SECOND HELPINGS

CW: Themes and/or references to violence, murder, implied cannibalism

The house was too warm. Even for a warm summer’s evening in February, where the day had reached deep into the 40’s. Not the stale warmth of a building long sealed up. The kind that comes from a day’s work. Where the house was busy all day. Comings and goings. The fans in the ceilings pushed the air around, providing some breeze. But the air was hot, long after the sun went down. Walls soaked in heat. Floorboards hot underfoot. The faint, fading savoury smell. Detective Harris paused in the doorway, letting the silence settle. Nothing stirred. The house had finished the with the day and he wasn’t the most welcome of visitors.

He walked further down the hall, his police-issued shoes clicking softly against the wooden floorboards. The sweat dripping from his brow. The front door latched closed behind him. A soft thunk that seemed to be immediately absorbed by the thick, polyester rug in the hallway. He paused, listening. Sounds of children sleeping. Sounds of a kettle boiling somewhere deeper in the house. The lights steady. Dim. No television. Just the faint sounds of a radio playing something classical, but he couldn’t make out what it was. Nothing moved. No shouts or threats. Just the heavy, oppressive heat. The soft smells of the kitchen.

The kitchen was straight ahead.

The kitchen was clean. Not dressed up, artificially polished. Not carefully tidied for visitors. Finished. A clean that comes from someone who knows that the work won’t be scrutinised, but insists on doing it properly anyway. Out of habit. Out of need. Nothing out of place. The sink was empty, clean. The draining rack held bowls turned upside down, water beading along their rims. Four small ones. One larger one behind them.

She was at the table. Penny. Calm. Collected. Arms folded on the table, she was the picture of relaxation. And composure. “Tea?” she asked. “Kettle’s just boiled.”

“No, thanks,” Harris said. He set his notebook on the table as he sat down. It stayed shut. The pen beside it. Nothing to write. Yet.

“You sure? Oh well, suit yourself” she said. He nodded, watching as she poured a large mug from the unusually elegant tea pot. Nothing matched it. Seemed so at odds with the functionality of the house. Of her. A present from her late mother-in-law. She’d disappeared some years back, not long after she’d married Simon.

“Kids are asleep,” she added. “Long day.”

Harris nodded. That was information, not a statement. He looked around the kitchen. He noticed the stove. Still ticking faintly as it cooled down. The pot inverted on top of it, on a draining rack. Cold. Scrubbed. Clean, but with a care that spoke more to her habit than a performance. She didn’t know he was coming, afterall.

He got up and walked closer to the drying rack on the sink. The bowls were clean. Not just rinsed. The surfaces glimmered faintly in the dim light were they’d been scrubbed clean. The larger plate behind them bore the faintest ring. A ghost of whatever had been wiped away. An ingrained stain. Nothing could shift it. Harris didn’t move them. He’d learned long ago that rooms remembered better than detectives. And if his hunch was right, this place would be crawling with detectives soon enough.

“What did you have for dinner?” he asked.

“Stew,” she said. “They’ll eat anything in a stew. Easiest way to feed them”

“The children ate it?”

“They ate. They even went back for seconds.” She said it with the same calm, measured tone as if she were discussing the weather. Harris detected just the tiniest sprinkling of pride. Penny was renowned for her excellent stews. Nothing was ever left on a plate when she’d made it.

Penny sat, drinking her tea. Watching Harris as he moved around the kitchen. Not saying very much. No protests, no indignation. He opened the fridge. Vegetables. A jar of stock. Herbs wrapped in damp paper and sealed in an old chinese food contained. Nothing wasted. Everything kept. A perfectly ordinary fridge. Devoid of suspicion. Wholly unremarkable. He closed it again. She watched as he lifted the bin lid. Onion skins, carrot peelings, herb stems, a folded crust of bread. Wholly unremarkable. Normal. Four placemats were still sitting on the table. The chair at the table was slightly pushed back. Not perfectly aligned. Harris didn’t touch it.

“Your partner?” he asked, gesturing to the chair slightly out of place.

“He was around earlier,” she said. “Not hungry. Went to the pub, apparently.”

“Did he eat dinner?”

“No.”

Harris didn’t make any notes. Not just yet. He let his eyes do the work. Trying hard to remember not to trail his fingers across the surfaces. His hands hovered over the surfaces. Nothing touched. He made sure of it. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. Noticing that even with the fan slowly circling overhead, the air still felt stagnant. Orderly. In it’s correct place.

“Mind if I check on the kids?” he asked.

“They’re asleep,” she said. “You’ll wake them. And it was a terrible fight to get them to brush their teeth, get into bed. Excitable day apparently.”

He nodded and walked out into the hallway. Standing still. Listening to the house. Pipes ticking softly. Floorboards creaking underfoot. Nothing was stirring. Somewhere down the back of the house was that radio, playing that soft classical music. Somewhere to the front of the house, a shallow rhythm. Might be the soft snores of sleeping children. Might be settling timber.

He returned to the kitchen.

“Penny, I need you to tell me where your partner is.” Harris said. “We know for a fact he’s not down the pub. He hasn’t been seen since he left the abattoir’s at the end of his shift this afternoon.”

“He isn’t here.” Penny said. She met his eyes calmly. Looking deeply into them. Her hands still. Calm. Composed. Harris let the silence stretch. Nothing fazed her.

“You always clean this thoroughly?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Every night. Something my mother always insisted on.”

“Tonight more than usual?”

Penny didn’t answer. She picked up her mug, drinking deeply. Harris looked at her hands. Clean. Nails trimmed short. Knuckles reddened slightly. As if they’d met running water, soap and a scrubbing brush more often than needed.

“I work at the abattoir too,” she said suddenly.

“I know.” Harris looked at her. Evaluating her. His expression a practised professional neutral.

“He did too, one,” she added. “For a while. It’s where I met him. He charmed me. Oh he charmed me. Promises of a grand future. A life in the glittering lights. Not here. Not stuck in Aberdeen. Not stuck outside of Maitland. Not still working for the abattoir.” She spoke plainly. Without flair. Nothing emotive. Just context. Almost like telling the detective what brand of cleaner she preferred. Yet Harris detected just the slightest hint of bitterness, hiding behind her words.

“What happened after dinner?” Harris asked.

“I cleaned up,” she said. “Got the children through the teeth brushing, the bath-having and into pyjamas and into bed.” She took another swig of her tea. Harris nodded. The longer he was in the kitchen, the more he began to notice it. A sharper smell. Nothing he’d smelt before. Not in a house. Faint, but distinct. Beneath the fading scent of stew. A chemical tang, industrial, metallic, it stuck to his tongue. Some that would be used to cut fat and neutralise all sorts of odours. She noticed his wrinkled nose.

“I use the cleaners from work at home,” she said lightly. “They work better. And nobody notices when I swipe them.” Harris said nothing.

“They break down the fat, at a chemical level,” she continued. “Neutralises all sorts of smells. Leaves the surfaces safe. Everything clean. No residue. No odor. Has to be like that at work. So it makes sense to make it just like that at home.”

She spoke like she was reading from a manual. The more she spoke, the steadier and calmer her voice became. Her voice even. Instructional. Measured. Not a confession. Harris watched as she moved around the kitchen, wiping surfaces. Nothing left untouched. Her movements were precise. Well practiced. Her strokes deliberate. She treated the counters and the stove as if she were still on the line at the abattoir. Finishing the job properly. The smell of industrial cleaner lingered faintly, clinging to the corners.

“So you’re saying you have no idea where Simon is? That he just took off and left you?” Harris asked. “Hardly seems likely. You two have been inseparable for so long now.”

“Well, he’s not here!” Penny snapped, the first hint of a true emotion crossing her face. Nothing hidden. Quickly the facade dropped again, she focused on her cleaning. Scrubbing every surface she could.

“And the children?” He asked finally. “Did they know that Simon has disappeared?”

“No. They just ate.” Penny said simply.

He sat for a moment in the empty chair opposite her. Watching her. That oppressive heat. That weight of presence. The industrial cleaners making his eyes water. Pressing up against his senses.

Harris reviewed the night in his mind. A simple welfare check. Simon seemingly distressed and worried this afternoon. Worried enough that his friends called the police station. Harris arrived to see Simon’s car in the driveway. But no sign of him anywhere around the tiny hamlet of Aberdeen. High up in the Hunter Valley, it was a blip on the roadside. Famous for it’s abattoir and the Highland Games they held every now and then. The kind of town with only one pub and if you blinked when you drove past you’d miss it entirely. He thought about everything he’d found in the house. Dinner with second helpings. Cleanup, brush, bath, bed. Children asleep. The house was calm but oppressively hot. The front and back doors were still firmly closed, trapping the heat inside. Not letting the evening breeze pass through. But every moment, every movement was accounted for. Nothing violent. Nothing loud. Nothing to show any signs of struggle. But it felt very, very wrong.

Harris asked to see the bedroom. Penny nodded. She followed him. Penny’s collection of knives were on the wall. Above the bed, where she liked to keep them. On magnets. Clean, beautifully arranged. Gorgeous in their utilitarian forms. He recognised their maintenance. The sharpness. The blades wearing out from years of practice and sharpening stones. But he saw no evidence beyond their simple order. Nothing out of place. Except for one gap. Where a large carving knife should be. He looked back at the kitchen, the bowls, the drying rack, the inverted pot. Everything aligned. Finished. Clean. But the carving knife was missing. Industrial cleaner fading into the ordinary scent of the house. Then he saw the curtain that really wasn’t a curtain. Hanging over the back door. Still drying.

“He’s still here, isn’t he?” Harris asked. Penny nodded.

“Where exactly is he?” Harris asked. Penny didn’t speak. She just looked at the curtain on the back door. Harris gasped, finally realising exactly what it was. Where Simon was. He felt sick. He had to escape. Nothing was right here.

“Come with me,” he said. “Now.” Penny stood calmly. She nodded. She gave no resistance. Just rinsed her mug and the teapot in the sink. Leaving them inverted on the drying rack.

As he guided her towards the door, Harris glanced back one last time. The house was quiet. Finished. Entirely ordinary. Lit by the silent flashing red and blue lights of the police cars outside the house. The children not stirring in their bedrooms. He gave a silent prayer, hoping that they would never realise what truly had happened in that house tonight. But he knew it was pointless. Nothing would stop them from finding out. This would hit the papers. Hard. Harris guided Penny across the front verandah and down the front steps. And for a moment he thought about tomorrow. Breakfast. Bowls again. The routine of the day. He watched as the child service professionals stepped through the front door. Finding the children. Rescuing them.

Harris realised too late. Every corner of the house whispered domestic normalcy. Yet he could feel the darkness in the order. The cold, dark dread that the children had unknowingly finished the meal she’d set for them. That Penny had finished her work with a clinical certainty. The head sitting in the freezer. Simon's skin hanging from the back door as a curtain. His body on a meat hook in the back of the house by the radio. She left nothing to chance.