Chapter Twenty Nine

I was name checked on Guardian Edinburgh this morning thanks to this nonsense. Here is the penultimate chapter, as promised! And here is a list of previous ones in order. This brings the word count to 51971... but is it any good? I talked about that briefly in an article on The Edinburgh Reporter here.

“You know,” Nicky said thoughtfully, “that actually makes a lot of sense. I had wondered why my downstairs mix-up didn’t look quite right.”

“Surely someone’s mentioned it to you before,” Tim said, “maybe in a urinal? It’s the type of thing that would get commented on!”

“I always use the cubicle,” Nicky said, “never knew why before, was just my gut reaction to head for cover.”

“Have you never had a girlfriend?”

“Well no. I’m too eccentric, girls round our way aren’t looking for that. They want guys like that one Nigella’s always going after.”

“Do you fancy girls?”

“I dunno. Never really thought about it too much, to be honest.”

“Which did Nicky like before you mucked about with her brain,” Bracken asked, “girls or boys?”

“How should I know,” Magenta said irritably, adding, “I’d have to look it up in the file.”

“Can you reverse it so she can go back to the way she was?”

“Does she want to go back to the way she was?”

“Hoi,” Nicky said indignantly, “does she take sugar? I’m right here, why don’t you ask me what I want?”

“Well,” Bracken said reasonably, “do you know?”

“Not a Scooby,” Nicky admitted, “I feel as though I’m not in full possession of the facts which makes it something of a tough call.”

“Are you getting all this,” Tim asked one of the camera crew bitterly, “I’d hate for you to miss out on a good telly opportunity, just because your boss has hired a mercenary to manipulate several people’s lives, which is probably against the human rights act and might see his BAFTA nomination revoked.”

“Actually,” Brian told Tim in his head, “the whole thing has been going out live since the beginning.”

“Totally uncut?”

“Totally uncut. Using the telepathic powers the amulet has afforded, I’ve been able to blow this thing wiiiide open.”

“You know,” Tim thought back to him, “I’m actually not sure how useful that is. People will watch, be outraged on Twitter for half an hour, then forget all about it. Such is the fickle nature of our modern society.”

The fire exit door clanged open with an almighty ruckus. Bert and the scarred guard appeared through it in a flurry of dry ice, he with his hair blowing dramatically in tht wind and she cradling the wean protectively. They looked like some kind of unusual crime fighting duo.

“Stop everything,” Bert bellowed boisterously, “we have important information to impart!”

“Really, though?” Bracken was unimpressed. “I bet you a fiver that most of it has already come up.”

“The woman who calls herself Esmeralda is in fact Esmeralda’s identical twin, Magenta?”

“Yep, we know.”

“Esmeralda has been dead for years, killed by her sister’s own hand?”

“Aye.”

“Posing as Esmeralda because her rogue methods have so incensed the global science community, Magenta has been conducting invasive brain experiments on unknowing people, with the full knowledge and financial backing of The Jeremy Kyle Show?”

“Tell us something we don’t know!”

“This little boy isn’t yours, Bracken.”

Her lip wobbled ferociously.

“I know that too,” she whispered, bravely biting back the tears.

“We have all the documentation to prove what’s been going on, so we can send these two down for a long time,” Bert informed them.

“Now that we did not know.”

Bert smiled victoriously.

“Here’s one for you then, Dad,” said Nicky. “Assuming that’s not a memory trick as well?”

“No,” Magenta drawled, “he is your father. The memory work there was mostly done by your mother, to be honest I just had to tweak it a little.”

“Right well, in that case… Dad, it turns out that I’m actually a woman.”

Bert looked surprised for a moment, then shrugged. “Now that you say that,” he meandered, “it sort of rings a bell.”

He pondered.

“I want to build up our relationship either way, assuming you still do.”

“Oh aye, definitely,” Nicky nodded. “I feel like I probably need to be supported through this traumatic time.”

“You’ll readjust surprisingly quickly,” said Esmeralda, “or at least, I think you will. Assuming you let me reverse the procedure.”

“Why does that not inspire me with full blown confidence?” Nicky asked scathingly. “Think I’ll just take it from here if you don’t mind.”

“Did you do anything to Nigella,” Bracken said suddenly.

“Who?”

“My cousin, Nigella. Well, I thought she was my cousin. Maybe she isn’t. She doesn’t know who the wean’s dad is, but she definitely thought he was mine.”

“Lanky girl, ginger, nasal?”

“That’s her,” grinned Nicky.

“Yeah, did some work on her,” Esmeralda confessed.

“Aaaaand here she is now,” said Kyle, “please welcome to the stage, Nigella!”

Nige appeared at the door, looking flushed and confused.

“How did I get here?” she asked Jeremy. “I was at home in the kitchen peeling a leek and then suddenly BAM, I was here!”

“Teleportation device,” Jez told her dismissively, “but that’s not important right now.”

“I disagree,” Nige disagreed, rather emphatically.

“You’re here today because you’ve got something to tell someone,” he bulldozed on in a vague sort of way.

“Erm, OK?”

“Well on you go then sweetheart,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the characters assembled before her, “spit it out.”

“Who am I meant to be talking to?” she enquired.

“That can be up to you,” he replied, “because at this point I don’t think it really matters.”

“Bracken,” she started, walking up to her cousin, “I’m sorry.”

This was the first time Bracken had ever heard her cousin apologise, and she was flabbersmacked. That’s a mixture of flabbergasted and gobsmacked – Peter Andre taught me it.

“That’s alright,” she said, unsure what it is that she was apologizing for.

“Me and Al never done anyhin,” she continued, “I was trying to make you jealous so I wanted to make you think we spent the night together, sexwise. But we never.”

“That’s alright, even if you had done,” Bracken said magnanimously. “It’s not as if we’re going out.”

Nige smiled, and gave her a hug. Meanwhile it dawned on Al that maybe Bracken did like him after all.

“Nicky,” Nige continued reproachfully, “where the hell have you been? You had us worried. Thought the aliens had got you at last.”

“I’ve been in this place,” Nicky filled her in, “living in a tiny cell against my will for an as yet unexplained reason.”

“It’s because Esmeralda – sorry, Magenta – ” Bracken rolled her eyes, “thought that if she asked people whether she could experiment on them they’d say no. So she took them without asking.”

“Be fair though,” Magenta countered, “as soon as I gave her the option, she did refuse.”

“She?” Nige said, bemused.

“Oh, Nicky’s a girl,” Bracken explained.

“Oh right. Cool.”

“Really?” Nicky said, “why is nobody even remotely surprised by this news?”

“It’s because they knew you before,” Magenta yawned. “The residual memories cushion the blow of the shock.”

“Course they do.”

“So this woman here – what did you call her? Magenta? Locked you in a cell for two weeks?”

“Pretty much.”

“Was the wean with you?”

“Not physically with me, no,” Nicky said, “although he was in the building, as it turns out.”

“I was keeping an eye on him,” said the scarred guard.

“And who are you?” Nigella enquired.

“I am his surrogate mother.”

“That’s a bit over the top, its only been a couple of weeks. He won’t remember that in later life.”

“She means she was the surrogate womb for him,” Bracken said sadly.

“Come again?”

“The wean isn’t mine, Nige. That’s why I couldn’t answer your questions about the dad. I didn’t know, because I never had sex with anyone, because I’m not his mum.”

“So who is the mum, then?” Nige asked in a state of understandable confusion. “If you’re not, and this lady was just a womb for hire?”

“I am,” Nicky informed her.

“Oh. That’s odd. But I guess you two have always got on pretty well.”

Just as the conversation seemed to be in danger of getting awkward, there was a clap of thunder, and Dennis appeared.

“Oh, Christy,” said Tim.

The noise was high pitched enough to break Brian’s concentration, and he did a big amulet shaped poo.

“Yoink,” said Dennis, grabbing it.

“Did that guy just steal a turd fae under the dug?” Nigella asked.

“Yup,” Bracken confirmed.

“Is that a common Scottish phrase?” Jeremy asked with interest.

“It will be soon,” Nicky commented, “as soon as she puts it on her Bebo.”

“Dennis,” Tim said, “don’t be an idiot. Give me that.”

“Why does that guy want the poo?” Nige asked.

“He doesn’t want the poo,” Al explained, “there’s a magical amulet inside the poo, and that’s what he wants.”

“What for?”

“So that I can destroy it.”

“But if you don’t even like it, why not let the other guy have it?”

“Because it’s evil,” Tim told her, “and it needs to be got rid of before the evil spreads.”

He advanced upon Dennis and tried to forcibly remove the poo. Dennis flew up into the air and levitated just out of reach, which is one of the perks of being a ghost.

“Ha,” he gloated triumphantly, “now what are you going to do?”

“What are you going to do?” Tim asked, “if you can use the amulet to resurrect yourself?”

“I’m going to have a bowl of frosties,” Dennis replied. “Then I’m going to go to sleep in a comfy bed.”

Tim shook his head.

“I know that’s what you want to do now,” he said, “but honestly, all that will go out the window if you use that thing. Just look at it, for goodnessake.”

Dennis obliged, staring into the mottled glass surface. The piece of tentacle within seemed to pulsate ominously, and Dennis thought he could hear an insidious whispering noise. “Kill,” it said, “rip, tear, slash, inflate.”

“Inflate?” Dennis said aloud.

“Sorry,” said the whispering, “I got confused. Maim and hurt, destroy, poke out their eyes…”

“That’s not very nice,” he chided, inadvertently floating back down towards the ground.

“GOTCHA!” Tim shouted, grabbing his ankle with one hand and maintaining contact for just long enough to yank Dennis earthward and grab the amulet.

Dennis instantly vanished in a huff.

“Right,” Tim said, “now all we need to do is destroy it.”

“I wouldn’t be so hasty if I were you,” said a robotic voice from a fire exit which nobody had noticed until now.

Everyone turned.

It came from the mink caped, hooded figure. The boss, the man, the big cheese.

He or she had Adric in a vice like grip, with a flick knife tight against his neck, blade just millimeters from piercing the skin.

“Give me the amulet,” the figure said, “or your boy toy gets it.”

Chapter Twenty Six

47882 words. Aw yeah. Chronological chapter times here.

Tim and Adric arrived at the facility whilst Nicky and Bracken were chatting in the mysterious room the guards referred to as The Chamber.

Through the blind fold Time could make out that it was some sort of building with more than one floor. Not the highest vantage point he’d ever had, but it was something. There’s nothing worse than having your blindfold removed in a dingy room and discovering on your escape that you’re on a boat, or in the middle of a volcano. Sometimes, just knowing you’re in a normal building which will contain some stairs and possibly a lift, puts you in a position of great mental strength.

Tim didn’t have much time to enjoy this inner calm, though, because the heavies had parked in their allotted spaces in The Facility’s car park and were roughly manhandling him and Adric out onto the concrete.

“Alright,” he said cheerfully, “I’m going.”

He pretended to stumble so that El Nombre’s companions wouldn’t realize he could see where he was going, and stole a quick look at Adric. He was still completely out of it, his gangly frame propped up by the guy who was preoccupied with sausages.

They formed a convoy and entered the building, each balaclava-wearing figure stopping to have his or her retinas scanned and fingerprints checked. In actual fact, none of this information was relayed anywhere, or even backed up onto a floppy disc (remember them) or pen drive. It was all set up to create the illusion that The Facility was a fortress, with unbreachable security. ‘Nobody ever gets out or in without our say-so,’ the scans seemed to imply. But if you wanted to, you probably could, Tim suspected. He wondered whether El Nombre knew, and was merely playing the game.

Once inside, Adric was whisked away to a cell a couple of doors down from Nicky's and put to bed by the nurse with the scarred face. Being the kindest of the guards, and the only one with actual nurse’s training, she was required to deal with all the new arrivals.

Meanwhile, El Nombre secured Tim in a basement room. Well, that was what he told his colleagues. In actual fact, he only walked Tim down to the basement. No securing occurred, as such. He merely removed the blindfold and said

"I dunno which cell they'll have put him in to sleep off the effects of the sedative, but all those rooms are on the second floor."

Tim nodded his thanks. El must have known the whole time that the guy they were kidnapping was the guy he wanted to rescue.

"Want to chum me on this one, for old time's sake?" he asked hopefully.

"I can't," El replied regretfully, "I'm busting out of this joint, right now. It's time to do what I set out to when I became a mercenary."

"Pack it all in for a life of leisure?" Tim joked, like the jokey joke-maker he often was in times of stress.

"Find and destroy Wizard Chinnigan," El Nombre explained, missing the humour like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Terminator movies.

"If you'd only hold on a couple of hours for me to rescue my friend, I could come with you," Tim offered, partly for old time’s sake and partly to repay the debt he had accrued by getting El to bring him here.

El shook his head no.

"This is something you need to do alone, huh?"

"It is."

"What if you get yourself killed? He's tricksy, that wizard."

"Tim, I know his ways better than no one. No, wait. Nobody knows the ways of that wizard better than I. You know this to be the case.”

Tim nodded reluctantly, feeling his hair swoosh against the back of his neck. It was getting too long.

“However, if anything in the way of mortality does happen up in my grill, I will expect you to avenge my death.”

“In the usual way?”

“In the usual way,” he agreed solemnly. “Death by cupcakes.”

Tim blinked.

“That isn’t the traditional – oh, I see. El, I do believe that you just cracked a joke.”

El smiled, and his perfectly white teeth dazzled out of the darkness of his balaclava till Tim was nearly blinded.

“I have been practicing, since that first quest. It was funny, yes?”

“Oh yes, very funny. Although death by cupcakes is too good for that old goat.”

“It is,” El agreed. “But in actuality I suspect that it will not be the way the wizard will go.”

They hugged awkwardly, in the manner of men who became close under extenuating circumstances, lost touch for a couple of years, then met up again just briefly, only to be parted once more by further potentially life threatening circumstances. There were a lot of complicated emotions at work in that hug, and it was a beautiful and touching thing.

“Give me a ten minute head start,” El muttered into the hug, “then head for the second floor. You will find your young man there.”

“Thanks, El, I will. Good luck with finding and murdering Chinnigan.”

“It sounds so distasteful when you put it that way,” El realized, pulling out of the hug. “And yet, it is what it is, and what it is must be done. The badger must kill the fox before it can truly find peace.”

“Is that an old Chilean saying?”

“No, I saw it on Autumnwatch.”

And with that, El bounded off up the stairs, wearing two balaclavas, never to be seen again. Probably.

Tim leaned against the wall and looked around him.

It wasn’t one of those interesting cellars that you hear about in some books, like ‘The Kid in the Cellar’ or ‘Get Me Another Chianti’. It had never been used as a dungeon, or a gym, or a place to keep wine. In fact, it was all but forgotten about by the people who owned the building, truth be told, even though it wasn’t plagued by damp or rats or unusual smells. It just sat there, quite a nice space, albeit a bit on the dark side, almost entirely empty apart from an old wheelchair with a broken seat and only one wheel; and several enormous piles of dust.

“Passing ten minutes in this place is probably going to be my biggest challenge yet,” Tim told himself with a chuckle. A mouse inside the wall rolled its eyes, and proclaimed him a goner. The mice had the run of the building, and knew how the owners perceived intruders, adventurers, and people who thought they were funny when they weren’t. It didn’t look good for someone who ticked all three of those boxes.

He heard footsteps above and to his right, and moved towards the tiny, grimy window to peek outside.

Dawn had broken, bathing the outside world in a pinky blue hue that would have made quite a nice colour for something that would look good in pinky blue. Tim enjoyed it for a moment, before remembering the footstep situation.

There were iron bars on the outside of the window which were totally in the way, but he was pretty sure he could make out the figure of Aloysius advancing towards the door of the building along with some sort of animal. Tim wasn’t all that great with nature, but was moderately sure that this one was a sheep dog of some sort.

“What is he doing,” he groaned, watching as Al strode purposefully towards the front door, “they’re gonna get him! And apparently, they’re gonna get his little dog, too!”

Tim grabbed the wheelchair and pulled it over to the window, intending to try and force his way out or at least attract Al’s attention so that he would not pursue this hideous course of action.

Unfortunately he wasn’t quick enough, and from his precarious position atop the rickety frame all he saw was the door closing behind Al as he entered the building.

Tim jumped down with a ker-thunk.

“That’s probably been ten minutes anyway,” he reasoned aloud, one assumes for the benefit of the mouse as there was nobody else present to hear him.

He bounded up the well-worn steps and out of the cellar as El had done some moments before, pulling the door open with a careful yet enthusiastic creak. Once out in the relative brightness of the corridor he made to travel back in the direction he had come, which wasn’t too difficult as he’d had years of practice at going back the way he had come.

To begin with he pressed himself against the wall like people do in action films, but then he decided there was little point, as there was nothing to shield him if someone did come the other way. He stuck out like a sore thumb against the holographic underwater scene they had used to decorate the place. It was an interior design nightmare, he thought to himself, not even a child would find this appealing and their taste in décor is bizarre.

Up ahead there was an archway, which he remembered led to a lobby area at the front of the building. Now at least he could hide behind something if the need arose, he thought with a satisfied nod.

He could hear voices a little way further, and recognized one to belong to Al, but the other was unfamiliar.

“If you’ve got to go,” Al was saying sympathetically as Tim drew nearer to the sound of their jibber jabber, “then you have to go, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I can’t go here,” the other voice said, “there’ll be hell to pay.”

Tim risked a look-see around a pillar that conveniently stood by the archway.

Al was the only person there, and his only companion was the dog from outside. That breed was called a collie, Tim remembered now. They got their name due to something about only eating cauliflower.

‘Talking animals, eh,’ he thought to himself. ‘The plot thickens.’

“I’m not talking,” the dog said patiently, looking in Tim’s direction as if waiting for him to come out of his hiding place. “I’ve set up a telepathic link between myself and anything living within a half mile radius. Heard you coming before we even got here, your thoughts are that loud.”

“Sorry,” Tim said, not really sure whether an apology was required but deciding to err on the side of politeness.

“It’s eaten the amulet, before you say anything about me mucking up the quest,” Aloysius told him defensively.

“I wasn’t going to slag you,” Tim replied, “I’m sure you did your best.”

“But my best wasn’t good enough.”

“Well, we’ll see. This thing isn’t over yet, there are four days left in November after all.”

Al looked confused, but didn’t say anything for fear of humiliating himself further.

“I’m not an it,” the dog said suddenly, “I’m a he. My name is Brian, actually.”

“Nice to meet you Brian,” breezed Tim, “I’m Tim Mahogany-Barnes, and this here is Aloysius Hunkington Smythe.”

“Tim Mahogany-Barnes,” Brian said, or thought, if you want to be pedantic (in which case, why are you here? Go and do something less first draft-y.) “why do I know your name?”

“Not sure,” Tim reported, scratching his nose.

“You’re not a relation of Cassius Mahogany-Barnes, by any chance?”

“Why yes,” said Tim, “he’s my uncle. Do you know him?”

“Know him? He was my owner, till I was dognapped a couple of years ago. Best old man I ever knew.”

“You’re the dog that went missing? Well that’s great, I’ll tweet him and say you’ve been found! He’s never given up the search, you know.”

“I know,” Brian said with a mixture of pride and sadness, “I saw the reports on Crimewatch. But he’ll never take me back now.”

“Whyever not?” Tim puzzled, “he misses you dreadfully. Never got another dog after you were taken from him.”

Brian’s lip trembled, which for those of you who’ve never seen a sad dog, was simultaneously the most adorable and the most heart wrenching thing you are ever likely to see.

“Because I’ve been a bad dog,” he moaned mournfully.

“I’m sure he’d forgive you,” Tim replied dutifully, although he wasn’t really sure. He didn’t know Cassius brilliantly well, as he was an eccentric old chap who liked to keep himself to himself.

“No,” Brain asserted with his tail between his legs. “Ever since the clan of the cape recruited me… Well I don’t want to go into it, really. But it’s been dark times.”

“Well how about you redeem yourself now, by giving us the amulet instead of letting the clan of the cape take it?”

This was Al speaking, using his famous logic to manipulate an animal into doing what he wanted. How like a human.

“I can’t,” Brian quaked, conflicted like a girl choosing between the sexy bad boy and the safe, dependable husband type. “They’ll kill me if I do. Or worse.”

“So the clan of the cape have a penchant for inflicting fates worse than death, eh,” said Tim, stroking his chin as if this information had in some way made him think. It hadn’t. “That’s no good at all. We must stop them, Aloysius.”

“How are we going to do that?” Al asked, logic to the forefront once more. “We know literally nothing about them, other than they want that magic amulet, and they have a base here. We don’t know how many there are, we don’t know whether this is their main HQ or just a holding place, we don’t know whether they’re sanctioned by any authorities in this country…. We’d be going in totally blind, with no weapons, and no idea whether they want to kill, maim, or let us go.”

“Well, I think it’s about time someone got you guys that information,” pealed a tiresome voice from one of the doorways.

“And as usual, that someone is probably me.”

And that was how Tim and Al were introduced to Jeremy Kyle.

Chapter Five

"You need a night out," pronounced Bracken's cousin, Nigella. "I'll be round in two minutes."

"I don't think that's such a great idea, Nige. I just want tae curl up in bed and never come out again, to be honest."

"That's because you're stressed," Nigella told her, walking in through the front door.

Bracken put the phone down.

"A night on the tiles is just what the doctor ordered."

"But what aboot the bairn?"

"Nicky'll look after him."

"It's poker night."

"Weans are allowed at poker night."

"No anymair," Bracken said, "since that time he was looking after you and me and took us along. He's only just been allowed back after that little incident."

"Pfft," Nigella said dismissively, "it was only one hamster."

"But quite a lot of vodka though eh."

"I didnae ken it would be as flammable as that. How could ah? I skived science classes at scale. It was borin'."

"Anyway," Bracken said, "he's awready left. And the bairn's gone doon fur the night. So."

"Nae worries," Nigella said, "I'll text maw."

Seconds later, Bracken's aunt, Nigella's mother, came in the door.

She was a formidable woman, with peroxide blonde hair and a voice that was husky with years of chain smoking. Today she was dressed in leopard print leggings, a fake fur gilet, and a shiny new pair of reeboks. Her eye makeup was a vibrant, kingfisher blue, right up to the brows, and her nails were fluorescent orange.

"Does naebiddy buzz anymair," Bracken complained, more to herself than anything else.

"It dusnae work," Nigella explained.

"It was a rhetorical question," she mumbled.

"Ooooooh, rhetorical eh. Check oot captain vocabulary ower there," the aunt piped up, lighting a cigarette.

"Shup, mum. It's an achievement that Bracken's such a guid reader."

"We've got hereditary dyslexia," she said, "s'no anybiddy's fault. And ‘shutup’ has a ‘t’, thank you."

"Dyslexia doesn't stop you doing stuff," said Bracken, "you just have to work at it a bit more. You dinnae get suhin' fur nuhin' in this life."

"How d'ye explain the wean then," her aunt cackled.

Bracken flushed, remembering the earlier conversation with the pinstripe woman. How did she explain the wean? She hadn't told her cousin that part and Nige hadn't pried, although she was well curious about the paternity of Bracken's kiddy.

"Well ladies, you cannae go out lookin like that," Bracken's aunt declared, producing a cheap bottle of white wine from her sleeve and pouring them each a glass. "Go and make yourselves beautiful while I catch up on Eastenders."

They shuffled through to the bedroom to examine Bracken's wardrobe.

"No got much in the way of going out stuff, do ye?"

Nigella plucked a little silver number off a hanger.

"This is nice though."

"That was a costume fae a Halloween disco at scale," Bracken said. “I was trying to impress Mr Holly. Think he was a gayer though.”

Nigella pulled the dress on over her head. It clung to her like a second skin.

She looked at herself in the mirror and laughed, "well I canny wear any underwear with this anyway."

She turned her attention to Bracken, who was gazing into the middle distance, apparently lost in thought.

"C'mon ya big tramp," she said gently, "try this one."

She had picked out a blue cat suit with diamanté trim. The v-neck plunged almost to the pelvis.

"Although," Nigella said thoughtfully, you canny wear a bra wi that, and what wi having had a baby..."

She stopped and stared as Bracken donned the outfit without a word.

"Where are your stretch marks," Nigella queried, "from the pregnancy?"

"Don’t have any," said bracken, who didn't.

"Well, lucky old you. And why, may I ask, are you still so pert in the boobal arena?"

"Well I'm only twenty," Bracken laughed, “they don't go south just yet do they? Or are you feelin’ past it, at the ripe old age of 22?"

"Did you not breast feed?"

"Aye," Bracken said, "but only for the first few months. I got ill, remember?"

Nigella did not. Now she came to think of it, she didn't remember anything at all about her cousin's pregnancy. And as Bracken thought about it, neither could she. She had a vague sense she had breast-fed the wean for a bit, but for the life of her couldn't remember when or where she was supposed to have done it, or how it felt.

"How do I look?" she changed the subject, taking a gulp of wine.

"Lovely. Gie's a twirl."

Bracken obeyed. The cat suit clung about her curves, and because it was made of velour like her tracksuit, she didn't feel uncomfortable or overdressed.

"Ooh, classy," Nigella approved. This was at least in part because the word classy was emblazoned upon the seat of the cat suit in more diamanté.

"You think?" Bracken asked anxiously.

"I do."

"Cab's here girls," called Nigella's mum from the living room.

"But I haven't done my make up," they chorused.

"Take it wi yese, dae it in the bogs when ye get up town."

They exchanged grimaces.

"She's suhin else, your mum."

"She's an embarrassment, that's what," Nigella said, sweeping all of Bracken's makeup from the top of the chest of drawers into her bag. "And what if we get a cute taxi driver? He'll run for the hills."

"It’s a lassie," her mum said, "and she says to hurry up or she's away."

Barely pausing to grab some more scrunchies for their hair, Bracken and Nigella bombed it down the stairs and scrambled into the taxi.

"Where to, ladies?"

"Eh," said Bracken, "dinnae ken. We hadn't really got that far, to be honest."

"Up toon," Nigella said, "and we'll think of something more specific on the way."

The something more specific ended up being a club that Nigella always took them to, which Bracken suspected had been the plan all along. Walking in she had to slow down because her feet were sticking to the floor, and almost instantly she was hit by the unmistakable aroma of sick.

"Oh look," Nigella said casually, "there's Jimmy Bob."

Nigella had had her eye on Jimmy Bob for a number of months now, but had never been sure if he was interested. Then last week he had shared a poke of chips with her, and when they had both put their hands in at the same time he had left his fingers touching hers for slightly longer than you would if you didn't fancy the person. It wasn't an exact science, Nigella admitted, but it was totally romantic.

Bracken was unconvinced by this tale at the time, and there was little about Jimmy Bob's general demeanor now to prove her wrong.

"Isn't that Rachel Henderson?"

"Aye."

"Sitting on Jimmy Bob's knee?"

"Aye."

"Sucking his tonsils?"

"Fucksake Bracken," Nigella said, "you dinnae huv tae rub it in."

"Sorry hen,” she said sincerely, “but he's no good enough fur ye. Ah’ve aiways said it."

"Shut up," Nigella said, annoyed, "if anything he's too good. Ah'm never going to get any better anyway. No livin round here."

"You don't have to live round here forever," Bracken pointed out, surprising herself slightly. She’d never thought about moving away herself.

"Aye, ma glittering career working part time in the coop could take me anywhere hen. Maybe even as far afield as Oxgangs."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

Nige looked blank. "Nah mate. D’you no mind how Jean got moved over that way last year? Two buses there and two back. She wusnae happy likes."

"Nah, I just meant... Are you ok?"

"Fine aye,” Nigella said cheerfully. “It's like you say, plenty mair fish in the sea."

"And your no going to take Rachel's sloppy seconds when she goes hame and Jimmy Bob tries his luck wi you?"

"Nut," she said, slightly too insistently, "as if."

"Good."

"Sorted. Now… flaming sambuca?"

"I'm no sure that's such a good idea," Bracken started to say, but her cousin was gone.

She leaned against a pillar and looked about her. The place was such a dive, she thought, maybe a couple of shots wasn't such a bad idea. Just to take the edge off.

In the far corner there were a group of lads on a stag do. She made a mental note to avoid them, knowing as she did so that her cousin would make a beeline straight in that direction as soon as she clocked them. They were good for getting free drinks out of, she maintained, and got so drunk so fast that it was easy to lose them later on. Bracken felt this was immoral, but Nigella thought she was just being a prude.

"There's worse things in this life than having a one night stand," she would say on the mornings after she had woken without quite managing to shake whichever one had stayed the course. "Like, some folk have no legs. And not by choice either."

"Here we go," Nigella reappeared with a tray of drinks. "These should get you in the mood for a bit of a fandango in the cowgate."

"Is that a euphemism," Bracken asked, "or do you genuinely want to go clubbing in the cowgate?"

"A little from column A, a little from column B," Nigella said with a wink.

The drinks went down quickly, but although Bracken felt light headed she was still fairly lucid. She even started to relax a bit.

"Who does that Keremy Jyle think he is anyway," she said suddenly, in the middle of one of Nigella's work anecdotes. "Blackmailing young mums to go on his show. I've done nothing wrong, just by having a baby."

"Totally."

"So what if ah'm no wi the dad," she continued, "that's naebiddy's business except for mine and the wee man's, when he's big enough for me to explain."

"What are you going to tell him," Nigella asked interestedly. "Have you planned it all out?"

"Not yet," Bracken said, "but all this has made me think about it. I guess I'll say that his dad loves him just as much as I do, but he had to go away."

"Bracken," Nige said earnestly, looking her cousin directly in the eyes, "who is the wean's dad? Ya ken I wouldnae grass."

Bracken sighed.

"Well the thing is," she started, "the dad is... Well he's..."

"Nae pressure," Nigella said. "I just wonder sometimes if it might help you to tell someone. You act like you've got the weight of the world on your shudders when you hink naebiddy's looking."

"OK. The father of ma bairn is - DUCK!"

"Doug who?" Nigella asked, thus failing to duck as a barstool came hurtling out of nowhere within a working inch of her left ear.

Slowly and deliberately, she turned in the direction from whence the stool had come. The couple responsible (newlyweds) let go of each other's throats and looked sheepish.

"Eh," the woman said, "sorry hen."

"Aye, sorry hen," the man echoed. "We got a bit carried away."

"WE?!" the wife began, but when she saw the look on Nigella's face she stopped sort.

"Apology accepted-"

Then a girl with pretty dodgy eyesight who was stood in a completely different area of the bar shrieked, "what are you looking at, ya tramp?!" and took a running jump at Nige.

Nobody moved for a fraction of a second, then the whole place descended into chaos.

"FIIIIIIIGHT," yelled the dude who had just tried to brain his wife.

The random girl pulled out a clump of Nigella's hair.

The stag party started whooping and cheering and taking bets on who would win and how severe the other’s injuries would be.

Nigella sank her teeth into the girl’s cheek.

An older gentleman, who had been the manager of the place till comparatively recently, began to conduct a commentary of the fight in the inimitable style of John Motson.

Bracken could barely make out who was who in the flailing mass of arms and legs and shrieking and stilettos.

One of the bar staff called the police.

The random girl pulled off one of her spike heels and rammed it into Nigella’s side.

Bracken called an ambulance.