– but he was laughing as he’d said it. Maybe he was just taking the fucking mick. Like always. The fucker.)
Hang on…who was that…that Russian geezer they’d called a prophet who actually had sex with just about everybody? And Boney M wrote a song called Ra-Ra-Rasputin all about his various pranks and everything?
Wasn’t he notorious (didn’t they mention it somewhere in the lyric?)? And when they shot him dead, didn’t he keep on getting up again? Like Freddie Kruger? Didn’t he just keep on rising? Like Jesus or something?
Don’t remember Mother Theresa pullin’ any stunts like that –
An’ if she did the papers would’ve been full of it, ’cuz Kane says The Pope owns the media –
Or is that the Mafia?
Uh…
Hold on a sec…
Did everybody notorious always end up getting wasted?
Couldn’t you be something plain and simple like a notorious doctor (if you hadn’t killed a patient? What about the bloke who created the first test-tube baby? Did he qualify?)? A notorious priest (if you hadn’t messed with a choirboy)? Could you be a notorious…a notorious sweetheart? Yes?
No. It didn’t sound right. A notorious flirt, maybe.
Kelly frowned and tucked in her skirt so the wind wouldn’t lift it and show off her thighs. It was a little short –
Should’a thought of that
– and the fabric was rather flimsy (for something supposedly military
– although she’d never yet seen anyone wearing a mini-skirt in a situation of mortal combat. Except for Lara Croft –
Tank Girl
That pretty cow in Alias…
– and she always did okay).
Kelly was sitting on a wall outside the Elwick Road Villas. It was a high wall facing a main road in Ashford’s town centre. Her brother, Jason, had taught her how to climb it (before they’d put him away. Joyriding. His thirteenth formal offence –
Aw…
Unlucky for some, eh?).
Jason always knew the best route and the shortest cut (it was a fancy wall, built from some kind of rock –
Limestone?
Granite?
– there were bits where you could find a hand-hold and a foot-hold. Where you could pull yourself up).
Kelly took another bite of her celery. A car honked its horn at her. She didn’t look towards it, merely raised her middle finger –
You twat
– and pulled her hood down lower.
Yeah. Notorious slut –
Stop thinkin’ about it
Jason was her middle brother. Jason Broad. Twenty-one last Thursday. Inside for three years solid. Served eight months already. Father of four (two different mothers). At school Billy Sloane – Sloaney – had called him queer; Jase broke his arm in three different places (the canteen, the corridor, the playing fields) and no one – but no one – could ever seriously question his masculinity after that.
Had a heart of gold. He really did. Always took care of her (once shat on the bonnet of the car of a teacher she hated –
Jap car –
Hyundai –
Mr Whitechapel –
Fuckin’ Northerner).
Jason was loyal –
Bottom line
– and you couldn’t put a price on loyalty (as her dad always used to say –
Before he ran off to Oldham with the daughter of that pig who ran the chippie…
To get the police involved!
She was sixteen next birthday – and a slag – everybody knew it
The whole family had been barred from the shop, after –
Dad’s legacy –
I mean we were hurtin’ too, weren’t we?
No decent chippie within a 2-mile radius…
– until Jason finally put the wind up them, and they moved to Derby.
The new people were definitely much better – better batter, her mum said; crispier. And they were cheaper –
Didn’t have no teenage kids –
Not that it really mattered any more, now Dad was out of the picture).
Nope. You couldn’t put a price on loyalty. Kelly cleared her throat (the celery was rather stringy) –
I’ll say as much to Beede when the bugger finally gets here…
‘Excuse me.’
Kelly frowned.
‘Excuse me.’
She glanced up. A young woman was standing to her left, next to the entrance gate. She looked vaguely familiar.
‘What?’
‘Are these your dogs?’
The woman indicated, haughtily, towards two large lurchers which were collapsed on the pavement directly
