Mad Cows Read Online Free Page B

still clothed?) Or having some kind of out-of-body experience? Yeah,
right
. Answers on a self-addressed plasma beam.
    Her solicitor crossed to the door and made sure it was locked. Turning, his eyes travelled the six foot length of Maddy’s muscular body with slow appreciation before snaring at 36D level. ‘Now, isn’t it time we got to know each other better?’
    â€˜Oh, I’ve got a pretty good idea who
you
are.
You’re
the kind of guy Ricki Lake builds an entire show around.’
    Peregrine chortled, enjoying her obstinacy. ‘So, shall we play Mr Wobbly Hides His Helmet?’
    â€˜What do you use for contraception?’ Maddy stalled, ‘Your personality?’
    Peregrine’s tone darkened. ‘You don’t seem to be taking your situation very seriously. Forget
Porridge
. Not all inmates have their own TV sitcom. Some of them are psychotic lesbian axe murderesses.’ He slouched back on the bed, resurrecting his manhood from the folds of his underpants.
    â€˜OK. Enough kidding around,’ Maddy rebuked. ‘Now show me your
real
penis.’ Two strides and she was at the door, ready to shout through the grille for help. ‘I mean, what kind of an idiot do you think I am?’
    â€˜The kind of idiot who allows the Regional Crime Squad to select her solicitor for her,’ he gloated. ‘Oh, forgive me. That observation was intended to be parenthetic. And don’t even think about trying to report this. A single mother, suspected fraudster and illegal foreigner? You have about as much muscle as, well, Christopher Reeve.’
    Maddy was sick with disbelief at the Kafka-esque turn to her day. These kind of things didn’t happen to people like her. She listened to
Desert Island Discs
. She cleansed with Clarins. Moisturizing before toner was a
major
misdemeanour. She worried about whether her twenty-four hour deodorant would run out after twenty-three hours. She looked up words she didn’t know in the dictionary. Recycling was a daily ritual. As was gum massage . . . Maddy glanced across at her tiny baby. His hands fluttered in his sleep, as though conducting an invisible orchestra . . . with no idea that the score had suddenly switched to Berlioz’s ‘March to the Gallows’.
    â€˜Well, Ms Wolfe, what’s it to be?’

3
    The Hood, The
Mother
Hood
    AS THE POLICE car drove through the dark arched gates of Holloway Prison, the sense of certainty that Maddy had taken for granted all her life was obliterated for ever. The magistrate had not granted bail, which was why she and Jack were being herded, with the other incarceratees (Maddy had seen their shrunken abstracted look before – on sheep) into what was laughingly called the ‘reception area’. Her nose, mouth and ears were inspected by a jailer with a black, Beatle-wig haircut, blue eye-shadow, beige support knee-highs and a chest which started at the neck and ended at her naval.
    â€˜Get yer gear off and give us a twirl.’
    â€˜Hey,’ Maddy said, with strained joviality, as she stepped out of her underpants, ‘aren’t you even going to buy me dinner first?’ She rotated obediently, a knot of anxiety mangling her innards. ‘What’s the Mother and Baby Unit like? I mean, it’s not as bad as the
real
gaol . . . is it?’ She was about to learn that Her Majesty’s prisons are home to the world’s record number of Mensa-rejection slip holders. They’re called prison officers.
    â€˜Put it this way,’ the Mensa flunkee chortled, ‘last night the inmates played soccer with a wet nappy . . .
still attached to the baby
.’ Maddy slipped her finger into Jack’s half-clenched fist. He gripped it, hard. Oh, thank you, Alex. How
would
she thank him? A huge amplifier outside his bedroom window playing a Wings album at top volume would be nice.
    Maddy was hosed down in a tepid shower and her possessions bagged and