On his drive to work one morning, Greg McCartney stopped at the traffic lights. Typical, he thought, he’d only gone around the corning and already got stuck at the lights. And he always found that once he’d got stuck at one red light, he would inevitably get caught at the subsequent lights. The traffic control system must have it set up that way. 

As he sat there waiting for the lights to change, his gaze drifted to the row of shops on his right-hand side. He noticed that there were signs of life from a store that had previously been closed. He smiled as he realised which shop it was. This wasn’t just any store that looked like it was preparing to re-open. Esther’s sandwich shop had been the best butty shop in Salford. Those sandwiches, or butties, as they called them in the North West of the UK, were just amazing. Customers had travelled from all over the city to get a bacon or sausage sandwich from Esther’s. 

The windows were no longer boarded up and a notice declared that the shop was under new management. The store had closed a couple of years ago, when the owner, Esther herself, had moved back to her native Dublin. Greg and the other locals, had resorted to supermarket sandwiches or popping to chain coffee shops. And that had been the end of the story. But, now, the place was reopening under new management. Esther’s was back in business. 

Greg shifted in the driver’s seat. The lights were on inside the shop, and he could make out figures moving around. His moth watered at the very thought of the wonderful sandwich shop making a comeback. If the revamped shop was half as good as the previous version, then that would be something special. 

When the lights changed to green, Greg gave the shop one last look, before continuing on his way to work. 

Greg always found that it was the little things that kept him going. It was the small joys that made life bearable. These simple pleasures could be anything, the return of his favourite TV show, a drama-documentary about serial killers, his rugby team winning at long last, and on that list, was the re-opening of the sandwich shop over the road. 

A few days later Greg slowed as he drove by the shop. There was a wooden board on the pavement outside the store announcing that the Grand Opening would be happening on Saturday morning. Come along and try our special sandwiches. Greg nodded, he knew where he would be on Saturday morning. In the days leading up to the opening, there was a marketing campaign, flyers were shoved through his door, and presumably every door in the neighbourhood, promoting the shop and its wares, again suggesting customers try the special. He also noticed lots of adverts across local social media sites. 

Just after nine thirty on Saturday morning, Greg shrugged into his jacket and headed over the road. As he neared the shop, he wondered what all the people were doing huddled on the pavement. Then it occurred to him. They were queuing up. The last time he’d seen a queue like this was at a music gig in the city centre. The advertising had clearly worked. People were queuing from the door and along the block, as customers eagerly awaited their turn. 

Greg rubbed his hands together in anticipation at feasting on the wares of the new shop. A man in a straw boater hat made his way down the line. In his hat, he looked like a barber-shop singer who had lost the rest of his quartet. He smiled warmly and chatted with the waiting patrons. When it was Greg’s turn, he shook his hand and introduced himself. Dennis was the new owner. He had the air of a magician performing to a sell-out crowd. 

Dennis turned and spoke to his public.

‘Right this way, folks. I’m Dennis and I’d like to welcome you all to the new and improved, Esther’s sandwich shop. Please try our special recipe sausages and hamburgers.’

Greg was sure he wasn’t the only one whose mouth watered at the thought of the sandwiches. He budged and pushed his way up the line. When he neared the door, he saw people exiting the shop, lucky enough to have been in to get their hands on the sandwiches. They took bites out of sandwiches in paper bags. They groaned in delight and exclaimed how wonderful the sandwich was. A guy in a tracksuit top waved a thumbs up at Greg.

‘You have to get the special.’ 

Greg replied that he would. The guy nodded in approval and headed off down the street. 

The interior of the store was the same layout as it had been in its previous incarnation, trays of sandwiches behind the glass counters. The woman serving gave him a smile. She was somewhere in her mid-twenties, her hair dyed a punkish shade of purple. The name badge on her tabard said Nicola. 

‘Could I have the sausage barm, please?’ Greg asked.

Nicola quickly made up the special recipe sausage on bread-roll and bundled it into a paper bag. Greg paid and went to leave, with Nicola calling out telling him to have a good day. You too, he waved, see you again.

Back home, he made himself a cup of tea and settled down at the kitchen table to sample the supposedly new and improved sausage barm. He unpacked the sandwich from the paper bag and took a swig of tea. Then he took a bite. The taste of the sausage blew his mind. The flavour of the meat was like nothing he’d ever tasted before. What was that meat? It didn’t taste like the usual sausage meat, it wasn’t chicken or anything like that. He took another bite of the special sandwich. It was delicious. It was strange and exotic, and absolutely wonderful. He ate the sandwich slowly, savouring every single bite, every mouthful. They weren’t kidding when they enthused about the Special. Whatever that strange meat was, it was just out of this world. 

Every morning when he drove by the new shop, he saw people cramming to get their hands on the special sandwiches. Greg decided he would go back every Saturday morning to get his fix. Yes, his weekend treat would be the delightful butty from Esther’s. 

On the Friday evening, as he watched one of his favourite TV shows, Manchester Murders, at the back of his mind was the wonderful sandwich he would be sampling the next morning. The next morning, Greg rushed over to get himself a sandwich. Dennis was hovering in the busy shop, chatting to customers. Everyone was raving over the new selection of sandwiches and the Special meat. As he neared the counter, Greg heard one guy ask the question that was on his mind.

‘What is in the Special? What meat is it?’

Dennis shook his head and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

‘It’s a secret recipe. I really can’t say what’s in it.’

‘But what is the meat? It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted.’

‘All I’ll say is, it’s not suitable for vegetarians.’ Dennis grinned.

When he reached the front of the queue, the man behind the counter asked what he could get him. The man was in his early twenties and had a pony-tail and goatee beard. Greg was surprised not to see the punkish woman who had served him last week. He ordered the Special sandwich and asked where the woman who was there last week was. He had to admit that he had been looking forward to seeing her again. She was quirky and different and he would have been interested to chat to her some more. 

‘I don’t know, mate. I’ve just started. I’m the only one that works here.’ 

The guy handed Greg his sandwich. As he was leaving the shop, he paused and asked Dennis, the owner, about his previous member of staff. 

‘What’s happened to Nicola, the woman that was here last time?’ he asked.

The smile left Dennis’ face at the question.

‘She left.’ he shrugged.

‘Did she get another job? Was she sacked?’

‘None of your business.’ he growled. 

Dennis turned and marched around behind the counter and vanished through a door.

Back home, he munched on the fabulous sandwich. It really was something. What was that taste? The Special really was extraordinary. He would certainly be returning regardless of the rudeness of the owner. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked about the people who worked for him. Maybe she had told him where he could stick his job after an argument. Next Saturday when he went to the shop, he would play nice, he would queue up and ask the guy with the pony-tail for the special sandwich and leave. 

The following Saturday morning, he crossed over the road to the shop, reminding himself to keep chilled, just to ask for the Special sandwich, pay and leave. The guy with the pony-tail would give him his butty, Greg would even say hello to Dennis. Yes, he would be friendly and polite to Dennis and to the guy with the pony-tail, he would pay for his sandwich, and return home. End of story.

He joined the queue outside the shop, as usual, and filed along until he reached the counter. A woman in her sixties with dangly earrings and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, smiled at him.

‘Yes, love. What can I get you?’

Greg ordered the special sandwich, resisting the urge to ask where the guy in the pony-tail had gone. No doubt, had he asked, he would have been told that she was the only person working there. As he left he wondered over the ridiculously quick turn-over in staff. At the local mini supermarket, Greg knew half the workers in there to say hello to. Maybe it was a British thing, or even a Northern thing, but if you saw the same faces, as you went along, you invariably said hello. There was no chance of striking up a rapport with any of the butty shop staff as they changed every week. 

Back home, he drank his cup of tea, and ate the strange, yet wonderfully tasting sandwich. What was that meat? He sipped his brew, and chewed the sandwich, and also chewed over the rapid change in staff at the sandwich shop. Why would the staff change so rapidly at the shop? Somebody would be working there one week and then just vanish without a trace. It was so strange. But, the meat was lovely, whatever it was. 

A thought occurred to him, an awful, terrifying notion. An idea that, once it had come to him, he just couldn’t let go. He made the most dreadful of connections. What if, his mind raced, the missing members of staff were being killed? His mind ran away with him, spiralling, as the theory fleshed itself out in his mind. What if Dennis was killing these people and turning them to mince-meat for the sandwiches? That would explain why the staff kept disappearing, and would also solve the mystery of the strange meat that Dennis was so secretive about. 

If that was the case, then Greg, and half of the local neighbourhood, had been dining on human flesh. He felt sick. Could that actually be true? The more he thought about it, the more the twisted idea seemed the only solution. 

Over the next few hours, Greg paced his living room, trying to figure it all out. Was it possible that the shop-owner was killing people and serving them up as the Special? This was like something from a weird TV series, surely things like that didn’t happen in real life. A shiver went through him. A lot of the bizarre things he watched on TV were actually based on true stories. True crime was a popular genre these days. What if this shady Dennis character was a murderer who disposed of his victims by frying the minced flesh and feeding it to unsuspecting customers? The more and more he dwelled on it, the more certain he became of the theory. It was an outlandish idea, but it also seemed extremely plausible. 

By five o’clock that afternoon, the shop was due to close. Greg watched from across the road as Dennis switched the lights off and locked the door. He glanced around him, before dragging the metal shutter down. Greg crossed the road and marched quickly up to the shop owner.

‘Sorry, mate, we’re closed for the day.’ Dennis said.

‘I’m not here to buy a sandwich.’ Greg said.

Dennis shrugged, then why are you here?

‘First Nicola disappears, then the guy with the pony-tail. I bet we won’t be seeing the woman who served me today next week either.’ Greg said. ‘No doubt she’ll just vanish without a trace too.’

‘That’s right. Marjorie won’t be coming back.’ Dennis admitted. 

‘What are you doing to them?’

‘Keep your nose out of my business, okay? I’m warning you.’

‘Or else what? What will you do, Dennis? Will I be next to disappear?’

Dennis stepped forward, moving quickly, like a boxer crossing the ring.

‘Keep out of my business.’

‘I will go to the police.’ Greg said. 

Dennis stared at him, a violence bubbling under the surface.

‘You should choose your words carefully, friend.’

The way he said the word friend was thick with menace. 

‘It’s the special meat, isn’t it? That’s the answer.’ Greg said.

He delivered his words the way a poker player laid down a royal flush, or the way a lawyer drops their damning piece of evidence.

Dennis reeled at the mention of the special meat. His cheeks reddened, his eyes wide in shock at being called out. Greg was as shocked as Dennis. So his wild theory was right, the shop owner had being killing the staff and using them for the meat in his sausages. 

‘I need to call the police, you won’t get away with this.’ Greg said.

‘Let’s not do this here, out on the street, come inside and we’ll talk it over.’

There was suddenly a calm reasonableness to his tone. From the way he was speaking, you’d think he was suggesting they pop inside to chat about the plans for Saturday night, rather than for a murderer to explain his motive. 

‘I am not going inside with you. I would never make it out alive.’ 

Greg stepped back a few paces, putting a bit of distance between himself and the shop owner. Dennis shoved the metal shutters back up and fiddled with the lock on the door. He went inside the shop, leaving the door ajar.  As the light flickered on, Greg could see Dennis leaning on the counter, arms folded, waiting for the man who would hear his confession. Quite unsure exactly what to do now, Greg hovered on the pavement. He should call the police, tell them everything, and let them deal with this. But, there was something intriguing about the way the guy was just standing there. He wasn’t trying to make his escape, he was no longer threatening him. He was just standing there, resigned to his fate, leaning on the glass counter, waiting to talk to him. 

Greg was on to him, knew what he was capable of, and would be careful should he try to harm him. Maybe Dennis’ victims had been caught unaware and that’s how he’d gotten away with it. If Greg was careful, it couldn’t hurt to speak to the man and hear his motive for murder. Could it? He could hear him out, and then call the police. He knew it was risky but how often did you get the chance to have a one on one conversation with a killer? This situation itself was like something from the killer podcast he listened to. 

This was an opportunity he could not resist. If he scurried away and called the police he would regret it. He could almost see the dramatic reconstruction of the situation he now found himself in. Greg knew he should call the police, let the authorities take care of this, but this was his chance to face a killer. He crossed the pavement in slow, careful steps, like a soldier crossing a minefield, and entered the shop. He moved inside, but kept close to the open door. Dennis watched him, waiting. He was clearly a man with a secret he wanted to share.  

Greg took another step towards the suspected killer, glancing around to check he wasn’t straying too far away from the door and the safety outside. The skies were darkening now, and the long shadows looming gave the scene a foreboding backdrop. What on earth was he thinking? Would he be Dennis’ next victim? An image of his name and photo being shown on the television news headlines when he went missing flashed across his mind.

‘Tell me what’s going on.’ Greg demanded with a confidence he didn’t really feel. ‘Tell me about the shop workers vanishing, and the special meat.’

Dennis waved his hands in the air, in resignation.

‘Fine, I’ll tell you everything and then you can decide what to do with that information.’

Dennis crossed to the fridge and grabbed a can of fizzy pop. He took a long swig and then sighed.

‘You are right. My workers vanishing is a result of the special meat. It wasn’t easy finding new recipes for sausages and burgers, and my costs were spiralling through the roof. My last shop went under when I couldn’t keep up with the payments. Then Esther let me use this place at a reduced price. I had the shop but now I had to source cheap meat.’

Greg couldn’t believe what he was hearing. So Dennis had resorted to murder? Had half the people of this city been dining on human flesh? He felt sick at the thought. He himself had enjoyed several of those special sandwiches. Before Greg could ask for the details, Dennis went around the counter and rummaged in the chest freezer, placing a pack of pink meat on the counter. Greg was drawn closer to the counter in fascination. He was completely repulsed and yet fascinated and intrigued. The meat packages were the size and shape of a house-brick and wrapped in clear plastic. The pink meat really looked like it could be human flesh. Had Dennis really killed his workers, then minced and packaged them up in this way?

‘And this is what you have been serving in your sandwiches?’ Greg asked.

‘Yes.’ he admitted. ‘I wasn’t left with a choice. There was nothing else I could do.’

‘So you resorted to murder?’ Greg said.

‘Sorry, how do you mean?’

‘You killed your workers to make the special meat.’

‘What? No! You didn’t think that.’ Dennis said, shocked.

‘Well, what have you been doing then?’

Greg wondered quite when things had turned so strange, and when had he lost his grip on things.

‘This,’ Dennis waved the block of meat, ‘is pre-packed raw meat for dogs. Mostly tripe and other random bits. I know a guy who runs a kennel in Whitefield. I’ve been buying it off him and serving it to my customers.’

‘No, that can’t be it. What about your staff vanishing?’ Greg asked.

‘Nobody can stand the smell. They keep leaving. The stench of this meat being fried is disgusting. It tastes okay, though.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom