Page 46 of What's the time, Mr. Wolfe
“So you don’t actuallyeatthem?”
“Sort of. Just put it in your mouth, let it sit there for a moment, then decide to chew or swallow.”
“Sounds rude,” I replied, but then did as instructed.
I wasn’t sure at first. I think it was the texture, a snotty like substance that sat on my tongue. Until the taste kicked in. I chewed and then swallowed.
“Wow. It’s like... It’s like fresh seaside air. Salty, but not like the sea.”
It was hard to articulate, but I wanted another.
“Wait,” he said, and then stood. He moved his chair, so he was beside me, not opposite.
He picked up an oyster and dressed it. He then held my chin, tilting my head up. “Open,” he said, quietly.
I closed my eyes and opened my mouth. He poured the oyster in. Before I could close my mouth, his lips covered mine. His tongue joined mine and he kissed me while I swallowed.
“Wow,” I said, when he pulled away.
He smirked at me. “More?”
“Oh yeah.” I nodded.
I ate another two oysters, opting to leave him at leastone. And then we moved on to the clams and crab. He cracked the shell of the crab and dug out the flesh with his fingers. He offered those to my lips, and I sucked them in. He fed me the clams and licked the juice that ran down my chin.
“People are going to talk,” I whispered.
“Let them.”
“You’re quite the exhibitionist, aren’t you?”
“Not normally,” he replied, chuckling.
With our starters finished, he moved back to his original place. I’d rather he stayed put but didn’t tell him so.
The second course was a delicate white fish, samphire, and spinach, with crushed potatoes.
“I thought we were getting the cow,” I said, looking at the plate.
“If you want cow we can order it,” he said.
“I’m kidding. This looks good.”
As we ate, he told me a little about his businesses.
“I worked three, four jobs, and I was homeless. I saved as much money as I could until I could get into a hostel. I fucking hated it there. Drug addicts, drunks, paedophiles praying on kids.”
He paused, taking in a deep breath, the memory obviously painful.
“Anyway, I worked day and night, did whatever I could, sometimes not even legal, to get money. Eventually, I had enough to put down a deposit on a rundownhouse, but I knew I’d never get a mortgage. Then I met my benefactor. A man called Simon Morton. A successful man who offered me a way out. He backed me, he funded the renovation of the house and I did all the work; I went to night school to learn how to build things and called in contractors when I couldn’t do it. Eventually, I had a house that I sold. I paid him back with interest. I didn’t make a lot of money, but I learned a great deal.”
“What happened next?” I asked.
We ate and talked. He told me that Simon then funded the next project, and the one after that, until he’d sold a property for such a profit, he no longer need Simon’s money.
“Sadly, he died, a few years ago now. By then I owned five, could have been six, properties I rented out. He left me some money, but I gave it all to charity. He also left me a letter. He told me that one day, when I found the right person, I was to do the same. I had the ability to change a life, like he had done for me.”
“Is that me?” I asked.
