside of the kitchen. Usually he was lucky to get the odd burst of fresh air, but today,

nothing. Matt wiped at his brow, smearing away perspiration. Picking up the next order, he attempted

to read the illegible scribble. What was that supposed to say? That first part could be “Homity pie,” or

maybe, “Half potato.”

Even though Matt had said a hundred times, write jacket not potato, there was one person who

always had to be awkward. Muttering to himself, Matt crossed the kitchen and picked up the intercom.

His finger hovered, ready to punch in the button that would call the bar downstairs, but the line

crackled with static. Frowning at it, he depressed the receiver a couple of times. Still static. The other

buttons weren’t working either.

“Does nothing here bloody work?” he muttered.

Without his mobile phone, Matt was out of options. He didn’t want to trudge all the way

downstairs, especially when Sammy was around. Instead, he slid open the hatch to the dumb waiter in

the wall. Sticking his head in, he had to peer around the shelving unit, and down to the next floor. It

was dark. The hatch in the bar down below was closed.

“Ryan!” Matt shouted, hoping someone would hear him. Someone being Ryan, not Sammy, who

was also on shift. “RYAN!” Matt bellowed. Realising his own loud music wasn’t helping matters,

Matt reached to the side, fiddled with his stereo and switched it off. In the sudden quiet, he heard the

distant strains of music from downstairs and the buzz of traffic outside, all over the hums of his ovens

and dishwashers. Peering into the hatch again, Matt shouted, “RYAN!”

The music from downstairs was all he heard, and a familiar laugh. Matt peered in further, squishing

his face between dumb waiter and wall. He grunted, wishing he knew where his phone was. “RYAN!”

Suddenly light flooded the bottom of the shaft, and a face appeared. It wasn’t Ryan though, it was

Sammy. Matt resisted rolling his eyes, and took a breath in. “Sammy, what did you write down for

table three?”

“What?” Sammy called back. “Can’t hear you.”

“I said,” Matt raised his voice. “What did you –” He stopped himself, grunting again as he pulled

his face free. This was ridiculous. Grabbing his notepad and a pen, Matt scrawled out a note to

Sammy, asking for clarification on table three’s order. He tore off the top note, placed it in the dumb

waiter and grabbed the rope. “Coming down!” he shouted. Pulling the ropes, although not too fast, he

lowered the dumb waiter down.

The contraption was so old and noisy, Sammy would be well aware of its impending arrival. Matt