The Boss (2 page)

‘Hey, Fizz, no . . .'

‘Don't be a pig, Pete. You've come. Make me.'

His answer was a muffled grunt as I pressed my pussy to his mouth. I was holding my knickers aside, making it skin on skin as I wriggled myself into his face, swearing at him and demanding he lick. He gave in, his tongue pushing out to lap at my sex, a heavenly feeling already close to orgasm. I began to grind my pussy into his face, my thighs locked tight around his head, one hand clawing his hair, the other the crotch of my knickers.

Lights burst in my head and I was coming, a hot, tight climax taken against his lips to fill me first with blinding ecstasy, then with a deep sense of satisfaction and a savage joy for my own behaviour. Only when I'd quite finished did I climb off, pushing the back door open so that I could step out into the cool of the night, both because I needed the air and to make it easier to adjust myself. Pete finally managed to find his voice.

‘You play rough, Fizz!'

‘That's what you get for coming so fast.'

I was laughing. I couldn't help it, mainly from the
expression on his face, but I stopped as I caught the purr of a motor in the distance. Pete had heard it too, and quickly we scrambled over the gate and into the field, running down along the hedge until we felt safe. The reckless thrill of joyriding was gone with my climax, and he seemed to feel the same as we crouched low and watched the lights approach.

It wasn't the police, just an ordinary car, and it didn't even slow down as it passed. I was wondering about the cyclist and how we'd get back, but neither of us even bothered to suggest taking the stolen car as we loped back towards it. Pete's door was still open, the light on, showing the crumpled pages of a magazine beneath the seat. I pulled it out, laughing as I saw that rather than
Which Parking Meter?
it was a porno mag, and a pretty smutty one at that. Pete chuckled as he took it.

‘Dirty old bastard! Handy though.'

He'd begun to tear pages off, balling them up and throwing them into the footwell. I stood back, letting him get on with it and keeping my eyes and ears open for anyone approaching. There was nothing, the sky bright with stars but otherwise quite still, the only sounds faint and distant. A sudden flare of light and Pete was running towards me, ducked low as if he expected the car to go up like a bomb.

It didn't, the fire spreading only slowly, confined in the space beneath the seat we'd wound back for sex. Pete took my hand as we watched the car burn, an oddly sentimental gesture I thought, but I didn't mind. It was rather sweet, really, and I snuggled up against his arm as the flames licked higher, climbing the back of the driver's seat until within moments the entire interior was a flickering yellow glow. When the petrol
tank went up there was a bang they must have heard in Ely. We felt the wave of heat but we were well clear of danger.

We watched for just a moment more, enjoying the fiercest of the blaze, then turned away. The fire was visible for miles and it couldn't be long before somebody came to investigate. Sure enough, we hadn't got halfway across the huge open field before we heard the distant sound of sirens and caught the flash of blue light among the trees towards Lakenheath. We ran, ducked low as we fled across the thick, clinging soil, both laughing, as much in nervous fear as in glee.

They couldn't see us, I knew that. They couldn't know which way we'd gone and they'd search the roads first, the way they always do. Unless we were really unlucky or did something incredibly stupid we were home free. Maybe, just maybe, my crime would catch up with me later. I won't say I didn't care, but it was worth it, the cost of all my heady thrills over a life of utter tedium.

We walked for hours, across Feltwell Fens and Hockwold Fens, jumping ditches and pushing through hedges, and talking all the while, about everything from music to mud – the fact that no matter how careful you are, the soggy bit always seems to manage to work its way up the insides of your legs as you walk. It was quite romantic, I suppose, and I'd seldom felt so at ease with a man.

Eventually we made it; exhausted, filthy, but triumphant. Pete dropped me off at my front door with a kiss and a squeeze of my bum, asking if I'd like to go out again. I hadn't really thought of what we'd done as a date, but I suppose it was, in a sense. He'd been fun, so I told him I would and kissed him back.

It was pitch black indoors, and I managed to sneak in without waking anyone. I was fit to drop and wouldn't have bothered stripping off if I hadn't been quite so muddy. There was a letter on my bed too, an official-looking one. My eyes were closing of their own accord as I pulled it open to see who was trying to screw me over and for what, but it was just an offer of an interview from some company called Black Knight Securities.

I'd only filled the form in to keep Mum happy. I'd certainly never expected to get to the interview stage, not with my qualifications. I was absolutely certain I wouldn't actually get the job, not in a million years. That sort of thing happens to nice, clean-cut girls with lots of A
^*
GCSEs, not some retro-punk rock bitch with a bad habit of taking and driving.

What they wanted was a ‘Management Support Operative', presumably some sort of glorified receptionist and general dogsbody, able to greet clients and show the less important ones around, probably also to make coffee, run errands for every Tom, Dick and Harry in the place and provide corporate bjs on demand. That meant blonde and neat and sweet, which is just not me. The company also specialised in CCTV systems, and while I like to think I have a fair bit of knowledge in that department it probably wasn't the sort of knowledge they were expecting.

I still had to make the effort: white face, black shirt, white socks, black shoes, black hair, Sweet Gene Vincent style, or almost. By the time Mum had finished with me I actually looked respectable, just not me any more, not Fizz, but Miss Felicity Cotton. I'd even let her destroy my hair, replacing the spikes and purple
highlights with a predictable honey-blonde, so that on the way I was consoling myself with the thought of spikes with green and blue tips once I'd been turned down.

Black Knight Securities was on the new trading estate to the south of town, where the shoe factory Dad had worked in had been before it went bust. Just that was enough to make me feel resentful, although it wasn't their fault, obviously, let alone the way Mum and Dad had fallen apart afterwards.

Black Knight Securities were obviously just setting up. There was a showroom, with tall glass doors now wide open and a man in a white overall laying brick-red carpet tiles within. He didn't seem very likely to be the one doing the interviewing, so I stepped past him with what I hoped was a polite smile and through the door beyond into a warehouse piled high with crates and boxes. Two men were frowning over a clipboard, both suits, but otherwise very different.

One looked like a fox, fairly tall and very thin, with close-cropped red hair coming down across his forehead in a point where he'd begun to go bald, while his features were pinched and suspicious. The other was equally tall, but dark haired and well built, his good looks spoilt only by the look of square-jawed, humourless honesty projected in his face. They were just the sort of people I'd been dodging for years and I hated them both immediately. The last thing I wanted was their job, and I was sure they'd want a meek little thing behind the desk, so I stepped boldly forward, deliberately breaking into their conversation.

‘Hi. I'm Felicity Cotton. I've come about the job.'

Foxy looked down, distinctly peeved. Square Jaw turned steel-grey eyes onto me and turned over a couple of pages on his clipboard before replying.

‘Miss Cotton? Yes, eleven fifteen. Sorry, I didn't realise you were waiting.'

I hadn't been, I was late. I was almost tempted to say so too, but held back, telling myself it wasn't because of his air of natural command but simple common sense. He tapped his finger on the clipboard then spoke to Foxy.

‘Would you interview Miss Cotton, Paul? I'll finish checking this in and join you in a minute.'

Foxy nodded and ushered me towards a wooden staircase which led up to an open office immediately above the showroom. He didn't look best pleased and I was sure I'd already failed, which brought an odd mixture of relief and annoyance. The office space was effectively a balcony overlooking the warehouse, with carpet tiles like the ones in the showroom and two desks each with its chair and computer. Everything looked brand new. I sat down without waiting to be asked while Foxy shuffled through various bits of paper before finally addressing me.

‘Miss Cotton, right, here we are. You're twenty, you've lived in the area all your life, and this would be your first employment?'

He'd obviously written me off already and was only going through the motions, so I answered casually.

‘That's right.'

‘And how have you spent your time since leaving education?'

I almost answered that I'd been product-testing for companies like his, which was fairly true, but I wasn't feeling quite cheeky enough. Instead I shrugged, knowing full well that my complete failure to get a job for four years had already buried me.

‘This and that. You know, moving around.'

‘Travelling?'

I nodded. The trip down to Wiltshire with the convoy the year before counted as travelling, definitely travelling.

‘Whereabouts?'

Wiltshire somehow didn't seem the right answer, but there were Steve's booze runs to Calais.

‘The Continent, France mainly.'

‘I see, and why did you choose to do this rather than start in full-time employment?'

I couldn't think of an answer other than the truth.

‘I didn't want to get tied down, not straightaway.'

‘So having soaked up a little culture you're now intent on starting on your career path?'

That sounded about right, even if it hadn't been culture I was soaking up.

‘Yes.'

‘And what made you choose the security industry?'

I hesitated, because it was a really stupid question. They wanted a dogsbody on the front desk, so it was hardly a career path, any more than taking a job flipping burgers is a career path in globalised evil. Foxy was looking expectant though and I had to say something, so snatched at something Pete had said when we were talking about speed cameras.

‘It's the fastest growing industry in the country at present, with, er . . . unprecedented potential for expansion both on the national and international markets.'

‘That's a very proactive attitude, Miss Cotton. Do you feel that's something you would bring to the company if we were to select you?'

I had no idea what he was talking about, but wasn't about to look a complete fool by asking what ‘proactive' meant.

‘Yes.'

He seemed to want me to continue, but I couldn't think of anything to say and eventually he looked down at his papers again, apparently scanning a list for another question to ask me. I waited, letting my eyes flicker around the big, white warehouse and the stacks of boxes. Most seemed to be cameras of one sort or another, which was really depressing. At last Foxy decided on a question.

‘What do you have in your personal toolbox?'

Again I hesitated, not at all sure what he was asking, even if it was some sort of coded test to see if I'd show him my tits or something. Fortunately he spoke again before I could decide whether to slap the cheeky bastard or give him a flash.

‘What skills will you bring to the job, that is, Miss Cotton?'

‘Oh, I see, um . . . Well, I know quite a bit about cameras, I suppose.'

He'd been going to ask another question but thought better of it, reaching across his desk instead and passing me a square black box as he spoke again.

‘What do you make of this, then?'

From the picture on the box, it was obviously a surveillance camera, but only when I took it out did I realise it was one I'd never seen before, and seriously sneaky. It was black, no larger than my balled fist, and designed to be mounted high on a wall. Big Brother would have been proud. Foxy was waiting for my opinion.

‘It's an external, wall-mounted surveillance camera, designed to be unobtrusive, while this shield would make it hard to break with a stone or something. The field of vision looks likes three-quarters of a circle, and
the lens is a Zeiss, so high quality. It must be wired in and controlled from a base as there's a zoom facility. I imagine it's for use in shopping centres and stuff, anywhere with a security base. It says it's digital, so presumably it feeds back pictures to a computer? I've not seen it before though.'

‘You wouldn't have. It's our new line, the ZX-4. After a lot of research, Stephen and I decided this was the best available, both in terms of money and technical merit. Last month he and I went to the Korean plant where they're produced, watched the demonstration and were given instructions on using them. What isn't obvious to the average person is that it can be used in conjunction with a facial recognition program, and automatically stores the images for future reference. With this baby you can pick a face from the crowd and it will retrieve every sighting of that individual going back as far as records have been kept. I'm sure you can see how powerful a tool that is, especially when linked to police or council databases.'

And they wonder why people wear hoodies. I turned the horrible thing over in my hand, looking for a weakness. It was clearly designed to be installed too high for spray paint to work easily, and was too tough and too small to make throwing things at it worthwhile. I tried to think of anything I'd done wrong recently that might have been captured on camera. There was plenty, and I had to ask.

‘Have any of these been installed yet, locally?'

‘No, but we have an advisory team from the council coming over for a demonstration next week. In fact our primary marketing strategy is based on the supply of integrated systems including modules such as the ZX-4, and principally to corporate bodies. Assisting us with
presentations would be an important part of your job, which is one reason we're keen to take on somebody with local knowledge. I take it you're aware of the high incidence of low-level crime in the Hockford area?'