It was raining heavily.  A car drove past Henry Chinwap, splashing a shower of rainwater out of the gutter and soaking his shoes. Henry didn’t notice. He strode purposefully with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched and head down. The bright streetlights were replaced by an enveloping darkness as Henry entered the alley. He took a quick glance back over his shoulder to be sure he wasn’t being followed. He’d broken out in a cold sweat and wiped away the perspiration on his forehead with the back of his coat sleeve. The air in the alleyway was thick and stifling, full of dust, filth and the smell of rotting vegetables. There was none of the immaculate cleanliness of the city streets that good citizens held themselves to. Henry felt a chill of excitement and anticipation run up his spine. He knew it was wrong, but it just tasted so good.
        Henry approached a door, hidden behind a rusting sheet of corrugated iron. Moving the metal covering to one side, he knocked twice, bruising his knuckles on the heavy wooden door. As he stood, kissing his hand, a hatch in the doorway opened and a large, bearded face with small, dark, mistrustful eyes glared out at him.
        “Password?” said the face.
        “Co..co..cocoa beans,” said Henry, the words almost sticking in his throat.
        “Are you sure?”
        “Yes. I like hot chocolate.”
    
Henry heard the scraping of metal locks being released from within, and the door swung open.  A large, intimidating man materialised from inside, blocking the entire doorway with his body. He looked one way, and then the other up the alley, before moving to one side so Henry could enter.
       Henry walked inside and followed a strip of neon lights down a dust-encrusted wooden staircase. His legs shook under him as he tried desperately to maintain his composure.
        At the bottom of the stairs he followed a dark, narrow corridor. Rusty pipes dripped water down from the ceiling into stagnant pools. Henry could barely see in the darkness. He pressed one hand against the wall to keep him in a straight line. The smell he hungered for entered his nostrils for the first time. It strengthened his resolve, causing him to walk faster. He passed rooms filled with discarded items from years gone by, gathering mould. Step by step the smell was getting stronger. He could feel the heat increasing. Lust drove him on.
    
Suddenly, the smell of burnt fat intensified dramatically. The hairs on his arms stood up. He breathed the smell deep into his lungs so that the sickly odour could flow through him. It was the smell of dissent, the smell of freedom. His mouth began to water. His penis almost stiffened from excitement, but it had been years since it had last worked properly.
        At last he came to the room of his own personal sin. It was a large, open, warehouse-sized room, filled with stalls and dealers. There was a cacophony of noise as people went feverishly about their business.
    
Before each stall was a price list, showing all kinds of illegal food, from beef burgers to lamb bhunahs. The dealers were invariably shifty-looking individuals. They hunched themselves over grills, rarely looking up from their work except to give a toothless grin to prospective customers. Each of them wore a grease-stained apron, caked in years of fat. What little flesh they left exposed was covered in burn marks, tattoos or other scars.
        The dealers made a great deal of money from their trade but took a huge risk as well. If caught, they would be fined heavily and would serve a prison term for their crime. This meant the dealers had to keep on the move to escape detection and so the location of such feeding dens would change from week to week.
        The food itself wasn’t cheap. The prices reflected the risks the dealers took. Henry had heard of a big-time butcher who had been sentenced to seven years imprisonment for his illegal meat ring.
      
Henry Chinwap's first awareness that a black market for illegal foods even existed happened at a work party. The party was a gathering of estate agents from the local sector.  He’d been standing alone in a corner, trying to avoid speaking to anyone, when a well-dressed man approached and introduced himself as Rolph Sines. They engaged in idle chatter about where they worked, what lines they were in and whether it had been a good year, before Rolf began to talk of the black market. It was a common topic of conversa-tion; all who spoke of it condemned it fervently, relaying stories to one another of torn families and social outcasts.
        Rolf had been speaking to Henry for approximately ten minutes when it happened:
        “Fancy a hot dog? I know where to get one.”
        Henry was so surprised he almost dropped his carbonated water. He wasn’t sure what to say. He tried to think quickly. Should he or shouldn’t he? Rolf was obviously waiting on an answer.
        Henry was bored of being such an ordinary, dull man. His life had a distinct lack of excitement. He had recently decided that he needed to take more chances. But this was a real risk. He’d been thinking of something more along the lines of wearing a red tie to work instead of his usual grey, not breaking the law. This was an opportunity, but the sort that could get him into a lot of trouble.
        After a long pause, Henry whispered an almost inaudible “yes.”
        “Okay, meet me at Minor and Third tomorrow at six.”
        And with that, Rolf had disappeared into the throng of estate agents.
    
That night, Henry had lain awake beside his wife, contemplating whether he should meet Rolf the next day or just forget about the whole thing. Curiosity got the better of him and he decided to take the chance.  
   
                             ***
The state tightly controlled what people ate, drank, sniffed and injected. Each citizen had their own food card with which to buy goods at the stores. Fat, sugar and salt intake was limited to very small doses. The state wanted a race of fit citizens, not fat slobs who could hardly get up from their sofas. The regime had been introduced in 2031 to help combat obesity, which was a heavy burden upon the already overworked health system. People could not be trusted to look after themselves, so the state had to do it for them. Each citizen was also expected to exercise on a regular basis and had to pass a fitness test once a month. Failure to pass these tests incurred serious financial penalties; in severe cases, a prison term.
  
                             ***  
The next day, Henry stood on the corner of Minor and Third. He had walked there for fear that taking a taxi after work might have attracted attention. He looked nervously from side to side, stepping from one foot to the other.
        Rolf arrived at three minutes after six. He walked straight past Henry without acknowledging him. Henry got the impression that he was meant to follow.
        Henry was a few paces behind when Rolf took a sharp left down an alley. Henry followed quickly, not wanting to look up in case he saw someone he knew.
    
That had been Henry’s first foray into the sordid dealings of the black market trade (or junk as it was also known). The meeting with Rolf on Minor and Third had taken place three days before. And now, here he was, back again. He felt an insatiable desire to ‘chase the meat.’ He’d tried to fight against the impulse but the fat had won. Henry was weak; he’d known it for years. His wife bullied him at home. His colleagues bullied him at work. They regarded him as a loser. The only reason his wife didn’t leave him was because she didn’t want to sully her name with a third divorce.
        Henry felt addicted to the food but he didn’t want to stop.  It was his rebellion, his way to prove to himself that he was tough, a risk-taker, a real man. So here he was again. The hall of depravity was before his eyes and he loved the feeling it gave him. There was every type of illegal food he could imagine: burgers, hotdogs, bacon sandwiches, pizza slices, fried chicken, calzones, chips, the list felt endless. It was also possible to wash down these delights with a sugar-packed soda or even a bottle of ice-cold beer.
        A man in a long, black trench coat nudged Henry in the elbow. Henry spun round and was confronted with an open jacket. Hanging out for all to see was the finest selection of chocolate bars he had ever laid eyes on. 
        “Can I interest you in a Twix bar?” asked the shaggy-haired dealer.
        “Erm.” Henry stammered.
        “Bounty?”
        “Well.”
        “No, no. I can see it on you. You’re a Mars man. Am I right? I’m rarely wrong, you know.  Bit of a talent I have. Normally I charge $3,000 for such a premium bar but as  you have an honest face, I will let you have     
    
  
    
(top)

 it for $2,000. What do you say, guv?”
        “I’m not really after chocolate.”
        “NOT AFTER CHOCOLATE! Are you mad? It’s a taste sensation!”
        The dealer came closer to Henry and whispered in his ear. “It’s an aphrodisiac, you know.”
        “Is it?”
        “Put a bit of lead in the old pencil.”
    
Henry’s curiosity was aroused. It had been a long time since he had performed his duty as a husband. He could do with all the aphrodisiacs he could get his hands on. The dealer put in a last comment, trying to close the deal.
        “So what do you say? It’s king-size you know. You won’t find a fun-size bar on me. No better value to be found.”
        “I’ll take one.” He tried to sound sure and decisive about his decision.
        The dealer produced a rectangular object, about a centimetre thick and no bigger than a library card. Henry pressed his thumb down on the surface, marvelling at the sophisticated credit machine, which seemed out of place in such a backward environment. On his first visit, with Rolf, he had been half-expecting to pay in crumpled-up dollar bills.
        “Thanks, guv,” said the dealer, handing him the bar. “Enjoy.”
        Henry looked down, admiring his purchase.  My wife is in for a surprise tonight, he thought. He put the bar safely in his jacket pocket and looked up. The dealer was nowhere to be seen.
    
Henry’s attention was once more attracted to the stalls. The last time he had been here he’d eaten a hot dog with what Rolf had described as ‘the works’ on it. He could still remember the taste, the racing of his heart, licking the ketchup and mustard that had oozed out onto his fingers. It had been one of the best experiences of his life, certainly a lot better than his wedding night. He knew what he wanted now: a burger. A big, fat, succulent burger—a Quarter-Pounder. 
        Henry strolled over to a stall, trying to look casual. He could feel his legs shaking under him. The nerves had returned but it gave him a strange kind of excitement. The dealer was oblivious to Henry’s presence. His attention was focused on the meat. Every once in a while he would scrape at the grill with a metal spatula to remove the blackened fat-residue. Henry was used to being ignored.
        The price for a quarter pounder with cheese was $8,000—two days wages. It was worth it though, every last cent.
        “A quarter pounder with cheese, please.” Henry felt he sounded confident. Just a regular Joe in a roadside burger joint, like he had seen in the old movies.
        The dealer didn’t reply. He just nodded and carried on with what he was doing. Henry waited in anticipation.
        The dealer took out a bun, divided it in two halves and placed them face down on the grill.
        “Onions?”
        “Yes please.”
        “Ketchup and mustard?”
        “Both.”
        Henry could feel the confidence flowing through him. He’d show those saps at work that Henry Chinwap wasn’t to be messed with.
     
The dealer took up one half of the bun, placed it in a paper wrapper and flipped the burger on top. He then opened a metal tin, took out some onions with a pair of tongs and placed them on the burger. Henry’s mouth began to water. The dealer reached down and tossed up two plastic bottles into the air: one red, one yellow. He caught them with the nozzles facedown over the burger. Then, with an expert squeeze, a stream of sauce poured out. It was one of the most beautiful things Henry could remember seeing in his life. The dealer put down the bottles, took up the spatula and with a little flick of the wrist the top half of the bun was in place.
        “That will be $8,000,” said the dealer, a slightly menacing tone to his voice.
        Henry paid and the dealer put the bun on the counter. Henry looked once more at the burger before reaching out with a trembling hand. He was just about to pick it up when he heard a commotion behind him.
     
Henry turned and froze. His heart started to race and he could feel the sweat coming. All his newfound confidence ebbed from him. He became, in an instant, the old Henry Chinwap.
        Dealers were running in all directions. Officers in police uniforms were flooding into the room; grabbing anybody they could get their hands on. Henry was frozen to the spot, unable to move. The burger he’d so longed for was still on the counter, taunting him. He felt like crying but the tears didn’t have a chance to come.
        Two officers approached him, emanating authority.
        “That burger yours?” inquired one of the officers, a mocking, smug smile upon his lips.
        Henry didn’t reply
        “Search him.”
     
The younger of the two officers set about frisking Henry’s body. He pushed Henry up against the counter, arms out and legs spread. The burger was right under his nose. He could smell it, almost taste it, but not quite.
        “Ah-ha!” said the officer, excited as a schoolboy on Christmas day. He pulled the Mars bar out of Henry’s pocket. “Busted!” He stared Henry in the eyes. Henry avoided his gaze. “You have the right to remain silent…”
    
A week later Henry was in court.
       “Henry Chinwap.”
       Henry stood up. “You stand here, charged with the crime of purchasing two illegal Class C products, with the intent to consume. How do you plead?”
        His lawyer had advised him to plead guilty. If he did so he would receive a milder sentence and as it was nearly lunchtime, the judge would view any delay as a personal affront to his position and authority.
        The dealer, who had been judged before Henry, had received a two-year jail sentence and a six-month educational course in the dangers of fat, not to mention a hefty fine. 
        Henry held his head low in humility.  “Guilty, your honour.”
        “I hereby sentence you to a fine of $150,000 and a six-week fat-education course. Next!”
        As Henry left the courtroom he heard the judge's booming voice call out, “David Pringle.”
    
Once outside, Henry breathed a sigh of relief. He’d gotten off lightly, a lot more lightly than he had with his wife, who had ranted and raved at him for days, saying he had brought shame on the family name and that she could hardly show her face in polite company anymore. After three days, she had shut-up and hadn’t spoken to him since. He was grateful for that small detail. ‘It was almost worth it just to shut her up’ he’d told himself.
        At work, he’d been called in to see his boss, who told him that he should lose his job for what he’d done, but seeing as his and Henry's wife were bridge partners, he would let the infringement go on this occasion. Nonetheless, he was quite explicit that he couldn’t save Henry’s neck if anything like this was to happen again. Henry’s work-colleagues didn’t speak to him anymore, not that they had before. When they walked past him in the corridor, they gave him a wide berth. He had the slightest suspicion that they were afraid of him now, that in some way his infringement of the law scared them and gave him a respecta-bility that he’d never had before.
    
It was a bright, sunny day and children were playing in the park, opposite the courthouse. A light breeze blew through the leaves on the trees. It was the perfect day for a walk along the promenade to take a fat-free ice cream and watch the seagulls circle overhead. Even the seagulls had become healthier after the government’s ‘Zero Tolerance to Fat’ campaign. But Henry wanted none of this.
        There was only one thing he longed for and that was to chase the fat. He’d heard a rumour that there was an illegal grill down on Bazen Lane, and it was with a newfound confidence and determination that he set off in that direction. He was going to have his burger and nobody was going to stop him.  
    
    
                    About the Author
     
        Daniel Greenhalgh is in his thirties, an Englishman, born on the Isle of Wight in the south of England.  For the last seven years, he has lived in beautiful Norway with his beautiful wife.  He completed a master’s degree in political science at the University of Trondheim (NTNU) in 2011, and is working for the rural research department, translating academic papers from Norwegian to English.
        He has been writing stories sporadically since the age of ten and is in the process of trying to finish his first novel length work, which has been more than eight years in the making.
        He has had two short stories published, a short story made into a radio play, and a letter published in Time Magazine.
        “The Black Market” was first published
in Issue 6 (Summer 2007) of Outercast Magazine.