on the crossbar of a bicycle. “Come here!” she snapped.
Ravuth approached the grimy-faced girl who glared at him. Although she looked younger and smaller than Ravuth, looking into her eyes sent a cold chill down his spine.
“Why are you not with the others? Where is your village?” she snapped
Ravuth trembled, and with his hands together, pleaded, “I’m very sorry, I was left behind.”
The girl glared at Ravuth. “Follow me,” she snapped and got off her bike to turn it around.
Ravuth felt terrified and saw four more Khmer Rouge approaching on bicycles. He panicked, took the machete from his waistband, and hacked at the girl’s arm with all his might. The girl could not react to protect herself as she struggled with the bicycle’s handlebars. She squealed in pain as the blade tore deep into her flesh, hitting bone. She dropped the pistol and Ravuth pushed her away from the bicycle, stuffed his machete into his waistband, got on her bike, and peddled across hardened paddy fields. Heading towards the Cardamom Mountains and the safety of the jungle, bullets whistled past him as he peddled for his life.
Peddling for what seemed like an eternity, and no longer hearing gunshots, Ravuth stopped at the outskirts of the jungle, pushed the bike into the foliage, and hid behind a clump of trees. He peered out to see if he could see his pursuers. Ravuth saw four small dots in the distance, still heading towards him. He had a good head start but knew that he must get to safety within the dense foliage. Ravuth ran through the jungle, finding small tracks that he followed until he got into thick, rugged, impassable terrain.
‘They would never find me now,’ he thought and ran into the dense undergrowth.
Exhausted, Ravuth had been running through this unfamiliar section of the jungle for over three hours. Coming into a clearing with a thick treetop canopy and a little light penetrating through, he hid there, knowing he would be safe and could spot any pursuers, he sat at the base of a giant Dipterocarp tree on the lookout.
Ravuth stayed there for two days, living off the bountiful vegetation surrounding him. Realising that he had eluded his pursuers, he tried to find his village.
Ravuth felt safe in the jungle and trekked throughout the night while the moon shone overhead. He rested throughout the hot, humid days, trapping and foraging early evening until sunset.
Without directions to follow, unlike around his village, where he knew most of the tracks, trails, and familiar vegetation, he was lost. On the dawn of the tenth day, he came out from behind a row of trees onto flat open ground. An embankment dropped into a shallow valley, where he saw a large corral, surrounded by a wire mesh fence.
There were several rows of canvas bivouacs, along with a few military field canvas tents ranging in size. Ravuth saw people ambling around behind the fence; some groups were cooking on open wood fires. Ravuth could smell the aromas of Cambodian food, which made his mouth water.
‘This must be one of the places that the Khmer Rouge had been talking about. I wonder if my family’s here?’ he thought. Creeping around the wire mesh fence, he watched the camp’s inhabitants until reaching a gated area at the front. Ravuth felt exposed in the open, so he hid in a dark corner and observed.
Ravuth saw several military vehicles and soldiers come and go throughout the day. He noticed that the military personnel were not Khmer Rouge. They were older and dressed in camouflage uniforms. He went back and forth along the perimeter fence, watching the goings-on within the camp. He occasionally clambered back up the embankment to get a better view from the jungle but could see none of his family or his fellow villagers. Night fell, so he edged his way along the fence, found a clear spot, and using his hands, dug a small trench underneath the wire fence. He pulled himself through and crept towards the closest tent. Ravuth crouched down, looked ahead, picked out a spot and...
“Who are you?” said a man’s voice behind him in an unfamiliar language, “stand up, and turn around.”
Ravuth, enveloped in bright light from behind him and feeling terrified because he was unable to understand the man's instruction, he instinctively stood, spun around, and became dazzled by the light.
*Appendix
-Chapter Two-
The Baking Phenomenon
“The Baker of the Year Award goes to...,” the master of ceremonies announced and paused for effect as he glanced at the name written on the back of a gold-coloured card. “For the third consecutive year,” he faced the audience and smiled. “The pâtissier representing the Avalon Hotel,” he again paused and announced, “Mr Ben Bakewell!”
He applauded along with the audience in the plush Park Lane Hilton conference suite. Many cheered while a few mumbled as a man in an ill-fitting suit sauntered towards the stage.
“Well done Cake,” said the M.C. as the baker stepped onto the platform and shook his hand.
Although Cake had won this prestigious award three years in succession, he still felt awkward as he held up the small crystal effigy. His acceptance speech echoed those from previous years. “Thanks,” he mumbled into the microphone, blushed, farted, left the stage, and rushed over to the table to join his colleagues.
The awards ceremony was almost over, much to the relief of Cake. Several food critics were on the stage discussing the various dishes that won prizes. Cake loathed these events and considered the food critics’ idiots, incapable of boiling an egg and they didn’t belong in the industry. Even though he always received rave reviews from them. One described his *Avalon Nest Egg to be an explosion of flawless flavours creating an oral orgasm and said every dish Cake created tasted perfect.
However, Cake always felt they were average and considered his food lacked something, but unable to figure out what it was.
Cake arrived home at around 11:00 pm, after a long commute through the capital city. Jade had already arrived back from her five-day jaunt to Lincoln. Cake, excited to see her, wanted to find out how their bakery was progressing. He flopped into an easy chair in the living room while Jade fetched him a glass of wine, and they got cosy. He handed her the cheque for winning the competition and she smiled and showed him video footage of the work in progress.
Benjamin Bakewell, known as Cake for as long as he could remember, had an impeccable reputation within the culinary world. Every top chef and high-end dining establishment knew of Cake. He had held the top position as head pâtissier at the Avalon for three years. His signature cakes and pastries were the envy of every top chef, and not only unique in their preparation but also difficult to replicate. Many tried, but failed.
Cake was born on the outskirts of Louth, Lincolnshire, a rural farming town, forty-kilometres from Lincoln City. His family owned a 200-acre arable farm on the small town’s fringes, growing wheat, barley, and hops. His nickname, Cake, was because of his surname, Bakewell, and for his love of baking. He attended Grimoldby Primary School and while the other kids used their break time playing sport and recreation, he would be in the school canteen helping the school cooks.
Cake’s parents always knew he had an unusual sense. He could detect every ingredient of any dish and would add components he considered the dish lacking to enhance and elevate its flavour until his perfect palate found it acceptable. Cake would not eat nor handle meat, as the smell contained no fragrant aromas, and the texture felt grainy and rough, and the taste made him vomit. He tolerated certain seafood, but only if it was fresh and mildly flavoured, such as monkfish or scallops, to which he could add herbs and spices to disguise its fishy smell and taste. Nobody could understand this boy’s unusual gift, and it would be many years before anyone discovered the reason for his heightened sense of taste and smell. Only Cake could perceive how the world smelt and tasted to him, detecting odours and fragrances in the air. During his younger years at school, he used his unique talent to earn sweets and other goodies from his school chums by guessing what they had eaten for breakfast that morning from a whiff of their farts. This also became a handy party trick as he grew up.
Cake