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Spice
Robert A. Webster


SPICE

Robert A Webster
Darkness will settle on the people of Cambodia
There will be houses, but no people in them.
Roads, but no travellers
Barbarians with no religion will rule the land.
Blood will run so deep as to touch the belly of the elephant.
Only the deaf and the mute will survive.

Ancient Cambodian Prophecy

SPICE
Written by Robert A Webster
Copyright © Robert A. Webster 2014
Cover design © Robert A Webster 2019
Revised edition 2020
All Rights Reserved.
The author or authors assert their moral right under the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author or authors of this work. Thank you for respecting the work of this author

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Table of Contents
-Chapter One- (#ub22275cb-5cc0-503a-9fc0-7d613d32fe38)
-Chapter Two- (#u31a54dc8-7e5e-5620-a902-79f820dbf271)
-Chapter Three- (#u1db5d2e4-5cf8-591f-8f65-84b6078ada0f)
-Chapter Four- (#u3bc0a9ab-d035-56a0-87a9-1f1de672a1e2)
-Chapter Five- (#ue55ea7a5-9b2c-579f-ae25-3e51c0dcd9d7)
-Chapter Six- (#ufc300305-14b3-592d-a65d-037ef11ed816)
-Chapter Seven- (#u21695e53-a13c-5f03-9ba6-2722dbe8b0a4)
-Chapter Eight- (#u88819e12-f67e-541f-b276-efa695ee0430)
-Chapter Nine- (#ub721e8a0-5389-5b6f-b281-7175e25df040)
-Chapter Ten- (#u037bf21b-e46d-561e-8f1e-879cc7242d90)
-Chapter Eleven- (#ub97c3e8f-a51f-5be1-b699-f2372aa82edb)
-Chapter Twelve- (#u1720fc6d-c060-5b94-ab83-5c358dd4d9b8)
-Chapter Thirteen- (#u6e749599-0315-5a3c-89c5-156840783016)
-Chapter Fourteen- (#uf509a1b9-ca50-52c4-9e54-e6821761a476)
-Chapter Fifteen- (#u23210a78-f7c7-5560-a807-c3328370f640)
-Chapter Sixteen- (#u4915103a-fa02-5ecd-b1c0-e09c8c858463)
-Chapter Seventeen- (#ue73119dd-07d1-5be7-ba5c-f09a417390c4)
- Chapter Eighteen - (#u0badd1ef-5ed8-5617-9acb-6daaf42eb150)
-Epilogue- (#ua80e3dcb-ed29-5976-8f38-bedede58c75f)
-Appendix- (#ubde1997c-c915-51ec-92b9-f77149671750)
-Meet the Author- (#u529a3b61-428f-5776-ac27-c2b00b60a1de)
Novels by Robert A Webster (#ua97e4a78-fe52-5d5b-8b30-927a0766b045)

-Chapter One-
Fear and Loathing

Rotha peered out of the hut’s doorway. She smiled, pushed strands of black hair behind her ears, went down the wooden steps, and over to her sons. “Ravuth, you and your brother go get the *tror bek for supper,” she said.
The teenager looked up from where he and his younger brother sat playing and groaned.
“Now, Ravuth,” said his mother, wagging her finger.
“Okay, come on Oun,” said Ravuth standing, and holding his brother’s hand they headed towards the jungle.
The air felt humid and Ravuth wiped his arm across his moist forehead. He turned back towards the village and looked up at the Cardamom Mountains. “I wish I was a bird and could fly above the mountains, it would be cool up there,” he said, smiling at Oun.
The year was 1975, and unbeknownst to the secluded village, Cambodia was in turmoil. The country was at the end of a war but the beginning of a nightmare, leading to a period of genocide affecting every Cambodian.
Pearls of perspiration now trickled down Ravuth’s face. The sores on his hands stung pitilessly as the salt in his sweat rubbed against the worn handle of his machete. Once again, he lifted his aching arm and hacked into the foliage. His thirst raged and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, but he had to keep going for the sake of his younger brother.
“We’re lost, aren’t we Ravuth?” The fear in Oun’s voice made it tremble.
Ravuth glanced back at the small dirty face behind him. It was his fault they’re lost, and should never have wandered off the trail. His mother told him repeatedly never to leave the recognised paths, but he thought he knew better.
The boys knew the jungle surrounding their secluded village where their family had lived for generations, living off the diverse plants and animals found around their jungle domain. Collecting fruits and vegetables from the jungle was a daily task that the teenage Ravuth and his younger brother, Oun, had carried out for years. The route was always the same. However, today the boys decided to explore and maybe discover a new area that may contain more vegetables.
Ravuth and Oun had been roaming around lost for over an hour in this dense, unforgiving undergrowth. With his last ounce of energy, Ravuth hacked through a thick vine and the two boys emerged into a glade. Ravuth smiled, “We’ll be fine,” he said with a jauntiness he didn’t feel. “We can rest here and then retrace our steps.”
“Look at that Ravuth,” said Oun, pointing to a strange plant nestling between small rocky outcrops. “And look at that hole near the rocks. It could be a cave entrance.”
The boys went over to the plant and Ravuth bent down and peered into the cave.
“What’s in it? How big is it?” Oun asked.
“I don’t know, It’s dark so I can’t see far inside,” said Ravuth with his head and shoulders inside the cave entrance. “I can squeeze in and look.”
“No way,” said Oun panicking, “Let’s just go, we don’t know what’s inside.”
Ravuth, heeding his younger brother’s warning didn’t enter and stood.
Oun’s attention then shifted to the plant, which he uprooted. The top of the plant was a gold-coloured round bulbous seed pod with a corrugated disc top. Its long slender stem surrounded by large green leaves appeared similar in shape and size of Chinese lettuce with a small, carrot-shaped white root. “I’ve never seen this plant before, what is it?” Oun asked and handed the plant to Ravuth.
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen one either. I will take it home, mother will know. Perhaps it tastes good,” he said, sniffing the plant’s top.
From what his parents taught them at an early age about identifying poisonous plants, Ravuth knew the plant was safe to eat. “It tastes bitter,” he said, chewing a leaf and grimacing, “Maybe it will taste better cooked.”
Suddenly, they heard several twigs crack and the surrounding foliage shook. The boys felt terrified as a young male tiger crashed through the undergrowth and stopped several feet away from them.
Indo-Chinese Tigers roam the jungles surrounding the Cardamom Mountains. They distanced themselves from humans as much as possible as they considered them annoying and did not appear as if they would taste good. However, two of these small beasties had disturbed this tiger’s favourite sunshade spot.
Ravuth stuffed the strange plant into his pocket and he and Oun raised their machetes, pointing them at the young tiger.
The tiger growled and paced back and forth in front of the boys.
Back away slowly,” Ravuth ordered with every muscle fibre, every sinew alive and ready to react to the moment.
While watching the tiger pace around growling and looking at them with disdain, the terrified brothers backed away towards the thick undergrowth.
With the humans away from his cave entrance, the tiger walked to it, cocked his leg, and sprayed his domain with his scent. He glanced at the boys and then crawled into the cave.
Ravuth and Oun watched the tiger going into the cave and rushed into the jungle.
Stumbling through jungle terrain for twenty-minutes, they came upon a clearing covered in familiar vegetation. They stopped, caught their breaths, and smiled. “Tror bek! Great, I know where we are now,” said a relieved Ravuth.
“Good, let’s just get some and go home,” said an even more relieved Oun.
The bedraggled boys reached their village late in the afternoon. They expected to receive a scolding from their mother. Instead, they noticed that all the villagers gathered inside the large wooden communal hut in the centre of the village. Confused, Ravuth and Oun sneaked past the large hut and went home. They knew that their father had gone to *Koh Kong early that morning to sell his trinkets and did not expect him back until the following day. However, when they reached their wooden stilted shack, they saw their father’s bicycle outside. They went up the steps, walked inside, and saw a square black canvas bag on the table. Unsure what was happening, they put the strange plant along with the vegetables into a bowl and headed for the communal hut.
“What’s happening?” asked Oun.
“I don’t know. I am confused too. Why’s father home so early and I wonder what’s in that bag on the table?” Ravuth asked.
The brothers made their way to the large communal hut. From the doorway, they saw their mother sitting on the floor. Their father, with tears running down his grimy face and with a look of terror, addressed the shocked looking villagers. Ravuth and Oun sat on the floor beside their mother.
“What’s wrong mother, why does father look so afraid and covered in scratches, and why is he speaking to everyone as the village chief instead of Ren?” asked Ravuth. He looked at his frightened mother, who whispered,
“Ren’s dead and your father’s telling people about what happened in Koh Kong, so be quiet, and listen. He’s almost finished and we will explain to you later.” Although afraid, Rotha tried to appear calm for the boys’ sake.
Bemused, Ravuth looked around the gathered villagers. Ren’s children huddled around their weeping mother on the opposite side of the room, consoling one another, along with other families whose relatives had not returned. Ravuth and Oun had missed most of what their father had told the villagers, but seeing the faces of those present, they realised that it must be something serious. Once finished, their father made his way over to join Rotha and the boys.
“What happened father?” asked Ravuth.
“We all have a lot of work to do,” said their distraught father, Tu. “Let’s go home and I’ll explain.”
The family left the communal hut as the others inside dispersed and went to their homes.
The siblings and their father sat on a Kam-ral, a straw rug, and while Rotha tended to his cuts, Tu related his horrific tale to his sons.
“I went with Ren and the others to the Thai-Cambodian border to sell the trinkets we have been making. Everything seemed normal at first. We stopped behind the border post, where we usually leave our bikes.”
Tu winced as Rotha put a stinging balm on a deep scratch and then continued.
There was no military at the post. Instead, several young men and women dressed in kheaw aeu chout and krorma (black pyjamas and red and white checked scarves), stood at a large barrier under construction at the checkpoint. They carried rifles and ordering workers to build a fence. I saw Thai armed soldiers stood at the Thailand border looking anxious, so I stayed with the bicycles while Ren went over to find out what was happening and the others went to wait for the tour bus. I saw Ren approach a boy who, upon seeing him, aimed his rifle at his body.
Ren looked scared as the boy yelled at him and said he was a *Khmer Rouge soldier, and now in charge of Cambodia.”
Tu looked at his sons and told them,
“The boy looked around the same age as you, Ravuth.”
Oun and Ravuth saw their father trembling as he said, “Another young Khmer Rouge soldier shouted as a bus approached and the Khmer Rouge scurried around, waited until the bus stopped. They shoved a group of terrified foreigners off the bus into the waiting Khmer Rouge, their belongings hitting them as they threw them off the bus. The foreigners grabbed some of their belongings before the Khmer Rouge pushed them over the Cambodian border into no-man's-land. I saw the Thai soldiers aiming at the approaching party of foreigners, Khmer Rouge, and our villagers who went to help, so I stayed where I was.”
Tu took the black bag from the table and said. “I saw several items left by the tourists, so I went over to the empty bus and rummaged around the scattered items. I have seen similar ones to this carried by tourists.”
He opened the bag, pulled out a Polaroid camera, and showed it to his inquisitive sons.
“I walked back to my bicycle, strapped the bag to my handlebars, and continued to watch what was happening at the border. The group neared the Thai soldiers and stopped. The Khmer Rouge pushed the trembling foreigners forward and shouted at the Thais, but I could not hear what. The tourists ran to the soldiers, who, still aiming at the Khmer Rouge, let the foreigners through and they ran behind the soldiers. All the Khmers turned around and marched back through no-man's-land and back into Cambodian territory, laughing and joking.”
“Are you okay dad?” asked Ravuth as his father went silent and rubbed his eyes.
Tu nodded and told them,
“Ren and the villagers now seemed to get on well with the Khmer Rouge. They laughed and joked with one another as they walked back to the Cambodian side of the border. I felt relieved and was about to join them, hoping that they had not seen me taking the camera.”
Tu, with a quake in his voice, then told them, “My relief turned to horror as the young Khmer soldier walking behind Ren, put the muzzle of his rifle to the back of his head, and pulled the trigger.”
Ravuth and Oun gasped.
Tu shook his head, “Ren knew nothing; he was talking to another Khmer Rouge when his face exploded. I saw the bullet exiting his head and his body falling to the ground,” said Tu and wiped away tears.
Rotha brought them over cups of water and put her hands on her husband’s shoulder.
Tu gulped the water, composed himself, and continued,
“I hid behind the border guard’s shack and could hear the Khmer Rouge soldiers laughing and chattering, with our friends and neighbours now pleading for their lives. I knew I had to get away from there, even though it meant leaving them,” he sighed, “But there was nothing I could do.”
Rotha went outside to the kitchen area as Tu continued, “Wheeling my bicycle a few yards away from behind the border guard shack, I ripped my trinkets off, and peddled as fast as I could. I hadn’t gone far when I heard people behind me, yelling at me to stop. Terrified, I ignored the shouting and carried on riding. I heard a shot, and a bullet whistled past my ear.”
The boys looked at one another, and then at their distraught father, who continued. “Pedalling frantically, I veered off the road, and headed across fields, and into the jungle. I rode until the track became too rugged for the bicycle, and ran into thick undergrowth and hid behind a clump of trees. I waited for what seemed like ages. After not seeing any sign of the Khmer Rouge, I retraced my steps, picked up my bicycle, and rode home.”
“What’s the Khmer Rouge? Ravuth asked.
Tu shook his head. Unaware of events happening in Cambodia, he only knew they should be afraid and make themselves scarce, so replied, “I don’t know son, but we need to stay hidden until we could find out what’s happened. We will be safer deeper in the jungle and tonight we can organise our belongings and find a new site. In the morning we will break down our dwellings and rebuild elsewhere,” said Tu. The boys could see how concerned, confused, and afraid their father appeared.
“What’s this?” interrupted Rotha, holding up the plant that Ravuth had placed on top of the tror bek.
“I don’t know mother. We found it along the track and thought you would know. Maybe we could eat it, right Oun?” said Ravuth, looking at his brother for backup.
“Yes,” said Oun paying scant attention and looking inside the camera bag.
“I’ve seen nothing like this before,” said Rotha, who held the strange plant and inspected it.
Rotha went ignored; the two youngsters seemed more interested in the instruction and demonstration their father was giving on the Polaroid camera.
Rotha went over to their clay rainwater trap, filled a bowl of water, and placed it alongside a bubbling pot containing vegetables and a small broiling chicken. She studied the plant and knew by the leaves shape and colour that the plant was edible, so she plucked a leaf, tasted it, winced, and put the rest into the boiling pot. She pierced the gold seed pod and it oozed a milky white sap which she tasted. Rotha couldn’t understand why it tasted sweet and delicious with the leaf tasting so bitter, but she would experiment with it later. Rotha noticed that the round seedpod had a strange sheen and its gold colour appeared as a lustrous mosaic of vivid shades; the effect created with motor oil on water.
Disturbed by a sudden bright flash, she looked up to see the smiling faces of her two mischievous sons and her even more mischievous husband holding the Polaroid after taking a flash photograph of her. The camera’s machinery whirred as a film popped out of the front. Tu removed the photograph, peeled away the first layer of film, and put the picture on the table to develop.
Rotha glowered at her husband as he once again focused, pressed the button, and took another snapshot of her, and repeated the development process. Tu then motioned them all to get together to take a picture of the three of them. They alternated and took turns at taking pictures until they finished the six remaining films in the camera’s cartridge.
They watched the photographs developing under their solitary light bulb and looked amazed as the images appeared. The family gazed at the first photographs they had ever seen, forgetting for a moment about the tragedy that had befallen the village. Rotha removed a banana leaf woven box from a shelf and placed it onto the table. Everyone in the village had several of these boxes. These interwoven strips of dried banana leaf, coated with a resin from the sap of palm oil bark, gave the box a hard-wearing varnished sheen. The small shoe size boxes, apart from selling to tourists, the villagers used them to store knick-knacks and anything unusual. She opened the box and placed the photographs inside.
“You can look at these again after we have eaten. Ravuth, get the dishes ready and I will serve supper,” she said.
Rotha was about to close the box’s lid when she saw the plant on the table. She cut away most of the stem and put the golden-brown pod into the box, closing the lid.
The family sat down to eat. Rotha served the strange plants leaves in a broth and they all agreed it tasted horrible, it was too bitter. Fortunately, the chicken and tror bek went down well, and after supper, they packed away their meagre belongings for the next day’s move. The village’s noisy two-stroke generator went off at 8:00 pm., whereupon they went to bed.
Shouting and gunfire abruptly woke the family at sunrise.
Panic ensued, Tu, Rotha, and the boys went onto the balcony and saw a group of young Khmer Rouge soldiers marching through the village, firing AK-47s into the air and hollering at the villagers. They stomped to the dwellings, whose residents now stood either on their balconies or at the foot of their steps.
A girl, about the same age as Ravuth, came to the foot of their steps and yelled for them to come down and go to the village’s communal hut. She pointed her rifle at Tu.
“Immediately!” she screamed.
The family did as ordered and went to the communal hut along with the other frightened villagers, and commanded to kneel. A Khmer Rouge soldier, who looked around 18-years-old, walked to the front. The villagers gasped. Dragged along on a rope leash was Dara, a middle-aged villager who had gone into Koh Kong along with Tu and the others to sell trinkets the previous day.
“Dara’s alive, Rotha,” whispered Tu. “I thought they’d all been killed.”
With swollen cheeks and eyes, dried blood staining her lips and nose, Dara looked badly beaten. The villagers watched as the Khmer Rouge commander tugged her like a dog. The other Khmer Rouge paced back and forth behind the audience as their commander spoke.
He explained about Pol Pot: Brother Number One, their leader, and how the Khmer Rouge now controlled Cambodia, saying, “Every *Khmer citizen now belonged to Angka, (The Organisation.) You are our property and if you want to live, you must prove your value.”
He told them about their children’s role within this new order and would be trained and taught by Angka to become soldiers for the organisation and honoured by all. They would no longer need parents, as adults were menial workers, therefore beneath them. Angka would now be their family. The commander continued for over an hour with his well-rehearsed speech.
The terrified villagers listened but felt bewildered by this indoctrinated youth. Dara swayed as she struggled to stand up in front of him. Occasionally, the boy tugged at her rope, and she snapped back to attention.
Once the commander finished, he focused his attention on Dara and said to the villagers.
“This woman led us to you. She is weak and we do not accept weak.” He tightened the noose around Dara’s neck and dragged her towards him. Taking hold of the knot, he lifted her chin to extend her throat and sliced it open with a small sharp knife. Dara was too weak to put up any fight, and as sputum, blood, and air gurgled from her throat, she went limp. The commander threw her body to the ground, bent over, and wiped his knife on her clothing before sheathing it. He shouted orders to his soldiers, pointed to Dara’s corpse, and issued a stark warning to the villagers,
“Obey Angka or die!”
The villagers stared in horror as the other Khmer Rouge screamed at them to get their belongings and to meet back there.
The stunned villagers left the communal hut and went to their respective residences to pack, with the Khmer Rouge buzzing around the terrified families, hurrying them along.
Rotha, Tu, Ravuth, and Oun went into their hut. Tu spoke to Rotha, who, although shaken by the events, agreed with him. Tu, his voice quaking, told the boys
“You two need to escape and hide in the jungle. When we’ve gone, come back, and stay here. When we find out what is going on and when it’s safe, we can return for you,”
The boys, although frightened, agreed, and hoped it would only be for a short while.
Rotha looked outside, saw a Khmer Rouge walking away from their hut to check on another family, and she could not see any others close by.
“Quick, Ravuth! You go first,” she whispered.
Ravuth gingerly made his way down the steps and ran the short distance to the jungle, hiding behind the first clump of trees and looking back to await his brother.
He saw Oun at the foot of the steps, but marching towards him was a Khmer Rouge soldier, who stopped at Oun’s side. The boy waved his rifle towards Rotha and Tu, ordering them to come down immediately. Ravuth’s heart beat wildly and he hid behind the thick tree trunk.
The Khmer Rouge shouting faded, so Ravuth peered out. He saw his mother, father, and brother led away with the others to the communal shack. Realising that he had gone unnoticed, Ravuth skirted around behind the village, using the jungle trees and foliage for cover as he observed what was happening within the village.
The villagers stayed inside the communal hut for another hour before emerging and corralled outside the hut.
The Khmer Rouge went into the crowd of people and dragged out four elderly villagers. Ravuth hoped that they would let them remain in the village. He thought they would take care of him until his parents and Oun returned.
The commander smirked as his soldiers pushed the four elderly villagers to the ground and shot them in the head.
The villagers screamed as the Khmer Rouge pointed their rifles at the panic-stricken crowd, screaming. “Silence or die!”
The commander addressed the crowd, “Be quiet!” he yelled and waiting until he had their attention. “These people were old so cannot produce anything for Angka. Their lives are of no benefit to Angka and their deaths are of no loss.”
Trembling and afraid, the crowd appeared a dejected and broken group of refugees. They shuffled along the trail that led to Koh Kong to join the exodus of the rounded-up populace to be processed and sent to work camps.
The Khmer Rouge let the villagers carry their meagre belongings, which they would take off them at the end of their journey.
Two Khmer Rouge soldiers remained. Ravuth watched as they dragged Dara’s corpse from the communal hut and dumped it with the four others. Taking a can of gasoline from the generator shack, they doused a little over several of the shacks and the corpses. They giggled as they ignited the incendiary, setting fire to several huts and incinerating the bodies. These merciless, ruthless killers were teenage children, who showed neither emotion nor remorse. One soldier, having fun beating the heads of the burning corpses with a stick, looked up and saw movement in the jungle. He shouted to his comrade, who grabbed his rifle, and ran towards Ravuth’s hiding place and stopped.
“You imagined it. There’s nobody here,” said the youth.
“I’m sure I saw someone,” said the other, sounding indignant.
“Do you want to go further into the jungle and look?”
“Not likely. I don’t know what’s in there, maybe a wild animal. Come on let’s get back and catch up with the others.”
“Okay. Because you’re afraid, we will go,” mocked the other youth. They turned and ran back through the village and onto the track.
Ravuth trembled. He backed his way further into the thick foliage. The Khmer Rouge had been standing only inches from his face.
Ravuth returned to the village at sunset. He had been too afraid to move throughout the long, hot, humid day. Dazed and confused, he walked into the deserted village. Passing the smouldering corpses, he made his way to his home. Although the Khmer Rouge had burnt down some shacks and the communal hut, they had left his hut relatively unscathed. He went inside but nothing remained, having either been ransacked or took by his parents. Ravuth crouched down and wept. He stayed there throughout the night, wondering what had happened and what to do. Daybreak came, and as the room got lighter he saw the banana leaf box sticking out of a hole in a floorboard in a corner of the room. He realised that his parents must have been trying to hide it from the Khmer Rouge. He took the box and opened it. The strange plant was inside, along with a few small trinkets underneath the photographs of his family. He took out the photos and with tears in his eyes, stroked the individual images, wondering what was happening to them.
Ravuth felt alone, afraid and confused. He replaced the photographs in the box, left the hut, and wandered around the village searching for food, water, or useful items left behind. Passing the grisly remains, he went from hut to hut, scavenging and collecting anything useful. He found a machete, ate, and drank a little water. Wrapping food in a banana leaf, he collected water from rain-catching containers and filled gourds. His knowledge of edible plants and sources of fluid would assure his survival in the jungle terrain. Taking the box, machete, and other items he had found, Ravuth walked through the village and along the track that led to the road to Koh Kong.
Ravuth had been walking along the jungle track for two hours. He had trekked this route several times with his brother and father, but once Tu went onto the road along with the other villagers and rode away, the brothers would return to the village. He left the jungle, went to the unfamiliar road, and walked along the verges in case he came across any Khmer Rouge patrols. His long walk into the outskirts of town was uneventful, seeing neither traffic nor people. He saw several wooden homes along the roadside destroyed and plundered.
Making his way to the outskirts of Koh Kong town, Ravuth headed toward the town centre, which felt eerie without people. He continued for a few kilometres until he reached the border patrol hut. He hid behind the hut after seeing Khmer Rouge sitting against a newly constructed fence covering the border into Thailand.
The child soldiers lifeless features put a renewed fear into Ravuth. He crept away from the border post and walked back into the deserted town centre. Ravuth went inside a small abandoned café and replenished his food and water from the small scraps that remained. He sat and pondered his situation.
Night fell and Ravuth had still not figured out what to do. He heard a vehicle approaching. Terrified, he hid under a table as an old truck stopped in front of the café. Six Khmer Rouge came in and sat at a table.
Quaking with fear, Ravuth remained motionless as the young soldiers started up a small generator to illuminate the café and sat down. Ravuth trembled as he hid under a table in a dark corner of the café.
One soldier brought in several bottles of Mekong whisky and they drank.
Ravuth listened while the young Khmer Rouge bragged about their daily atrocities, who they had slaughtered, and descriptive details about how they did it. They spoke of their spoils of war and what items they had pilfered. One of them said something that Ravuth wanted to hear.
“My group went straight to *Choeung Ek, but we picked out the ones who will make young Khmer Rouge citizens and good fighting comrades,” he said.
“We rounded up four groups today, they went to the Koh Kong province commune to swell our ranks,” said another.
“Most of ours were undesirable old folk, so we disposed of them,” said a third, adding, “But we had fun re-educating them.” He grinned and showed the others his bloodstained machete.
The gruesome details between the boys went on for a short while; Ravuth then heard their voices slurring, and childish giggling as the strong whisky soon took effect on the youngsters.
Thirty minutes later, the Khmer Rouge staggered out of the café, got back into the vehicle, and it screeched away.
Ravuth came out from under the table. The lights were on, so he looked around the now silent cafe for any information on Koh Kong commune and Choeung Ek. He knew of neither, and unable to read or write, he found leaflets with pictures, which he placed into his box.
Staying in the cafe overnight, early the following morning, Ravuth trekked out of Koh Kong town and headed back to his jungle village to await his family. He didn’t realise he was followed until he neared a road outside Koh Kong and a voice behind him hollered, “You… Stop there!”
He turned around and a young Khmer Rouge girl pointed an automatic pistol at him as she tried to balance on the crossbar of a bicycle. “Come here!” she snapped.
Ravuth approached the grimy-faced girl who glared at him. Although she looked younger and smaller than Ravuth, looking into her eyes sent a cold chill down his spine.
“Why are you not with the others? Where is your village?” she snapped
Ravuth trembled, and with his hands together, pleaded, “I’m very sorry, I was left behind.”
The girl glared at Ravuth. “Follow me,” she snapped and got off her bike to turn it around.
Ravuth felt terrified and saw four more Khmer Rouge approaching on bicycles. He panicked, took the machete from his waistband, and hacked at the girl’s arm with all his might. The girl could not react to protect herself as she struggled with the bicycle’s handlebars. She squealed in pain as the blade tore deep into her flesh, hitting bone. She dropped the pistol and Ravuth pushed her away from the bicycle, stuffed his machete into his waistband, got on her bike, and peddled across hardened paddy fields. Heading towards the Cardamom Mountains and the safety of the jungle, bullets whistled past him as he peddled for his life.
Peddling for what seemed like an eternity, and no longer hearing gunshots, Ravuth stopped at the outskirts of the jungle, pushed the bike into the foliage, and hid behind a clump of trees. He peered out to see if he could see his pursuers. Ravuth saw four small dots in the distance, still heading towards him. He had a good head start but knew that he must get to safety within the dense foliage. Ravuth ran through the jungle, finding small tracks that he followed until he got into thick, rugged, impassable terrain.
‘They would never find me now,’ he thought and ran into the dense undergrowth.
Exhausted, Ravuth had been running through this unfamiliar section of the jungle for over three hours. Coming into a clearing with a thick treetop canopy and a little light penetrating through, he hid there, knowing he would be safe and could spot any pursuers, he sat at the base of a giant Dipterocarp tree on the lookout.
Ravuth stayed there for two days, living off the bountiful vegetation surrounding him. Realising that he had eluded his pursuers, he tried to find his village.
Ravuth felt safe in the jungle and trekked throughout the night while the moon shone overhead. He rested throughout the hot, humid days, trapping and foraging early evening until sunset.
Without directions to follow, unlike around his village, where he knew most of the tracks, trails, and familiar vegetation, he was lost. On the dawn of the tenth day, he came out from behind a row of trees onto flat open ground. An embankment dropped into a shallow valley, where he saw a large corral, surrounded by a wire mesh fence.
There were several rows of canvas bivouacs, along with a few military field canvas tents ranging in size. Ravuth saw people ambling around behind the fence; some groups were cooking on open wood fires. Ravuth could smell the aromas of Cambodian food, which made his mouth water.
‘This must be one of the places that the Khmer Rouge had been talking about. I wonder if my family’s here?’ he thought. Creeping around the wire mesh fence, he watched the camp’s inhabitants until reaching a gated area at the front. Ravuth felt exposed in the open, so he hid in a dark corner and observed.
Ravuth saw several military vehicles and soldiers come and go throughout the day. He noticed that the military personnel were not Khmer Rouge. They were older and dressed in camouflage uniforms. He went back and forth along the perimeter fence, watching the goings-on within the camp. He occasionally clambered back up the embankment to get a better view from the jungle but could see none of his family or his fellow villagers. Night fell, so he edged his way along the fence, found a clear spot, and using his hands, dug a small trench underneath the wire fence. He pulled himself through and crept towards the closest tent. Ravuth crouched down, looked ahead, picked out a spot and...
“Who are you?” said a man’s voice behind him in an unfamiliar language, “stand up, and turn around.”
Ravuth, enveloped in bright light from behind him and feeling terrified because he was unable to understand the man's instruction, he instinctively stood, spun around, and became dazzled by the light.

*Appendix

-Chapter Two-
The Baking Phenomenon

“The Baker of the Year Award goes to...,” the master of ceremonies announced and paused for effect as he glanced at the name written on the back of a gold-coloured card. “For the third consecutive year,” he faced the audience and smiled. “The pâtissier representing the Avalon Hotel,” he again paused and announced, “Mr Ben Bakewell!”
He applauded along with the audience in the plush Park Lane Hilton conference suite. Many cheered while a few mumbled as a man in an ill-fitting suit sauntered towards the stage.
“Well done Cake,” said the M.C. as the baker stepped onto the platform and shook his hand.
Although Cake had won this prestigious award three years in succession, he still felt awkward as he held up the small crystal effigy. His acceptance speech echoed those from previous years. “Thanks,” he mumbled into the microphone, blushed, farted, left the stage, and rushed over to the table to join his colleagues.
The awards ceremony was almost over, much to the relief of Cake. Several food critics were on the stage discussing the various dishes that won prizes. Cake loathed these events and considered the food critics’ idiots, incapable of boiling an egg and they didn’t belong in the industry. Even though he always received rave reviews from them. One described his *Avalon Nest Egg to be an explosion of flawless flavours creating an oral orgasm and said every dish Cake created tasted perfect.
However, Cake always felt they were average and considered his food lacked something, but unable to figure out what it was.
Cake arrived home at around 11:00 pm, after a long commute through the capital city. Jade had already arrived back from her five-day jaunt to Lincoln. Cake, excited to see her, wanted to find out how their bakery was progressing. He flopped into an easy chair in the living room while Jade fetched him a glass of wine, and they got cosy. He handed her the cheque for winning the competition and she smiled and showed him video footage of the work in progress.
Benjamin Bakewell, known as Cake for as long as he could remember, had an impeccable reputation within the culinary world. Every top chef and high-end dining establishment knew of Cake. He had held the top position as head pâtissier at the Avalon for three years. His signature cakes and pastries were the envy of every top chef, and not only unique in their preparation but also difficult to replicate. Many tried, but failed.

Cake was born on the outskirts of Louth, Lincolnshire, a rural farming town, forty-kilometres from Lincoln City. His family owned a 200-acre arable farm on the small town’s fringes, growing wheat, barley, and hops. His nickname, Cake, was because of his surname, Bakewell, and for his love of baking. He attended Grimoldby Primary School and while the other kids used their break time playing sport and recreation, he would be in the school canteen helping the school cooks.
Cake’s parents always knew he had an unusual sense. He could detect every ingredient of any dish and would add components he considered the dish lacking to enhance and elevate its flavour until his perfect palate found it acceptable. Cake would not eat nor handle meat, as the smell contained no fragrant aromas, and the texture felt grainy and rough, and the taste made him vomit. He tolerated certain seafood, but only if it was fresh and mildly flavoured, such as monkfish or scallops, to which he could add herbs and spices to disguise its fishy smell and taste. Nobody could understand this boy’s unusual gift, and it would be many years before anyone discovered the reason for his heightened sense of taste and smell. Only Cake could perceive how the world smelt and tasted to him, detecting odours and fragrances in the air. During his younger years at school, he used his unique talent to earn sweets and other goodies from his school chums by guessing what they had eaten for breakfast that morning from a whiff of their farts. This also became a handy party trick as he grew up.
Cake had a happy childhood and many friends, although girls avoided him because of his proclivity for sniffing the surrounding air, which was off-putting. His mates always found this a great form of entertainment, but he stopped doing this after his mother told him it was not a polite thing to do, and one day he would need a girl, and shoving his nose up their arses was not the way to attract them. Cake helped around the farm with the crops, and his favourite time of the year was spring when the flora and fauna pollinated and blossomed, the odours exploded his world into ecstatic overdrive. He also helped his mother and grandmother bake fresh bread, cakes, pies, and pasties for his family and the farm’s labourers. Cake focused his unique talent on baking, as the savoury, sweet smells and tastes pleased his senses. Young Cake always felt at home in the kitchen and chuckled with delight each time he removed a tray of his new confectionary from the oven. The mouth-watering, oven-fresh smells drifted around the hot farmhouse kitchen as his grandmother stopped flitting around and went to see what new or improved confectionary Cake had invented.
His grandmother saw a sparkle in his eyes when he said. “Gran, one day I will be the most famous baker in England… maybe even the world.”
His grandmother would sigh and then smirk. “Yes Cake, I know.”
He had accumulated cookbooks and magazines throughout the years and replicated every cake in the journals, adding herbs and spices that he blended to enhance the flavours, making them unique. Although there always seemed to Cake as if something was missing, his grandmother, Pearl, assured him that one day he would discover HIS perfect spice.
Cake took up kickboxing in his early teens. He was tall and slim and the martial art developed his body to be muscular, but his legs and arms remained scrawny, however hard he trained.
Cake was a handsome lad with a thin face, hazel eyes, and dark, brown, short hair. He resembled a young Kevin Costner, although his gangly odd shape gave him a Coco the clown appearance and throughout his mid-teens girls started noticing him, now he had stopped sniffing them.
His family assumed that on leaving school, Cake would join the family business and become a farmer. However, his dreams and ambitions were a world away from theirs, and he wanted to attend culinary school. His parents forbade it and offered a compromise. He, along with his mother and grandmother, could start a small market bakery business and the three of them would bake, while his sisters sold their products to businesses in and around Louth. Cake agreed to this compromise, knowing this would mean working long hours and the forfeiture of his kickboxing training, but baking was his passion. His grandfather let them use an old barn and purchased two second-hand gas-baking ovens, along with the large AGA cooker in the main kitchen. The family bought a dough-mixer and other baking machinery, including shelves, refrigerators, and storage, as per Cake’s instructions and they set up a quaint rural bakery. His father had given them one of the farm’s Land Rovers to use, and he and his sisters travelled around the small town to find factories and shop outlets to sell their bakery items. Cake kept the menu simple. Although he loved to experiment, the family decided that bread loaves, rolls, baguettes, cakes, and tarts would suffice.
After harvesting the crops, Cake’s business got underway. They baked early morning, and the first batch left the bakery at 6:00 am. The sisters made deliveries before going to school and Cake would bake and deliver any further batches through the day. This routine worked well and within a short time, they became inundated with orders. The bakery business became a lucrative extra income for the farm. Cake, although happy, didn’t feel content with his lot. The more he read cooking magazines about new techniques and recipes created in the large bakeries, restaurants, hotels, and with the adulation written about the master chefs, the more Cake yearned for the glamorous life.
One warm summer’s morning, as Cake removed a fresh batch of crusty ploughman’s rolls from the oven, he received a phone call from Bill, the landlord of the ‘Rising Sun’ public house.
“Morning Cake,” said Bill, “I have a customer who wants a word with you. Can you come here?”
“What does he want?” asked Cake.
“I don’t know, come here, and meet him then you can find out,” said Bill, sounding vague.
Cake, intrigued, looked at his watch and said, “Okay Bill, give me about twenty- minutes.” Cake changed out of his baker whites and drove into town.
He went into the Rising Sun and over to Bill, who smiled and told him about the customer. “He ate your gourmet sandwich with a slice of Gateau on the first day, and today he ordered several of your sandwiches and slices of cakes. I saw him take a bite from each, savour them, wrap them in a napkin, and place them into a holdall.” Bill scratched his chin and continued, “Today, he asked me who supplied my bakery products and when I told him it was a local baker, he introduced himself and insisted that he spoke to you. I wouldn’t have bothered, but he claimed to be famous, although I have never heard of him.”
“That’s strange,” said Cake and puckered his brow, “what’s his name?”
Bill thought and said, “Jimmy, something… I’ve forgotten his surname, but he is sitting over there,” and he pointed to the man sitting in the lounge reading a newspaper.
Cake went over to the man, who peered over his newspaper and smiled. He placed the paper down on a table and asked Cake to sit. Cake gasped and looked surprised when he recognised the man. He had read articles about him in British Bakery magazines, and well aware of the prestige surrounding the small, round-faced individual, with a receding hairline.
“I’m Jimmy Constable, the head pâtissier at Harrods bakery,”
Cake shook Jimmy’s hand and with a tremble in his voice said. “Yes, I know who you are, everyone calls me Cake.”
“I am pleased to meet you Cake,” said Jimmy, “What can I do for you, was there something wrong with the food?” asked Cake looking concerned.
Jimmy smiled and said, “No, the food’s perfect.” He then told him, “A few days ago, while I was travelling to Hull to interview a candidate for a position at Harrods I stopped here for a snack. I expected bland, dry, roadside food.” He leant forward and said, “Instead, the flavours and textures of the roll and Gateaux blew me away; I could not believe the taste sensations. I came back the next day to sample other items on the menu and again delighted with the unique, distinctive flavours.” He looked over at Bill smiling, and he whispered. “It tasted a lot better than the awful beer.”
Cake, thrilled to hear Jimmy Constable sing his praises, explained how he got his nickname, told him about his family’s bakery, and invited him to visit. Jimmy agreed, they left the Rising Sun and went to the Bakewell farm.
Jimmy looked around the farm's bakery and sampled a few more of Cake’s products, a look of pleasure spreading across his face with every bite.
“Have you any baking qualifications Cake?” asked Jimmy.
“No,” replied Cake “Sorry.”
Jimmy smiled. “Never mind, I have tasted nothing this good for a long time, so we can get around the paperwork. I would like you to do something for me.”
Cake, looking confused, asked, “Get around paperwork for what?”
Jimmy ignored his question and took a magazine from his bag. He showed Cake a glossy photograph of a white icing topped custard slice and asked, “Can you make one of these?”
Cake looked at the photograph. ‘Why would a top pâtissier want me to make a simple custard slice?’ he thought, looking puzzled and replied, “Sure,”
“Please make me one,” said Jimmy and smiled.
“Only one?” asked Cake.
“Yes, Just one,” replied Jimmy.
Jimmy sat and watched as Cake, who, like a whirling dervish, went through his jars and containers of ingredients. Using no weighing scales, he dolloped, sifted, folded, spooned, and mixed ingredients together, smelling and tasting it until he appeared satisfied and looked a perfect match to the one on the glossy page, he placed it into an oven. They spoke for a while about London and baking until Cake knew that the custard slice was ready. He removed it from the oven and spread icing across the top.
Jimmy inhaled the delicious aroma and smiled.
While waiting for the icing to harden, he asked Jimmy, “Why did you want me to bake you a simple custard slice?”
Jimmy looked at Cake and smiled, “They aren’t so simple and can taste bland. I always look for someone who can produce a unique flavour and turn a bland item into something special,” Jimmy replied.
“Look for what?” asked Cake, sounding confused.
Jimmy looked at Cake, and said, “An assistant.”
It dumbfounded Cake when Jimmy then told him, “There’s a position at Harrods for an assistant head pâtissier, but so far I haven’t been able to find a suitable candidate.”
Confused, Cake handed the warm custard slice to Jimmy, who took a bite of the sweet, crispy, pastry. The flavours exploded in his mouth with a blend of subtle tastes that enhanced the vanilla custard and icing.
‘This kid's talent’s phenomenal,’ thought Jimmy before announcing, “The job as my assistant is yours young Cake.”
Cakes heart pounded, he knew he would never get another opportunity like this. It was his dream, but he knew one thing stood in his way. He then sighed and said. “I would love to come to London and work for you Jimmy, but I have to run the bakery for the family.”
Jimmy, sounding disappointed, looked at Cake, and said, “If you want the job, I will speak with your family,” he smirked, “I can be very persuasive.”
Cake smiled and looking like an excited puppy said. “Thanks Jimmy,” he looked at his watch, “the family are upstairs.”
Jimmy and Cake walked into the large bakery section of Harrods a week later after Cakes family, knowing it had always been his dream, agreed. Jimmy gave Cake a tour of the prestigious store. Cake gazed at the contents of the glass display cases in Harrods pâtisserie section, which looked like works of art. Jimmy showed him to his room in the staff quarters at the rear of the building and issued him several sets of chefs’ whites with the small gold Harrods motif.
Cake felt like a million dollars as he changed into his whites and went into the pristine, well-organised, efficient bakery, with each pâtissier knowing their routine. Cake felt overawed as he wandered around looking at the modern ovens and equipment.
“Okay Cake,” said Jimmy, “Have a look around and get your bearings, then I need you to make two dozen chocolate éclairs.”
“Yes Chef!” replied a happy Cake, setting to work.
It took a short while for Cake to settle into his new life. Harrods bakery staff at first was cold towards him. They were jealous and could not understand why a young farm boy with no qualifications had landed the enviable position as the head pâtissier’s assistant. However, once they tasted his cakes and pastries, they realised that he was special and deserved the post. Cake worked hard and spent most of his time at the bakery.
Cake’s reputation spread throughout the culinary world around London. Harrods bakery sales increased and Cake was soon in demand by competitors. He earned good money and was doing what he loved, baking.
Jimmy became his mentor and taught Cake invaluable trade tricks and techniques. However, Cake felt limited from experimenting at Harrods. The fixed menu rarely changed and there was no room for innovation. Cake felt unchallenged and the job soon became mundane. He took up kickboxing again to break the monotony.
Although turning down jobs in other prestigious bakeries and restaurants, Jimmy encouraged him to advance his career, advising him to take another job should the right opportunity come along. That opening came when Cake was twenty-four-years-old. The Savoy Hotel approached him to be their head pâtissier, which Cake considered.
They offered him a generous salary increase and he would control the cake and pastry menu. He had the freedom to experiment with his own recipes, but the success of the department and responsibility to make the pâtisserie a success, rested on his shoulders.
Cake discussed the offer with Jimmy, who advised him to accept the position.
The Savoy, although built in the late eighteenth century, was a modern 5-star hotel with its opulence and grandeur impressing Cake.
He wasn’t impressed with the bakery, which, unlike the Hilton, was next to the main kitchen. Cake’s first day came as a shock as he was used to a quiet and efficient bakery. The chefs in the kitchen buzzed around like headless chickens, as a small, fat, head chef bawled and screamed at them. Cake went into the bakery section, where a pâtissier was shouting at his harassed looking staff. He introduced himself to the assistant head pâtissier, who looked unimpressed at his new boss and, while barking out orders to his underlings, showed Cake around.
Cake wasted no time in getting the bakery into order and after a short time, reorganised the bakery section and trained the bakers to his techniques and recipes.
At last, he felt free to experiment with his own innovations and involved in creating every item that left his bakery. He fired the assistant pâtissier and the work area became serene and well organised, unlike the main kitchen, with its disorganised chaos and megalomaniacal head chefs yelling at their minions. Albeit they spoke respectfully to Cake, as they knew that unlike him, they were expendable.
Cake enjoyed strolling along the river Thames and often wondered about his extraordinary senses. He wanted to find out more about it, so went to see Doctor Arnold Sagger, an eminent Harley Street clinical genetic specialist and physician, who took DNA samples for parenthesis and susceptibility.
The results astounded the doctor. Cake had over a third more olfactory receptor genes than other human beings and more than most other mammalians.
The doctor had researched cases of individuals and on record, they’d found the most in a wine sommelier in Italy, with 980 receptor genes, slightly more than the average in human beings of less than 900. Cake had in excess of 1400, slightly less than mice, which have the highest with 1500 olfactory genes.
The doctor sounded excited when he asked to study Cake and research his unique mutation, but looked disappointed when Cake declined because the doctor made him feel like an X-Man. He was just a normal chap with a heightened sense and now that he had found out the reason behind it, that was all he needed to know.
Cake remained at the Savoy for several years, his name becoming synonymous with great confectionary. His reputation spread with articles written about him in baking journals and magazines referring to him as ‘The Pâtissier Phenom.’ Prince Charles regularly had Cakes confectionary delivered to Clarence house.
Cake went on a few dates with female chefs, who he’d found boring and smelt of cooking fat.
Several years later, the Savoy’s ownership changed, and the new owners were a corporation. Their only concern was money, profit, and setting targets and budgets. Cake spent more time with paperwork than doing what he loved, so he became disheartened. He’d received many other job offers and after again discussing them and his situation with Jimmy, he accepted an offer from a new hotel in Richmond, Greater London, The Avalon. He would earn the same as the Savoy with bonuses, and still be running the bakery, but would not have to do any paperwork as they allocated him an administrator. The Savoy offered Cake a substantial wage increase and a large bonus to stay, but Cake refused and left the Savoy.
Cake enjoyed working at the Avalon. Now thirty-years-old, he felt comfortable with the freedom and responsibility.
Gaining a kickboxing black belt qualification before leaving the Savoy; after starting with the Avalon, he went to the Tojo Kickboxing Club, based in the gymnasium of the nearby Kings Leisure Centre.
He saw a few kickboxers training, so put down his holdall, and wandered around the gym waiting for someone to acknowledge him.
An attractive woman came over and smiled at him.
Cake smiled at her and thought. ‘Ooh, she’s nice and too pretty to be a kickboxer. Probably a groupie,’ he smirked.
“What do you want?” asked the woman in an abrupt cockney accent.
“I want to join the kickboxing club,” replied Cake.
“Why?” asked the woman, “D’ ya think you’re tough?”
The others around the gym looked and smiled.
“Tough enough,” said Cake, taken aback by the abrupt woman, “I’m a bla...”
His sentence cut short when she thumped him on the nose.
Cake looked shocked as she again went to punch him. He blocked her shot, so she kicked his leg and stood back into an attacking stance.
“The first lesson,” the woman said, “always be prepared.” She then launched a vicious assault, kicking and punching Cake, who, although blocking most of the attacks still got hit. Now angry, he retaliated, punching and kicking back at the woman, who blocked each strike and punched him again on the nose. Cake was becoming irate. The woman, noticing this, stood back, and smiled.
“Yeah okay, you can join. But we need to work on your defence and karma; it was too easy to rile you into making mistakes.”
Cake glared at the woman and looked at the other kickboxers, who were giggling as they watched the pair.
“I’m Jade,” said the woman extending her hand. “I am the head instructor.”
Cake, though feeling perturbed, said, “So you attack all new members, do you? What would happen if I couldn’t defend myself? Luckily I am a kickboxer.”
Jade chuckled and replied, “I don’t attack everyone, only the cocksure ones, Mr Blackbelt.” She pointed to Cake’s bag and the large cotton embroidered badge, showing the Zendo logo on his black belt tied around the handle.
Cake looked at his bag and then smiled at the woman.
“Oh!” he stammered, feeling embarrassed. “My name’s Ben, but everybody calls me ‘Cake.’”
After their initial contact, Cake and Jade hit it off. Cake found Jade intriguing, down to earth, and didn’t smell of cooking oil. Jade found Cake to be a kind, humble and attractive man. Everyone soon realised by the way they looked at each other and their lingering glances that the pair were falling for each other, and betting on which one would have the nerve to ask the other out. Although they had strong feelings for each other, they were both shy, neither realising how the other one felt.
Cake couldn’t take his mind off Jade and the kickboxing sessions became the highlight of his week.
The hair salon where Jade worked met at a nightclub for its Christmas party and Jade invited the kickboxers. Cake felt a little uneasy in the large nightclub. The party was the usual affair with people separated into their individual little groups. Jade could see that Cake looked uncomfortable and out of place, like a lost puppy. She left her group of hairdressing colleagues and went over to him. Cake stood alone with a bottle of Bacardi Breezer looking at the crowded dance floor.
“Glad you could make it,” Jade shouted above the noise of the music.
“Thanks for inviting me,”
There was an awkward silence between the two as music blasted out. Neither knew what to say next and both stared at each other for several moments, until Jade asked, “You smell nice, what’s that you’ve got on?” referring to Cake’s aftershave.
Cake looked thoughtful, smirked, and replied, “A hard, but I didn’t think you could smell it,” he laughed.
Jade looked confused and then figured it out. That broke the ice and Jade giggled and said, “Well it would be a shame to waste a good hard.” She took the bottle from his hand and placed it on a table.
“Let’s get out of here and go somewhere quieter,” she said, and suggested, “Let’s go to my place.”
The couple walked hand in hand out of the nightclub, with the kickboxers cheering them on.
Jade was a few years older than Cake, with brown wavy hair, brown eyes, and impish features. She resembled a smaller, muscular, Catherine Zeta-Jones. Cake marvelled at her feminine, well-defined body as they lay entwined, naked in each other’s arms on a cold Christmas morning in Jade’s single bed at her flat above the hair salon.
Cake felt nauseous by the overpowering smell coming from the chemicals in the salon, which he also could smell on Jade, but thought she smelt a lot better than female cooks did.
It was the first serious relationship for both of them. Cake and Jade became inseparable, spending all their free time together. Cake told Jade about his heightened olfactory senses, informing her he wasn’t being a cheeky twat by saying he couldn’t stay the night at the salon because it stank. The smell of ammonia in the hair dye made him retch.
Although they both had good incomes, with the astronomical price of property in London, Cake entered baking competitions to make purchasing an apartment possible.
The couple raised a sizeable deposit and took out a mortgage on a swanky apartment, midway between the Avalon and Jade’s salon in Knightsbridge.
Madly in love, they enjoyed their life together; planning to marry when they both felt settled enough to start a family.
However, for the time being, they were content living in the limelight of the Pâtissier Phenom, with Cake winning every competition he entered.
Jade surprised Cake frequently. She was a successful hairstylist with a wicked sense of humour and a strange interest in horror, as Cake found out when she wrote a novel about a cocaine addict, who sniffed the ashes of an unknown disintegrated vampire and turned into Keith Richards, which she had published.
Cake had now been working at the Avalon for three years, and built a top-class reputation. When the owners announced they had sold out for a massive profit to a corporation. Cake, remembering his experience with the Savoy, decided it was now time for him to move on and handed in his notice shortly before The Baker of the Year Award.
Despite lucrative offers of employment from other top restaurants, and the Avalon’s offer of a generous pay increase. Cake, at the pinnacle of his profession, wanted to branch out with Jade and run a bakery business.

Cake now felt happy knowing it would be the last time he would attend The Baker of the Year Award or any more awards ceremonies as only sponsored chefs from top restaurants and hotels could enter. Cake always felt uncomfortable and realised he looked awful in a suit with his stocky body balancing on thin spindly legs. Even though top class London tailors made his suits to measure, they hung off him as if a cack-handed blind person had made them. He’d always felt it unfair on his peers entering these competitions because of his heightened olfactory sense, perfect palate, and exceptional talent gave him an indisputable advantage over them. He now wanted to bring his flavours and delicacies from the South and its decadent clientele and make them available in the North. The couple had been together now for three years. They found premises in the Lincoln city centre and having it converted it into a bakery and pâtisserie, which had been Cake’s dream for a long time.
Jade wanted to venture north with Cake and help him in his endeavour. Although content with her life in London and would miss the money and adulation given to her around London by being with her cooking superstar fiancé, she knew Cake was unhappy working in large hotels. Jade’s job paid well and with Cake’s high salary along with the prize money from competitions, and bonuses, and although having to pay a mortgage in London, they scraped enough money together to finance their Lincoln venture, which was almost complete. Jade regularly commuted to Lincoln to check the building’s progress. Cake was finishing his job at the Avalon in a few weeks’, when he and Jade would then move to the Northern city.
The big day arrived when ‘CAKE’S Bakery & Pâtisserie’ opened its doors to the public. For Cake and Jade, it was now time to see if the fruits of their labour would pay off. They stood in the pâtisserie like proud parents waiting to show their new-born to the world.
“The place smells wonderful,” said Jade and kissed Cake, who had been preparing and baking with his two bakers since 5:00 am, sending heavenly aromas drifting through the pâtisserie.
Cake looked nervous and glanced over at the staff stood in front of the glass displays filled with decorative cakes and pastries. He looked at his two bakers through the glass partition of the bakery, and then looked at Jade, sighed, furrowed his brow, and asked, “Does everything look okay?”
Jade took his hand and said, “It looks perfect, don’t worry.”
“I can’t see any people queuing outside,” said Cake, looking through the windows. He glanced at the wall clock. “It’s 7: 45,” said Cake fidgeting.
Two men then knocked on the door
“About time they got here, “said Jade, unlocked the door, let the men in, and relocked the door
“Sorry we’re late,” said Kris Pinyoun, the Lincoln city FC goalkeeper, who arrived with a photographer from the Lincoln gazette to open the establishment.
Jade looked outside, sighed, and locked the door.
Cake, Jade, the serving ladies, and Kris went to the centre of the shop and stood around a Louis Vuitton patchwork cake on display. The photographer took pictures of Jade cutting the cake and handing a piece to Kris, who took a forkful off the plate. The photographer snapped away as Kris placed the small chunk into his mouth. His expression changed as the delicate cake dissolved in his mouth as he savoured the flavours.
‘Great acting,’ thought the photographer, who continued snapping away at the happy footballer.
“It’s now eight o’clock,” said Cake sounding anxious and again looking at the wall clock.
Jade smiled and instructed, “Okay, open the doors.”
Sarah opened the front door and the staff went behind the counters to their respective workstations.
Cake and Jade stood with their arms around each other next to Kris Pinyoun, who helped himself to another slice of cake as a few people walked in. The photographer took snaps of the first few customers, as Jade gave them a slice of the Louis Vuitton cake.
Kris helped himself to another slice from the diminishing cake display and after eating that, he said, “We’re going then.”
Cake handed Kris his £300 fee.
“That cake tasted delicious,” said Kris, licking the crumbs off the green paper doily. “Good luck with the business.” He looked back at the diminishing Louis Vuitton cake, but after receiving a scowl from Jade, he realised he’d outstayed his welcome and left.
A few customers trickled in and out over the next hour.
“I thought it would be busier,” said Cake sounding disappointed.
“It will be fine,” said Jade, assuring him, “The first day is always hit-and-miss so don’t worry. Besides, it’s only nine-thirty.”
“I still think there is an ingredient missing,” said Cake sniffing the aromas.
“You always think there’s an ingredient missing; the elusive missing spice. Maybe I will ask Big Dave to fart. That usually sends your senses into fits,” said Jade, chuckling.
“Do you think we have done the right thing? It cost us a lot more money than we thought,” said Cake
“I’m sure we have,” replied Jade, kissing him on the cheek. “Now bugger off into your bakery and work your magic on a baked Alaska.”
Cake went into the bakery and watched through the glass partition as customers trickled into the pâtisserie, with Jade and the girls serving. He knew his family would visit later in the day and felt sure they would be proud of him.

Things had not gone according to plan for the couple. Because of unforeseen expenses, they had far exceeded their budget with building regulations and slapdash building contractors, which delayed the shop opening, with the extra costs digging deep into their pockets.
The pâtisserie and bakery looked stunning. Located in the centre of the Monks Road shopping area in Lincoln, the two-storey building had a large open space on the first floor, which Jade and Cake converted into plush accommodations. The shop front stood out amongst the neighbouring row of shops, with a large green sign and gold leaved logo.
The pâtisserie’s interior resembled a decadent 1920s London restaurant with small imitation gas lampposts and other Art Deco fixtures and fittings and lemon green marbled columns in each corner. With the colour throughout subtle green jade, everything matched, crockery, upholstery, paper serving bags, and doilies.
The pâtisserie section had large glass display cabinets along the walls and divided from the bakery section by a glass partition to enable customers to view the bakers working. Although mainly a takeaway establishment, there were several Stamford wrought iron round tables and chairs for customers to sit and enjoy the ambience while they ate. They employed three serving staff and two bakers. The experienced bakers, chosen from the many applicants who applied for the job, wanted an opportunity to learn from the legendary Cake.
Dave Smith and Dave Jennings were the two bakers Cake employed. To avoid confusion, Cake called Dave Smith ‘Big Dave’ for being tall, while Dave Jennings was ‘Small Dave,’ because he was short, and Sarah, Tracy, and Jackie were the serving ladies.
The contents of the display cabinets had been set out with each product symmetrically laid out.
One section of the temperature-controlled display case contained loaves of bread, sandwiches, and rolls, such as Roquefort and almond sourdough, shepherds loaf, gourmet sandwiches, parmesan and oregano submarine bread rolls with vegetarian fillings. Another section contained pastries, including Latin puff pastry and other shortcrust and flaky delicacies. The final section of the refrigerated glass case contained cakes and desserts such as crème de la crème, which would be the envy of every fine dining establishment in the world, let alone a street bakery in Lincoln. Cake and his small team created delicacies, such as white chocolate and amaretto truffle, strawberry Arnaud, and macaroons haute couture. The pièce de résistance for the opening was Cake’s interpretation of the Louis Vuitton patchwork cake.
The Daves’ heads had not stopped spinning since they started working with Cake. He truly was a master, although they found him a little eccentric. Every time he completed a dish, he would smell it several times, frown, and announce that there was still something lacking. They couldn’t understand why, because everything Cake created tasted delicious and looked spectacular.
The bakery had new equipment, stainless steel baking ovens, dough mixers, dividers, and other speciality equipment. It gleamed with stainless steel sheeting on the walls, sinks, and sections of the floor, with air-conditioners and other temperature control machinery in storage compartments for specific products. An ultra-modern 21st-century bakery resembled a 19th-century French pâtisserie.

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