Page 139 of Break Out the Girl

Cos and I are completely different human beings from the ones we were a year ago.

“Get London and Ludo when you’re done questioning,” I tell him. “The Grieves story will end tonight—in the most painful way possible.”

49: LONDON

Butter.

It’s so versatile—you melt it down, you chill it.

Or you can use it to fix things.

Nan spread it on my burns, and on my toast.

Yep, it’s the most multifunctional dairy product in the land, if you don’t count yogurt, which I never do.

Now I’m smearing it thickly on slices of toast. Once that’s done, I cut them into long strips until they look like little golden bars.

Soldiers.

The perfect toast companion for dipping into a runny yellow yolk.

Dippy eggs.

Unfortunately, there are no eggcups in the trailer, so I’m having to make do with an assortment of shot glasses. I put Skylight’s egg in one which has a cute picture of a slot machine with a row of three cheery cherries.

With the eggs safely nestled, I pick up the butter knife, tapping away until the top of the shell cracks. Then, with one quick swipe of the blade, I take the head right off it.

Off with his head.

The yellow yolk oozes out, spilling down the side of the glass, and it’s like it puts me under a spell. I could chop off the top of Coco and Bozo’s heads and let their brains ooze out just like that.

The red tattooed numbers branded into my skin seem to sizzle in excitement.

Tap. Tap. Chop. Another egg head drops onto the counter.

I carry the plates over and place the food on the table for Rory and the two kids.

Ha, kids. And I’m a goat!

Taliesin steps inside. He looks at us, but me especially, the burliest frown ever on his face. “It's time.”

“Killing time?” I ask, just to be sure.

“Yeah.” I turn to Fuckwad and put out my hand. “Shall we go duppy a puppy, BF?”

He nods, pushing away his dippy egg. “Yeah. Fuck them.”

Fuckwad reaches behind him to bring out his trusty tire iron.

“You don’t have to do this,” Kitten tells him.

“I know,” he grumps, taking three fast strides to the door. But then he freezes, like someone pressed pause on his life. I step closer, peer down, then wave a hand in front of his face. “Fuckwad?”

His expression changes. My little bruiser seems to shrink, his pet-lip wobbling as the weapon in his mitts clatters to the floor.

Methinks the young Wad is having second thoughts. No shame in that.

Some of my second thoughts are the best thoughts I’ve ever had.