Mad Cows Read Online Free Page A

Democrats, New Men, Gary Barlow without Take That, the Martini man in the wet shirt in that cinema advert, the ex-love of her life, televisual spunk rat, Alexander Drake . . . and awaited her saviour – legal eagle R. M. Peregrine.
    The abdomen entered the room first. It looked like the third trimester of pregnancy – not a good look on a man. The face which followed would qualify for National Disaster relief. Above the fruit-fly larvae complexion was a clump of dyed-brown hair resembling a yak which had been dead a decade or two. Maddy, visibly repulsed, drew back from the sauerkraut body odour. Rupert Montgomery Peregrine grasped her hand before she could stop him.
    â€˜Ms . . .’ he consulted his file, faltering.
    â€˜Wolfe.’
    â€˜Peregrine. Expert in criminal law. Which is actually an oxymoron, when you analyse it. As is “even odds”, “minor miracle” and “bad sex” . . . So, what can we do for you?’
    Maddy wiped her damp hand on her dress. ‘A few laps in a swimming pool of disinfectant would be nice. A jacuzzi dip in penicillin . . .’
    â€˜Grotty, I know.’ He misunderstood her. ‘But better than the cells.’
    Her heart sank. It was obvious by the cheap stained suit that Peregrine was the sort of lawyer whose office is located by the neon sign outside it. He was all stubble and Old Spice.
    â€˜Just get us out of this hell-hole.’
    â€˜Ah . . . that all depends on the magistrate . . .’
    â€˜I’ve got a one-month-old-baby, for Christ’s sake.’
    â€˜The only thing which moves a London stipendiary, my dear, are his bowels.’
    â€˜But I’m innocent.’ Even her own ears cringed at the cliché. Her day was rapidly turning into a bad country-and-western ballad.
    Of course you are, dear.’ Peregrine, ignoring the chair, lowered his bulky frame on to the bunk. The bed springs moaned in protest. ‘All incarceratees are innocent. The reasons they are innocent range from’ – he counted them off on his pudgy fingers – ‘One, incompetent lawyer. Two, incompetent judge. Three, incompetent jury. Four, incompetent lawyer, judge
and
jury. Five, an over-dressed defendant, Six, an
under
-dressed defendant. Seven, too cold in the court room. Eight, too hot. Nine, racist jury, anti-
black
. Ten, racist jury, anti-
white
. . .’
    Peregrine, Maddy adjudicated, was the sort of guy who should come stamped with a warning – ‘May Cause Drowsiness’.
    â€˜The fact of the matter is that the Bill have got their nuts in a knot over LA-style “girlz’n’hood” gangs. That all-woman attack on Liz Hurley really excited them. Statistically, the number of young women in jail is steadily increasing. This has convinced the Plod that they have an inner-city crime phenomenon on their hands.’
    Maddy slumped. If she’d been operating a machine, she’d have been on the brink of an industrial accident.
    â€˜Which is why the judiciary want to make an example of uppity girls like you . . .’
    What jolted her from her coma was the sight of the aubergine-coloured slug poking its head out of her solicitor’s trousers. It lay in his palm. He stroked it absentmindedly as he spoke, as though it were a family pet. This could
not
be happening. If her life of late was a used car, nobody would bloody well buy it.
    Now that he had her attention, Peregrine got to his unsavoury point. ‘No magistrate will grant you bail unless you have surety. Now, I can find a respectable person who’ll swear he’s known you all his life, guaranteeing ten thousand pounds. In exchange for this service, a woman would obviously want to show her gratitude . . .’
    He had a coldsore in the crease of his lip. Maddy stared at it in stupefaction. Hey – it was a better view than anything else on offer. Maybe she was dreaming . . .? (If so, then where was Brad Pit and why was she