44 LONDON
“Look,” I tell the tomato kitchen timer, “there is nothing wrong with more latkes.”
We have potatoes, we have oil, flour and Bernie’s apple store from under the trailer, so sue me if I made those tasty little pancakes for every meal.
They’re a staple of my staple pantry.
But now I’m a bit baffled.
Burt and Shane came back from collecting the supplies dropped for us at the abbey, and now I have too much choice.
That’s not how I cook. Give me a limited number of wotsits, and I’ll bing-bang-bosh you the best nosh you’ve had. Now I have things-a-plenty—and I don’t like it.
“What even are you?” I ask, picking up a bundle of green leaves and shaking their woody stems.
I guess I’ll have to ask the cleverest member of our gang.
“Hey, fuckwad,” I call to the little scamp. “Know what this is?” I thrust my plant-thing towards the dining area.
A snort echoes from above. “Greens?” he says, oh so helpfully.
And if you can’t tell, I’m being sarcastic. Give me a cauli any day.
BF is swinging in the hammock he made out of a canvas sheet.
It’s hanging precariously over the dining table.
If he puts down a foot he’ll wreck the jigsaw that me and Skylight spent all night working on.
Well, I did most of the heavy lifting, seeing as our poor little Sky’s digits are still far too busted for finickety bits and bobs.
BF (stands for Basil Fuckwad and also Best Friend) hangs across the ceiling like a cynical little spider, clutching a tire-iron like a teddy-bear.
I drop the green leaves back onto the counter, deciding they look far too green to be trusted, and turn my attention to a massive, beautiful package of minced lamb instead.
“How many shepherds does it take to make a shepherd's pie?” I ask Mrs. Tomato. Drumroll. She doesn't answer, but I give her the punchline anyway. “Depends how big your dish is!”
“What does a shepherd do, anyway?” Basil grumbles, poking his messy dark head over the canvas lip, goggles perched on his forehead.
“Herd sheps, you silly-willy,” I tell him.
He doesn’t guffaw at my excellent joke, but I feel a tingle in his aura, so I know he’s amused—secretly and silently.
After some splattering frying and unsatisfying fork-mashing, I’m finally ready to put the shepherd's pie in the oven.
“Aren’t pies supposed to have crust?” BF asks, obviously desperate to learn from my vast culinary knowledge.
“Don't worry, young Fuckwad,” I grin. “My peaks will be the finest golden crusty pots you’ve ever seen.” I slide the heavy pan into the gas oven, slam the door shut, then give Mrs. Tomato a quick twist so she can keep track of the Mississippis.
With the grub safely ticking away, I lean against the counter and look down the tiny corridor that leads to the two bedrooms.
BF (also short for Bossy friend) has masterminded our new sleep schedule.
Little Skylight is permanently billeted with Kitten and the zebras, sleeping tucked up safe in the back room. BF has his hammock, and that means Shane, Burt and I have been playing a proper game of musical beds.
One sleeps in the first bedroom, one on the pull-out, and one in with the two lovely ladies. No funny stuff, obviously. Our Sky doesn’t need that energy around her.
A shudder runs down my spine. Her vibes are so delicate right now.
The others don’t get it.
Only me, Fuckwad and Sky have been in that hell-world that turns sex into something so repulsive and rancid, it will take a lifetime to wash away. Don’t get me wrong, my faun-horn is large for Kitten, but…
But, I’m confused too.
On the yachts and at the parties, I hated my body for getting hard when I was forced to perform. I’d do everything in my power to stop it happening.
I’d think about a woman called Christine who lives in West Sussex—only sixty miles from Nan’s flat btw—she holds the world record for the longest bath in a tub full of maggots.
Ninety minutes.
Not ninety-one minutes, or ninety minutes and three seconds. Ninety minutes precisely. Which is so deeply impressive. Imagine the dexterity required to flip yourself out of ten gallons of squirming larvae exactly on the ding.
Or Ken from Derbyshire who ate thirty-six cockroaches in one minute. That seems easier, because you’d just stop chewing when the timer went off.
Another erection-distraction was Anthony from India, who still holds the record for longest ear hair grown. Over seven inches currently, and still extending.
But sometimes those distractions weren’t enough and my body would still betray me. Stupid, idiot body.
“London?”
My favorite voice in the world nudges the ear-hair and belly-worms from my brain-box.
Kitten is standing at the entrance of the narrow corridor.
She’s wearing fresh clothes, delivered in the stash by her bro.
A dreamy soft sweater over snuggly leggings.
Her short blonde hair is wild and fluffy from sleep, and smells like peach and vanilla shampoo.
“You’ve got that look in your eye,” she says to me. “The one when you go some place bad in your head.”
Busted.
My throat goes all hot and tight. Nobody has ever seen past my clutter. I know my head is like a hoarder's house. I don’t want the mess, but it is what it is. It can’t be fixed.
So I change the subject. “Do you know what these are?” I ask, shaking the offensive green bundle at her. “Leaves are fine, but unknown leaves? They leaf a lot to be desired.”
“Collard greens,” she answers, taking the veggies out of my hand and putting them on the counter. The next second her arms snake around my waist. “What’s going on, babe?”
Babe?
Bloody hell, my peepers are filling up again. I got a nickname! And not one like ‘idiot boy’ or ‘waste of space’.
Babe.
That’s the kind of name you give a cute little pig, or someone you actually like.
Like, like like.
I do believe that Kitten likes me, but I hadn’t dared to believe she might actually like-like me. Oof.
“What have you been thinking about?” she asks again, like she actually wants to know.
So I tell her.
“I was thinking about horrible histories,” I reply.
“Not like when Harold got an arrow in his eye, but the other stuff. It’s all fine though.
All good now.” I give her a reassuring smile.
“And it’s my turn in the zebra room tonight, so I can be you and Skylight’s hottie-bottie. That always makes me feel good.”
“Hottie-bottie?”
“Yes, m’lady. I will be the best hot water bottle a human-slash-faun can be.”
Unfortunately that makes Kitten frown not laugh. “London, you don't have to be the equivalent of some inanimate object to be welcome in our bed. It’s you who makes me feel safe. It’s you who comforts me and Sky so we can fall asleep more easily, not your innate ability.”
I hear the words, but I’m not sure I believe them.
“Burt or Shane,” I tell the lino, not looking Kitten in the eye, “are proper men-men. They can protect you. But I’m not like them-them.
” A shudder travels through my chest and out my throat, making my teeth wobble.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be good at real boyfriending.
” I feel wet stuff in my eyeballs. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” I add hurriedly, “but I got broken along the way, so I don’t work how I should. ”
She needs to know the truth about me. I’m only fit to be our gang’s happy assistant: making the food, polishing the zebras, and taking the porcelain poodles for walkies.
Suddenly, Kitten let out a loud snarl that makes her sound like a lioness.
Fuckwad leans out of his canvas nest. “Who’s growling?”
She ignores him and instead yells at the top of her lungs. “Francois!”
The door to the first bedroom clicks open instantly, and out steps Shane, looking entirely posh. Before he can even utter a fancy French word, Kitten grabs the bundle of greens, collard greens, (said in the manner of James Bond) and flings them dead-center at him.
Smack.
Shane’s eyes widen, more so when he sees the trail of leafy ooze on his clean white shirt.
“You’re on kitchen duty, de Vaux,” Aurora barks, in a tone that no one, even old Shivers, would want to argue with. “Watch the pie. If the tomato dings, take it out. And do something with the veggies.”
“Aurora, that isn’t…”
He doesn't get to finish. Kitten grabs my hand, her fingers locking tightly between mine, and yanks me out the trailer door.
Burt is sitting at the table outside with Sky, teaching her how to fire a catapult. They both just stare at us as we blast by, Kitten dragging me towards the treeline.
The air is damp and cold, like always, but Kitten doesn’t stop. She marches me into the forest, her new boots snapping frozen twigs as she goes.
I’m not sure what’s happening, but we’re holding hands, and our golden wires are humming so I’m as content as I’ve been in my life.
After a few minutes, the trees thin out to form a perfect, sheltered little glade. The kind that should have a little bottle saying ‘drink me’ placed somewhere.
My little love finally stops, turning to face me, her breath swirling up between us in white steam.
“Babe, look at me,” she says softly.
How can I not look? Her blue eyes are so bright and light and wondrous.
“I know you’ve been through more than the rest of us put together,” she says, stroking my face with the hand I’m not holding. “But for some reason I know, like really know that who you are, and what you are capable of, will blow the rest of us out of the water.”
Hmm. I don’t like to doubt my Kitten, but that doesn’t seem entirely accurate.
“Let me show you what I mean,” she says. “Yesterday, I spent hours trying to teach Tally a couple of simple spells. Let’s just say wolves and casting don’t seem to go hand-in-hand. But you?” Her eyes are twinkling. “I think you’re made for magic.”
Me? Making magic? I failed the last time she tried to teach me.
“Watch what I’m doing,” she commands.
Releasing my hand, Kitten lifts her palms as her fingers begin an intricate dance. She’s also humming a note. I place the key into my ears then focus on the hands.