TAKEAWAY HIDEAWAY AKA THE LAST ORDER

Michael Chow was just about to close up his takeaway, 'Chow's Chows', on a 'slow slow' Sunday night when he heard the shop door's electronic beep alert him to the arrival of a last-minute, late-night customer.

"We're closed!"

But sensing whoever it was hadn't heard him, he ventured out to the front of the shop to deal with what he assumed was a rolling drunk, the type of Brit slob you'd often find looking to bed down his beer-flooded belly with some beef fried rice.

Shocked to find instead a movie star-looking guy covered in shattered glass and blood, Michael shooed him away like a dozy wasp with one of his dog-eared magazine supplements left on the shop counter.

"Come on, get out. I already told you I'm closed. I don't need trouble. You can find the Accident and Emergency department is just up the road."

But rather than comply with Michael's wishes, the woozy stranger grabbed a tight hold of the takeaway owner's shoulders to steady himself on his feet and stared directly at him in desperation, his eyes all crazed and bloodshot.

"They're coming."

"Who? Who's coming?"

"They're going to kill me. You have to hide me, quick."

"I already told you, I don't need trouble."

"Please! I don't want to die."

Emitting a primordial growl, Michael pushed the stranger past the counter into his kitchen without any regard for his fresh wounds and obvious injuries.

"Here. Put this on."

Throwing a chef's apron at the stranger, followed by a baseball cap that had an especially high 1980s-style front panel attached to its crown, Michael then got a damp rag from the kitchen sink and wrung it out before offering it to the man, instructing him to wipe away the blood from his face.

"What are we doing?"

"You're going to pretend you're a chef working for me while I tell them out front I haven't seen you."

"But I can't cook."

Sighing in exasperation, Michael glanced at the large clock on the kitchen wall as the second hand moved closer to midnight.

"A man who can't cook is no good. What happened? Your mommy spoil you? She cook all your food all your life?"

"My mommy's dead."

Waving a dismissive hand at him as if not believing the stranger, Michael handed the man a wok just like a Military Sergeant might a rifle with a new recruit at basic training.

Despondent like a naughty schoolboy, the stranger awaited his impromptu cooking lesson by the increasingly irate takeaway owner.

"Beef fried rice is simple. But first, you need to heat wok. Flame too small, food won't cook, flame too high, food will burn. And remember if it's moist it's cooked, if it's dry it's fucked."

"This is no time to teach me how to cook."

"Always time to learn how to cook. Never too late to start. Once you stop learning, you start dying."

"I'll probably be dead shortly anyway!"

"Tsk! Drama queen you are!"

A reluctant student, the stranger now more resembled a stroppy teenager than a grown man in great peril as he watched Michael demonstrate how to cook takeaway beef fried rice.

"Few splashes of coconut oil. Once oil hot break an egg in wok and scramble it quick. Once the egg cooked borderline brown, take it out and put it to one side in small bowl."

Looking nervously over his shoulder expecting his enemies to arrive any moment, the more Michael talked, the more anxious the stranger became.

"Throw two cups of rice in wok. Overnight rice better. Fresh rice too sticky. Break clumps out of rice altogether. You can add a little bit water if its still being stubborn. Then pour in some light soy sauce, half a ladle maybe. Add little bit of salt. Little bit of MSG. Dash of sesame oil, sprinkle of white pepper powder."

The stranger couldn't take it any longer.

"Listen man. They're going to kill me if they find me, beef fried rice or no beef fried rice. This plan of yours will never work. They're going to know I've never cooked before."

But with one decsive thwack of his ladle against the side of the stove, the takeaway owner once again reasserted his authority as the stranger quietened down his protests.

"Go if you want. But if you listen to me and just focus on the cooking, you'll forget about the shit storm out there. I got through the worst divorce cooking beef fried rice night after night. It's like a meditation once you know what you're doing. "

"Okay. What next then?"

"Okay, good. Add scramble egg you made before. Toss it in with rice and mix it up. Turn down flame. Now put rice aside and wash wok with water and metal scrubber."

Cleaning the wok briskly and draining the residual water into the back drain of the cooking range, the stranger was momentarily transfixed by the fire and water combo of the apparatus.

"It's good, huh. No fucking around with a wok range. Now add some more oil and wait for it to get hot. Add beef. Cook that for a bit then add some soy sauce, white wine together. Half/half. Throw in some bean sprouts. Green peas are good if you like, or shredded carrot. Maybe you like onions?

"Yeah. I like onions."

"So now we cook beef with all this bean sprouts and veg together until it's nice and hot then you throw in your rice and do one final mix, then it's time for chow."

Transferring the beef fried rice onto a plate, the stranger hoped this was the final stage of his cooking lesson.

"Here, try a taste."

The stranger took one forkful of the perfectly cooked rice and felt as if he was back home again where his mother used to cooked for him.

But with a knowing smirk on his face, Michael Chow stepped back onto a large pedal bin close to the sink and threw the freshly cooked food into it as its lid snapped tight shut like an alligator's mouth.

"What the fuck you do that for?"

"Because now you got to cook it from scratch yourself while I go out front and see off your enemies. Remember to give your wok a quick clean before you start over. I'll be back to check."

And with that, Michael left the stranger to replicate his beef fried rice all by himself.

Scrubbing the wok, the stranger noticed his hand was badly shaking and it got even more pronounced when he could hear the sound of the shop door's electronic beep activated once again.

Trying to focus on solely on the cooking, with cap down and flame high, the man added the sesame oil and began to repeat the process he'd observed just moments before like a dutiful student.

As he scrambled the egg he could hear voices outside but not the words they were speaking. Trying not to let his fear run away with him, he put the egg to one side and began the process of making the rice.

It was only after he had cooked the rice and was draining the wok in preparation to add the beef that he noticed a warm, trickling feeling down the side of his right leg. Looking down he noticed that he was pissing himself and a yellow puddle was collecting on the kitchen floor.

"Fuck!"

He grabbed some kitchen roll to clear up the mess and at the point he bent down he could sense an ominous presence watching him; suddenly the entire atmosphere changed around him, from the heat of the kitchen to an icy chill.

Putting the piss-soaked tissue in the pedal bin on top of Michael's wasted beef frice rice, the stranger suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to be sick, adding a final layer to the discarded contents in front of him.

"What's that you're making there? Smells nice."

Not wanting to turn around to face the direction of where the voice was coming from, the stranger returned to his cooking station and began cooking the raw beef, amazed he had managed not to throw up.

"I'm talking to you. What's that you're making there?"

"Beef fried rice."

Sensing the figure now standing just behind his shoulder, the stranger could barely breathe so stressed was he that he would be found out beneath his borrowed baseball cap and chef's apron.

"Smells fucking lovely. What did you just add to it?"

"White wine vinegar and soy sauce."

"Bloody gorgeous."

He nodded his head and tried not to engage in any further conversation with the threatening sounding figure standing right behind him focusing on the task at hand now adding the bean sprouts followed by peas and shredded carrot and onion just as the takeaway owner had taught him.

"Maybe we'll stick around and put in a big order for ourselves if the boss lets us."

As he stirred the rice in with the beef and veg, the stranger was desperate for his enemy not to see his evidently shaking hand, petrified at the prospect of them hanging around any longer than they needed to.

"You got Parkinsons or something?"

Nodding again, he nervously added more salt.

"Fair play. Good on you keeping going with your cooking then."

It was then that the man was summoned away from the kitchen as the stranger was left to finish off his beef fried rice undisturbed.

Finally, transferring the rice onto a plate, he could feel some sense of conflicted satisfaction with the dish, still on edge from the threat close by that threatened his entire existence.

It was then he heard the electronic shop door beep activated for what he prayed signalled the departure of his enemies for the last time.

A strange silence then ensued where fear and relief seemed to wait their turn to see which direction events would now unfold.

"They've gone."

The stranger turned round to face Michael, who stood like a judge beside him, keen to see how well his student had learned from his earlier demonstration.

"Come on then. Show me."

"What did they say?"

"Never mind about them. Let's see your rice."

Presenting his 'teacher' with the plate of cooked rice, the stranger waited for Michael's verdict as he stuck a fork into the mountain of food and took a bite for himself.

"What's it like?" the stranger asked, impatiently

Michael was poker-faced for a moment or two as the stranger found it impossible to read his feelings on the dish he'd prepared.

"Too much salt for starters. And what did I tell you about the rice? If it's moist it's cooked. If it's dry it's ... "

"Fucked."

"But. You know what? This isn't too bad for a first go under difficult situation."

The stranger felt gratified by the half-formed compliment to a small degree but wanted to prove he could do better and so he fired up the wok range once again and started from scratch, this time with Michael watching over him to correct any potential errors.

"You're taking this one home with you so make it better than the last."

Michael smiled and patted the stranger on the back.