Free The Devil Rides Out by Paul O'Grady Page A

dangle from the side of my mouth and sucking my cheeks in. I peered at myself in the glass through hooded eyes. I looked ridiculous. The wig was fixed in the shampoo-and-set style that old ladies went in for when they got their hair done for half price on a Wednesday afternoon and it made me look like a skull who needed a shave. Still, I thought, admiring myself in the mirror, with a different style and the right make-up I reckon I could look halfway decent …
‘Sadie, you’re very quiet out there. What are you up to?’ Alistair shouted from the lav. ‘You’re not trying my wigs on again, are you?’ The raging torrent that had rumbled against the bowl was calming down into a light stream, heralding the fast-approaching end of Alistair’s marathon pee. I took the wig off and hung it on one of the hat pegs in the hall as I heard him pull the chain.
    ‘Ooh, I needed that,’ he said, coming out and looking around to see if I’d put the wigs away or dumped them on the floor. ‘What you been up to?’
    ‘Nothing,’ I replied, ‘I was just thinking.’

CHAPTER 4

Formosa Street
    W HAT LITTLE MONEY I’D ARRIVED WITH SOON RAN OUT AND by the end of a fortnight in Formosa Street I woke up to the realization that I was now totally destitute. Chris and Billy had gone to work so I had the flat to myself. Before he’d left Billy had put his head round the front-room door and barked a list of instructions at me as I lay semi-conscious, wrapped in a blanket, on the floor.
    ‘I want to come home and find this flat cleaned from top to toe, Sadie, or there will be trouble. You’re not pulling your weight, dear, and if you’re not job-hunting then at least you can clean up.’
    I pretended not to hear and rolled over, preferring to concentrate on running my big toe through the shagpile carpet rather than getting up and cleaning it. I didn’t blame Billy. I was a lazy sod when it came to housework, believing that somehow it did itself.
    After a while hunger drove me to rouse myself from my bed on the floor and go down to the kitchen in search of sustenance. It suddenly occurred to me that the last meal I’d eaten had been over twenty-four hours ago and that had only been sausage and chips. A bit of bacon on toast and maybe some cornflakes plus a nice pot of tea, I mused, putting the kettle on and inspecting the contents of the fridge while I waited for it to boil. My vision of crispy bacon slathered in Daddie’s Sauce evaporated in a flash as, apart from an empty tube of cream cheese spread that looked as if it had been there since the Crimean War and half a tin of cat food, the fridge was bare. Not even a drop of milk for a cup of tea, let alone cereal. I searched every cupboard in the kitchen for something to eat but the only remotely edible thing on offer seemed to be an ancient slice of French toast and a vegetable stock cube. What was wrong with these queens? Didn’t they eat? Oh well, as my ma would say, ‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ and making the best of the paltry ingredients I rustled up breakfast.
Petit Déjeuner à la Formosa Street
Take one vegetable stock cube, preferably slightly battered and past its sell-by date, add boiling water and stir. A little pepper may be added if required. Take a pinhead of dehydrated cream cheese hanging out of the end of the flattened tube and dab carefully on the corner of a slice of ten-year-old French toast and voilà! Soupe de Légumes et Croque Monsieur. Extremely suitable as breakfast for a prisoner in the Bastille.

Delia would’ve been proud of me.
    Next on the agenda was a ciggy. My packet of Cadets was empty, which meant there was nothing for it but to go through the ashtrays and bins for a respectable-sized stump. A search of Chris and Billy’s bedroom proved fruitless as every single butt in there had been smoked right down to the filter. The miserable bastards, I cursed, going through every coat pocket, scouring the living room, kitchen and bathroom