Page 119 of Break Out the Girl

“Rory?” Cosmo.

“Yeah.”

“Remember you had that doll that father threw on the fire as a punishment?”

“Of course, like I’d ever forget that,” I huff.

“There is a place with the same name as your doll to the west of Theo’s mom’s place.”

My mind whirrs. My doll was called Abby.

An Abbey.

“OK, I get it.”

“I’ll send someone to have supplies there by nightfall.”

Some of the tension leaves my body. “Make sure you add fucking TP to the supplies,” I tell him, then think for a second. “And clothes for a twelve year old boy, fourteen year old girl, me and three large men.”

“Three large men? What the fuck, Rory?”

Twat.

Just to mess with him I add, “and a jumbo box of condoms.”

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.