The first time the proprietor asked Jack the question he had answered, vaguely, that he just wanted to see her a bit upset. Looking back, Jack wished he had been more adventurous. Which was why he had come back to the store, and why he was disappointed to see the sign, barely visible through the grimy glass, telling him the shop had relocated.
 
‘Just my luck,' he thought, kicking the flaky, dirty cream paint of the door. When he had seen her and his supposed best friend together, he had immediately got in his car and driven into the city to find the shop again. That bastard, he thought. If he had know all along that Ben was the one, he would not have taken him into his confidence about his suspicions. He most certainly would not have taken the card from him, would not have gone to the dingy shop in the first place.            

"Bao Fou," the card Ben gave him read. "Solutions for problems."
 
He did not recognise the address written in pencil on the back of the card, and it had taken a seemingly endless tramp around the hot, dusty streets of the city centre to find it. Finally, almost hidden behind large, blue waste bins overflowing with empty food bags, stumps of vegetables and poultry carcasses, he found a dank alley that had the address on a barely decipherable sign. About twenty yards down was a small window and a simple, unadorned door.  

No bell sounded as he entered the shop. The air felt tight, drawn together. The room was lined with glass cases; each appeared to be filled completely with oddments, old rubbish. His eyes had not quite adjusted to the gloom so he had to look closely to see exactly what they contained. As he did, a Chinese man about the same age as Jack, wearing traditional black clothing pushed his way through multicoloured ribbons that lead to another room.            

"Hello," said the man, startling Jack upright. "You want help?"
 
"Er, I'm not sure," replied Jack tentatively. "A friend gave me your card, and said I should come to see you. He said you could sort me out something to help me with my problem."
 
"So. Your friend tell about us, so I know your position, and many like you. Only question in Bao Fou is how cruel do you want it?" asked the proprietor, leaning with both palms firmly planted on the glass topped cabinet that stood in between them. Jack saw the hands were wizened, like those of a much older man, bones showing through gossamer skin. "We can supply our customers with any level of distress or discomfort required. You simply tell me what that level will be, and I will recommend a remedy for you."
 
Clearly the shop was in business for one reason only, and Jack was relieved that he did not really have to explain himself.

"It's my wife," he began, but the proprietor put one gnarled hand up to stop him.
 
"Please. We need no explanation here in Bao Fou. We require only level of service. No more needed. Please tell."
 
"I'm not sure," began Jack. "I want to hurt her, but not really. I just want to see her upset that's all, make her cry a bit, you know, because, er..." He tailed off, but the proprietor nodded.
 
"Just one moment. See we have something for you, please, here." He came from behind the counter and Jack saw that he was shuffling as though he did not have the energy to lift his feet off the ground. When he got to one of the cabinets, on the wall furthest from the door, he put his hand into his pocket and took out a single key, which seemed to shine, even in the gloom. He put it into a tiny lock in the cabinet door. With some difficulty he twisted it, opened the door, and reached right in to the back and took out a small brown pill bottle.

"Here is solution," he said, holding out the bottle to Jack. "It solve problem for you. Wife upset great deal from this. Guarantee." He drew the last word out so it sounded almost gleeful. Jack looked at the bottle, puzzled by what he had been given. He shook it; there was only one pill in it.
 
"What's this?" he asked. "How can a pill help me out?"          
 
The proprietor had shuffled his way back behind the counter. "No question, please. Just put in drink, no taste. You will see."
 
"Okay," said Jack dubiously. "Right, what do I owe you?"
 
"Ah, price is arranged when you come back. You pay nothing now. How we do business, is on trust."
 
Jack thought it was not really a surprise that the business did not seem to be too successful if this was how they did it. He resolved to come back and pay though, and told the proprietor he would, if the pill worked.
 
"I know you will be back. Guarantee." With that, the proprietor had turned to go back through into the other room, laughing and waving one hand, dismissing Jack. Confused, Jack left the shop, and drove home. As he did, he became more curious about what the pill would do. His wife was having an affair and Jack wanted to punish her for it. How could a pill help?
 
He phoned Ben and asked, but Ben was not forthcoming. He thought it sounded as though Ben had someone with him, he could hear a woman's voice in the background, and put Ben's reticence down to that. Sometimes Ben could be unfeeling so Jack was not surprised. Later he would realise who the woman must have been.
 
When Helen returned, Jack offered her a cup of tea, into which he slipped the pill. She drank it, remarking on how sweet it was. Then she went blank for ten seconds, staring into nothing, before changing again. Her face became drawn, darkness appearing under her eyes, tears began streaming over her cheekbones.
 
"Oh my God, oh my God," she sobbed. "He can't be dead, it's not fair. Oh, my poor baby. Please don't leave me like this, not alone. It's not fair to leave me. Don't go, no you can't be dead."
 
As she spoke, Jack began to work out what the pill was doing. It was making her think someone or something was dead, someone or something she loved deeply. This must be the revenge, the solution he had been given in the Chinese store.
 
He sat watching her, as her anguish got worse, deep sobs wracking her body, heaving her. All the time she murmured about someone, or something, dying and not leaving her. This carried on for about five minutes, and Jack observed it, at once dispassionate but also completely involved. Then, suddenly, she seemed to break free of the fugue.
 
"Jack?" she seemed puzzled as much as anything. "What happened there? I feel all funny, like I fainted. Why is my face wet?"
 
And Jack understood completely how the solution worked. It gave him a view, a glimpse of the hurt on her face that was incredibly satisfying. Guarantee, he thought and almost laughed. 
 
"It's okay dear," he said gently. "You just went a bit vague for a while, but I don't think you fainted." She had recovered quickly, not remembering anything. Jack on the other hand could recall everything.
 
The next day, he had been unable to work. The thought of what he had seen his wife like, both gratifying and sickening, took over his concentration completely. He had phoned Ben to thank him on his way home but there was no answer. When he got home, he had seen the car in the driveway, the car of his best friend, and had entered the house quietly enough to hear the sounds from upstairs, sounds that masked any noise he made as he crept up to see through the crack in the door the two pale, entwined bodies on his bed, rapt faces he knew.
 
He left as quietly as he went in, unseen. Confusion hit him first, then resolve. He drove straight back to the city, where he found the shop closed and kicked the door in frustration. He bent down to look more closely through the window, cupping his hands about his head to stop any reflection. Inside he could see the cabinets were still there, but had been completely emptied. Clearly the shop had gone. On the sign advising of the relocation, he saw there was an address, one he again did not recognise. He made a mental note of it and again began to search the city. 
 
This time he found the address more quickly. It was in a part of the city more populated by the Greek community, down a small alley again, but this time there was no window. The door had a small hand painted sign saying simply "Bao Fou". It opened onto an uncarpeted stairway, leading up to the first floor. He went up, the wood groaning as he did.         
 
At the top of the stairs was another door with "push" on it. He went through and thought he could have been back in the shop. The room was virtually the same, cabinets lining the walls, brimming with stock of all descriptions. The Chinese man appeared again.  
 
"Hello. I say you come back. Guarantee, eh?" he had a pleased smile that Jack did not care for. "You like pill? It give you what you want?"
 
Jack had to admit that it had. He told the proprietor he had been pleased with the effect, but things had changed. Now he wanted something more, something that would last, cause a permanent scar.            
 
"You certain?" asked the proprietor, tilting his head to one side. "You want that cruel? We can supply, but it will cost, and you must be sure." As he looked at the proprietor, Jack could see the sadism in his eyes, the pleasure the man took from the pain he caused. He realised the man could afford to allow customers to walk away without paying as he knew they would be back.
 
"Yes," he said, his tongue sticking dryly to his mouth. "Please give me the most cruel, er, remedy you have."   

The proprietor simply said, okay, but in such as way as to ask the question again, to say ‘if you are really sure you want this.' Even so, he bent down to open a glass sliding door of the counter. Jack could see him reach in, moving a small wooden mask to get at the item he wanted. As he stood, it became clear to Jack what it was. He was to be given a Chinese chef's cleaver. He began to feel pricks of sweat on his forehead.
 
"This is most cruel," the proprietor said, waving and turning the cleaver like a child's plaything. "I say to customer ‘how cruel you want?' Only sometimes I see they want this. It is remedy for you I think."      
 
He then began to explain to Jack how the vengeance would work, leaving scars, but only in the mind of the person it was intended for. On no account should the customer handle the knife. Jack did not know whether it was magic he was being given, or some form of medicinal mind control. When he thought about the reaction Helen had to the pill though, he realised the cleaver was probably a more intense, barbarous version of it. He saw it as a parlour trick with sadistic intent. He also thought of the sweat shined bodies heaving on his bed, and told the proprietor he would take it.    
 
To prevent complications, the proprietor wrapped the knife delicately in yellowish gauze, to prevent Jack from touching it. Bundled up, the knife became a soft package, hiding its potential. He passed it across to him silently, before starting to turn away. He stopped though, and put a hand on Jack's arm. His spindly fingers bit into Jacks muscle like a claw.
 
"Remember, you must not touch this," he tapped the yellowed bundle. "You bring back here, then you pay. For both." Jack did not say anything, his voice lost. He simply nodded sharply, and pulled his arm away from the proprietor's grip. He left the shop, needing to hold the banister as he descended the stairs tremulously.
 
As he drove home, an urge rose in him to open the package and take the cleaver out. He could imagine himself doing it, gripping the handle as he sat in the queue of traffic, the thought of him cleaving into his own flesh becoming more appealing. He reached over and pulled back one layer of the ancient fabric. He picked it up and turned it over so he could unravel it further.
 
A horn blasted from behind him. He dropped the cleaver back onto the seat and looked up to see the traffic had moved on. He set off again, catching the flow of vehicles. As he held up a hand to acknowledge his error to the impatient driver, he could feel it itch, and he took hold of the steering wheel firmly. The feeling subsided as he drove.
 
When he got home, there was only his wife's car in the drive. This pleased him. He could enjoy the effects of his purchase twice. Once on his dear wife, and again on his buddy, his best friend. He reached over to pick up the cleaver, and instantly felt the itch in his hand. He wanted to open the cloth, to reach in, pick up the knife by the blade, to run its sharp edge along his palm.
 
He fought the urge and rushed into the house, putting the package down quickly in the kitchen. His wife was coming down the stairs, freshly showered hair wrapped in a towel, her gown loosely tied around her waist.
 
"Hi," she said, stretching up to kiss his cheek. "You're home early. Something wrong?"
 
He said there was nothing wrong, that he had been shopping for her. She smiled, but he could see she was concerned. He may not have noticed had he not seen them earlier.
 
"So, did you buy me anything then?"
 
"Yeah, come and have a look." He led her into the kitchen and pointed out the package. She looked at it strangely, as if he had failed. Just then there was a knock at the door. He told her not to look until he had answered it.
 
Opening the door he saw Ben, freshly watered as well, and he had to fight the desire to mention it. He also had to tell himself that this could be even better, both of them together, it would be poetic in a way.
 
"Hello Ben, what can we do for you?"
 
"Oh, nothing, just came round to say hello."
 
They went back into the kitchen, where Helen had turned the kettle on. "Hi Ben," she said, kissing him in the same way she had Jack. He could not wait any longer.
 
"Open your present then, love," he said to her. Ben asked what present, and Helen said, oh some old thing Jack's bought me. Jack gripped the work surface tightly as she opened the cloth parcel and took the cleaver out. Her first glance at Jack was asking what he was playing at, then her face turned into a snarl, one lip curling up.
 
"I know what this is," she said spitefully. "You think I can't handle it. That I'm incapable, no good in the kitchen. Little wifey, no good as a woman, can't look after her big man. You nasty sod. Well, I'll show you, watch..."
 
And she span the cleaver end over end, catching it by the handle.
 
"Helen," said Ben. "Watch what you're doing."
 
She did it again though, spinning it twice this time. Then again, more quickly, and again and again until the knife was a blur. Every time it landed with a small slap in her palm. She bowed to them both. Then she turned to Ben.
 
 "Ben, dearest. What do you care?" she said. "Let's face it, when you're with me I'm only a substitute for your precious friend, aren't I? Wouldn't you rather it was him? You can't have him so you fuck the next best thing?" Then she swung the cleaver at him, but he jumped back, crashing into the cupboards and she narrowly missed his chest.
 
"Now, wait a minute," he shouted, but Helen had swung again. She was too quick for him. Jack saw her leap forward and catch him on the side of his neck with the blade. He saw it sink in, saw the flesh underneath Ben's skin, white for an instant, then gushing red, down over the metal and onto Helen's hand.
 
Jack just stood there and watched, dazed by what he had seen, wrestling with the consequence of his anger. He realised though that some part of him was pleased, thinking ‘This is how cruel I want it'. He saw Helen pull the knife out of the wound and the blood begin to pulse, arcing out across the kitchen. He saw Ben's knees fold slowly, his body slump to the floor, the red pooling on the black and white tiles. 
 
"What do you think of that mister boring?" he heard her say. He looked up from the inert body of his former friend, and noticed her mouth had become a malevolent rictus. "Happy now?" He thought she sounded monstrous as she said it, and, becoming scared for himself, reached for the door. She was going to go for him, to cleave him like butter.
 
She didn't. Instead he saw her wipe the blood from the blade and look at her own reflection in it, her demonic smile duplicated on the smeared metal. He could see what she was thinking, and inside he struggled with what he had caused. It was not what he wanted at all. He could not allow her to hurt herself like she had hurt Ben. 
 
"Stop it, you can't do it, it's too much, I didn't want this," he shouted, lunging forward. He slipped, thinking he could hear a squeak as his shoes slashed through the blood. He managed to catch the cleaver, but it was by the handle and his fingers could not hold on as he fell to his knees. From his prone position, he could see Helen holding one arm out in front of her, the soft flesh inside her forearm facing upwards, the other hand raising the cleaver high above her head.
 
"No," he screamed, springing from the floor, grabbing her. His force slammed her back into the sink, and they fell. As they did, he span, reaching up to wrest the cleaver from her, but she held firm and he only pulled the blade towards himself as he landed underneath her, the handle jarring on the floor, wedging the blade into him, the sharp edge slicing deep into his round belly, splitting it open like a peach, a wide channel cut right through his shirt, into him, showing fat and flesh and guts. Rolling back to sit up, he looked down at the wound, letting go of the knife as he tried vainly to hold the two sides of the gaping hole together. His red-slicked fingers struggled to keep a purchase on the skin through the blue cotton.
 
His lifeblood draining quickly from him, he fell backwards so his head was jammed at an angle under a cupboard door. From there he saw the knife, lying bloodied on the clean floor. He looked across to see his wife, who was hugging Ben tightly, her head buried in his chest.
                                   
As he died, Ben stepped over to him and whispered in his ear. "Sorry about that, it was a bit more cruel than I asked for I suppose, but, hey, at least you know I'll look after her properly."