“And what makes you think we will consider this offer?”
“I dunno,” said the nun. “I, of all people, have to believe that all human beings are capable of change. I’m hoping you boys will start making better life choices before I have to say the magic word.”
“You got some nerve, lady.” Mad Dog was growing really tired of this. “Let me get this straight. You’re making demands after we caught you in the act, breaking into our clubhouse. Have I got that right?”
“For the last time, I wasn’t caught. I broke in. I did what I came to do, and then, after I’d dealt with your welcoming committee” – she nodded in the direction of the four pledges – “I waited for you to come to me. Are you really dumb enough to think you’re in control here?”
Mad Dog slapped her again. Harder this time.
Blood dripped onto her jacket. “Should I take that as a no?”
“What?” said Mad Dog.
“Are you turning down my kind offer?”
“You are one crazy bitch.”
“Mind your language. This bitch can say one word and make you cry.”
“I doubt it.”
“OK, I’m not getting any younger and you boys aren’t getting any smarter. Little tip: when you handcuff somebody, make sure you remove any unusual-looking watches. Otherwise, well …” She raised her now-uncuffed hands and shrugged.
Her actions were met with confused exclamations all round.
“If you think that was good, you’re going to soil your britches in a second.”
Mad Dog towered over her. “I’m getting real sick of you.”
“Likewise.” She smiled up at him through bloodied lips and raised her voice. “Shibboleth.”
Nothing happened for a moment, but then Mad Dog heard beeps coming from several corners of the room simultaneously. Smoke started to billow forth. Every one of the gang members leaped to their feet. Mad Dog turned around just in time to catch a glimpse of the nun’s head before it smashed into his face. He fell back onto his desk as he felt the bike helmet being ripped from his hands.
The tear gas filled the room within seconds. His eyes and skin burned. He couldn’t breathe. As he choked, he stumbled to the floor, trying to find clear air.
The second last thing he saw was the nun standing over him, wearing the helmet that could hermetically seal itself.
The last thing he saw was a Doc Marten boot heading straight for his face.
When Arthur Faser came to, he was sitting in the sidecar of a motorcycle that was heading down a desert road at high speed. His mouth and eyes burned fiercely. He coughed and spat.
The bike came to a stop just in time for him to throw up without messing up the paintwork.
“Sorry about that,” said the nun, as the engine died. “I had to knock you out. Easiest way to get you out of there.”
Arthur looked behind them as the cloud of dust started to dissipate. “Shouldn’t we be getting out of here? They’re going to kill you for this.”
“Meh. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that. They won’t be going anywhere for a while. I left a couple of other surprises.”
“Here.” She pulled a plastic bottle out of a pouch. “Baking soda and water. It’ll counteract the tear gas.”
“Right.” Arthur took it, splashed the liquid in his eyes and gargled with it. It did seem to help.
“Better?”
“A little.”
“I’m Sister Joy, by the way.”
“Really?”
She looked down at him, unsmiling. “Really.”
“And you want me to help break someone out of prison?”
“Yep.”
“Which prison?”
“Longhurst, hopefully.”
“Hopefully?”
She nodded. “Yeah. He’s gotta get arrested first.”
Chapter Three
Waking up and not knowing where you are is a very common experience. Usually it takes a second for the mind to catch up with reality, and then the realisation hits: you’re staying in a hotel, or at a friend’s house. Or you’re where you always sleep, but you changed the wallpaper. Bunny woke up, but that reassuring moment of realisation never came – the bars on a cell window will do that.
He looked around. He was lying on a cot in a jail cell. Someone had thrown up in the corner of the room, but Bunny wasn’t going to pass judgement, given that he was the only potential suspect at this time.
He sat up and instantly regretted it. His entire body screamed in protest at his continued existence. This was beyond a hangover. He tried to recollect what series of terrible life choices had led him here. Snarling snatches of memory flashed by.
There had been a platter of food – an indecent amount of food. It had looked like a scene from one of those TV shows where they lay out in front of an obese person how much they eat in a week and then calmly explain why it is killing them. He’d eaten it. All of it. Tacos, burritos, nachos, burgers, hotdogs, lasagne, three types of wings, four types of fries, ribs in various sauces, shrimp, a baked potato, and what the bartender had warned were the sneaky killers – six different types of milkshake.
There had also been a salad.
People had gathered around and cheered, because Americans are incredibly supportive people – even if it is not always of something they should be supporting. There had been chanting too. Bunny recalled forcing in a last mouthful and then having his hand held aloft, in a moment where pride and shame collided. He’d then gone and thrown up, which had been met with less – but surprisingly, not zero – cheering. All of this explained part of his physical discomfort, but by no means all of it.
Then there’d been the drinking. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to that. He’d enjoyed a drink many times in his life, although not nearly as many times as he’d had one. He was a drinker, and a good one in certain senses. Certainly, when faced with a free bar, he knew how to put a dent in it. And he had. His memory was blurry, but he
