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    P ENNY WAS LOSING IT . Tried not to scream at Fiona Roberts as she asked: ‘You’re saying you won’t come to the CA with me?’
    ‘Not today Pen, I’m up to my eyes.’
    ‘I need you, Fiona.’
    ‘I can’t, honestly. Let me call you tomorrow, we’ll arrange coffee.’
    ‘Jeez, I can’t wait. Thanks a bunch, girlfriend!’
    And she slammed the phone down and thought: I could hate that cow. Well, OK then, I’ll go shoplifting.’
    Thing was, she was a very bad shoplifter. But if she resented Fiona, she out-and-out loathed Jane Fonda. She had admired Jane as the American Bardot and heavily envied her. Then she’d held her breath during the hard Jane bit. Had been in awe during the years of ‘serious’ actress. Had the hots for her when she was fit and forty. Began to resent a tad how fabulous she was at fifty. Screamed ‘bitch’ when she sold out at sixty to a billionaire and became one more trophy wife in the Trump tradition.
    Penny had been in Hatchards of Piccadilly when a hot flash hit and she’d fled in search of cool air. Outside the Trocadero, she realised she’d stolen a book. There was Jane on the cover. A cookbook. Oh shame! And worse. She hadn’t even written it but borrowed recipes from her THREE chefs. THREE! Count ’em and weep. She’d slung the book at a Big Issue vendor. The man had taken it well, shouted: ‘Saw the movie.’
    Restless, irritated, pacing, she tried to watch breakfast TV. A gaggle of gorgeous blonde bimbos were discussing the merits of being ‘childfree’.
    ‘Hold the bloody phones/ she screeched. ‘When did we go from being childless to this hip shit?’
    A child, the woe of her aching heart and the biological clock hadn’t so much stopped as simply run into nothingness.
    Upstairs she had a wardrobe full of baby clothes. These weren’t stolen. She’d bought each item slow and pained, and paid a lot of money.

‘E’ is not for Ecstasy
    I N A HOUSE ON Coldharbour Lane, four men sat round a coffee table. Open cans of Heineken, Fosters and Colt 45 crowded a batch of black and white photos.
    Two of the men were brothers, Kevin and Albert. The others were Doug and Fenton. All were white. Kevin said: ‘I don’t think they take us serious.’
    Albert sighed: ‘It’s early days, and besides, the cricket thing’s got priority.’
    Doug joined in: ‘Yeah, c’mon Kev, who’s gonna get the six o’clock news – a batsman or a dope dealer?’
    Kevin slammed the table.
    ‘You think this isn’t important?’
    Fenton got his oar in: ‘Take it easy, Kev.’
    Kevin rounded on him, slight traces of spittle at the corners of his mouth. ‘Was I talking to you Fen? Did I say one fuckin’ word to you, mate?’
    ‘I was only –’
    ‘You were only bollocks – this is my plan, my show.’
    ‘You don’t tell me shit, mate.’
    Fenton knew the danger signs: up ahead was the twilight zone. He shut up. Kevin grabbed a beer, drained it in a large, loud swallow. The others watched his Adam’s apple move like a horrible yo-yo. Finished, he flicked the can away, then:
    ‘Now, as I was saying, before I got interrupted, they ain’t taking us serious. Think we’re just a one-off. I’ll show ’em – the next hanging I’ll also torch the bastard. Eh? Whatcha fink o’ that? Be like a beacon in the Brixton night sky’
    The others thought it was madness. What they said was: ‘Good one, Kev – yeah, torch ’em, that’ll do it.’
    Kevin sifted through the photos. ‘Who’s next then? Here’s an ugly looking bastard – who’s he?’ Turned over the photo, read out the details: ‘Brian Short, twenty-eight years old, dope dealer, rapist, and lives on Railton.’
    ‘Shit, he’s practically next door.’
    Albert looked at the others, then said: ‘Kev, there’s a problem.’
    ‘What, he’s moved, that’s it?’
    ‘No. He’s... I mean...
    ‘What? Spit it out.’
    ‘He’s white.’
    ‘He’s scum and what’s more, he’s gonna burn, and