Free Monkey Wrench by Liza Cody Page A

doesn’t stand there arguing, making you feel like a class A futtock.
    On the down side, though, a dog can’t make you a bacon sandwich.
    I really fancied a bacon sandwich after all that training and aggravation, but I didn’t have any bacon in the Static. And even if I did it wouldn’t have been much use because I didn’t have any bread either.
    I let the dogs out, and they barged through the gate the way they always do. Ramses first. Lineker tries to get in the lead, but Ramses has a better sense of position and won’t be budged. Ramses knows his place. He is top dog when it’s a contest between him and Lineker, but I am top dog when it’s between him and me. Simple. Life’s so simple for a dog – do your job, get fed, go to sleep. Nobody expects anything more. I wish I was a dog sometimes. Especially now when I’m narked and hungry. I’ve got everyone on my back, and no bacon.
    â€˜Lucky for some,’ I said. The dogs were snuffling around, bumping into my legs, making sure I was who I used to be.
    â€˜You always got me to look out for you and feed you,’ I said. ‘Who’ve I got?’
    â€˜What’s the matter?’ Ramses sneered in my head. ‘Going soft are you?’
    â€˜Try me,’ I said. ‘Go on, try me.’
    He gave me the eye for a couple of seconds and then he turned his back and went off to inspect the gate. That Ramses! If he can’t face me down he ignores me.
    â€˜If you could make a bacon sarnie you’d be perfect,’ I yelledafter him. But he just walked away. So I decided to go to the caff on Mandala Street. They make an ace bacon sarnie there. What they do is fry the bacon crisp, and then they fry the bread on one side in the bacon fat. That way the bread is squishy on the outside but it’s hot and crisp and salty on the inside next to the hot crisp bacon. Magic.
    It made my mouth water just thinking about it, and by the time I got to the caff I was so hungry I asked for three.
    After the second one I felt better. I was just about to crunch into the third when The Enemy walked in.
    This is what she does – she walks in as if she knows I’m here all along, like I’ve got a collar on, and she stands for a minute looking round, making sure everyone’s behaving proper. And then she comes over to where I’m sitting like we’ve got an appointment or something, which we haven’t. She comes over like she owns the place, head up, shoulders back, eyes open. Typical polizei.
    â€˜Want another tea?’ she said. No ‘How-do, what a surprise seeing you here.’ No ‘Mind if I join you?’ Nothing like that. Just ‘Want another tea?’
    â€˜If you’re buying,’ I said. And I got my laughing-gear round the third sandwich. Even The Enemy, ‘I’m-in-charge’ Anna Lee, can’t spoil a good bacon sarnie.
    â€˜Doing anything tonight?’ she said.
    â€˜Who’s asking?’ I said. See, she never comes straight out with stuff. She doesn’t say, ‘I’ve got a job for you tonight, Eva, are you free?’ She always asks her bloody questions first, like it’s an interrogation. Polizei always do that. They ask you a question and they don’t tell you why they want to know. You got to guess. And you got to hope to buggery you guessed right.
    The bloke behind the counter brought the tea, and she grabbed her mug with both hands. That’s another thing she always does. She laces her fingers round the mug like she’s freezing – which might make sense on a cold night out in the open, but it just looks stupid in a stuffy caff on Mandala Street.
    â€˜Why are you so prickly tonight?’ she asked.
    â€˜Why are you so nosy?’
    â€˜Do you want a job?’
    â€˜Why? You got one?’
    She sighed and stared at me over her tea mug. I was getting under her skin. I grinned.
    She said, ‘Why don’t you ever