Bela the Nymphomaniac Vampire Slayer

Chapter 8: Why you don't fuck with Nana

By the time I make it to Nana Vigu's, it's a quarter past three, and by the way I can hear Romanian drinking songs drifting from the second-floor balcony of her terrace I can tell she's already up to her fourth liqueur.

“Hey Nana! You started without me!” I call up at her as I cross the one-way street.

“You de late-runner girl, I only have few to keep me company while I wait for you slow-poke!” Nana bellows, cackling uproariously over her use of what she no-doubt thinks is current “young person talk”. Leaning over her honeysuckle smothered balcony to drop me her front door key, she wags her finger at me and nearly spills drink number five.

Oh dear.

It's not that I'm worried about Nana drinking too much- she can hold more alcohol than your average brewer, and by some twist of unlikelihood, her liver is in fairly good shape, considering, much to the utter bafflement of her doctor.

It's just that at this stage of drunk, Nana tends to get loud, obnoxious and nostalgic for “the good old day when I run my old Business”. I should really hide the phone from her again before she rings up the sex lines to give the girls some “pro-tip from old lady of your business”. Again.

To be fair, the girls could do worse than listen to Nana. Back in the day she used to buy condoms in bulk (much to the mixed bewilderment and amusement of the shop assistants) and then distribute them to all the local sex workers around the Cross and Oxford Street every Sunday while my mother was in church. Apparently she'd even tracked down a “reputable” abortionist for a few of the girls, and had nearly cried with happiness when some court decision in the early 70s* meant that abortions were much easier to get legally.

Though come to think of it, if she was happy when that happened, she was goddamn beside herself with glee when the Scarlet Alliance** was created. I have a very vivid memory of her getting a letter one day when I was visiting her as a child, and watching her dance around the house emitting loud whoops without having a bloody clue what she meant by “all the girls all trade unioned! Bless Australia!” followed by a heap of Romanian that I was unable to understand at the time, and would probably have a great deal of trouble with even now.

Yeah, I speak a bit of Romanian... but only really enough to know when I'm being insulted in it or asked to pass the ghiveci (that's vegetable stew to you people). Then there's a few jargonistic terms that Nana's taught me from her brothel-running days, but since they're rather... specialised, I tend to use them even less.

Well, I mean there was this one time with a Tall Dark Handsome (but with the complexion of bleached paper) vamp who must have been turned in about the tenth century in Romania who had an absolutely fucking amazing tongue... some of my vocab picked up from Nana had come in very handy, as it shocked him so much that he paused and gave me a decent opening for the staking.

Shame really. He'd been one of the more talented ones.

Having picked up the keys and won the habitual wrestling match with the front lock, I wander into Nana's cosy house, noticing a rather large backpack left on one of the battered leather recliners. Funny. I didn't see anyone up on the balcony with Nana, but then maybe she's minding it for someone.

Thumping my way up the narrow, carpeted stairs, I'm reminded again of why my mother keeps nagging Nana to move into a different house, one that doesn't have a massive staircase to fall down. I doubt it's ever going to happen. I'm not entirely sure how old Nana is (and I would be surprised if she herself remembers as she's apparently been lying about her age since she was about twelve,) but she's one tough old lady. So far she's never been hospitalised, and if her current health and vivacity (or cantankerousness, as my mother terms it) are anything to go by, she's going to hit the day when she's supposed to die, then tell Death that he/she/it can go fuck itself because she's still got things to do.

“So you gonna pour me one of those, or do I have to make one myself?” I ask her as I reach the upstairs sitting room with its small dining table that is currently half out on the balcony. Said table is practically groaning under the weight of various jugs, bottles, and containers of coffee liqueur-making ingredients, a blender, a kettle, a three-quarters-full ice-bucket with a tartan ribbon tied around it, some assorted glasses, a bowl of cornchips and a half-eaten fruitcake with a crumby knife sticking out of it.

Nana snorts inelegantly. “Make yourself, lazy girl. You know how to make de good Jamaican coffee what with dat Garet-tuh friend of yours.”

I shrug and scoop some ice into a wineglass then pour the cream, Tia Maria, rum and coffee from their respective jugs and bottles into the blender, contemplating for what can only be described as the umpteenth time how Nana's accent seems to always thicken when she's had a few.

Not that I'd ever mention it to her- she's quite proud of her English particularly since it's the first language she learnt to read in, and she'd probably throw something at me for “being smartarse” if I mentioned anything about her occasional missing or redundant articles.

Ooh, my Jamaican Coffee is blended.

While I pour the blended drink into my wineglass of crushed ice, Nana asks me about how things are going, asks about Georgie (who she has met maybe twice) and Tristan and his “new” girlfriend. She likes Tristan actually, despite the fact that he's slightly scared of her. Possibly because he's slightly scared of her- Nana tends to take this as a sign of intelligence in a man. That and she enjoys reinforcing said uneasiness. I muse as I sit down on a chair with its back to the wall that maybe I've inherited more than my sex drive from her.

Speaking of which...

“So, you been getting de good quality bed-persons?”

To explain the non-gender specificity just there: I told Nana about my various lesbian inclinations (this was before there were activities) years ago, and she hadn't particularly cared, to my then surprise. In retrospect, (she explained a little to the then fifteen year old me then more to me later) Nana has always been fairly progressive with her ideas about what should and shouldn't be acceptable in sexual relations, her patronage (concerning advice and condoms, not using their services) towards the almost all gay and transvestite hookers on Oxford Street being the obvious example.

I grimace.

“It's been a bit of a lame week, actually. Sunday I had me a smoking red-head but then I had to kill him, and then there was this cute Japanese uni exchange student I met on Monday who I think must have been a virgin because goddamn he fumbled. Didn't seem to know what to do with a woman, so I taught him a few tricks then kicked him out- hopefully the next girl he's with will get the benefit. Tuesday it was okay- picked up this Nordic-looking one who was an absolute demon in the sack... until he got over-excited and got a little too rough for my tastes. Bastard tried to bite me, but I showed him us females of the Vigu line don't take to the being man-handled too well... Week pretty much went downhill from there- had to ditch this hot albino guy at the club on Wednesday to look after a baby New Entry into the Slayer business, then Thursday I ended up giving two blowjobs but didn't get anything back, then I hooked up with a Spanish chickie who turned out to be a total ditz and so even though she took me back to her hotel room nothing of interest happened.”

Taking a sip of my Jamaican coffee, I close my eyes and savour the delicious blend of sugar, caffeine and alcohol, noting that Nana hasn't said anything. Funny. Normally she wants to hear everything- about the positions I used, any new techniques...

“Isabela I think you should stop dis slay-business.”

What?! Where did that come from?

Wiping away the drink I'd managed to spill down my cleavage from jerking in surprise with a handy serviette, I turn to Nana, bewildered.

“What you talking about Nana? Why? What's wrong with me killing vampires?”

I pause for a second and watch her expression, trying to figure out what might have precipitated this.

A ridiculous, but nonetheless horrifying thought occurs to me.

“You haven't found God and decided that I'm murdering innocents or anything?”

Nana gives me a look.

“God has nothing to do with my life, and even less with a Slayer's. He turns blind eye to de grey area we live in. Killing is a sin, but is vampire even alive? Vampire will merely go and kill someone's children if not stopped- might have been innocent beforetimes, but after biting vampire is no good. Someone must kill vampires but why my granddaughter? That tree times you should be dead dis week. How long until I get call from your Garett friend saying 'she in hospital' or 'she dead'? Your parents and your sister would not even be allowed to know how you died. What would I tell dem, Isabela?”

Distantly, I hear a toilet flush, but I'm too distracted by Nana's sudden speech to pay any attention.

Someone must have got to her. It's the only explanation. Nana's never even hinted any disapproval of my lifestyle before. I mean, I've tried to be a little circumspect with some of the details to stop her from worrying, but even so, she always had a fair idea of what I was up to, and why I was doing it...

“Who've you been talking to, huh? I can take care of myself out there. It's the only reason I'm still alive.” I can feel my anger rising, but mostly it's just there to cover the hurt. Why does she suddenly not trust me anymore? “You never had a problem with me being a slayer before. Hell, you even helped me out when I was getting my stillettoes made special.”

Nana slams down her glass, and it cracks, spilling glass, ice and brownish liquid everywhere.

“You crazy girl? Course I have problem! You going out trying to get yourself killed! Years ago this was about that nice Tao boy that got killed. You wanted revenge. I know want for revenge, I know how it burn inside, so I hold my tongue hoping you get some... what they call... catarrsiss.”

“Cartharsis,” I correct her absently, but she ignores my interjection.

“But this has gone on long enough! Is like addiction! You spend your whole life risking it, daring ze Devil, and one day he going to take you up on it! You getting older now- by your age I have tree pregancies, bury two sons from fever and accident and raise ungrateful daughter. What is the purpose in your life beyond exterminator? Why you doing dis? What you live for?”

I...

I'm...

Speechless.

Honestly, what the fuck am I supposed to say to that? I always thought Nana supported me, but...

Evidently not.

Is this really how she sees me? She's named me a killer, but the big unmentioned is that I'm practically a whore.

Takes one to know one.

Ignoring that, does she have a point? Does my life really need more than that?

It's been enough for most of a decade now.

Why isn't it enough anymore?

I realise that the both of us have been silent for a while now, Nana Isabela Vigu watching me, Isabela Magdalena Hagelow closely, obvious concern etched into her face.

Part of me wants to lash out at her, use filthy language and storm out of her house, but it's overwhelmed by the parts that remember how Nana always sticks by me, no matter what. How she stood up for me when my parents virtually kicked me out of the house because I was providing such a “bad example” to my younger sister. How she contrived to make sure I met my gorgeous niece Amy when my sister left her in Nana's care and had a chance to finally properly talk to my sister for the first time in years.

If it hadn't been for Nana, I wouldn't be able to babysit Amy on the third Saturday of every month, or share carefully censored smalltalk and a cup of coffee with my sister Heidi every once in a while.

I sigh.

“I can't just walk away from this life Nana. I know too much- I have a reputation. Somebody needs to keep on slaying the vampires. I'm good at it. I have the highest stake-rate of pretty much any slayer in this city.”

“Whilst this is true, you also have the most dangerous way of culling vampires I have ever seen.”

Before I consciously know what I'm doing, I've thrown my drink at the speaker and I'm out of my chair and between the speaker and Nana with my favourite knife in front of me.

I look up to see the speaker's face, dripping with ice and the remaining third of my Jamaican coffee.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

It's Pretty Guy.

If this was any other time I'd be currently laughing myself sick over his appearance and distinctly disgruntled expression, but as is, I was taken off guard, and thus am absolutely spitting mad.

Twice in one fucking day! Maybe it is time to quit.

“What the fuck are you doing in my grandmother's house Taylan!” I growl, not lowering the knife.

I hear Nana make a sound suspiciously reminiscent of a chuckle covered up by a cough, but I am not amused.

“I needed somewhere to stay. Gareth recommended here. I was unaware until this morning that she was your grandmother,” Taylan replies frostily as he attempts to wipe my drink off himself. “Would you please lower your weapon? I am not a bloody vampire.”

Reluctantly I lower my knife and sit back in my chair, but I don't put it away. I've already shown I can take this bastard, and he had better not fucking forget that little factoid.

Nana is still making weird noises, but I refuse to acknowledge her. She could have mentioned that she had a fucking frigid prophesy-believing git bunking in her spare room.

“So you're the one who's been making Nana worry about me. I thought I showed you last night that I can more than take care of myself you interfering fuck!”

Taylan seems entirely unbothered by my rage.

Okay, am I getting less intimidating, or has he done a complete turnaround on how he was acting last night?

I study him for a moment. The guy is still gorgeous, no denying that. Dark, curly hair, skin that's approaching a deep bronze, high cheekbones, strong-looking piano-player hands, athletic build... and an absolutely fine bum.

But now that I look closer at him, past the smart-casual clothes, I can see the scar that runs across his hairline from eyebrow to ear, the calluses on his hands and knuckles that show he does more than shuffle paperwork in dusty archives.

The way his clothes are just loose enough to probably hide a vast range of weapons.

Okay, so maybe I've misjudged this guy a bit. I didn't even hear him coming up behind me, so he can't be entirely useless.

That doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on him though.

“Who's interfering? Your grandmother asked me whether I'd met you, and I simply regaled her with the events of last night,” he says in a tone that I would think was bored if I hadn't noticed the slight gleam in his eyes.

What the fuck is this piglicker up to?

Nana hands Taylan a tea towel to wipe himself down with, then sets about making up some fresh Jamaican coffee. I think she's at least a little sorry for not warning me about Taylan, because she's making up enough for the three of us.

Just as bloody well. I'm this close to storming out over this one. Fuck, and to think that I was hoping today would be restful. I've been up a total of three hours and so far I've staked a stalker vampire, had a lecture from Nana, and nearly stabbed a fellow slayer.

Yeah this day is just getting better and better...

I look over at Taylan, considering what little I know about him from our interaction, and frown as he easily engages Nana in smalltalk as though the nearly-getting-stabbed-for-sneaking-up-on-Bela Incident never happened.

Something weird is going on here. Who is this guy?

I mean, first I know about him, this guy jumps into my taxi-cab, and just so happens to want to be going “wherever the lady is going”. I get him into the club, dance with him for about five minutes, wherein he shows himself to be a prude, and then dump him so I can go entice that Carlotta bint. Ten minutes later, I go with Carlotta to the hotel room, and he shows up just as I've staked her. He actually seemed genuinely worried about me, now that I come to think about it.

So obviously he must be competent enough to recognise a vamp when he sees one, and he had the brains to follow us, though I didn't exactly give him the opportunity to play dashing saviour. I can act as my own defender, thankyou very much.

Come to think of it, he'd mentioned “Giuseppe and his lot”, so obviously he's been checking out the local “nightlife” for a while. The fact that I hadn't heard about him before might just mean that he knows how to be discreet.

Okay, so what else do I know? He stutters occasionally, which is... a pretty weird thing coming from someone who has shown a few signs of being pretty damn competent, come to think of it, and he seems to believe in this prophecy thing, which strikes me as dumb.

He also seemed to spend a hell of a lot of time with his jaw-dropping around me, but I haven't seen any of that just now. He was completely taken aback last night when I propositioned him, and it seemed that the more I acted like myself, the more confused he was.

But he knew who I was... and if he knew who I was, he should know what my reputation is.
There is something off about all this.

I interrupt whatever conversation Taylan's been having with Nana.

“So are you going to explain what the fuck you're trying to pull?”

Taylan's gaze snaps to mine, and I spot a glint there before his features turn blank.

“I am unaware of what you are accusing me of, I can assure you.”

Uhuh, and I'm Mary the Virgin. I'm onto you, bucko.

My expression must have been more than eloquent, as to my surprise, Taylan drops the act.

“Damn,” he says, looking quite rueful. “Gareth did warn me.”

“Gareth warned you about what?” I demand, glaring at him.

Taylan sighs, brushing his fingers through his hair, a gesture that I highly doubt is unconscious, because I'm starting to get the feeling that this guy is well aware of how attractive he is when he does that, and a host of other small movements that emphasize his features.

Takes one to know one.

“The plan that my superiors made up to give me a good reason to keep an eye on you was for me to play the naïve foreigner and to slip under your guard that way. Best case scenario was that you'd take pity on poor me and take me on as some sort of apprentice.”

I can't help myself, I snort derisively, and Nana starts to cackle.

These idiots really had no fucking idea how I operated.

I raise my eyebrows at Taylan, and he shrugs, saying, “Well I know now that that was a ridiculous plan, but I was under orders. I had a good chat to Gareth after you left last night, and he explained to me exactly how stupid I was, so I'll thank you if you don't remind me.”

Pft, as if. I might kill vampires for a living, but that doesn't mean I can't take a little joy in being petty every once in a while.

I sit back and fold my arms, leaving the knife sitting on the armrest of my chair.

“So let me get this straight. Your 'superiors', whoever the fuck they might be, have decided that I'm some sort of insane loose cannon bimbo with a heroine complex and thus picked you, a competent slayer and fine example of masculine charm to 'slip under my guard' and pretend to be a newbie. A newbie that is supposed to make my maternal instincts go into overdrive, meaning that I would spend plenty of time with you, get to know the 'real' you, gain some respect for your abilities and then fuck you silly, all the while giving you plenty of time to 'direct' me away from my loose-cannon activities.”

Is that a wince I see on Taylan's face? Man, I must have really hit the nail on the head.

There probably would have been an awkward silence right here were it not for Nana Vigu.

“I did tell you, my granddaughter, she not stupid,” she chuckles. “Maybe she a little confused sometimes, but my Bela, her eyes dey open.”

“Thanks for the ringing endorsement Nana,” I mutter, eyes still on Taylan, daring him to comment.

Apparently he's a daring sort of man.

“Well, you certainly aren't what I expected. I was sure that the rumours were exaggerating, but you really would have made love to that vampiress if she hadn't made the mistake of attacking you.”

It's not a question, and I can see how he's assessing me in turn, trying to figure out why I act the way I do.

I decide to call him on it.

“So Taylan if that is your real name, what do you think? Your honest unvarnished opinion, not whatever you're going to send back to whoever-the-fuck your bosses are to keep them happy. Am I a dangerous psycho, a whore, or a crazy lady who has an insane amount of luck? Though if you've decided that I'm the last example, you aren't the cleverfuck I suspect you might be. I can tell you now that there is no way I would have survived this long on luck alone. I've seen 'lucky' slayers, and they tend to be the first to make some sort of fatal mistake.”

Taylan laughs a little.

“I think you're definitely interesting. You're extremely defensive, both of yourself, your abilities and your grandmother. On the other hand, you're by far the most sexually aggressive woman I've ever met. I had no idea you western women could be like this. Add to this the fact that you seem to have hit upon a tactic that allows you to cull a disproportionately high number of vampires... and you misunderstood me last night. I was not criticising the ethics of your actions, but the effect I thought they might have upon your psyche. You were so busy talking over me that you didn't hear a word of what I was trying to tell you past 'you weren't seriously going to sleep with her were you?'”

I snatch at the fresh Jamaican coffee Nana must have finished pouring me some minutes ago and skull it, savouring the alcoholic kick the most out of the rich flavour.

I place down my goblet and exhale. Godsbedamned I needed that.

“You're smooth, I'll give you that much,” I say, smiling at him in a way that would make Tristan very nervous. And rightly so.“I particularly liked the part where you described me as 'defensive' instead of 'fucking paranoid'.” I make my smile, if possible, even sweeter, and Taylan starts to look a little apprehensive.

Good.

I stand up slowly, stretching, knife held loosely in one hand as though I'd forgotten I'd picked it up again.

“You're playing a game, Taylan. You're acting all concerned about me, when to my knowledge the first time we met was last night. You've done your best to present yourself to me as an utter idiot, but the second I catch you, you shrug it off with a smile and a few charming euphemisms. You've got to Gareth somehow, despite seemingly not knowing what his coffeehouse was called... or was that a lie too?” I point my knife at Taylan's jugular, and am gratified to watch his adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows.

So he's not as cool as he's trying to make himself out to be.

Unless...

I stamp my foot in annoyance.

“Are you really trying this again? You're really intimidated by a 5ft tall woman?”

“I am if she's waving around a knife as big as she is,” Taylan replies as his eyes widen, seemingly without shame. “You really are paranoid aren't you? I've screwed up royally haven't I?”

I glower at him. Okay, so I'm the most paranoid bitch I've ever met. I have a bloody good reason to be, when vampires can come out of anywhere anytime and be anyone. That last part right there is the real mindfuck, because it's usually only later that you realise that the monster who leapt for your throat last night was someone from your kindergarten class/soccerteam/ similarly innocent past. But this cocky bastard probably hasn't ever had to tell his sister that he stole her boyfriend “to protect her from his sleaziness” to cover up the fact that you had to stab him one night in a cold dark alley.

Fortunately, she forgave me for that one, as he was never heard from again and thus she assumed that he was going to leave her without saying anything anyway, the prick. Well, he was a bit of an asshole when he was still human, but whatever.

To my surprise, Taylan groans and buries his head in his hands.

“What?” I demand. “Disappointed that I have a brain?”

Taylan's head shoots up, and he looks at me in what closely resembles shock.

“Not at all! I thought this was going to be a boring assignment and that I'd have to play covert babysitter to some kamikaze ditz. Instead I find out that the woman I'm supposed to be 'guiding' has one of the best stake-records I've ever come across, and not only is scarier than the rumours, but she's one of maybe three people who has ever spotted when I'm not being straight with them... though I must admit this was far from my best work. You took me by surprise so I blurted out more than I meant to... though not as much as when you threw me. Bloody hell, I wasn't ready for that one. Even less so than when you propositioned me. Frankly, it's quite embarrassing.”

The more I listen to him, the more I realise how British the man's accent is. Now that's intriguing. Another puzzle. I fucking loathe mysteries normally, and this guy can't seem to say anything without creating a new one.

It's fucking irritating, really.

“You didn't answer my question before. Who are you?” I demand.

He smiles dazzlingly, but I ignore it. It's like the fascination tricks some vamps use, and as I said before, I haven't fallen for that one in a very long time.

Noticing how my expression hasn't changed bar a slight lowering of my brows, Pretty Sneaky Guy (so far the most descriptive or actual name he's had in my head) scowls slightly and then says, “Are you actually going to believe me if I tell you my real name, or are you going to assume that I'm lying to you again?”

I shrug.

“If you don't give me a name to call you other than 'Taylan' I'm going to start referring to you as 'Sneaky-Bastard-Who-Thinks-He-Can-Get-Away-With-Bullshitting-Bela'. And don't think I fucking won't. Just ask Abel 'Limp-Dicked-Measly-Weasely-Arsehole' Jameson.”

“I almost don't dare ask.”

“Oh, he thought that just because I have an awful lot of sexual partners I don't have any standards. Limp-Dicked-Measly-Weasely-Arsehole offered to bone me up against the alley wall, I said 'fuck you' he attempted to manhandle me, I kicked him so hard in the 'nads that they had to retrieve his testicles. He then attempted to sue me, but about a week after his operation he decided to try something similar with a friend of mine who was less able to defend herself. Luckily I was in the neighbourhood, I was about to intervene before my friend got hurt, when she noticed the distinct limp-dickedness of her attacker. And so, ever since that day, everyone who knew both me and Limp-Dicked-Measly-Weasely-Arsehole is well acquainted with that nickname.”

“Alright, I get it. You have the ability to remember a long-winded, childish insult,” Pretty Sneaky Guy almost sneers.

It's a mixture of originality and memorability that counts when you're trying to get a nickname to stick. That and delivery. Pretty Sneaky Guy might not believe it, but that's probably because he hasn't spent three years being called “Ooga Booger” due to one unfortunate incident with a snotty cold.

No, that didn't happen to me. That one was Tao. Apparently one incident when he was in year 7 was enough to plague him until he hit year 10 and filled out considerably.

Pretty Sneaky Guy gives me a weird look.

“Are you internally monologuing?” he asks me almost rhetorically.

Pft, internally monologuing? Me? Who do I look like, an extra out of Macbeth?

Well maybe I do a bit, but at least I don't soliloquise. Hah, didn't think I'd remember a word like that did you random Snotty-English-Sub-Whose-Name-I-Forget. It's funny how random cruel comments tend to stick more than the identities of the people who said them. It's lucky I have a pretty high self-esteem, or I might be permanently damaged from such insensitivity. But then, I've never really been that much of a fragile flower...

“...You're still doing it aren't you?” he says, wincing as he clutches his head.

“I bloody fucking well am not!” I retort intelligently.

Really, the Nerve of some people... wait on, why is he clutching his head like that?

“Tell me who the fuck you are and who you work for or you can get the fuck out of my Nana's house you assholic cretin!” I bellow, brandishing the knife again.

Hmmm, maybe to get him to cooperate I should start shaving bits off his penis, like that time in Auburn...

“My name is Rutley Sullivan, I work for The Cooperative, my grandparents were Turkish Immigrants to the UK in the 60s which is where I got my cover name from, don't hurt me!” he yells, throwing his hands up in the air.

I smile wickedly, and Taylan/Rutley suddenly pales.

“I never said I was going to hurt you, Rutley,” I purr at him, inwardly wondering what sort of cruel parents would burden their kid with such a name. He flinches. I smile wider and make a show of putting my knife away. “It would get me in all kinds of terrible trouble with Gareth. That and now that I know you're part of the group that sends me most of my equipment, I'm hardly going to damage you.” Much. I add loudly in my mind before letting out an entirely internal maniacal laugh, just to doublecheck.

Rutley flinches again, and when I think about how cute he looks when he's worried, an angry blush darkens his white-coffee-complexion.

Oh yeah, I've caught him red-fucking-handed. Or should that be faced?

“So, I take it your superiors neglected to mention what happened last time a mind-reader tried to 'keep an eye on me'?” I question him casually.

Rutley frowns. “I have a predecessor?”

I roll my eyes.

“Of sorts. Silly thing was an utter prude, and for the longest while I couldn't figure out why everytime I walked past her she started to blush like mad. I seriously thought she had some sort of crush on me or something, and whenever I thought that, she'd cringe with absolute embarrassment and fury. Turns out the dopey bint was also homophobic. I figured that out when I got my friend Georgie to suss her out for me. Prudey Chick wasn't my type, but I didn't want to hurt the poor thing's feelings, right?
“So about three days later, after Georgie explained just how emphatic a 'no' the prude had given to the idea that she was into me, I get this really fucking annoying song stuck in my head. Some godawful thing a friend of mine made up back in highschool, because someone randomly said something that made me think of the lyrics.
“So imagine my surprise when I come across Prudey Chick later that day, and she suddenly starts humming the chorus line...” I grin at the utterly crestfallen Rutley.

“You thought it'd take me a bit longer than 48hours to figure out your 'big secret' huh.”

Rutley groans.

I decide that tormenting him with my knife is a little extraneous at this point because I have fabulous blackmail material over him now, so I sit back down and take a sip of what's left of my Jamaican coffee.

Which reminds me.

I sneak a glance towards Nana, who has been suspiciously quiet for quite a while, come to think of it, and see that she's watching the entire scene raptly, munching on biscuits and having evidently decided that she can't be arsed mixing her drinks anymore, sipping at the rum bottle.

“Dis is better dan my Soaps!” she announces, showing the gold fillings in her teeth as she grins like a halloween mask.

Naturally.

Nothing phases Nana.

I sit back and consider Rutley, who seems to be in his own world where he's moaning on about how much trouble he's going to be in. It's about this point that I hit upon an idea.

“So I figure that you owe me Rutley.”

“What?!”

“Well, seeing as I now know that you're a mind-reader, and that you've been listening in on all my personal thoughts, I could cry 'violation of privacy' and you'll spend a couple of nights in a locked room until your bosses figure out that they have to spring you, then you'll owe them, and then you'll never work, at the very least in this country, again.”

Rutley just stares at me, pale-faced. He knows exactly how much trouble he's in for getting found out. An exposed mind-reading operative is not a useful one.

“Now, I could do that, but I have a much more fun idea.”

Rutley stares at me dumbly like a roo in the headlights for a few moments, and then suddenly yells, “No, no, no, no fucking way are you going to convince me to do that!”

I smile predatorially.

“I haven't even outlined what small favour I want you to do yet, Rutley. Don't worry, it won't hurt a bit...”


................................................................................

I'd say that I'm sorry for the cliffhanger, but honestly I couldn't resist. Also, this was a longer chapter than I planned to write, so you lot will just have to bear with me.

I had to do a bit of research for this chapter (re: googled to make sure I wasn't talking shite) and so to prove it, here are a few of the things Bela referred to:

*Levine ruling of 1971 – This was a judgement passed in New South Wales that was basically taken to mean that abortion was legal assuming “'any economic, social or medical ground or reason' that an abortion was required to avoid a 'serious danger to the pregnant woman's life or to her physical or mental health' at any point during pregnancy”(Wikipedia, “Abortion in Australia”). Since having an unwanted child is considered to be detrimental to a woman's mental health, most abortions are considered legal in NSW. The same pretty much goes for all states of Australia, albeit under slightly different laws which have varying definitions on what constitutes a “legal” abortion.

**The Scarlet Alliance is the main sex worker's union in Australia (that's right, prostitution is not only legal, our sex workers have their own union- see, it can work :D). Unfortunately the main site seems to be down at the moment, but according to Wikipedia it:

“[Was] formed in 1989. Scarlet Alliance, Australian sex workers Association, through its objectives, policies and programs, aims to achieve equality, social, legal, political, cultural and economic justice for past and present workers in the sex industry, in order for sex workers to be self-determining agents, building their own alliances and choosing where and how they work as outlined in itsmission statement.
The sex worker organization has operated as a volunteer organisation since its inception gaining funding more recently for project work both in Australia and Internationally. Scarlet Alliance advocates on behalf of a membership of individual sex workers, funded sex worker organizations, projects, and unfunded sex worker networks and groups to inform and improve the policies of: Government, medical services, police, researchers, AFP, DIAC, and within the sex industry. The group aims to achieve an increased understanding of sex workers and issues affecting us, improved OH&S, awarding of human rights and labour rights and the removal of discriminatory laws and policy.” (Wikipedia, “Scarlet Alliance”).

Recipe for Jamaican Coffee:
[appropriated from www(dot)drinksmixer(dot)com(slash)drink6823(dot)html]

1 oz dark rum
1 oz Tia Maria® coffee liqueur
3/4 oz whipping cream
4 oz hot black coffee

Shake and strain into a wine goblet filled with crushed ice. Add short straws, a sprig of mint, and serve.