CHERUB: Brigands M.C. - Robert Muchamore Page 0,72

GCSEs and worked on the crêpe stand seven days a week saving up to travel the world with a friend.

The Führer wasn’t proud of having a homosexual son, but Martin’s mum Marlene protected him and the family name counted for something: as a kiosk manager Martin earned decent money, and compared to the much busier diner or the fish and chip stand the crêperie was a doddle.

‘So how’s it going with Ashley?’ Martin asked. It was just after eight and the sky was orange. He stood on the pavement outside the kiosk, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. James was inside, leaning on the counter and trying to cool down in the blast of a small plastic fan mounted atop the drinks cooler.

‘She’s nice,’ James said. ‘A good laugh.’

‘Gettin’ any action?’

‘No such luck,’ James sighed. ‘She might smoke a lot of dope on Saturday night, but she goes to confession on Sunday morning and her parents have indoctrinated her with all that love and marriage bullcrap.’

Martin laughed as he flicked his cigarette end over the edge of the promenade and stepped into the stiflingly hot kiosk. ‘At least I’m not the only one suffering from sexual frustration then,’ he smiled.

James broke into a big grin. ‘Tell you what, bend over the counter, pull your trackies down and I’ll sort you out.’

‘Oh I wish!’ Martin said, putting on his campest voice.

James turned around to hear a fifty pence being tapped on the counter top. A thirty-something mum holding a little girl stood at the counter frowning. ‘I don’t think that talk’s appropriate, do you?’ she said irritably.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ James said, clearing his throat and putting his hand over his mouth to disguise a smirk. ‘What would you like?’

‘Do you sell ice cream?’

James shook his head and pointed out the front of the kiosk to a queue of people. ‘Two along,’ he explained.

The woman pointed to the tubs of ice cream. ‘What’s that then?’

‘If you want it in a hot crêpe, I’m your man,’ James said.

‘They’re fresh cooked, very nice,’ Martin added. ‘But if you want ice cream we don’t have cornets or anything to put them in.’

‘You could put a scoop in a cardboard coffee cup.’

James and Martin exchanged glances. ‘Can’t,’ Martin said. ‘There’s no button on the till.’

The woman shook her head. ‘I’m sure you’d be a lot busier if you sold ice cream,’ she said, before reluctantly heading over to join the queue two kiosks over.

‘And that’s exactly why we don’t sell it, you dippy tart,’ Martin said, as he yawned and stretched theatrically.

‘Now you’ve had your smoke, you mind if I take a break?’ James asked.

‘Dead here,’ Martin said, as he checked his watch. ‘Take half an hour, but check back just in case I get busy.’

‘Cheers, boss,’ James smiled, and opened the kiosk door.

But he only made five steps before his smile got wiped by a woman called Noelene. She had duty manager embroidered on a tight-fitting red polo shirt and she had the kind of sparkly, upbeat, hard working attitude that made her teenage workers hate her guts.

‘Where you going, James?’ she asked, with a heavy New Zealand accent.

If James had engaged his brain he would have told Noelene that he was going to the larder fridge behind the diner to get fresh pancake batter or ice cream, but instead he mumbled weakly about going for a ten-minute break.

‘Oh no you’re not, sweetie pie,’ she grinned as she pointed into the diner with painted nails that matched her shirt. ‘I’ve got a big food order needs taking over to the Brigands clubhouse, right now. And look around and see how busy we are: there’s a dozen or more tables need cleaning. Do you think it’s right to swan off on a break when your co-workers are busy?’

James huffed. ‘I’ll go get the food.’

‘I don’t like your attitude, Mr Raven,’ Noelene said as James sauntered towards the restaurant. ‘And pull your trousers up so that I can’t see your underwear. This isn’t a skateboard rink.’

Skateboard park, you fat arse, James thought to himself. He stepped into the restaurant. The diner bustled with noise, and James nodded to a couple of Lauren and Dante’s mates as his nose caught the smell of frying oil and pickles. There was a two-tier serving trolley stacked with donut boxes, fried chicken, burgers and also foil dishes from the Chinese restaurant at the upmarket end of the promenade.

A black chef came out of the kitchen and squeezed on three large pizza boxes. ‘Better run