SPOILED, part 7 (Patreon)

The Assessment was real. You were right. It was horrible. 

You’re back at The Penthouse?

Yes

Then you passed. That’s good. 

I was stripped naked in front of a room full of strangers and fed so much food I thought my stomach was gonna rupture! This whole thing is fucked! There’s nothing ‘good’ about it! I’m getting out of here. This isn’t fun anymore. This is fucked up.

It might not-

‘Mr Townsend, sir?’

Ben’s attention was pulled away from texting with Anon. Steadings was out in the hallway. 

Ben hastily hid his phone out of its ‘sacred spot’ and got to his feet, exiting the walk-in wardrobe. 

‘Ah, sir.’ Steadings’ face lightened. ‘You’re back.’

The butler looked visibly relieved.

‘Steadings, I need to get out of here.’ Ben cut straight to the chase. ‘I can’t do this anymore. I need to go. You’ll have to... have to tell Mr Wren I said sorry. Tell him I thought I could do this but I can’t.’

Steadings fiddled with his fingers. He drew a slow, deliberate breath.

‘Forgive my... indelicacy, sir,’ he swallowed. ‘But, uh... sir signed a contract, you see...’

‘I don’t care,’ Ben retorted, flushed. ‘I’ll - I’ll get out of it, somehow. That doesn’t matter. I just need to leave. Can you call a car for me?’

‘I’m afraid... I can’t, sir,’ Steadings said, clearly pained by his own creed. ‘I wish I could, but-‘

‘It’s fine. I’ll walk then.’

‘Sir... the... the contract clearly states...’ This was causing the immaculate, pot-bellied gentleman considerable consternation, Ben could see. ‘Master Townsend is to remain here. I’m frightfully sorry to bear this reminder, sir. Perhaps a midnight snack could be in order? Perhaps some drinking chocolate?’

But Ben couldn’t think about food. There was still a metric ton of sweet mashed potato, lasagne, and sundae swilling around inside of him. He felt weighed down by it. Literally heavier than when this night began.

‘Where’s Mr Wren?’ he asked, hearing his own blood begin to pump in his ears. ‘I’ll talk to him, in that case.’

‘Mr Wren is currently indisposed, sir,’ Steadings replied, deeply apologetic. 

This wasn’t his fault, Ben knew. Steadings was only doing his job. But Ben couldn’t wait around. He had to take leave of this place now!

‘Suppose I just walked out,’ he said, manufacturing a confidence he most certainly didn’t feel. ‘Yeah? Suppose I just head out through that door and leave and don’t look back.’

Steadings was wringing his hands now, visibly searching for the words. 

‘It’s... just not possible, sir,’ he eventually said. ‘Maybe I could bring sir some form of entertainment...?’

Ben couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was ridiculous!

‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Why is it not possible?’

‘There are... contingencies in place...,’ Steadings said. ‘Please, Master Townsend...’

‘I...’ Ben needed to breathe. To think. ‘I need to be alone... please, Steadings...’

‘Of course, sir.’ Steadings bowed, deeper than ever, and left through the front door, closing it neatly behind him. 

Sealing Ben inside. 

So if he tried to leave this building then what? They’d stop him at the front doors?

‘Fuck...,’ Ben muttered to himself. ‘Fuck...!’

He marched over to the intercom. His hands were shaking. It took a few goes to hit the right buttons for Terry’s extension. 

It just rang and rang and rang. The handyman wasn’t there. 

‘Fuck... Fuck!’

* * * *

Rain smattered against the Mazda’s windscreen as it sat parked down an unassuming dirt path, hidden from view of the country club where Detective Dey was to have his 5th “date” with Lord Fenton. 

‘I think you’re starting to enjoy these little tet-a-tets with old Lord Porky,’ Detective Sweet noted to his partner, biting into a fresh Cornish pasty so hot it’s insides emitted a meaty steam into the car interior. 

‘Pfft, give over, will you?’ Dey countered. 

Since going undercover, he’d dutifully bulked up for Fenton, just as the job required. He was spending hours in the gym, practically tipping protein shakes down his throat every spare moment. And now whenever Manni got into the Mazda, it sank down almost as deeply on his side as it did Sweet’s. He wasn’t proud of taking steroids and testosterone in order to curry Fenton’s favour, and would sooner have never looked at a grilled chicken breast again, but needs must, and he had to admit he quite enjoyed the feel of his biceps and chest growing bigger, even if it was something of a “dirty bulk”.

‘We can always re-think this, you know,’ Sweet said, mouth full of filling and pastry. ‘You don’t have to turn yourself into Hulk Hogan for that pompous arse.’ It was hard not to notice the way Manni’s arms were straining the fabric of his shirts lately. Arthur couldn’t say he loved the fact that that prig politician got to enjoy the full benefits of his partner’s increasing muscle mass. He didn’t see why someone else couldn’t, instead...

‘This was your idea,’ Dey reminded Sweet.

‘Yeah, but I thought he might’ve cracked by now. He hasn’t given us bloody nothing yet.’

‘He’ll crack,’ Manni said. ‘He will. I’ll get him to spill something. And soon.’

‘Oh yeah, how soon?’ Arthur replied. ‘... Manni Dey now?’

Manni turned his head dangerously slowly to his partner who evidently thought himself hilarious. ‘Did you just...?’

‘Oh, come on,’ Arthur laughed. ‘I’ll let you have one. ‘Arthur Sweet Tooth’, ‘Arthur Ate All The Sweets’. I’ve heard ‘em all. Give it your best shot.’

Manni stared at Arthur. ‘Fucking twat...’ But he felt a grin trying to work its way into his chiselled jaw.

‘Alright, alright.’ Sweet raised his now empty hands in surrender, then reached into the glove compartment for Manni’s earpiece. ‘Back to business, Mr Serious. You know the drill. Once this is in, speak nice and clear. I’m here on the other end. Just get him blabbing about them missing lads any way you can.’

‘I know,’ said Manni, then added, ‘Sweet by name, Salty by nature.’

And Detective Arthur Sweet burst into a roar of laughter, tilting his head back and everything. Dey took notice of the older man’s generous belly wobbling up and down from the force of it, double chin following suit. Arthur patted his girthy sides and wiped comedy-induced residue from his eye.

‘Ohhh, that...’ He waggled a fat finger. ‘That was not half b-‘

DUNK DUNK

Someone tapping on the window on Sweet’s side. He and Dey exchanged a look, and Manni wedged the earpiece firmly into its near-invisible place before Arthur wound down the window. No-one was supposed to know they were here. 

However, Sweet’s sense of caution soon evaporated once he recognised the rain-soaked officer outside. 

‘Reg! How you doing?’ Arthur said.

The police officer named Reg nodded to the pair of them. ‘Arthur. Detective Dey,’ he said. 

‘Ain’t seen you for donkeys years. They still got you holed up in East Ham? What you doing out here, mate?’

Reg said nothing. 

Arthur continued, ‘D’you know Manni? Not long transferred. He’s alright sometimes.’

Dey rolled his eyes. 

Reg looked down at the phone sat in Arthur’s lap, listening device still attached. 

‘You need to drop this,’ he said flatly. 

Sweet’s features diminished a mite. ‘You what?’

‘Drop it, the pair of you. Now.’

‘Reg...’ Sweet blinked. 

Manni leaned across, through the not-completely-unpleasant aroma of Cornish pasty still clinging to Arthur, and asked, ‘What is this, orders from up top?’

Reg nodded in a way that made the younger detective instantly uncomfortable. 

Sweet sniffed and crossed his arms. ‘Dunno what you’re talking about, fella.’ 

‘Fucking drop this,’ Reg said, his voice absolute and stone-cold.

‘Drop what?’

Suddenly Reg reached his arm through the open window, snatched Sweet’s phone, listening device and all, and threw it down onto the dirt ground outside, stamping hard with an audible crunch. 

‘FUCKING. DROP. THIS,’ he bellowed. 

Then he marched off into the evening rainfall. 

* * * *

George Steadings lived alone, two floors below Master Ben Townsend, his flat significantly more modest yet perfectly adequate for a man of his position. There was no ‘clocking off’ in this vocation, per se, but when not needed he was quite content to retire home, ready and willing to serve agan at a moment’s notice. 

He had left Master Townsend’s penthouse that evening not with a sense of having been able to allay the young man’s nerves, but a hope that his state of enjoyment would resume in time. Steadings would see to it, in fact. Master Townsend’s well-being was one of his top priorities. 

It was rather a surprise, then, when Steadings opened the door to his flat to find his employer standing at the end of the hallway. 

‘Mr Wren, Sir,’ Steadings exclaimed. ‘What a pleasant surprise. If I’d known of your arrival I would have returned sooner. Please forgive-‘

‘It’s quite alright, Steadings.’ Mr Wren held up a hand. He appeared... subdued. 

Then another man wearing a grey uniform peered from the end of the hall. 

‘George Steadings,’ he said. ‘Do come through.’

Steadings hesitated. 

‘Sir...?’

He knew those grey uniforms. 

‘Please,’ said Mr Wren with a sigh. 

Steadings suddenly became very aware of his own tongue in his mouth. It felt dry. He approached the end of the hallway, which led into his open kitchen-come-living area. 

A chair had been positioned in the middle of his living room. There was also a third man - a clinician, by whose side slumped a large kit bag. 

Steadings noticed that his kitchen had been filled with flat nondescript boxes. 

‘What, uh...,’ he began, feeling his hands moisten. ‘That is, how...’

‘Please, sit.’ The grey uniformed man gestured politely to the chair. 

Steadings looked to his employer whose only response was a stiff nod devoid of eye contact. 

Steadings sat down in the chair and smoothed his trousers. He didn’t want to lay his forearms on the armrests.

For a while no-one spoke. The grey uniformed man paced a slow circle around Steadings who tried to retain an impassive composure, despite how he felt inside. 

The man in grey made something of a show of deliberating over his words, before eventually settling on, ‘We have a mole.’

Steadings expressed visible shock at this, but through his surprise came the sounds of the clinician reaching down into the kit bag behind him. 

‘A mole, Sir?’

‘Yes. Someone has been feeding Ben Townsend information.’

Steadings felt genuine alarm at hearing this, and was about to respond when the clinician behind him spoke up.

‘Please place your arms on the armrests.’

Steadings tilted his head back to the fellow and felt his heart in his chest. He knew he had to obey. 

One did not disobey the grey uniforms. 

‘And roll up one sleeve before you do so,’ the man added. 

A bead of sweat was forming under Steadings’ thinning hair. He felt his hands fumble with his cufflink before he was able to do as instructed. 

‘W-What kind of information?’ he asked the grey man, whilst flicking eyes of appeal to his employer. 

‘Well,’ the man in grey replied quietly. ‘Perhaps you can tell us that.’

‘I... I don’t understand...,’ Steadings replied. Then he felt strong, thick plastic bindings being wrapped around his wrists, pinning his arms down onto the armrests. He relinquished an involuntary whimper. 

‘I wouldn’t - I wouldn’t know,’ he continued. ‘Please, Mr Wren, Sir...’

But Mr Wren would not look up. ‘Just... tell them whatever they need to know,’ he said flatly. 

Steadings next felt his rolled sleeve pulled back even further, all the way up to his shoulder, in fact. From the corner of his eye he saw the clinician behind him produce a large box from the kit bag and lay it neatly down on Steadings’ coffee table. 

‘There was an Assessment last night,’ the grey uniformed man spoke, louder. ‘Ben Townsend had clearly been prepared, coached.’

Steadings saw him nod to the clinician, and heard the box being opened. In his peripheral vision he saw a hypodermic needle produced from it, tapped, and brought towards his arm. 

‘P-Please...,’ Steadings said. ‘I don’t - I don’t know anything. I’ve - I’ve not -‘

He suddenly felt the prick of the needle in his arm and instinctively flinched. ‘Ow!’

‘It’s better if you sit still,’ the clinician said. 

As the needle was emptied into Steadings and removed, the man in grey spoke up again, trace exasperation creeping into his voice, as though this were a script he was tired of reciting. 

‘Here’s how this is going to work, George,’ he said. ‘You are going to tell us everything you know about this mole. Who it is, whether it’s you or someone you’re protecting - A member of your staff, perhaps - And until we get our answers, you are going to be receive these shots.’

Steadings’ lips trembled. His arm felt sore. His heart was ramping up. ‘W-What is it?’ he asked, throat croaking from dehydration. 

‘I’ll supply the questions, yes?’ the man in grey replied. ‘But since you asked, these are appetite stimulants.’

Stimulants, plural, Steadings noted. He felt his face turn cold. When he spoke up next, he found himself flitting randomly between Mr Wren and the man in grey. 

‘Please... I’ve never heard of such a... If I’d known, I would of course have come to you, Sir... I’ve always been loyal. Loyalty is... is of the upmost-‘

He felt another jab in his side, and another dose of appetite stimulant injected into him. He didn’t know when the effects were going to begin, but was dreading it. He could only guess what the boxes in his kitchen contained...

‘George, you’ll address me, yes?’ the grey uniformed man leaned down and said, matter-of-factly.

‘Yes, s-sorry, Sir...’

‘That’s better. Now, why don’t we begin with quite how Mr Townsend was able to know the exact decorum needed to pass his Assessment, hmm?’

Steadings shook his head and felt his skin erupting into goosebumps. 

‘I… I don’t know... honestly...’ A third prick in his arm. ‘No, please! Please don’t! I don’t know anything, I’m sorry!’

‘George,’ the man sighed, ‘you see these boxes here, don’t you? You know they contain the most overloaded, fattening pizzas our chefs can produce. And you can see how many boxes are here.’

Indeed Steadings could. There might have been close to eighty pizzas sitting in his kitchen. His heart felt like it was breaking. 

‘And we can have more made, George,’ the man continued. ‘We can do this all day and all night, for weeks if we have to. You’re going to be so hungry, you’re going to tear this place apart. But it doesn’t have to be this way. Just be truthful with us and this will all be over, I promise you that.’

Steadings could feel it already starting...

A gnawing in the pit of his stomach. The kind one might feel at the end of a long day. But it wasn’t stopping. It was blooming into something more. Something terrifying...

‘Please,’ he cried. ‘I want to help. I would do anything to help. Mr Wren, Sir, please, you know that. I’ve been under your employ for... decades... Please, Sir!’

Mr Wren’s gaze would not shift from the floor. He did not speak. 

The feeling inside of Steadings was building. It was working its way beyond mere hunger. This was like nothing he’d ever experienced.

Another dose of stimulant suddenly came shooting into Steadings’ arm. He found he could not hold back tears.

‘Please! I don’t know anything!’

‘Oh, George, George, George,’ the man in grey said softly. ‘In some ways I admire your resolve.’ He nodded to the clinician to jab Steadings once again. ‘But this simply won’t do. It wont do at all. I need to know who is helping Ben Townsend.’

It wasn’t hunger anymore. It was an obsession. The feeling of not eating, it might as well have been not breathing. Seeing those boxes of pizza just stacked there, ready to be eaten, crying out. It was torture.

‘I’ve been here for... 27 years...,’ Steadings wailed. ‘I’ve always been... loyal... Always... Please don’t do this... Please...’

He was going to devour each and every one of those pizzas. The man was right. He was going to turn this place upside down.

Another shot was pressed into his arm. And another. And another. Between each of them he cried and pleaded, but could say nothing to appease the man in grey. 

It got to the point where Steadings lost track of just how many shots he'd received. He couldn't think straight anymore. 

‘I think we’ll draw a line under this session for now,’ the man eventually said. ‘But we shall return tomorrow. Perhaps a good night’s feasting will jog your memory.’

And he took his leave, followed by the mute Mr Wren. The clinician had barely loosened the plastic restraints before Steadings leapt to his feet and dove headfirst toward his kitchen, quite literally ripping open the first box he could reach. The fellow behind him could have been packing up the kit bag and leaving his flat and Steadings wouldn’t have cared less. All that mattered now was food. World War III couldn’t have held George Steadings back. He was a man possessed. He sunk his hands into the pizza, tore off massive great sheets at random and pushed them all the way into his mouth. He couldn’t get it in fast enough, jaws chomping and teeth gnashing. Animals ate slower than this. Steadings only knew hunger now, and the need to satiate. This was his world. He didn’t know what topped each pizza, he didn’t care. Only eating mattered. Eating and eating and eating, never stopping, never even slowing. His cheeks were engorged beyond all reasonable size. Each pizza was devoured in record time, each box successively torn open faster than a child’s Christmas present. He had to feed. He had to fuel this never-ending hunger. This excruciating, all-consuming lust for food. Nothing would stop him. Nothing.

For hours into the early morning, George Steadings stood in his kitchen filling his belly with more pizza. 

Then more. 

Then more.

Then more.