by Wez Wallie
A single tear leaked from Peader's eye, (though it could have just been pus from the developing conjunctivitis.)
"T'anks fer sharin' dat wit me, Ms Walker. Tagedder, we can take on whatever dey t'row at us." Dotty smiled. "Now let's get ye home."
"Just a question from me now, though."
"Sure, Ms Walker, shoot!"
"Why are you still carrying those crappy pants around? Should've bung 'em in the bin after you changed earlier."
"Well, dere me jobbie pants!"
"I know, Peter, so chuck 'em - why are you bringing them back home wiv ya?"
"Naw, Ms Walker, I mean dat I wear dese ones on a job, like. Fer good luck, like."
"Honestly, Peter, you're not that broke - we can afford to get you a new pair of undies, son. I'll get you some tomorrow; tell you what, call it an early birfdy present."
"Me birt’day isn't fer nine months yet, Ms Walker," he said, trying to stop her from leaning over to the open window.
"Crimbo then."
Dotty grabbed the meaty-package and bunged the bum-bomb outside, where it landed on the back of a passing hedgehog, whose prickles popped open the gift from the gods like an oily water balloon, covering it in a greeny-brown slime where the toxic fumes sent its soul straight to fucking Valhalla.
"Dere endangered, Ms Walker!"
"Why? Is this where everyone dumps their cacky kecks?"
Chapter 7
"LOCAL NAN ONLY SURVIVOR IN TRAGIC GAS LEAK AT SMIFFY'S BINGO HALL"
Dotty put the paper down and shook her head. Youtube's one thing, she could control that on her own terms, but this? Poxy Tilda Matthews had backed her into a right corner. She stared out the window at the front of the café, watching pigeons choke on chips. (At least there was something to cheer her up!)
Shonny sat opposite her and was stuffing ice-cream down her face and yelping excitedly at how cool it was that her nanny is now "front-page famous."
"I know. And I didn't even have to get me bangers out," she said absent-mindedly, before remembering the fact she was in the middle of a café and in front of her seven-year-old granddaughter.
"Sorry, dear, I meant how were your sausages, alright? Yucky beans but lot of mash wasn't there."
"Yeah, it was alright, could've been creamier though."
"I dread to think what Gus uses to make that slop."
"I'm gonna give him some feedback on his website telling him how he can improve on his food. Mummy makes the best mash, though the ingredients are super-secret. I'm not sure where he could obtain some of mummy's special powder..."
Eh?! I really hope she meant Smash!
Marion, as it happened, was sat a few tables away with Peader, who had concocted some cockamamie scheme as to why they couldn't all eat together and had effectively separated a mother from her daughter just to sit asking Mal inane questions, which in his mind seemed to pass for romantic courtship.
"So... uh... erm, let's see now... uh, so where's de nearest Marks & Spencer's ta youse, den?"
"Peader, what's with the whole Horatio Caine look you got going on?" she said, pointing him up and down.
Peader seemed baffled and hot under the collar. His mind was elsewhere, trying to work out how to ask her out on a proper date, and worrying she may not feel the same way.
"Sorry, what about me look?" he replied briefly, before he was kind of gone again.
"You know, the whole Men in Black vibe? This Terminator style?"
"Genisys?"
"No, not Phil Collins, I mean the more, 'Neo-in-The-Matrix' kinda tone..."
His mind burst back into the room: "Are ye sayin' I'm de One?!"
This could be it!
"What's with the bleedin' sunnies in the middle of a café, is all I was asking."
"Aw right ye are, dere. Um..." He had to think quick on his feet. "Uh, it's because yer modder is famous now, so I don't want anybody recognising me in de street. Fer security purposes, y'know, like. I wouldn't want ta compromise yer mammy, now."
"But she's the semi-famous one, you're not...?"
"...I'm famous by association. I was in de piccies too."
"The press caught a corner of your head from behind the Ambulance door. And they put a square of text over the brief collections of pixels that would have constituted your likeness so one can't even identify you at all."
"Well I don't see yer written-over pixels on de paper!" he said defensively.
Marion rolled her eyes with a chuckle and stirred her coffee. She stared over at her mum. "Gosh, I can't believe she almost died the other night. It's mental. Just makes you think doesn't it, how transitory life is and how it can be taken away at any moment..." She looked him dead in the eyes. "Makes you want to grab life by the horns and do what you've always wanted to do before it's too late!"
Peader was positively shaking with anxiety, as he tried to read if she was on the same page as him.
"Fuck it," she yelled. "I think I will have another espresso after all. You only live once."
Peader let out a pent-up sigh of frustration as Mal got up to order.
"Do you want anything, P?"
"Just you... uh, I mean, you, you..." he looked desperately around the room: "spoon, youspoon - Youtube! Yes, de ol' Youtubes," pulling out his phone, "I want ta have a quick browse of de Youtubes, dere...haha ha..."
"I'll get you a flump."
"Grand."
Meanwhile, a spotty teenage boy approached Dotty's table to ask for a selfie. She grinned in excitement.
"Who me, dear? Why would you want a photograph with me?" she asked with feigned pretentious flattery.
"At the end of the day, I'm not a hero or anything, I'm just an old fool who survived being gassed."
"I know," said the lad. "I'm writing an essay about the Holocaust."
"Gertcha, ya little pipsqueak!"
Shonny was concentrating on her colourings and when she finished, she whipped out her phone where she proceeded to take a picture of her sketch and uploaded it to her Instagram account.
"Oi, let nanny see it before you show the world, then!"
Shonny turned the paper around, for Dotty to see herself depicted as fast-asleep in a Bingo chair, with half a pint of dribble running down the side of her gob and Peader standing over her in a superhero costume. (Not to mention he seems to be about 6'5 in this imagining, as opposed to his real-life height of 5'7!)
"Well, you've only captured a little likeness there, Shonny my love. I mean, first of all you forgot Peter's second and third chins, and in what universe does he have a six pack of abs? Also, he did not save me, he just brought the car around..."
"I thought he came in and found you passed out and then called the police?"
"Well, that's the official stor -" Dotty's eyes narrowed. "I actually saved him, you see. He walked in like a plum and breathed in the gas and almost died but your nanna gave him a sip of me oxygen and dragged him out by the ankles."
Shonny was impressed.
"He wet himself as well I think." She nudged a pencil toward her: "Here, use that yellow one, go on..."
"Aw, poor Uncle P. Well, he's still a hero to me!"
Dotty picked up Shonny's phone whilst she was making her amendments to her art and saw the kid had 2.5k Insta followers and her whole feed was made up of make-up tips, pics of her and her schoolmates mucking about, but moreover, strangely full of comically buff drawings of Peader in strong and stoic poses, (and tight spandex for some reason). She certainly had talent, Dotty had to confess.
"’Ere, do you have a crush on Peter over there?" Dotty teased, wondering how the kid could fancy a bloke who just had to have a stranger give him the Heimlich after choking on a flump.
"What do you mean 'crush', nanny?" she said, potentially trying to avoid the subject.
"Well, do you like the cut of his jib, so to speak?"
Shonny looked as baffled as Peader does during the numbers round when he watches Countdown with her at 4pm every weekday.
"Don't wo
rry, kiddo."
"Cool, I'm gonna show mummy my drawings!"
She skipped off down the tables and over to her mum, cockblocking Uncle P's attempts to stick it on her mother. Although, by all observation the game was already over for today given Mal had spent the past ten minutes picking marshmallow out of her hair.
Dotty was left alone at her little single table as a cup of black tea was laid to rest in front of her. She looked up confused: "Oh, I didn't order a -"
A woman just smirked as she sat down opposite.
"Now now, Dorothy-boo, is that any kind of thanks?"
"TILDA COONTIN' MAFFEWS!" Dotty cried out in reflex as her archenemy invaded her space, and Peader turned around in panic to see what was going on, whipping off his sunglasses to get a better look.
"Ohhh Lordy, it's Tilda Matt'ews, now!"
"Who's Tilda Matthews," asked Marion and Shonny in unison. Peader turned back nervously: "Uh, just some acquaintance of yer modder..."
"Oh my gosh, Peader, how did you get pink eye?!" Mal asked in shocked response to his pus-red eyeballs.
"Oh uh... milk."
"Sorry, milk?" questioned Mal.
"Milk..." He was looking around again in desperation. "Yes... spoon? Naw, stick wit milk... Uh yeh, I, accidentally flicked some milk in me eye dis mornin' when I was tryin' ta get de toy buried in de cereal box, and I must'a got sum Choccie Pops in me eyecrack dere..."
"Oh, you poor thing!" said Mal earnestly. "Why didn't you tell me? I've had conjunctivitis many times before. Shonny even had it last year; hold on, I might still have some leftover drops somewhere in my bag here, one mo..."
Peader swivelled his chair around to face Tilda and Dotty, straining to see through his bleary vision as Marion dug through her bag and looked up for a brief moment. "She looks so familiar that woman..."
Peader tried to run cover. "Uh, I tink she's an extra-actress in de movies so dat's prob'ly where ye seen her before, like..."
He gulped and grabbed a straw whilst fumbling for a device in his pockets.
"Tilda Maffews..." yelped Dotty in fury. "You've got a nerve showing your crinkly muff 'round here!"
"Long time, Dorothy, long time my dear," she acknowledged, wrapping her leopard-print coat over her sophisticatedly crossed legs. Tilda swigged from the teacup; her silver pixie cut with pink streaks capped under a crimson beret. Dotty eyeballed her with contempt.
"Clearly. I've aged with dignity, and you've come as a fackin' Communist."
"Oh Dorothy, still as defensive and petulant as ever. You haven't changed a bit!"
"Well, you've certainly grown up, I admit - up to the fackin' rafters ya giant shit! I bet you could tickle an angel's ballbag at that altitude. No wonder you were always thick: only 25% oxygen actually makes it to your brain, and the rest just evaporates on the way up through ya elastic neck, you spotted-giraffe-looking, Loch Ness nonce!
"Okay, get it out of your system, Dorothy..."
"I mean, what do you write on your Tinder bio? Helen Mirren on stilts?"
"Yes alright, Dorothy, that's quite enough don't you thi -"
"- And that accent! We all know you're not from Kensington & Chelsea; you were born in Lewisham!"
"Well, I'm not going to apologise for improving myself and moving up in the world, Dorothy. Simple elocution lessons are very cheap nowadays."
"Well, call me a crank, but I for one ain’t perverted enough to subject myself to electric shock therapy just to change the way I naturally speak! I'm proud of me Peckham heritage."
"Now now, let's keep this civil. Wouldn't want to cause a scene in front of your family. And what a lovely family you have. Though your son's a bit of a 'Jumbo Prawn with extra soy', as we like to say up in the Gala balls."
"He's not my son!"
"It's okay. I would never make fun of Down's."
"Ooh, you are a wench, Tilda Maffews!"
"Maybe. But I still got you good the other night."
"You caught me off-guard; there's no pride in that. A cat can knock you over if you don't know it's under ya feet."
Another kid interrupted to have her picture taken with Dotty. She threw on a fake smile as she posed and then gently shoved the kid away.
"You killed innocents, Tilda! For what? Just to take out one target? Or was it to get me too?"
"It's called collateral, darling, you know it's a tactic that the best agents use to maintain cover."
"How is murdering a room full of people 'maintaining cover' and not just drawing major attention to yourself?!"
"That's rich coming from you, Ms Front Page News! Anyway, you know accidents are the best form of camouflage. You are just too much of a coward to employ it."
"I'm a warrior of the Lord. I only kill the unclean, not the harmless."
"What, like postmen?"
"Well, he was very unclean! And hey, have you been following me?!"
"Yeah. And I saw what you did in the sea as well!"
Dotty went quiet and said in a whisper: "What was I s'posed to do, the bogs were miles away from the shore..."
"Wait, what?"
"I bet you were only watching me so you could take notes and get some tips on how a real contract is fulfilled!"
"Not really. You smacked a fisherman in the face and weighed him down in the water. Not exactly a scheme of genius cunning. Honestly, how you were ever considered a thing in this game, Dorothy, I'll never know. But I'm gonna show you for what you are - a loser."
"You're starting a war, Tilda."
"Reigniting one more like. Like the Take That song."
"It's relight my fire, pleb."
"Think you'll find it isn't."
"Fack you - I had to listen to them warbling scrotes on repeat all day long back in the early '90s, their cheesy pop-poncing pounding through the bedroom walls when me daughter used to strum her lozenge to the vocals of Jason Orange."
"Meh. You say tomato, I say you're a wrinkly hag way past her sell-by date. Much like Take That."
She looked over at Marion and then back to Tilda in shock. "You take that back!"
"Sick pun bro. But look, Dorothy, I'm back in town now. The 'Boss Bitch' I believe the kids call us types now, or alpha's, for those still stuck in the dark ages like you."
"Give over, you must be approaching 70 yourself, soon. Besides, this is my turf, Tilda."
"You went away. And London became fair game. I called it years ago. So you comin' back now, you're taking jobs on my land."
Tilda flicked a stray bean from the table which landed directly on Dotty's cheek.
"I didn't go away," said Dotty, quickly wiping the orange sauce from her face. "I took a leave of temporary retirement to raise a family, like the good Lord expects us to. A self-obsessed little harlot like you wouldn't know the first thing about family. I bet you've still never been married, have you Tilda? Still barren of offspring; single and alone."
Tilda grew quiet and slouched a little, slapping what she thought was a midge and scratching at the ensuing red mark on her neck. "Perhaps. But I am still the best at what I do. The Agency know that, which is why I'm getting the big contracts and you're getting the scraps."
"What?"
"Do you really think offing a pongy postman and some rando on a fishing boat is all the work that's going around these days? I mean, really?"
Dotty was hit with a huge dose of reality.
"Please. The world of espionage and assassination is bigger than ever, Dorothy. Filthy-rich Oligarchs pay through the nose to off their competitors; oil brokers contract us to tie up leaks; hell, even China and the Arabs have me on rolling contract taking out each other's forces every other week." Tilda chuckled to herself. "And you're out here thinking offing Michael Fish counts as a good day."
Dotty was stunned into silence.
"Bognor are playing you. They sent you that mogadon over there as a Handler for Christ sakes! I mean look at him. I bet he can't even go seven days without pooping himself!"
"He almost did last
week, but he just loves that chilli oil..."
Tilda sighed in pity. "Just accept it, Dorothy. From one old friend to another... your day is done, and you're just history. Enjoy your retirement, girl. Spend time with your family while you've still got it."
Dotty looked over at them all on the far away table. She sighed too and looked at her untouched tea.
"Green tea. I hate green tea."
Tilda smirked as she brought her cup to her mouth.
"What you slurping, anyway?"
"Herbal."
"Ooh, you’re a right liberal luvvie, ain’cha."
Another admirer approached the table to tell Dotty how strong and brave she was to be out and about after such a traumatic experience. Three young and pretty girls of about age 25 came over and started shoving phones in her face and starting an impromptu interview for their social media profiles.
"I'm gonna shoot off, Dorothy," her rival said in a patronising whisper. "I'll leave you to your fans!"
And with that, Tilda slipped out of the café, and Peader was wading through the gaggle of birds to get to Dotty.
"Ms Walker!" he cried, nudging the ladies away with his flapping bingo wings. "Are ye okey? What did she say?!"
"Nuffin'," she said calmly, putting on her long black gloves. "But we've got a fight on our hands, boy."
Chapter 8
Marion was dropping Shonny off to school this morning for the first day of a new term, and then preparing to take Dotty on her daily walk, as Peader had to attend an emergency doctor's appointment for his infected pink eye.
"Alright dear,” she said to the litt’lun, “have a lovely day and remember, if a boy tries to take you into the toilets, bite him in the nuts and don't let go until ketchup comes out!"
"Mother!" cried Marion, turning to the back seat to face her elderly mum.
"What? Girl has to know how to protect herself these days. It ain't like the '70s where nonces were generally relegated to radio shows and the BBC."
"Shonny, grab your bag and get on in, you'll be late for Registration." Shonny grabbed her Nicki Minaj backpack and said "Bye, love you" as she ran off.
The backpack was 3D and Nicki began twerking between every step as the kid ran. "Faackin' libby luvv -"