Chapter 3.10
Rain shivered the leaves overhead, as Tufty navigated his crumbling rattletrap through the genteel, tree-lined, and waterlogged streets of Rubislaw. Face pulled out and down, as if someone had just introduced his bumhole to an unbuttered pineapple.
Which was daft. He should be living in the moment. Enjoying the small pleasures, like Roberta did.
She grinned, which only made him wince harder.
Shame they couldn’t have been there when Chief Superintendent Pine found out what’d happened to her precious Mercedes. But sometimes you just had to run away before the explosion happened.
Learned that one the hard way.
Roberta whistled a happy tune, composing a text to Susan:
What say we get Jasmine to babysit Naomi tonight, then you and me can go somewhere nice for tea?
Bit of a celebration, because *I* am a HIGHLY SUCCESSFUL RAT.
Tufty turned Betsy onto Roberta’s street. And the pineapple was joined by a globe artichoke. ‘But did you have to criticise her bum?’
‘Course I did.’ Holding up a finger. ‘One: it was a massive heap of fun.’ Next finger.
‘Two: this way all her rage is focussed on me, and no’ you.
’ Another finger joined the party. ‘And three: no bugger shouts at Roberta Steel, like I’m some wheezy Jack Russell terrier who’s just peed on the living-room rug again. ’
He gave a little sobbing moan. ‘But I has to go back to work on Sunday! Night shift’s bad enough without unexploded Chief Superintendents!’
‘Where you can tell them how that nasty old Roberta Steel bullied you and made you do all those naughty things.’ A sniff.
‘By then Perky Pine will’ve forgotten all about it anyway.
’ Or more likely, she’ll have spent the whole weekend working herself up into a flat-arsed tizzy.
Planning revenge. But the wee loon didn’t need to know that – bad for morale.
‘I still say you should take the credit for ID’ing Noel Sherman, Drug Kingpin of Aberdeenshire South. ’
‘Who’s now jam.’ Tufty shuddered. ‘To be honest, I’ve been kinda waiting for that to happen since we started . . . Which is why nice boys do not play on the railway lines.’
He pulled up outside Roberta’s house, right in front of her poor abandoned MX-5 – all covered in sticky and leaves and bits of tree and bird poop and lumpy-dirty stuff. Definitely need to get that washed.
After all, if she was stuck with being chauffeured around for the foreseeable future, why not do it in style? Maybe bribe the kids to—
Oh, for goodness’ sake.
Jasmine and Naomi.
The pair of them were huddled by the front door, beneath a scant overhang of scarlet rambling roses – nowhere near as voluminous and porch-like as the one outside traitorous Davey’s miniature bungalow.
They were both drenched.
Silly sods.
Roberta opened her door, popped her brolly, and hauled herself out into the rain. Then turned to lean back into the car. Putting on her Eberto Alters wizard voice: ‘You did good today, wee man. Pure dead brilliant, so you were.’
He looked at her, then pink rushed up his cheeks, bringing a stammer with it. ‘I . . . I don’t . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. Only you’ve never been properly nice to me before.’ Then Tufty’s eyes widened. ‘Are you dying?’
‘I take it back, you’re a knob.’ She thunked the door shut, then hobbled up the garden path to her sodden children. Shaking her head. Taking in the drookit pair of twits. ‘Why?’
Jasmine pulled a face. ‘Forgot my keys.’
Naomi glowered, shivering. ‘She’s a s-s-s-silly s-s-s-soggy ars-s-s-se-biscuit!’
True.
‘And what about your keys?’
Naomi shrank into her school blazer. ‘Non parlo Inglese, S-s-s-signora.’
‘Yeah, I bet you don’t.’ Roberta unlocked the door. ‘Come on. But you better no’ tell Mummy Susan about this or some-how it’ll end up being my fault.’
The squelchy idiots barged inside, wreaking a thump-and-rattle barrage of wet shoes and jackets – cast off and dumped on the hall floor as they scurried away.
Because she and Susan had raised messy, lazy, feral little monsters.
Roberta turned to close the door, and there was Betsy, sitting at the kerb, engine idling like a demonic bowl of Rice Crispies, while Tufty grinned at her from the driver’s seat. Still chuffed with himself. Waving.
Urgh . . .
That’s what she got for being nice.