Nirvana Bites by Debi Alper Read Free Book Online Page A

momentous decision to shock them down at the dole and stop signing on. For a while.
    The others left, looking almost jaunty. Mags stayed behind. I made us camomile tea while she rolled another spliff. When I came back in with two steaming mugs, she had put Billie Holiday on low on my stereo and had occupied Stan’s vacant place on the cushions. I lowered myself next to her and for a while we lay back in silence and watched the trains slice through the night.
    After a while, I asked in a tiny voice, ‘Mags – you don’t really think I’m psychopathic, do you?’
    â€˜No, honey,’ she murmured. ‘Not clinically anyway. You just have that total disregard for your own safety that means you sometimes do things without thinking through the consequences.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ I pleaded, ‘but you know why I’m like that, Mags. The others don’t, but you do.’
    â€˜Sure I do, honey.’
    Mags put her arm round me and squeezed till I felt the bones crunch.
    â€˜You don’t have to explain to me.’
    Mercifully, she released me before any permanent damage was done. I picked up my mug as defence against any further displays of affection and took a gulp of camomile.
    â€˜Anyway,’ Mags continued. ‘When you check it out, I reckon we could be a fairly formidable team when mobilised.’
    I frowned at her over the edge of my mug.
    â€˜Well, take me for example,’ she went on. ‘You guys look at me and see a cute and cuddly playmate.’
    I spluttered, simultaneously sending the teabag on a pell-mell journey down the mug to bounce against my nose, soaking my face and T-shirt. I’m so cool.
    Mags carried on regardless. ‘But anyone getting on the wrong side of me would see a big black ball-busting bull-dyke bitch from hell.’
    Aaaah. That’s more like it.
    Maybe she successfully reassured me. Or maybe I was just stoned out of my box. Either way, I slept long and dreamlessly that night in my sleeping bag on the cushions.

6
    THE FOLLOWING DAY , Frank and I stepped from the bus and walked along Southwark Park Road towards Koi Korner. The shop nestled between a dry cleaner’s and a newsagent’s, its smoked-glass windows looking strangely upmarket amongst its tattier neighbours.
    You may well be wondering why Frank was chosen for this particular mission. The fact is that I could look quite normal wearing my navy interview suit and a bit of slap, but two of us were needed for this job and, believe it or not, Frank was the only other possible candidate. With his short hair gelled close to his head and his bony frame encased in some of Stan’s designer duds, he could just about pass as presentable – if he played his part right.
    We took deep breaths and nodded at each other as I pushed open the door. I was greeted by a massive foghorn blast. It took an instant or two before I realised this was Koi Korner’s version of those tinkly door chimes. Inside was pure Jacques Cousteau. Massive tanks flanked each wall, filled with goggle-eyed fish of every conceivable shape, size and colour. Hidden lighting suffused the shop with an eerie underwater glow and speakers spilled out whale song, dolphin clack and sonar blip.
    Halfway along one wall there was a desk shaped like the prow of a ship, behind which sat a woman clad entirely in aquamarine. I felt faintly nauseous, and hoped Frank’s ex-junkie brain would be able to handle this aquatic overload. The woman, who had shoulder-length blond hair held back by a velvet hairband that in itself would be enough to denote the class of the wearer, smiled a welcome at me, showing large teeth. She asked if she could help. I told her I was just browsing. I recognised the plummy voice I had heard on the phone the previous day. She turned back to her computer screen.
    A moment later, Frank came in. He hung back by the door and peered intently at the nearest tank while I wandered further down one