Locked up with the Badboy.

I take a seat on the floor in front of him, "What?"

He combs a hand through his dark hair and sighs, "This is a maximum security prison, the people here have killed babies, shot up schools , killed multiple partners and run crime rings and you, are saying that I'm mean? "


34. Cooks.

The little policeman introduces himself as officer Eddy Boroughs, from witness protection unit. Then turns to Ben, “I don’t know how you did it. But son you’ve got head hunters, reds and blues on the lookout for you, word is, there’s even a bounty.”

He looks at me, “And you, you’ve just about made every paper in the country, right famous you two are.” Both of us just stare at the cop, I can’t believe I’ve even made one paper. Our adventure just seemed like it was, well ours.

Ben weaves his fingers through mine, “What happens now?”

“Well, we try to hide you here until we find somewhere else safe for you,” Eddy pauses to stroke his beard, a thoughtful expression clouds his face, “While you are technically under arrest, us being here is for your own protection.” He shakes his finger threateningly, “Try to escape and we might not be able to help if the gangs catch up with you.”

“Sure,” I say, “We can stay here, we were running out of options anyway.”

Eddy frowns in a less severe way, “Good, glad we got that sorted. Now can either of you cook? Because the two meatheads with me can kick down doors and secure a premises but they don’t have a clue what to do with beef.”

 “Sure, I’ll whip something up.” Ben says.

“Kitchen is second door on the right.”

Ben gets up, gives me a light tap on the shoulder and then opens the door. From around the house I hear the sounds of the two other policemen checking that our house is secure. Eddy puts his hands in his pockets and gives a loud cough, I wait for him to say something but the quiet kind of lingers so I stand up and walk to the hallway, “I’ll give Ben a hand?”

The officer nods.


“Okay, so we’re having spaghetti bolognaise, with extra tomato’s” Ben pulls open a cupboard to reveal hundreds of tinned foods, “Because I estimate that there are several years of spaghetti bolognaise in here and we might as well get though as many tins as we can before we hate tomatos in general.”

He places two tins on the bench while I search for a can opener. One found he starts to sizzle the meat while I twist the can opener.

The opener slips and twists into my index finger, opening a large gash across it. Ben instantly drops his spatula back into the mince and hurries over, blood spits out of the wound, and down my fist. Surprisingly it doesn’t hurt.

“Oh gosh,” Ben says grabbing a paper towel and holding it to the finger, “You’re supposed to open the pans, not yourself.”

We both laugh as he pulls  some massive Band-Aids from a cupboard and stretching them the length of my finger stops the flow of blood.

“Ben, you are a miracle worker,” I declare as he wraps a final piece of sticky fabric around the wound.

“Nope I’m just a bad chef,” he replies, just realising that our mince is burning, he throws in the tinned tomatoes. We manage to get the meal going again, and Ben just adds plenty of soy sauce to mask the burnt flavour. As we’re serving a thought occurs to me, “Hey Ben, how’d you find me?”

 He coughs, “Ah, you told me where your parents lived?”


“Oh, I just guessed.” He sets the plates out like they’re reserved for royalty, a few leaves of salad on the side, the cheese creating a whorl. It looks authentically Italian.

“Come on Ben, it’s not like you’re going to get arrested for it.”

He shrugs, “Yeah, I put a G.P.S tracker in that lock-pick kit I gave you.”

I think back to the kit, I barely looked inside. “Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why bug it? I mean why not let me go?”

He tosses the pan in a large sink and wipes his face. His soft face, warm and full of expression. “Well it’s pretty obvious now… But at the time I guess I just didn’t want to give you up.”


He laughs and grabs my arms, “Shhhhhhh.”

The two hulks that carried us inside walk into the kitchen, they’re almost indistinguishable; bulging muscles, pistols in holsters, mud brown eyes and simple faces. The only noticible difference between them is that one is slightly shorter and has dyed blonde hair. The other who has brunette hair speaks in a rumbling tone, “Something smells yum.” His eyes flick from us to his friend. Us to his friend.

“Yes yum.” The blondie agrees.

Ben dishes hands them their plates, “There’s still heaps left in the pan if you want more.”

The two nod and walk over to the pan, dumping half of it on their plates. The sit down on the couches and start eating with rapid strokes. The brunette swallows and looks from us to Blondie again.

Ben looks over his shoulder and whispers to me, “Thank goodness for the extra tomato.”


As we sit down to eat Eddy walks in, and plonks himself beside us, “After a few mouthfuls he shakes his head, “My gosh this is brilliant! Better then what I get at home.”

Ben stands up and gives a little bow, I curtsy even though I only opened the cans.

“Good,” says the Brunette in agreement.

“Yes good,” adds Blondie.

We wash the dishes, then with nothing else to do go to our room.

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