Big spiders in bigger webs. Finding out what was grinding Grant would take more than a quick word to the people in power, and sure as hell more than a favour owed.

It was two more night shifts before I could catch her out back cleaning the casi.

“I blimmin hate this blimmin job!” I could hear her shout as I walked out from the rear door of the kitchen. Sarah backed out of the small toilet she’d been spraying some worthless disinfectant into, and scrunched up her nose in disgust. The toilet wasn’t particularly stinky, but when you’re as well-heeled as she, anything other than roses or fresh lavender was something straight from hell.

University students on a furlough between Daddy and sugar-Daddy, we’d seen a bundle of them pass through the front doors of this place, as had ever other gig in town. I laughed, “You find anything valuable in there?”

“Blimey!” She exclaims, “It’s amazing we even get customers with these loos the way they are?”

I stop and lean against the way near to where she’s working. It’s the wall to the Charnel House, and I can feel the buzz of the coolers through the faux-oak panelling. Gary had given this particular job to the front bunnies long before I came on board, and it was the one thing that always reminded them of their place in the world. While I scraped plates and burnt myself daily, they got the shit from customers in all ways possible.

“Well, surely your job is to get them into the right kind of state then?” I ask inquisitively.

“I’m not a bloody miracle worker!”

We laugh and she glances over her shoulder to me. ‘You have that look like you want something.” She says.

“Well… maybe I do” I answer coyly.

She stops what she’s doing and pushes one of her locks off her brow with her wrist, the rubber gloves making her the iconic domestic goddess. “You know, getting me cutlery is only ever going to get you so far, dishy.”

“I know” I say, reaching out and lifting a lock of hair gently, and pushing it back behind her ear.

Her eyes smoulder. She steps towards me, her chin raised, one shoulder dropped, and says, slowly, cautiously, “I know Grant thinks I’m his Christmas Turkey, and if you can prove it, I’ll tell you everything. Micky. Nina. I’ll give you everything I have.”

For a farm girl, this one was alright.