Scar Tissue

At half past five I'm in the kitchen, pulling on an apron and twisting my hair into a rubber band. The air is thick with the steamy smell of beefstock. Beside me, Christine's kneeling on the floor, chalking the board. "Special's monkfish," Chef shouts from the range. "For fucksake get rid of it before it turns." Christine looks up at me and rolls her eyes. I open the door to the cold room and take a look. The monkfish lie on a plastic tray, glued together with their own oils, waiting to be gutted. I close the door fast and go check my face in the stainless steel worktop. Then I head out front.

I open up, and stand at the door a while. It's late September, but outside it looks like winter. The sky's a moody grey, and gusts of wind are lifting rubbish from bins, sending ragged newspapers and squashed plastic bottles scuttering around the feet of people hurrying home from work. A trapped feeling comes over me when I look at the people passing on the street, knowing they're free to walk in but I can't walk out, not till my face is throbbing with heat, my legs are spikes of pain, and Greg says he supposes we can go.

Greg offered me time off when I needed it though, I'll say that for him. Told me take a few weeks, whatever I wanted; that he'd hold my job for me. Greg's no fool, he knows a good worker. I was back in the kitchen as soon as the stitches came out, but it was weeks before he allowed me out front again. He had no choice: there are rules in our contracts banning piercings, tattoos, nothing about scars.

I go to the desk and count the bookings. "Greg's off tonight," Christine says, pushing past me with the board. "I'm going for a fag."The table-tops are sticky and spotted with crumbs; Christine must have taken a few shortcuts last night. I flick the crumbs onto the floor with a torn menu I find in one of the booths. Then I dim the lights to camouflage the stained seat covers and faded wallpaper. "Creating atmosphere," Greg calls it. When he's not there, I turn the lights even lower.

In the kitchen I roll cutlery in napkins, and watch Chef fillet the monkfish. He selects the largest fish first. It lies on the board facing me, its jaws wide with silent fury, while he sharpens his knife in the air above its head. He slits the murky green skin neatly down each side, lifts the fish by the nostrils, and flips it onto its back. He tugs the loose membrane free, then curves the blade down through the length of the tail, severing flesh from bone.

When he's finished the whole tray, he lays the fillets in rows and they glisten under the fluorescent lights. He piles the open-mouthed heads into a stockpot, scoops handfuls of curling entrails into the bin. Then he sees me watching, and runs his tongue across the tips of his front teeth. I say nothing, just keep rolling cutlery, and he laughs.

It was Joe who taught me how to fillet fish, back in the early days, before Greg promoted me to waitress. Joe could cut so fine he'd leave little more than bare bones behind. The first time I tried, I left bloodied chunks of flesh clinging to the backbone, and Joe laughed, and took the knife from my hand. "Learn from the master," he'd said, and he began to cut.

Chef sends the fish board skimming across the worktop, making me jump. Then he takes up the cleaver and guillotines piles of raw chicken, severing legs from carcasses with single blows. He's sweating already, muscles straining through his whites, as he pounds through the meat. He's attractive in a shaggy sort of way, with three days' growth bristling on his jaw, and straggling, dirty-blonde hair escaping the sides of his black skull cap.

When he stows the first tray of dismembered chicken on the counter beside me, I get an acrid smell of last night's beer on his breath. He goes back to the worktop, wipes his forehead on his sleeve, and slaps the next chicken onto the board. I listen to the strike of steel on bone.