Ghost in the Soup

I was in a cheap restaurant one evening with a friend and we were tucking into the starter. The soup of the day was mushroom and it smelled and tasted suspiciously like a well-known tinned variety.

'Aren't they supposed to make the food themselves?' my friend Leonard grumbled, staring at the contents of his bowl. 'What's going to be for the main course, a ready meal?'

'Well,' I answered, trying to keep the mood light. 'It could be worse. At least they went with a decent brand.'

Leonard pushed his away and excused himself to use the men's room, leaving me alone with my guilt. It had been my idea to try this restaurant as it was cheap and cheerful and we were tired of eating in the same place every week. Unfortunately it had so far fallen short of a classic dining experience. The staff looked fed up, the furnishings were worn, the lighting was provided by energy-saving bulbs and the music was Pachelbel's Canon on a loop. We had been subjected to that piece of music five times since entering.

I had a feeling we weren't going to be making a return visit.

Still, the soup was alright, even if I could have bought it myself for less than a quid at Tesco's. I was just reading through the menu and counting the number of typos when a sound from my bowl drew my attention.

'Help meeeeee!' squeaked a voice.

I looked down and almost choked on my mouthful. Staring at me from the centre of the soup was a tiny face. It was child-like, almost elfin, with black eyes and it gazed up at me with a pleading expression.

'Help meeeee!' it repeated.

I pushed myself away from the table so quickly that my chair tipped over backwards, taking me with it. The crash drew the attention of the meagre scattering of diners in the restaurant who all turned from their food to stare. What little conversation there was came to an abrupt halt as I lay on my back, legs kicking like an overturned beetle.

'What's going on?' Leonard asked, returning from the men's room. 'I leave for five minutes and come back and you're throwing shapes on the floor...'

'The soup!' I gasped. 'The soup... there's something in it...'

'What's in the soup?' my friend asked. 'A hair? A fly? We can send it back if you're not happy.'

'No,' I cried, scrambling to my feet. 'There's a person in it.'

'There isn't room for a person in it,' Leonard said. He returned to his seat. 'Come on, stop being silly and sit down.'

I did as I was told, but kept my chair clear of the table. Nervously, I leaned over and probed the soup with my spoon, feeling for anything that wasn't supposed to be in there.

'Look, will you stop it?' Leonard asked, tucking into his. 'People are staring.'

I sat and watched him as he finished his starter, which he managed to do without any difficulties. This done, he set the bowl to one side and turned to look for the waiter.

'Those people are never around when you need them,' he said. 'They hover around while you're eating and then disappear when you're finished, have you noticed that? Are you done with yours, by the way?'

I nodded and made an 'mm-hm' sound.

'Are you still seeing people in there?' he asked.

I shook my head, although I still wasn’t touching it.

'Good. I'm going to step out for a smoke,' he told me. He had given up on the waiter. 'Pop your head out and give me a shout when he reappears, okay? And stop staring at that bowl, you look like a freak.'

He disappeared out of the front door, leaving me alone again. I shook my head to clear it and poured myself a glass of water, trying not to notice all the chalk floating around in it. It had been a long week at work with too many late finishes, and I hadn't got enough sleep. I was probably seeing things.

'Help meeeeee!' squeaked that little voice again. I nearly jumped out of my seat. Sticking out of my soup was a tiny little arm and it was waving around like that of a drowning man.

I screamed and leapt to my feet, tipping my chair backwards to crash on the floor again. This time everyone stopped eating and stared and continued to stare as I backed away from my table until I hit the table behind me and fell over backwards on to it. My bottom came to rest in a heap of casserole which unfortunately was piping hot. I screamed again and leapt in the air, my backside smoking.

‘What on earth are you playing at?’ roared the big man at the table. ‘That’s my dinner!’

‘Eric, what’s going on?’ Leonard asked, returning through the front door. ‘Can’t I even leave you alone for a second…?’

‘He sat in my food,’ the big customer shouted, his face purple. He yanked the napkin from around his neck and stood to his feet, fuming. ‘I want to see the manager, immediately.’

‘Sir, sir,’ cried the waiter, running over while doing up his trousers. ‘There’s no need for that. What appears to be the problem?’

‘He made an arse print in my casserole,’ the angry man replied. He had stepped up to me by now and was squaring up to me in a threatening manner. ‘I want my money back and I want this idiot ejected from the restaurant immediately.’

‘Certainly sir, certainly,’ the waiter crooned. ‘Please see my colleague at the till and let me deal with this matter. Thank you, thank you.’

The diner threw his napkin on the floor and left us, barely mollified. Once he was out of the way, the waiter turned to me with a stern expression.

‘I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave,’ he said. ‘We discourage drama in here and prefer it if customers don’t sit in the food of other customers. As you can see, everyone is now feeling upset, their evening has been ruined, and Mr Hodges there is a regular and valued customer.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Leonard said. ‘He doesn’t normally behave like this, honestly.’

‘There isn’t normally an arm sticking out of my soup,’ I protested, my nerves now shot to pieces.