We went inside. I bought her a gin and then a few more. She was soon very happy to come to supper, although I was no longer so certain she should come. She was tipsy, and Mummy does not think it proper for a la.s.s to be tipsy.

I tried to tell her that, but she laughed in my face. Still, she followed me all the way to home. I opened the door, and Annie walked in behind me. Annie, said I, do ye know any bedtime stories?

Aye, she answered. I know every story every man wants to hear. But first I want a nip o' gin.

I told her soon, after supper. Mummy could not lay the table, being so sick. So I put the cutlery out. Then I took dishes and gave them to Annie.

Lay the dishes, please, Annie, for I must go to see how Mummy is getting on. Then I went to see Mummy.

She was waiting for me. Is that la.s.s here? she asked.

Yes, Mummy, she's here, I replied. Do ye want to eat with us, or shall I bring ye something in bed?

I think I'll eat with ye, Mummy said. Bring me to the table, my Jackie.

I lifted her up and brought her to the table, and Annie was sitting there. She had not yet laid any dishes.

Did ye not lay the table, girl? asked Mummy.

Annie looked at Mummy with bleary eyes and did not say anything, which I thought was very rude.

I brought to the table a piece of cold beef, bread, and water.

Ye said you'd give me a nip, Annie said.

Annie was not behaving the way I thought she would with Mummy present, but I gave her a bit of gin anyway. Then she was quiet for a minute. Mummy ate a few bites of beef and bread. Then she said to Annie, What're y'called, la.s.sie?

Annie Chapman, ma'am.

Annie Chapman, said Mummy. Where did ye meet my Jack?

Annie drank and did not say a word. But my mummy continued, Jack is a good boy, Miss Annie Chapman. Do y'know that?

Aye, ma'am, answered Annie, he's a good boy.

He was not always such a good boy, said Mummy.

Annie looked up from her nip. How's that?

Once, when he was a wee lad, he tore up all my linen, Mummy said, coughing and cackling. Do ye remember that, Jack?

Yes, I said. I was a bit embarra.s.sed.

Said Mummy, I was quite cross with him when he was young because he ruined everything. He was a little terror, my Jackie. A terror and a tearer. Jackie the Tearer. But now look how handsome he has grown up to be.

Aye, Annie answered.

Do ye like his mustache? asked Mummy.

I do, said Annie.

Then Mummy et a bit more. Annie did not have any bread or beef, but she took another gla.s.s of gin. After a while Mummy turned to me and said, Jackie, take us to bed, will ye?

I carried her to her bedroom once again. Before I left, she whispered loudly to me, Jack, I donna like the la.s.s. She is not for a proper-raised gentleman like you.

Oh, Mummy, I said. I was disappointed, but Mummy was sick, so I tried to hide it.

She does not smile like a young lady. Tonight she did not smile at all, Jack.

I have seen her smile, Mummy. Sometimes she smiles at me.

Mummy shook her head. She does not smile big enough, Jackie. Not big like a bright young la.s.sie is meant to smile!

I listened to her words. They were not nice words, but they were proper. Do ye think so, Mummy?

I do, she replied.

Then what shall I do with her?

I donna care. Just get her away and come back to me, Jack.

I knew she was right. She is right always. Ye are clever, Mummy.

I jest want to save me boy from bad la.s.sies, Jackie.

Ye love me, Mummy?

I do, Jackie, said Mummy. You are my babe.

I was so happy to hear her say that. I knew what could make her happier. I gave her a kiss on her head full of white hair and told her I'd be back soon.

I took the cutlery and the dishes to the cupboard and stowed almost everything away. Come on, then, Annie, said I. It's time to take ye back home.

Give another nip o' gin, luv, she cried.

We've got nothing to give ye, Annie, and so let's get a go.

Oh, but for a bit of gin!

Back in the pub, Annie, I said. Let us go back to where I found ye.

Aye, luv! she cheered.

We walked a bit. Then I said, There's a nice pub over here, Annie.

Where? Annie asked. I donna see nothin'.

It was true, because the street was dark and the place was very still.

Annie, said I, Mummy said ye don't smile big enough.

I cannot smile when I've got no drink in me, she answered.

I think ye should smile bigger, I said.

She pouted. Then why don't y'make me smile bigger, luv.

I can, Annie, I can, said I.

And then I made her smile the biggest smile she ever had.

When I got home, Mummy was asleep, so I could not tell her about Annie's big smile. I took off my clothes, which were quite wrinkled from walking home in the mist and fog that swallows up everything like a big fish.

The next morning I did not tell Mummy, because I wanted to keep it all a surprise for her birthday, which is very soon. She will know when I tell her. She will see what a good boy I am. And then maybe she will tell me a bedtime story. Perhaps even a bedtime story every night.

But tonight I shall go for a walk again and get my mummy a wee bit of port for her spirits. I do it because it makes her so happy to have her spirits. It is often hard to make Mummy happy because she has so many sharp opinions. But I try and try. I do it all because I love her.

BONDING.

"Bonding" is probably the most

disturbing tale that I've ever written.

My very first short story written for a

Sisters in Crime anthology, it provides

a stark contrast to Peter Decker and

Rina Lazarus's supportive parenting

style, something that I repeatedly

emphasize in my novels. I wanted to

write something radically different

from my first novel, The Ritual Bath,

and I suppose I did just that.

I BECAME A PROSt.i.tUTE BECAUSE I WAS BORED. LET me tell you about it. My mother is a greedy, self-centered egotist and a pill-popper. I don't think we exchange more than a sentence worth of words a week. Our house is very big-one of these fake-o hacienda types on an acre of flat land in prime Gucciland Beverly Hills-so it's real easy to avoid each other. She doesn't know what I do and wouldn't care if she did know. My father doesn't ha.s.sle me 'cause he's never around. I mean, never around. He rarely sleeps at home anymore, and I don't know why my parents stay married. Just laziness, I guess. So when my friend came around one day and suggested we hustle for kicks, I said sure, why not.

Our first night was on a Sat.u.r.day. I dressed up in a black mini with fishnet stockings, the garters lower than the hem of my dress. I painted my lips bright red, slapped on layers of makeup, and took a couple of downers. I looked the way I felt-like something brought up from the dead. We boogied on down to the Strip, my friend supplying the skins, and made a bet: who could earn the most in three hours. I won easily; I didn't even bother to screw any of the johns-just went down on them in a back alley or right in their cars. I hustled seven washed-out old guys at sixty bucks a pop. Can't say it was a bundle of yuks, but it was different. Jesus, anything's better than the boredom.

The following day, after school, me and my friend got buzzed and went shopping at the mall. I took my hustle money and bought this real neat blouse accented with white and blue rhinestones and sequins. I also saw this fabulous belt made of silver and turquoise, but it was over a hundred and fifty dollars, and I didn't want to spend that much money on just a belt. So I lifted it. Even with the new electronic gizmos and the security guards, stealing isn't very hard, not much of a challenge.

Let me tell you a little about myself. I was born fifteen years ago, the "love child" of a biker and his teenage babe. I think my real mother was, like, twelve or thirteen at the time. I once asked my b.i.t.c.h of a mother about her, and she got reeeallly agitated. Her face got red, and she began to talk in that hysterical way of hers. The whole thing was, like, too threatening for her to deal with. Anyway, I was adopted as an infant. And I never remember being happy. I remember crying at my sixth birthday party 'cause Billy Freed poked his fingers in my Cookie Monster cake. Mom went bonkers-we hadn't photographed the cake yet-and started screaming at Billy. Then he started crying. G.o.d, I was mad at Billy, but after Mom lit into him, I almost felt sorry for the kid. I mean, it was only a cake, you know.

Once, when I was around the same age, my mom picked me up and we looked in the mirror together. She put her cheek against mine as we stared at our reflections. I remember the feel of her skin-soft and warm, the sweet smell of her perfume. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve such attention, and that frustrated me. Whatever I did, I wanted to do it again so Mom would hold me like this. But of course, I didn't do anything. Mom just stared at us, then clucked her tongue and lowered me back onto my feet with an announcement: I'd never make it on my looks.

Well, what the h.e.l.l did she expect? Beggars shouldn't be choosers. It's not like someone forced her to adopt me. The b.i.t.c.h. Always blaming me for things out of my control.