JETHRO’S ACE OF HEARTS

a thirteen-part story, EXCLUSIVE to Trapped By Monsters

story (c) Sam Enthoven / illustrations (c) David Melling, 2009. All rights reserved.

(Click here for previous slices: 1 ; 2 ; 3 ; 4 ; 5 ; 6 ; 7 ; 8 ; 9 ; 10 ; 11)

-Twelfth Slice-

Jethro began to tremble.

‘What d’you say? Eh? The main course is going to be much too rich for just the two of us, and really, we’d be delighted – ?’

‘No,’ said Jethro, very quietly.

‘What was that?’

‘No.’

Mr Theophilus’ face fell.

‘I want you to let me up,’ said Jethro, his voice quivering but deadly in its sincerity, ‘and let me go home.’

They looked at each other for a moment.

‘Now, please.’

Obediently Mr Theophilus pressed the switch under the operating table. With a soft whine Jethro was tilted to an upright position. The hospital gown dropped to the floor, revealing that even the patient’s beloved T-shirt had, also, been replaced after the operation. In a last gesture of helpfulness Mr Theophilus reached for Jethro’s armpit to help him disconnect himself from the pump. Jethro shrugged off the proffered hand, shuddering.

‘I’m really very sorry you refuse my hospitality in this way,’ said  Mr Theophilus, hurt. ‘My offer was kindly meant.’

‘Whatever,’ said Jethro, holding his armpit as he stood up. ‘Just tell me the way out, please.’

‘Nothing simpler. Go straight out that door, and keep going as far as the stairs. At the bottom of them you’ll find the rest of your life. And go easy on the kebabs from now on! They’re bad for the mechanism!’

But the door had swung shut. Jethro was gone.

-Thirteenth and Final Slice-

That was when I came in. I’d been watching on the monitor in the dining-room, to find out how many places to lay for dinner. Divining that Mr Theophilus might need cheering up, I pushed the swinging door and popped out into the operating theatre.

‘Don’t be sad, Mr Theophilus,’ I said brightly, doing my best. ‘Worse things happen at sea!’

All he did was look at me. I think he looked the saddest I’ve ever seen him.

‘I just can’t understand it,’ he murmured. ‘The most beautiful heart we’ve ever come across. The quintessence, the very peak of gastronomic experience to follow. And I tried my hardest.’ He lifted a heavy hand to his waxy white brow before continuing. ‘I really thought, that time, that we had a good chance. You know? That we would actually… persuade someone.’

I felt for him then, I truly did. By this point we’d been dining by ourselves for more than two hundred years, and heaven knows how long Mr Theophilus had been alone before he and I met. At that moment, disappointment threatened to overwhelm us both.

There was nothing to say. Except, of course,

‘All the more for us then, eh?‘

He brightened immediately.

‘By Jove you’re right, Sam. That’s the spirit!’ He stood up smoothly, slipped his velvet jacket back on and straightened his cravat. Then, arm in arm, we strolled out into the dining-room.

And Jethro’s heart? Perfection, though I say this not without a measure of personal regret. My fondest memory should (my own pride dictates it) relate to an organ of a “home grown” nature. Writing this, my hand slows suddenly to a halt, and I must reach for the compressed air once more before its progress across the page can continue. But truly: culinary perfection was what we achieved, with Jethro’s Ace of Hearts.

Sam says: A huge thank you to David for gracing my story with his gorgeous illustrations.