emima was always lucky, Philly mused as she watches her coffee being made like some sort of tribal offering of peace. The waitress raised her brow at seeing her alone and she nodded, feeling like a Queen giving orders all with a wink and a nod.

That’s what she says that’s what the world is built upon. Or people like Jemima, fantastic anecdotes for every occasion yet where she is known as a clown but strangely enough the joke killer.

Philly’s head jerks up as she thinks of this and as she hears a flurry of Welsh curses as Jemima burst through the door with all the dynamism of a pigeon slamming into a . She looks around the room with that usual calm effacing look that is always at odds at her physical presence, nodding approvingly as she walks over and sees the coffee being placed into the space in front of her.

“Thanks,” she says, casually throwing herself into the seat opposite and purposely bumping her short legs against Philly’s long ones. She tilts her head to one side. “No offence, and don’t take this the wrong way but that outfit makes you look like a fish.”

Philly doesn’t comment, just give her a flash of a glare that she knows is worthy of her grandmother, if her grandmother really exists. She calmly assesses her. You’d never say Jemima ever had two pennies rubbing together let alone the three hundred she keeps in the heel of her normal cowboy boot. Today it’s her ‘fuck off’ boots, so there’s at least five hundred crisp notes underneath her socks and on the sole.

“Still got those boots?” Philly asks, smiling at Jemima’s incredulous but offended cough before she takes a sip.

“Told you before, they’re my end of the world shoes. I’m Armageddon ready,” she looks around the cafe with an affected calmness. Philly know she’s building up for her next question and knows its coming fast. “Are you-”

“Going to the States?” Philly finishes, and smile at her guilty if nervous smile. “Yes. At least when the investigation is over.”

“Until then you don’t move.” Jemima stood abruptly and clickedher fingers at the woman. “Two coffees to go.” When Philly cocked an eyebrow at the rudeness, Jemima returned the lookbefore addressing the waitress. “Please.”

The waitress carefully placed the polythene cup down for Philly and then slams the cup down for Jemima who flashed a condescending and ingratiating grin. The two walked together out into the cold, sipping their coffee and not speaking until they are in a particularly loud area that their voices become meshed.  

“Bishop is pissed.” Jemima never minces her words and isn’t likely to now. “You got too close, didn’t report in time and you are very luck that Special Branch still needs your assets or I think we’d have a bag assassination again.”

“I thought our business was MI5?” Philly says attempting humour and despite the wry smile shot in her direction she knows that there is very little to laugh at.

“Bollocks to the name, Philly,” says Jemima, her cold efficiency shining through as she lightly dodges a young man with a polite nod. “If you thought we were in this job for Queen and country, let alone patriotism and loyalty, then you’re not only naive but incredibly stupid. We’re all different factions of a Civil Servant Assassination Squad.”

“When should I come in?”

“Once the enquiry is done with and when I need you,” she says with a finality and coldness.

“But I’ll be vilified for the press.”

“I told you once when I hired you; it’s not a James Bond movie. You get fucked. Fucked by me, fucked by Bishop, fucked by the government and Queen you serve.” The woman continues to walk this time the wry smile, positively primal and predatory. “Bet your arse hurts tight now... oh and Bishop told me that you’re not to kill yourself. We need you so we can fuck you over again.”

“Sure thing, Duck...” Philly closes her eyes as they step into a quieter area, now the code name is used and the mission over. “You fucking bitch.”

“Now you get the idea... but you can make a suicide attempt in a few months... pass it on.”