The Boss Read Online Free

staring at him in horror, but he didn’t notice, instead giving a dry cough as he realised he’d been getting carried away with his grand project. Once more he looked at the papers he’d been asking questions from before speaking.
    â€˜Right, er . . . Miss Cotton, just one or two more general questions. Please could you give an example of a situation where you’ve used your own initiative to solve a problem?’
    I could – bailing out of the old Beamer Dave Shaw had pinched before he decided to race the police down the M11 – but it didn’t seem likely to go down very well. For a moment nothing else would come, before I thought of the way I’d managed to get backstage at the Bladders concert, but that wouldn’t do either. I pretended to be considering several options, and finally decided to turn the whole thing around on him.
    â€˜I don’t really see how you can solve a problem without showing initiative. After all, even if you go and ask somebody else to help, that’s initiative, isn’t it? But if you just stand there and do nothing, then you haven’t solved the problem.’
    He looked mildly perplexed for a moment, then went on.
    â€˜Do you feel you work best alone, or as part of a team?’
    I knew the answer to that one, even it is was a total lie.
    â€˜Oh, as part of a team. I’ve always been a team player, although I can work alone if I have to.’
    He gave a solemn nod, then continued.
    â€˜What do you do to relax?’
    That at least I could answer.
    â€˜Play the drums.’
    He looked a little surprised, but nodded once again. Mr Square Jaw was on his way up and gave me an affable smile as he leant against the banister. I smiled back, maybe a bit nervous, not because he was so good-looking, rather because the pair of them were freaking me out. I felt like a mouse between two cats, one scrawny ginger and one big, sleek black one.
    I seemed to have survived the interview anyway, because Foxy stacked his papers and put them back on the desk as he spoke.
    â€˜Thank you very much, Miss Cotton. I’m Paul Minter, by the way, and my colleague is Stephen English.’
    Square Jaw stuck out an enormous paw, which enfolded my own hand completely as I gave it a tentative shake. Foxy also offered a hand then I beat a retreat, complying with their final demand by sendingup the next applicant, a woman older than me, smarter than me, and undoubtedly more suitable for the job in every possible way. She even looked as if she might have shown some proactive initiative in a team-based problem-solving scenario.
    I went home, feeling distinctly depressed. Nobody was in, so I flopped down on my bed, thinking black thoughts. I obviously didn’t have the job, not that I wanted it anyway, but much more importantly it looked like the entire town and maybe even the surrounding countryside was going to be swamped with Foxy and Square Jaw’s horrid little cameras. Soon it would be impossible to have a snog without some closet perve peeping in to have a good leer and check that nothing happened to offend propriety, that or offer some thoroughly condescending advice on birth control.
    Not even The Clash or Dag Nasty or
Fat Lip
could pick me up, but only succeeded in turning my thoughts to dark but ludicrously impractical ideas for putting a stop to the surveillance camera scheme. Yet at the very least I could warn everyone, so Foxy and Square Jaw might not get the bonanza scoop of scallies they expected. I knew what to look for too, which had to help, but with the sort of technology they were employing it was going to be very hard to hide.
    I could of course give up my life of crime and become a model citizen, but I didn’t want to, not with the punk blaring into my ears. Unfortunately it’s one thing to sing ‘Never Surrender’, another to do it, and by the time I’d got to ‘I Fought the Law’ I found I couldn’t