Hot Stew by Fiona Mozley (most interesting books to read .TXT) 📕

she was deranged, like all those people who live in bunkers in New Mexico pickling cucumbers and canning roadkill in preparation for apocalypse.

Elton has already moved on to other topics. He is telling her about his son. Agatha’s mind is elsewhere, but the son comes in and she meets him. He is better looking than she expected—his looks must have come from his mother, as they can’t have come from his dad. Then she remembers Elton used to have an unexpectedly bohemian wife who left him in sordid circumstances, and she smiles to herself at the thought of this.

Soon afterwards, Agatha calls Roster and leaves the club to find him outside, standing next to the car. Fedor gazes from the back seat. Agatha takes her place beside him and places a hand on his silken ribcage. Roster climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition. The car rolls into gear and the old man steers it slowly through the Georgian streets, lined with fallen autumn leaves.

“What did the fancy man have to say to you today?” Roster asks.

Agatha tells him.

“He has his own methods, but you know I have mine. If you should ever need them, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

“Your methods are exactly what we’re trying to leave behind. You might have served my father in that way but that cannot be how you serve me. The business has moved on. The world has moved on.”

Roster turns the car down a back street to park it by a small café run by an Italian family that has been there for decades. It’s his sort of place rather than hers: a relic of a bygone era. It serves greasy fry-ups to hungry builders and steak and kidney pies with gravy, mushy peas and chips. Plastic chairs are attached to plastic tables, each with a complement of salt, pepper, vinegar, tomato ketchup and brown sauce. It’s not the sort of place that Agatha visits regularly, but she has a soft spot for it, and comes with Roster every now and then, as she has been doing since she was a little girl and spent time in London with him and her mother.

Roster puts on the handbrake and turns off the engine. He speaks from the front seat without turning his head.

“The business might be taking a new direction, but the world is much the same as it ever was.”

Worms and Thunder

Precious holds a carnival mask she bought in Venice. It is embossed with rhinestones and framed with feathers which are black beneath clouds but iridescent beneath sunshine, like an oil slick. The vendor overstated its quality. In the golden light of a Venetian spring, the glimmer appeared authentic. In the copper light of a London autumn, it looks tacky.

She puts it to her face and tucks the elastic strap at the nape of her neck, then spots herself in the mirror. The mask covers her forehead and the area around her eyes, but her mouth and chin are exposed. If someone saw her they might be able to recognize her just from this. It would depend how well they knew her. Close friends, perhaps. Her sons.

She is holding a placard by her side. There is a wooden post in her hand, and the attached sign rests on the floor. Some of the other girls made their own with cut-up cardboard boxes stuck to the ends of broom handles, and slogans scrawled with permanent markers. Precious wanted something more durable, so commissioned a sign from a printers.

“You want it to say what?” the saleswoman asked, aghast.

“You heard,” Precious replied, in no mood to pander. She contemplated a number of slogans, before settling on this one. Others went for jokey signs but Precious didn’t.

“It’s a serious issue,” she told Crystal when she saw hers. “People will be lined up to dismiss us because of who we are. We don’t want to give them even more reason to think we’re thick.”

“Do you think a thicko could come up with this? I don’t think so. The whole point is to attract people’s attention. You’re not going entice anyone with say no to eviction of soho prostitutes. It’s dry.”

“It sums up our aims, unlike occupy my vagina.”

Precious is in her front room, while Tabitha is still in the bedroom getting ready. If she peers out the window she can see the street below. A crowd has begun to gather. She spots some of the girls from her building, and friends from Brewer Street. There are even some women from Chinatown. She registers both Scarlets, Young and Old, standing together, looking cold and bored. Precious didn’t expect mother or daughter to be punctual, but here they are. She sees more signs. The one Giselle is holding reads no to banking | yes to bonking. Precious shuts her eyes and breathes deeply, then opens them again and turns back into the room.

The event isn’t due to begin for another half hour, but it is good people are arriving early. Some have come from the women’s groups they’ve been in touch with, wearing second-hand clothes, scruffy shoes, angular haircuts and oversized glasses.

Tabitha emerges from the bedroom. She is wearing black jeans, a black fleece, comfortable leather pumps and a Darth Vader helmet.

“It’s all I could find,” she explains apologetically. The helmet has a built-in voice modulator to make her sound like a Sith lord. She looks and sounds completely ridiculous.

“Right,” says Precious, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

They pick up handbags and placards and make their way downstairs to the street. The crowd has swollen, absorbing newcomers. They spot Candy, Young Scarlet, Old Scarlet, Hazel and Crystal and push through groups of people to get to them. Candy and Hazel have placards too. Hazel’s carries a statement about her body and her choices, written in pink and blue felt tip pen. Candy’s sign is facing away from Precious. She swivels the pole, and Precious sees her own masked reflection in a shiny piece of silver