Bitin' Back (9 page)

I look down at her. Poor girl. So mucked up n all. It's Nevil doin alla this to her.
Little Gracie, me own daughter like. A woman got a soft spot for her, that a truth.

‘Wanna feed, lovey?' I hitch up her feet onto the couch.

‘Yeah, good,' she sighs.

I rush into the kitchen and return. ‘Here ya go.' I hand her the plate.

‘Flash, Mum,' she grins n looks down at the Tim Tams, Iced Vovos n slice a silverside.

‘Yep, was always the one for providin a good meal.' I watch as she chooses a biscuit.

‘Say that again,' she says between bites.
Yep, that's the thing bout Gracie, could always preciate a woman's good tucker.

I walk outta the room, me head thumpin, me legs achin like a woman jus ran from Bourke to Mandamooka n back. But the day ain't over yet.
I'll have to go n check out Nevil, Trevor n Booty. Only God knows what Booty's got em doin now.

I cut it out the front gate n down to Booty's joint.

SEVEN

I head down to Booty's backyard shed.

The pig dogs sprawl at the door, scarred heads restintween big paws. I squint me peepers at the biggest of em.
Is it my magination or is that dog startin to look like his master? Funny thing that, how dogs can look uman. Them big ol eyes sorta drill ya down like. Yep, that dog lookin jus like Booty. Hey, lookandsee, a woman gettin mighty myall in the head.

A closer look tells me there's a deep gash down the side of its gut.
Poor buggers, chasin pigs ain't healthy work.

The bitch brings her head up n starts a low growl in the back a her throat. Ignoring her I keep walkin to the shed, blinkin me eyes to adjust to the dark. Me nose picks up the smell a beer, sweat, dust ... n somethin else. Somethin thick, somethin that feels like it smotherin a woman, like a hot n heavy hand closin round me throat. Then it hits me—it's fear.

I take in the room whit careful eyes. Booty sits back on the dirt floor holdin a stubbie n bustin his guts at Nevil. Trevor's perched on a empty molasses tin, watchin Booty n Nevil, his eyes flickerin back n forth.

I feel sweat pop out on the back a me neck, the heat in the shed is fierce. I get a load a Nevil, shirtless n pissin sweat as he moves round a sack of potatoes that hang tied from the beams. He cuts it round the sack like a dancer, his eyes peeled on it as he jabs n hits whit all his strength.

‘If that were a fella he'd have your guts by now—have ya busted from arsehole to breakfast time!' Booty roars, gettin to his feet n goin over to Nevil. ‘Mid-section, son. You gotta bring this fucka to his knees! Otherwise this fucka's gonna bring you to
ya
knees, got it!' Booty pelts forward and hits the bag so hard it swings back, drivin him backwards. ‘Ain't no fucka ever got away from this here punch!'

Booty holds his fists in the air, like he's standin in the middle of a big time boxin ring.

I nod me head toward him then wander over to Trevor.

‘Hello, Missus Dooley,' he greets me whit what looks like relief.

‘Hey there. Now what the hell's goin on here?' I wipe the sweat off me neck.

‘Booty's teaching Nevil how to box. He reckons it'll make a man out of him. He shrugs his shoulders and winces each time Nevil jabs the sack. I guess that's the way of life out here in the bush.'

‘Yeah, no use bein a girl round these parts. Gotta look after yerself, nobody else will.' I hold in a laugh as I watch the way Booty struts round the shed. His fat gut hangs out over his shorts, his bare feet move along like he can hardly carry his own weight, and his big frame moves across the room like a constipated goanna.
Yeah, that's good ol Boot for ya.
He comes over to us swingin his fists and stops in front a Trevor.

‘On ya feet, son!' He barks.

‘Oh, gee,' Trevor casts me a look of desperation.

Just as I'm bout to unhinge me trap to tell Booty to leave him be, I hear loud laughter comin from the shed doorway. Big Boy and Grunta saunter in. Big Boy carries a box a piss. Grunta's got a blue heeler on a chain. Big Boy's eyes sweep cross the room n come to rest on Trevor.

Booty nods at Big Boy, ‘Here, son, git ya black arse over here n teach this migloo how to handle hisself.'

‘Oh gee listen, Booty, I'm no good at this sort of thing,' Trevor says, wringin his hands n lookin down at his boots.

‘Talk shit, son.' Booty hauls him to his feet. ‘Get that fucken shirt off, will ya.' He pokes at Trevor's tee-shirt.

‘Booty, he don't wanna do this. Leave him be.' I shake me head. But it's too late, Booty's on a drunken high, and Big Boy's gettin high on the possibility a smashin somebody's face in.

Nevil turns to look at Trevor but Trevor is lost in this mad moment, most probly can't see or hear anythin.
Fear does that to ya.

Grunta ties the dog to a post n comes to stand beside me. ‘Who he?'

‘That's Trevor, a
friend
a mine.' I lay down me cards.
If there be hurtin goin on whit that poor boy then I'm gonna be the one whoppin arse. Ain't like he's a scrubber. Not like this lot, born whit fists in the air.

‘Geez, them boots n socks for real or what?' Grunta points at Trevor's knee socks n ridin boots.

‘Yep, I told him to wear em like that. Good, eh?' I curl up me mouth n wait for Grunt's reaction.

‘Solid, Missus D.'
He knows the score.

Booty whispers somethin into Big Boy's ear then turns and whispers into Trevor's ear. I feel the back a me neck crawl. I don't like it. Booty can get a bit fist happy n not know when to give up.

I throw Nevil a sour look. He stands starin, hands on hips, eyes slitted. He knows what his uncle's doin. So do I.

Trevor, white-faced, shakin like a mongrel dog jus swallowed ten-forty, swings round n gives me a please-help-me look.

‘That's enough!' I walk toward them.
A woman seed nough blood in her lifetime already. This little fella they gonna kill.

Booty steps in front a me. ‘No one's gettin hurt, Mave. Just teachin the boy some tricks,' he says, beer fumes comin outta every pore.

‘If anybody hurt Trevor then they fight me—Mavis Dooley!' I throw a fist in the air, all gammon like cos that's what it's all bout. A gammon game. Cept it ain't like that for this mob—Big Boy, Grunta, specially Booty.

Not willin to put me to the test, Booty pats me on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Sis, how ya think he gonna get on down at the Two Dogs? They'd make mincemeat a him. Alls I'm doin is tryin to teach him a few things. No one gonna get hurt.'

‘They better not, Booty. Cos I holdin you sponsible for this.' I poke his chest, then walk over n sit on the molasses tin and watch as Big Boy n Trevor dance round each other. Trevor looks like he some ol clodhopper, his feet movin heavy like on the ground.
He don't stand a chance. These fellas gonna flog him stupid.

‘Stop! Come here, Trev.' I motion him to come close.

He looks puzzled as he scans me face. ‘Yeah?'

I look round to make sure no one can hear. ‘Now listen. That Big Boy's gonna try n hurt ya. I like Big Boy, but that's not the point. The point is ya couldn't even win a fight whit me, son. But I can't stand back n watch you pulped like a orange. Now take those bloody boots off ya feet n listen to this.' I give him all me hard-earned tricks. Everthin I ever
learned to survive.
There's quite a few of em.
After our talk he walks back to Big Boy mebbe whit a small hope.
Booty n his shit talk! Teachin em how to fight. Geez, only Booty!

Grunta eyeballs me. ‘What was that bout?' He bends down n hauls a stubbie outta the box.

‘Nuthin for you to worry bout.' I purse me lips n step up on the molasses tin.

‘Higher, fuck ya!' Booty runs round circlin the boys. ‘What ya, a fucken pussyboy!' he yells at Trevor.

The more I watch him the more I don't like it. He's singled Trevor out for special treatment.
Booty treatment. That means hurtin in his books.

‘You right, Trevor. Just do as I tole ya.'

‘Girl, fucken big city girl!' Booty taunts.

It's all a bad mistake. I shouldn'a let em go on like this. Ain't right. Me n me big trap. Poor ol Trevor.
I jump off the tin n run toward the boys. ‘Break it up, Booty!' I shout, flappin me arms. ‘It's gone too far.'

Big Boy turns to look at me, a killer smile on his face. At that moment Trevor throws a wild punch and, like in a slow motion movie, it lands on the side a Booty's head.

Cccrraaacckkkk!
Booty's gob flips open and a deep, high
arghwwoooo
comes out, soundin like a injured bull. His arms fall behind him as his big fat frame wobbles n crashes to the dirt.
Whhhumummpp!
I feel me gut drop, I struggle for air, sweat rivers me face.
Fuckery!

Big Boy gawks at Trevor, his mouth open wide, his eyes bulgin outta his head like he gonna explode. Grunta rushes forward, stubbie in hand, and stares down at Booty like he can't believe his own eyes.

Nevil, his shirt on now, hurries over to stand beside me and gapes at Trevor then Booty.

Me, well, I'm ready to have a heart attack! Ain't nobody
ever put Booty on his arse! Nope, none a the fellas round Mandamooka or anywhere else for that matter would even dream a standin up to Booty's big, hard fists. Cept for this skinny, brown-eyed white boy in front a him. He the first. Ever.

Me insides churn, me hands shake n I feel the piss buildin up in me bladder. Trevor has his hand cross his mouth, as like to stop hisself from screamin whit terror. Yeah, terror. Can see it in the boy's watery eyes.

Booty, not missin a beat, gets to his feet, stunned n half stupid lookin. A trickle of blood runs down the side a his ash-coloured face. He turns round to Trevor.

I realise whatever's gonna happen now is right outta me hands. I close me eyes and see Trevor hanged from the beams, stripped right down to his shorts, and bein pummelled like the punchin bag as Booty goes to town on him.

Then, hearin a sharp gasp, I turn to Nevil who holds onto his chest like it's gonna collapse in on him.

‘He didn't mean to,' I hear Nevil almost bawlbabyin to Booty.

‘Dead meat fer sure,' I hear Big Boy mutter.

‘Bad move, bro,' I hear Grunta say to Trevor.

‘Nnnnnooooo!' I scream and rush at Booty, blockin him from Trevor.

‘Outta the way, Mavis.' Booty pushes past, over to Trevor.

Yep, can see it all: blackfella bashes white fella to death in a dog shed. Mavis Dooley—liar, Tim Tam eater, poofter protector, stood by n watched while the white fella carked it. Yeah, that's what the Bullya News'll be sayin.

Booty's hand drops on Trevor's shoulder.
Yep, even ripped the boy's arm clean outta its socket.
Then Trevor takes a stumbly step back, his face by this time white as Missus Warby's
sheets.
Yeah, the boy's face was ripped off, skin pale as a ghost it were.

Trevor opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a squeak. Loomin over Trevor's fear struck body, Booty, sweat pourin down his face, lets out a low growl, ‘Fucken punch n a half on ya, Sonny Jim!' then explodes into loud laughter.

The boy lives! I can see it now: white fella bashes Booty Dooley in his own shed. Yep, even knocked him to the ground! To look at he ain't much, but ... man, he can whop anyone! Not to be fucked whit! I can hear all the town gossipin at once.

I look at Trevor all beamin n relieved as he takes a stubbie from Grunta's hand.
Proved hisself. That he sure did!

Booty puts an arm round me. ‘Mavis, you sure know how to get a pussy n turn him into a tiger.' He laughs n slaps me on the back.

What can I say? All I done tole Trevor was to run away when Big Boy started to throw punches at him. I never tole him to belt Booty one. Gee, a woman's not that mad n all. I run a hand cross me hot face, dust clogs me mouth n sweat drenches the front of me dress.
A woman gonna call it a day.

‘I'm off, boys.' I move towards the door. Well, at least Nev seems back to normal n Trevor's still kickin, phew. I walk out into the eye-achingly bright day when a voice behind me stops me in my tracks.

‘Missus Dooley, thanks, thanks for everything.' Trevor walks toward me with a smile, his face returnin to normal colour.

‘Why thank me, son? I ain't done nuthin fer ya. Anyway, how'd ya get that punch on Booty?'

‘Oh that was a mistake.'

‘Jesus! Well, don't go tellin any a them that,' I reply,
suddenly realisin I like the boy. Like his ways.
City boy or not.

‘I'm not that stupid,' he laughs. Then in Booty's voice he booms, ‘What d'ya think, I'm a pussy now?'

‘I wouldn't make a habit of doin that either.' I continue on out the gate.

EIGHT

Gwen Hinch sits at the end of the bar skullin a beer, mumblin to herself n lookin like a sack a unironed clothes. The woman look pissed off her head.

I scan the bar. Then as me eyes take in the room, I feel me heart quicken when I spot Terry Thompson bent over the pool table.

He looks good. His hair combed back, clean shirt, ironed jeans n for once he's not blind drunk. Should a woman talk to him after the way he scoured me up at the bingo hall? Leavin me sittin like a ton a shit as he conned that bitch Dotty Reedman up. Yeah, wonder if he went to her place. I wouldn't put it past Terry to screw her. Yeah, that'd be Dotty's way a gettin me back for everythin.

I walk past him, really regrettin not puttin a bit a lipstick on.
Geez, knew I shoulda wore that red dress! If a woman coulda peeled it off Nev, that is. Yep, Mavis Dooley, ya done it again!
I turn me face from the table as I go by, hopin he doesn't see me. No such luck.

‘Mavis, how are you?' He steps out in front a me.

‘Terry, all right. Yerself?' I grin, me legs jellied.

‘I'm good. Look, I hope you don't think a man took Dotty's side at the bingo there the other day. I mean, come on, Mave. You two are at each other's throats but for what? You both got sons playing in the big match.' He motions for me to sit.

‘I'll stand, thank you. Now, Terry, it were Dotty that started all this. Tellin everybody in sight bout my Nevil! The bitch! As for her boy, Jerry, takin out the man a the match, well that's a load a horse shit! My Nevil's gonna take it out! Yeah, n I notice you right up her alley. Far as I'm concerned you're just like her!' I screw up me face and give him my best look a disgust.
See how pissed a woman is atcha?

‘Hey, that's not true, Mavis. Dotty's—well,
dotty,
ain't she.' He laughs. ‘She's all right to have a yarn to but a man's not stupid when it comes to sheilas like her.' He picks up his beer and takes a sip.

‘Right. Well, I'll see you round.' I turn n head cross the room towards Gwen.

‘Hey, Mavis, you comin over to my place for the barbie tamarra night? Got a couple a cod.'

Knowin this is his way of sayin sorry I reply, ‘Yeah, what time?'
A date? Is that his way a gettin to a person? Nah, think shit, woman. Wake up to yerself, for God's sake!

‘Whenever. Bring Booty, Nev and ever who else you like.'

‘Rightyo. I'll see you then.' Feelin a lot better bout meself I stroll over to Gwen.

‘Gwenny, whatcha up to?' I pull up a stool and sit beside her.
How long she been sittin here for? Musta been some time by the go a her dial.

‘Drownin me sorrows, Mave.' She grins, her eyes bloodshot, face slack.

‘What now?' I watch the way her eyes sneak round the room.

‘Haven't you heard? Yeah, I'm supposed to be fuckin old Creekwater Davidson.' She snorts.

‘Creekwater! Geez, can't they come up whit nobody else? Geez, only Mandamooka fellas would say things like that! Anyway, who tole you?' I motion to the barmaid. ‘A beer.'
There I done it. Yep, a woman back to drinkin. Nev'd skin me face off if he knew that. Orh, well, a woman had a rough week to start whit.

‘One guess.'

‘Missus Warby?' I dig into me pocket, pull out a ten dollar bill n shove it cross the bar.

‘Nope. Dotty Reedman.'

‘Friggin hell, Gwen! How many times a woman gotta tell ya don't listen to nothin that horse-faced, big-titted bitch gotta say! You know what she like, Gwenny.' I cross me arms, peerin into her face.

‘Yeah, but she heard it from Darryl Kane. That troublemakin piece a shit.' She drops her head, shame like.

‘Fuck em!' I explode, ‘that idiot wanna be worryin bout his family stead a runnin round makin trouble for you! Yep, that's the nature a this town, makin yarns, tearin some poor bastard to pieces! If it weren't you, Gwenny, it'd be me they runnin down!' I pick up the beer n skull it in one hit.
I feel sorry for Gwenny. One affair n the town's got her havin it off whit every man and his dog. Like the woman'd screw anythin. As though she desperate.

‘Oh, yeah, n that Terry Thompson fuckin Dotty Reedman. I dunno if that be true or not.' Gwen laughs loud n hard and beer splutters from her mouth as she shakes her head. ‘The man'd have to be desperate.'

‘And you know what else I heard, eh? You sposed to be keepin Nevie boy locked up over there cos he's wearin your dresses n make-up!'

‘Who said that?' I feel me chest tighten.
It's all comin back to me now. Caught out. Yep, the lies doin full circle.

‘Missus Warby was in tellin someone the other day. Reckons she seen Nevil runnin round the backyard dancin, full a make-up, wearin one of ya dresses. She mad that old one.' Gwen looks at me then breaks into a big smile. ‘Fucken Mandamooka.'

‘Yeah, where they can ruin your life with a rumour.' I motion to the barmaid. ‘A scotch n coke.'

Gwen stares at me, a frown on her face. ‘Mave, you don't drink hard shit. What's goin on?' She blinks her eyes as though seein me for the first time.

‘Just like you, Gwenny, I got me problems. Number one, over there playin pool. Number two, horse-face Reedman. An some other stuff,' I sigh wearily.

‘Terry Thompson? Why, what's wrong with him, apart from that shit I just said? But, hey, it's only gossip, ya shouldn't really believe it.' She shrugs her shoulders then downs another beer.

‘Dunno bout that. Seem to be stuck up Dotty's skirt, don't he? Yeah, was over there cleanin her yard up, eh. You can't tell me nuthin's goin on there whit em.' I stare at the floor.
Well, seems Dotty won this one. Yep, ol black-arse Mavis lost out again.

‘Terry was over there?' Gwen's face looks shocked as she eyes me over the rim of the beer glass.

‘He sure was. Oh well, ain't nuthin a woman can do bout that. Ain't like I married to the man. If he be wantin Dotty then he can have her far as I'm concerned. Then I got that ol Missus Warby spyin on me joint n cartin yarns, got problems with Nev, oh I just dunno any more.' I swallow a lump in me throat.

‘Oh, come on, mate, don't let it getcha down. Fuck em
all, that's what I say. Yep, they can all go to hell. Anyway, what's up whit Nev?'

‘Stuff,' I reply, then down the Scotch like it's a soft drink. For a second it burns me throat.
I'm startin to feel better already! Almost charged up. Heeeyy look out!

‘Like what? Big Boy tole me they was all at Booty's punchin on. What was that about? Someone been into Nevie, eh?'

‘Jus Booty tryin to toughen him up a bit. You know what Booty's like.' I motion for another drink.
I'm a loose goose. Good one.

‘Yeah, solid old Booty boy. Mave, if there's somethin goin on whit Nev n you wanna talk about it...'

‘Nah, Nev's jus Nev.' I shrug me shoulders.
Yeah, jus Nev. The boy'll be wearin me bloomers fore too long.

‘He's still on for the big game?' Gwen skulls a beer. Eyes redder n the spot on a red back spider.

‘Guess so. Gwen, does—you know, does Big Boy ever think he's—well, he's somebody else?' I scratch me head.
Gotta ask somebody bout this. Woman turnin womba.

‘Wha? Like whatcha mean?' She asks, peerin into her empty glass.

‘Like someone else,' I croak, me gut heavin.

‘Oh, I getcha. Yeah, he think he's a big time football star.' She laughs. ‘Only thing wrong whit that. He ain't no star!'

‘Like, is it for real? I mean—he don't ever think he's a woman, do he?' I burst out, the Scotch loosenin my tongue.
Watchit, watchit.

‘A woman! Shit, no!' She gives me a drunken look but I see the sussin in it. ‘Mave, you better tell me. I ain't like the others in this shit-hole of a town. I'm a woman can keep a secret.' She pats me on the knee.

‘Well,' I begin, but as I'm bout to continue I hear familiar laughter. I turn round on the stool and watch as Dotty struts
toward Terry. She's all tarted up. Dirty blonde hair high as an ant hill. Mini-skirt so short I can almost see her bloomers pokin out. Face painted up like a crayon picture. Blood-red lips, blue eyeshada, rust-colour cheeks painted round like half bad apples, n eyelashes so long they look like they gonna sweep the floor. Fat tits sittin out front a her like a beer tray, she one flash piece a meat.
Swishhh, swissshhhh.
She fancied up to kill. Me.
Yeeeeoooowwwww.

I groan, the Scotch races up to sit in the front a me throat.
A woman jus can't win, no matter which way I cut it.
I glance down at the ol house dress I got on, small holes in the hem, faded, too big for me; jus flat out ugly.
Yeah, real pretty, pretty as a punch in the face. Jus betcha me ol dial looks rugged too. Wide as Dotty's arse, plain, fat whit gooby lips, fuzzy hair like a pot scourer, a boxer's nose, thin black moustache on me top lip n skin like sandpaper. Yep, was never beautiful by any means. A scrubber. Bush pig. Weren't like I was ever gonna be some pretty piece. Naahhh.

I watch Dotty whit green eyes, the way she sidles up to Terry, her long legs brushin gainst him as she bends over the pool cue.

‘Lookit that fucker!' Gwen nudges me in the ribs.

‘Yeah, check out the way Terry all over her, eh? What, he think he white now?' I order another drink. Rum n Coke. Too much for a woman to take in. Me guts is boilin over like a pot a bubblin stew.

‘Gee, she gonna fuck him on that table?' Gwen laughs, and almost falls off the stool.
She well n truly charged now, ol Gwenny.

‘She just doin that cos she knows I like him.' I feel me bottom lip ledge out.

‘Check that Terry out. What, he too good for us now?' Gwen's voice edges.

‘Yeah, like us black sheila's ain't good nough for him!' I spit. By this time everythin is startin to look wet n hazy.
Fucken Thompson. Fucken men. Ain't worth pissin on.

Terry glances towards me and taps the side of his beer glass, ‘Drink, love?' he asks, saunterin over.

Drink, love? What, suddenly I'm his love now? What bout your piece a white meat, Terry? Yeah, her husband's back in town n you wanna be foolin whit her.

‘Hey Ter. Wanna have a drink whit me n Mave, eh? Or ain't us fellas good nough for ya?'

‘Whoa up there, Gwenny! A man didn't come over here to get his arse kicked by you. I just askin, do youse want a drink?' He clears his throat and watches me.

‘Arrggh, go n get that dolly bitch a drink, Terry Thompson. Mavis not woman nough for ya. Ain't white nough!' Gwen stumbles to her feet and shoves Terry in the chest. Real hard like.

‘Bloody hell, settle down, Gwen! This got nothin to do whit Mavis. Me n Mave are mates, eh, Mave?' Terry gives Gwen a pissed off look.

‘Sure. Mates,' I mumble, feelin a boot kick me somewhere in the guts.
Don't know why a woman had to big-note herself n come down here for. Shoulda stayed home whit Nevie n Trevor. Terry wouldn'a look at somethin like me. Nah, just no dice there, ol girl. Terry Thompson don't like women like me. See, a woman gets these mad ideas in her head. Yep, Mavis Dooley, all time loser. All time fuck up. Jus another let-down is all. Woman should be used to it by now.

‘Mave, I'll see you later,' Terry says, shruggin his shoulders as he goes back to the laughin, crowin Dotty.

‘Fucken cunts. That's all they are, the whole lotta em. Ignore em, Mave. You too good for that bitch, anyway.—Geez,
Mave, look who just walked in!' Gwen gasps, plonkin herself back on the stool, noddin towards the doorway.

Darryl Kane saunters in, wife hangin off his arm as he looks round at the bar.
Cocky bastard. Lookin for some fresh meat.

‘Fucken dog,' Gwen hisses between her teeth.

‘Pay no mind to em, Gwenny,' I slur, feelin the anger hitchin up in me slow like. I watch the way he slides cross the floor like he owns the place, like he's the best thing since sliced bread. All kitted out like some ol Smokey Joe cowboy.
Yeah, him n Dotty a good pair a dolly birds together.

He leaves his wife at the bar and saunters towards the young girls that sit watching the jackaroos. I take in his form: silky, slimy, n smooth.
I wonder what he's tole that poor sucker of a wife? Probably that them girls are his friends or some such shit.

‘Lookit that, huh. Nough to make ya vomit.' Gwen swings round on the stool, spit-eyes as she looks him up n down.

‘Cool as water.' I narrow me peepers.
The snake. No, the snakes—Terry, Darryl.

‘You know what, Gwenny. We should get him back. Do somethin to him, eh? Reckon I don't like it for that two-bit fuckery to be goin bout spreadin filth bout me best mate n all.'

‘How do ya get back on somebody like him?' Gwen slumps her shoulders.

‘I dunno. Do somethin to him. He can't go all round town dirtyin your name up. Like he wants to make your life miserable. Friggin white bastard!' I bang me fist on the bar.

‘Arrgghh no, nuthin we can do, Mave. Just let it ride. He ain't worth the trouble.'

‘Get up, Gwenny! Now listen, go over there n tell that woman a his what's been goin on. Gorn, Gwenny. I'll come
whit ya.' I stand up on grog-fucked legs. ‘Come on girl, move.' I grab her by the arm n steer her towards the other end a the bar.
There gonna be rumblin on. Yiiiieee.

Samantha Kane perches up on the bar stool. I stand behind her and cough loud like. ‘Samantha,' I say in my best sober voice.

She turns round with a slight frown, looks at me then Gwen.

‘Can I help you?' she looks Gwen up n down.
WwRreeeooowww! Claws out! Hiss, hisssy.

‘Well, you know Gwen here, doncha?' I put me hands on me wide hips n take a tough stance.
Ready to jump the train.

‘Ah, well. You're Boy's mother? Peter Hinch—Big Boy's mother?' She shrugs her shoulders. Like the woman couldn't give a flyin piss either way.