54. The man who ate too much
The thing everyone in town knew about Jorvik, the one big thing, was how much he ate. Which was too much.
His former music, teacher now retired, the autistic young school leaver in the chemist, the rehabilitated anatomist flasher turned filler of pastries in the local bakery, knew one other only by sight, but were united. They agreed that Jorvik, from the old run-down house out by the woods, needed to ease back on the food.
And not a little.
Over long winters and short summers, as Jorvik’s size increased, so the population of the old run-down house dwindled.
His family first hinted, then insisted, and finally anguished over Jorvik’s shift from cherub to chubby to comfy then large, before his proud assault into the foothills of fat, where he showed no sign of slowing down. Mealtimes were noisy. The larder grew roomier. Even the family dog, Lucky, noticed decreasing levels of biscuits and bone in his bowl. He took to devouring his food at one sitting, rather than roll in the snow between courses.
Jorvik’s mother, a nervous pulse, grew weary of denying, then disputing, that Jorvik was fat. For a time, at the weekly market, she described her son as big boned. Then, grudgingly, hefty. Then, she stopped going in. As Jorvik shifted from pudgy youth into obese adult, she let her reins of motherhood fall slack, moving her lean and silent husband to an unpretty village far enough away that no one knew of, or at least commented on, her fleshy human balloon.
His father, it was said, had never left his home village before the move. Finding his voice bemoaning the ugliness of his new surroundings and the doltishness of his new neighbours, he found no friends. Within six months, he drowned his heart in wine.
Jorvik’s sister, who had on occasion denied her sisterhood when questioned by potential suitors, was the last of his blood to throw in the towel. She continued to launder his clothes right up to late last year. But as Jorvik moved beyond the confines of conventional clothing towards hessian sacks, she in turn washed herself of his girth.
Even Lucky ran off into the woods.
Fad diets, crash diets, no-meat diets, only-meat diets, yielded nothing. Gastric bands, hypnosis, liposuctions. All worked for less time than the predicted minimums. Shock videos of sad fatties, earnest documentaries about social stigma relating to eating disorders, nothing reduced his calorific intake. Before his parents left for the ugly village, Jorvik was the first attendee of the local fat camp to put on weight. His mother was too ashamed to cash the refund.
Like Jorvik himself, the truth was hard to get around.
He simply ate too much.
When all and sundry had exhausted their patience, Jorvik was left alone in the old run-down house by the woods. There, in his sister’s former room, he gazed at himself in the mirror, to see himself as others saw him.
And he saw something had to change.
For all his perceived faults, Jorvik did not consider himself a fool. He accepted that, as all the experts assured him, he had a decision to make. He could carry on his binging ways, which would surely drive him to an early, wide, grave, or he could change his habits and embrace the healthy lifestyle encouraged by relatives, teachers, chemists, and pie-fillers alike.
Not being a fool, Jorvik thought hard about the options he faced, as he ate a canister of herring, and half a dozen eggs with fried bread, as a cherry pie baked in the oven, for breakfast dessert. Waddling to the window, he pulled aside the blinds, and the saw the autistic young school leaver from the chemist running past on the fitness circuit around the woods, in a pale blue outfit designed for such a purpose.
He pictured an alternative future Jorvik, where, like everyone else in town, he was engaged in a life-affirming wellness quest for muscle tone, flexibility, and the whiff of spiritual harmony. He visualised this Jorvik, in his bright, tight, running shorts and top, an encouraging slogan on his garish running vest, exhorting others to purchase the brand, while trumpeting greater efforts to run further, jump higher, stretch farther.
He imagined himself posting on social media, lauding his own herculean efforts. Lecturing others to banish lard, sugar and carbohydrates, in favour of lean options, with low sodium and much greenery.
He pictured future Jorvik modelling the latest workout outfit, perhaps a size or two too small, to emphasise his taught abdominal muscles. An item of wearable tech to keep track of his heartrate and count the number of steps he had made. Possibly a headband.
The thought made Jorvik queasy, and not a little hungry. Smelling the readying cherry pie, he closed the blinds and armed himself with a spoon.
The next day, after a side of bacon, some agreeable beans, and a steak-filled pie from the bakery in town, he drew the blinds wide and saw the autistic young school leaver from the chemist, this time in a brand-new purple outfit.
One by one and occasionally in bunches, the townsfolk sprinted, ran, and jogged past his old, run-down house, in their perspiration-wicking sportswear. He tried to imagine how it would feel to be that thin.
The effort involved. The sweat. And the lack of food.
Hearing the microwave ping, heralding the steam pudding, he once again tucked the blinds away.
This pattern continued for days, weeks.
At last, on the final day of the month, Jorvik made his decision.
It came as a macaroni cheese warmed in the oven.
Jorvik considered every aspect relating to health, fitness, body image, size-shaming, and all the other things he read about in the media, or heard whispered on the streets of the town, as he crawled past in the local taxi, having exceeded the capacity of practical leg use.
Once more, alternative Jorvik visualised himself in bright sportswear. The low-cal clothes, the low-cal drink, and the low-cal friends.
Accepting compliments from his former music teacher. Swapping dieting tips with the autistic girl in the chemist. Shunning the handiwork of the rehabilitated pastry filler.
It was too much. It was too little.
And so, Jorvik helped himself to delicious macaroni cheese. With garlic bread. Helped down with ice cream, to settle his tummy.
Jorvik felt good after his life decision. After years of cheap and expensive abuse from amateurs and experts, he knew what he wanted and was comfortable about future Jorvik.
He had taken back control.
That evening, to mark the occasion, he treated himself to a special casserole of pork, chicken and venison, along with sausages with beef dripping potatoes, along with a sponge cake and biscuits, along with the last of his sister’s home-made jam.
Awaking from a short, satisfied nap, on the former army couch that could still bear his weight, Jorvik belched, and made his way to ablute the contents of his stomach.
Which is where his problems started.
Up until that point, he had little problem getting around the old, run-down house. A single storey, there were no embarrassing steps to negotiate, or fall straight through. Though he no longer used the bath, for reasons of entry, exit, and girth, Jorvik glided over the robust flooring with little more than a mild sweat. But that day, en route to the toilet, Jorvik found himself unable to squeeze through the bathroom door.
For years he had approached doorways side on, slowly inching his way until more of his girth was inside than out, then completing the action with a mild push. But this day, before he got anywhere close to fifty per cent of his gut through the entrance, it was clear there was no way in. Indeed, there was only one answer to his predicament. He would have to shit in the sink.
Even for Jorvik, this was humiliating. For the first time, he was glad that his family and Lucky had left and would not bear witness. Worse still, he felt the stainless steel of the sink buckle slightly as he balanced uncertainly on the edge, his thick thighs dangling.
The sink incident was a personal low, one that would make a deeper impression on Jorvik than his own arse had made on the stainless steel.
As he clawed and mushed his waste down the kitchen sink, Jorvik thought again about his life choices. The wellness, the workout clothes, the healthy alternative he had considered in his sister’s mirror. The answer came quickly.
He resolved to get serious about eating.
Decision made, Jorvik applied himself with steely resolve. Those who mocked his fatty ways as some kind of moral weakness had no comprehension of his true nature. His ways may not be their ways, but they were what he had. The essence of true Jorvik.
The next morning, he took his last trip into town. It had been some time since he had ventured into the chemist, the bakery, or anywhere near the marketplace where his former teacher had a stall selling musical scores.
Everyone who saw him that morning was polite to his elongated face. But, among themselves, they muttered in low registers about how enormous Jorvik was, like some kind of onshore whale. They whispered pity for Jorvik’s poor mother. Not a few commented that his father was blessed by the gods for never witnessing how large his son had become. His former music teacher raised the fortunes of Lucky. No one recalled his sister.
Jorvik either did not hear the sly words or did not care.
Winching himself from the taxi, he was careful to stabilise his bulk to counteract a fresh fall of snow. Satisfied, he waddled into the chemist, where he bought a compact collapsible sack, designed for travellers to foreign lands. Then, inching his way along the street, Jorvik emptied the shelves of the butcher, the baker, and the fishmonger. He bought up stock on every food stall his legs would manage, the café’s window display, the minimarket. The village had never witnessed a spree quite like it.
Only his former music teacher complained, as Jorvik neglected to visit her stall of musical scores. This was an omission he shared with much of the town, who recalled being wrapped across the knuckles with a wooden baton. But Jorvik’s reasoning was different. There is negligible calorific value in consuming paper, musical or otherwise.
Though Jorvik’s credit was good, and no shopkeeper refused his legal tender, his spree caused a local shortage of fresh foodstuffs, which lasted several days. Being winter, this depravation only sharpened grumblings about Fat Jorvik from the old run-down house out by the woods, though in truth by now he was neither fat, nor obese, but truly gigantic. Jorvik was rounder than any human any villager had ever seen, even those who had travelled to far lands.
Returned home, Jorvik was exhausted. Yet he did not lie down to replenish this strength. Though it was barely lunchtime, Jorvik hastened, as best he could, to shut the blinds in every room. And got to work.
He began with two dozen oysters, au naturel. He had planned this, to concentrate hard on the natural flavours and textures of the bivalves, one last time. If the fishmonger had had a third dozen in stock, Jorvik would have devoured that too. Instead, he ate fish, steak, and chicken. Gristle, bone, and fins. Plums, peaches, and raspberries. Cakes, ice creams, and crumbles.
And then he started again, this time with soup. Because there were no more oysters.
The next day was similar. And the next.
The feast went on for some days.
Disdaining sleep except as a natural by-product of his labours, Jorvik ate night and day under the dimming bulbs of the old, run-down house. He was disciplined in his labours. He did not glimpse at the runners heading for the woods, nor attempt any bathroom functions, beyond those he performed on the now-bowed kitchen sink.
The house took on a rancid, sweet odour. Yet still Jorvik ate.
It took a man of even Jorvik’s appetite several days to run supplies down to the level he planned. One with food enough to fill a single bag, yet light enough for an overweight man to carry.
Opening the collapsible sack to its widest, he dropped the remaining contents of the fridge and larder into its stretched mouth.
By now Jorvik’s efforts had curved and smoothed his body to the point that his bones were buried deep in layers of fat. Though his legs were still useable, the pressure on the muscles and ligaments were immense, and required rest every few steps, even with walking sticks.
This caused the only flaw in his plan, meaning he would not be able to travel as far as he had hoped. Jorvik did not shrug his shoulders, as to do so would have eaten up valuable energy.
Instead, he hoisted the sack, with difficulty, onto his curved back. Then he unlatched the front door of the old house on the edge of the woods and set out towards its heart.
Unknown to Jorvik, this was the same path, or at least a route very similar to, the one Lucky had taken.
Jorvik crunched across the icy forest for hours, and what to him seemed like miles, though, in truth, he covered no more than a few hundred metres. Although as any of the runners from the town could have told him had he bothered to ask, this moderate distance was easily enough to become lost and disorientated in the woods, particularly in winter.
At last, as night began to fall, Jorvik paused for supper.
Although his meal was pleasant and meant his load would be lighter the next day, his night was uncomfortable. Though insulated by fat, he had not taken into account the effort on his heart to pump blood to the extremities of such a large circumference. Jorvik rapidly cooled.
Before long, Jorvik became very cold, and attempted to use his compact collapsible sack as a shelter. His sack was not designed for winter habitation. Before long, he was freezing.
Which was when it began to snow.
Light flakes at first, then heavy.
Recalling that people of the far north were adept at building habitations from raw snow, Jorvik dug into the fresh fall with his puffy hand, using his collapsible bag. As he toiled, he chewed on what food he could, to sustain his efforts and plug his hunger.
The faster the snow fell, the faster he dug, the faster the snow fell.
At length, the digging became harder. Jorvik imagined, for he was not a fool, that he had struck into the soil itself, though now it was dark, and he could scarcely tell snow from earth.
Jorvik was not disheartened by the snow, the earth, or his girth. Quite the contrary. For the first and only time, he was taking full control of his life. If any of the town’s inhabitants had witnessed Jorvik that night, they would have reported that he dug with something approaching joy.
Still the snow fell, until it became a blizzard. Jorvik dug, but slower. Then slower still.
Jorvik continued in this manner, for some time.
Springtime came, and the first of the runners from town returned to the forest, where the light travelled further at this time of year. The boldest enough to venture the few hundred yards was the autistic young school leaver, recently dismissed from the chemist for embezzling funds to fuel her passion for the latest sportswear. With time on her hands, she began her runs early, and had no fear of tracks, virgin or otherwise.
It was she who found Jorvik, though her initial impression was not of a man at all, but a hybrid plant of some descript, rising vertically from the ground as if it had been planted there to await the spring.
Straight away, she was familiar with the nearby compact collapsible bag. For in all her days at the chemist, she had only ever sold one. Trotting closer, she moved to the far side of what she still imagined might be a hybrid plant, which was the way the dead body faced.
At first, she did not recognise Jorvik. For he was no more than skin and bone alone.
But she did know his smile.
Being of a completist nature, the young school leaver was struck by the lack of bones relating to the body below the hip.
Sure enough, a short distance from his remains, the bones of Jorvik’s right leg lay in a neat pile, beneath a laburnum tree. Unable to corral the full structure into the compact bag, she returned these bones to the town, for purposes of identification, and to claim any subsequent reward.
Eschewing the chemist, she enlisted the help of the first responsible adult she encountered, a former music teacher who was the first to set up her stall that morning. The former music teacher produced a printer’s loupe, which she bought to identify counterfeit musical scores, to study the largest bone. Though it was the first time she had used the loupe, she uncovered evidence of extensive gnawing on Jorvik’s femur.
There followed an extensive discussion concerning rats, carrion, and the likelihood or otherwise of engaging the younger woman as an apprentice saleswoman of musical scores.
At length, the former music teacher grew tired of listening to the pitch, and the former chemist assistant’s stomach began to rumble, so they set off for the bakery in search of breakfast.
In the queue they encountered a range of townsfolk, none of whom, it transpired, could shed any authoritative light on the teeth that scored Jorvik’s bones. For the time it takes to sell an oven full of pies, it seemed the culprit would remain a town mystery, until the rehabilitated anatomist flasher turned filler of pastries appeared to restock the pie oven, and confirmed the marks as canine.
John AD Fraser writes stage plays and fiction. ‘Jesus of Tascott’ won the Judy Nunn Short Story award in 2025, published by Penguin Random House. Born in Scotland, he lives on the beautiful Fleurieu Peninsula in South Australia.