Free Angelmaker by Nick Harkaway

mountain like that, mightn’t we? Oh, yes, indeed
. “Oh, where are my manners?” She takes her hand away. The junior bastards are spreading out to block her escape.
I must just get some milk, darlings, to make you tea, all right? Hah! They’d snap me in two. Softly, softly, old cow. You’ve a long way to go and a short time to get there. Objective: escape. Nothing else. So
. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I, and would you mind moving the furniture? I’m too old, I’m afraid, I did try, but the flesh is weak. Not like yours, Mr. Biglandry. And who are these?”
    Junior Bastard A sticks out his hand when her gaze falls upon him and mutters “James.” It clearly isn’t his name, but Junior Bastard B and Mr. Biglandry stare at him as if he has taken his trousers off.
Hah! I fancy that’s an instant fail on your test, young Jimmy, and quite right too. Mr. Biglandry will want a word later, I imagine
,
about talking to the mark
. “Hello!” Edie waves daftly. “And you must be Biglandry the younger, I can see the family resemblance! Was it George?”
You’re both stone killers, there is that, but he’s a red-faced old git and you’ve something pale and Hungarian about you, Georgie-boy, I wouldn’t wonder your Dad was AVH, no, I would not, and likely a goon just like you
. She smiles even wider. “Would you mind pushing the bolt across? Sometimes the door rattles in the wind and it gives me a start.” George Biglandry looks at Dad, and Dad nods. Edie slips into the kitchen: knives, rolling pins, the microwave oven (she pictures herself jamming the door open and threatening to cook them, the thing plugged in behind her and beeping, a little picture of a chicken in blue neon on the dash),
no, no, and no
. Edie Banister knows where she is going.
Flick the switch on the kettle. Now they have to separate you from that, indeedy they do
. No gentleman wants a lap full of the hot stuff when he’s killing old ladies.
Permanent damage can occur
. Edie summons her first secret weapon.
    “Bastion! Dar-ling? Bast-ion? Mummy’s got a bit of pie, yes, she has, hasn’t she, yessywessy, she has!”
And may the good Lord have mercy on your souls
.
    It is not the hour for pie. Bastion knows it. He knows that Edie knows it, too. They have long ago settled between them that he is to be disturbed between three and nine only in the direst of emergencies or if there is steak. The steak should be meltingly soft and warmed over in the pan. The emergencies are more exigent: fire, earthquake, rains of frogs, the arrival of a cat in the building. Certainly, pie does not figure. Bastion’s afternoon nap is sacrosanct.
    “Bastion?” She looks around. He is in her bedroom, of course, at the foot of the bed: does not stir from it except at two-ish to go out onto the balcony and pee on passing truants. Edie smiles at Mr. Biglandry, who is busy preparing to insert himself between her and the kettle. James and George are still in the living room. Edie feints for the kettle, and Biglandry jumps a bit. His eyes narrow. She grins at him, a little wolfish, pro-on-pro. He looks back, hard-faced. Edie rests her hand on the Russell Hobbs. “Would you mind?”
You think this is endgame. It is barely begun. You want this? This kettle? Shall I throw it at you? But then there are the boys, no doubt eager to help out in doing me in. You may have this round
. Except Edie knows fine well, and Mr. Biglandry almost realises, she never intended to use the kettle for anything other than this. She brushes past as he takes possessionof the boiling water. She opens the door to the bedroom, and Bastion barges out, bristling. He sees George first, and immediately charges over, yowling, and starts nipping at his ankles.
Who is this man, that comes to disturb my time of slumber? Woe unto you, that are rash enough to let your ankles within my scope. Behold! You shall not leave but that you are shorter by one foot, this much I promise you …
    “Oh, Bastion,