I ate life once. Not a bad cereal.

‘The Boswells are ratbags,’ Martina’s colleague says to her one day, when she’s handing over her case notes to the Benefit Office.

And yes, well. Martina’s not going to dispute that. She has this conversation every time she liaises with the other department – apparently, those bastard brothers and their bastard offshoot cousin aren’t satisfied with claiming everything under the sun, they blatantly disregard the rules for their times to sign-on, driving everybody in the adjacent department round the bend as well.

And though Martina has made good on her promises to reprimand them about this when they show up to claim, it hasn’t been enough to make a difference. Hence Lorraine from the Benefit Office has decided to make an example of them, calling them all in this afternoon for a collective dressing-down.

Justice is sweet. Martina’s only regret is not being able to be there herself.

The least she can do (and the most satisfying) is hand off a list of further information about their antics that can assist Lorraine in delivering a suitable chastisement. So here she is. Delivering her wares, and delighting in the horrified looks Lorraine is giving her as she recounts some of their more outlandish claims. Most of her colleagues are in awe of her ability to handle the Boswells, and she likes to admit she milks this. The praise is a silver lining on the cloud that is dealing with those swindling bastards day in, day out.

‘And they really had the nerve to switch houses just to charge each other rent?!’

Martina nods sagely. ‘Mhmm.’

‘Oh, God. I’d have gone up the wall.’

‘I was up there and halfway across the ceiling a long time ago, believe me.’

‘Don’t know how you manage it, love. They drive me mad individually, once a week. I can’t imagine dealing with them all multiple times a day.’

‘Oh,’ Martina smiles wryly, ‘I have my ways of handling them.’

Lorraine’s face changes, a touch of the facetious marring her expression.

‘I’ve heard, yeah. There were rumours you and that Shifty were an item.’

The wording makes Martina wince, an action that isn’t missed by her colleague. The facetious tint to her expression becomes far more pronounced.

‘Oh, so it’s true, then? And what about that Joey? They say ‘e fancies you.’

Martina’s cheeks go pink; she wasn’t aware of this.

‘Is that your strategy, then? Keep ‘em all with their tongues hanging out after you so they’ll behave?’

She snorts, trying to suppress her embarrassment. ‘Hardly.’

‘Well, clearly you’ve done summat to make ‘em respect you. You’re the only one so far who’s been able to keep ‘em in line.’

‘I don’t know I’d call it keep them in line,’ Martina says, so surprised she’s apparently got anywhere with containing the Boswells’ behaviour that she almost misses the subtler implications of Lorraine’s comment.

And then she does, and she blances.

‘Eh! If you’re implying—’

‘I’m not saying it’s a bad idea, mind,’ Lorraine’s eyes twinkle. ‘P’raps a good snog’d do them all a world of good.’

It’s still a joke at this point. And so Martina treats it like one, quite possibly sealing her own fate.

‘Yeah, one down, four to go, eh?’ She snickers lightly.

 ‘Collect ‘em all,’ Lorraine grins.

‘That’s a God-awful way of putting it. They’re human beings.’ Martina reconsiders. ‘Sort of.’

‘Human beings who’ve put you through the wringer every day for the past nine years. G’wed, Martina.’ There’s a grin on Lorraine’s face that Martina doesn’t entirely like. ‘Get yer own back.’

‘You’re not actually suggesting I do it?’ Her eyes widen as she realises. This isn’t a joke. Lorraine is bloody serious.

‘Why not? Think you couldn’t?’

‘It’s unprofessional!’ Martina splutters, horrified. Not to mention that she doesn’t want to.

‘Oh, yeah? Sounds like an excuse to me. You’re really telling me you care about professionalism where those lying, cheatin’ bastards are concerned?’

‘What are you on?!’

‘C’mon, you’ve already got a leg-up with the cousin – that’s practically halfway there.’

Having had a previous dalliance with one-fifth of the Boswell cohort who claim is hardly being halfway there, but Martina can’t doesn’t want to argue about minutiae when the whole premise of the thing is this daft.

‘What sick fantasy are you trying to live out here? Do you enjoy humiliating colleagues who came ‘ere to help you out?’ Martina is cross now, and her words are sharp.

Lorraine giggles. ‘What are you afraid of?’

‘You, at the moment. Because you are clearly out of your mind.’

‘Prove me wrong, Martina.’

‘What d’you mean, prove you wrong? This was your daft idea, I want no part of it.’

‘No,’ her colleague teases. ‘You were the one throwing your weight about, boasting how you’ve got your ways of dealing with the Boswells. So prove it. Ten quid says you can’t manage it.’

‘Ten quid?’ Martina parrots incredulously. ‘That’s it? You really think I’d demean meself for ten measly pounds?!’

‘Listen, love, don’t look at me like that. In this racket I can’t afford to bet more than that. And you can’t afford to turn it down.’

It’s not a question of afford, it’s a question of this idea is ridiculous, but she does have a point.

Martina doesn’t answer, and apparently her lack of response is some sort of concession, because Lorraine’s face turns smug.

‘Their appointment’s at four o’clock today. You’ve got seven hours – send ‘em all over to me decently snogged and you’ll get your ten quid when we’ve done.’

Martina rolls her eyes. Snogging every single Boswell is preposterous enough, without trying to cram it into one day – when you factor in the logistics, finding them, convincing them –

And then she stops herself. Because she is she is actually sketching a plan of action, and she shouldn’t be.

Because she is not, repeat, not doing this.

~X~X Shifty has come in every day this week, scrounging for money to repair his ridiculous fruit hearse. His usual tactic includes dragging Martina down memory lane, making constant references to their affair, as if a memory of how he’d left her in the lurch is supposed to endear her to him somehow.

On an ordinary day, she’d send him packing, with the parting gift of a few choice insults.

And although she does allow herself the satisfaction of tearing up his forms once again, freezing him with the frostiest of her glares, she hesitates before shouting next.

Ten quid says you can’t manage it.

She’d resolved to ignore Lorraine, but the rebellious thought lingers. Shows what you know.

‘I did love ye, you know,’ Shifty is insisting, one of his usual refrains when he doesn’t get what he wants. ‘Does that not count for anything, when you’re staring a dying man in the face refusing to grant him clemency?’

Oh, well. Here we go. Fire one.

She’s started with an easy hurdle. She already knows what works on Shifty; she’s treading familiar ground. And perhaps she kisses Shifty; perhaps he kisses her, it was always hard to tell, but it happens all the same, and without any resistance.

Shifty looks as though all his Christmases have come at once. Or rather, as though his manipulation has actually worked.

‘It’s that voice,’ Shifty’s own voice is small, falsely apologetic. ‘Holy Mother, I can’t resist that voice.’

Martina steels herself; she cannot head down that path again.

‘Don’t think that changes anything between us,’ she hisses. ‘Your pathetic little pity parties aren’t gonna turn me into a fool again.’

‘Ah but this is a starting point, so it is,’ Shifty says, suddenly repulsively chipper as he moves to get out of his seat. ‘Good day to you.’

‘Just – one minute,’ Martina warns, before he can tear off. ‘Before you skulk back underneath whatever stone you came from…’

She jabs a finger in the direction a fresh form on the desk.

‘Fill that in.’

Shifty always rests his left hand against the table when he writes; it’s exposed and perfectly positioned. And Martina can’t resist – she needs proof somehow, and her ink pad is sitting open on her desk, a black blotch of temptation. In a deft movement, she presses her stamp to it, as though about to finalise her form, and then brands the back of Shifty’s hand instead. APPROVED.

‘What are you doing that for, eh? What?’

‘You need it for your appointment this afternoon,’ Martina says evenly. He needn’t know the full meaning behind it.

~X~X

Shifty was an easy victory, and she’s not all that sure he counts.

She pictures the look on Lorraine’s face when all the Boswells come in en masse to their appointment, all sporting matching DHSS stamps.

Oh, God, she’s really going through with it. That means she’s got until four o’clock to come up with a plan by which she can snog every single little Boswell.

Theoretically, she could just ask them to let her stamp them, and get away with it; cheat. Lorraine would infer the rest. She’s not going to, though. She’s made up her mind to do this properly.

It’s only for a tenner, but still. There’s a point to be proven here. And once she’s completed this, she’ll work out what that point is.

~X~X

Martina knows she frightens Adrian Boswell. He all but makes a point of quaking whenever he comes within ten feet of her.

She also knows, however, that the way into Adrian Boswell’s good graces is through pretending to appreciate his poetry. His ego might not be as inflated as Joey’s, but it can be stroked like no tomorrow when he’s got art he wants unleash on the world.

So all she has to do, she reasons, is get him to recite a poem, and make it seem like she’s interested, and he’ll be agreeable enough to go along with it afterwards.

This falls into place perfectly when his visit today turns out to be for a grant to get his collected works published.

‘Go on, then,’ she taps his folder. ‘Read us some.’

Adrian sits up straighter. ‘What, really?’

His face has lit up as though he’s just seen angels descend from the heavens.

‘Only, er – make it a good ‘un.’

Adrian flicks through his portfolio and clears his throat ostentatiously.

All of thirty seconds into this plot, she writes it off as a bad job.

Adrian Boswell’s poetry is abysmal; she’s not going to be able to sit through this. It doesn’t scan; it’s littered with half-rhymes and pathetic analogies…long and short of it, it’s boring.

Sod the original plan; she leans across and kisses him, hard, if only to stop another syllable of that dreadful verse leaving his mouth.

Adrian is terrified, jolting as though she’s electrocuted him. And then, some part of him seems to realise that being kissed by her is probably preferable to being killed by her, and he comes over pathetically soppy instead.

‘Oh,’ he says dreamily against her mouth, eyes glazing over, brain clearly halfway to space. ‘I’ve moved you.’

‘If you like,’ Martina mutters, and then Adrian is having one of his trademark bursts of assertiveness, taking charge and kissing her properly, finishing off what she’d started more effectively.

Well. If leading him to assume she’s been moved to passion by his work is what it takes, so be it. At least she’s a step closer to proving Lorraine wrong.

‘I can finish the poem—’

He clears his throat, and Martina, still too close to his face for comfort, grabs at his cravat to stop him.

‘—I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘You know,’ he’s smiling timidly, ‘you’re not so frightening to me anymore. Now I’ve driven you to passion with my poetry.’

 ‘If that makes you happy, Mister Boswell,’ she rolls her eyes, ‘by all means.’

It clearly makes him too happy, because his brain and his gob are off again in tandem, composing to the air.

‘The dark seductress…she brands me as her victim…’

 ‘Er – just while we’re on that topic…’ Martina presses her stamp into the ink pad, and snatches his hand in her own.

~X~X

She finds Billy at his sandwich van, peddling his wares outside the DSS as midday approaches.

‘I’ve got bacon,’ he says cheerfully, once he gets over (yet again) the shock of seeing her actually monitoring the progress of his business. ‘Kept ‘em warm on this little plug-in plate.’

Martina rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, go on.’

She hasn’t quite worked out how to tackle Billy yet; if buying one of his sandwiches will get her a step closer, so be it. She’s lived through some of his bizarre combinations before.

Fortunately for her, you can’t go too wrong with a bacon sandwich. Even if isn’t all that warm.

‘Eh, er – why have our Shifty and our Adrian got DHSS stamps on ‘em?’

Martina considers carefully.

‘You’re all gonna need one, love.’

‘Oh,’ Billy accepts this seemingly without question. ‘For this afternoon.’

‘That’s right,’ Martina can’t force down her wicked grin. ‘I’m just doin’ some preliminary checks before you meet with Lorraine, that’s all.’

‘Eh – I didn’t mean to skive of signing on, you know!’ Billy says defensively. ‘Only I’ve got responsibilities, haven’t I?  I’ve got a child to support, and an estranged wife who won’t let me in when I’m running late—’

He’s clearly in a flap, aware he’s on the carpet in the Benefit Office, unaware that having a panic attack in front of Martina about it will do absolutely nothing to help him.

He’s also lost his original thread, his rant veering off into the territory of his estranged wife.

‘And then Julie tells me – get this – she says – that I’m pathetic and desperate comin’ over there tryin’ to amend things, and that I just can’t handle not bein’ the centre of attention – and I said, now look here, Julie—’

A light bulb goes off in Martina’s head.

Billy is still ranting.

‘—and how can she be over it after all our memories and years together – how can she call me pathetic and desperate, when all I’m try’na do is remind her that we have an actual marriage and a whole baby – what am I supposed to do to win ‘er back now?!’

Martina jumps on the opportunity.

‘Make her jealous,’ she offers immediately. That stops his rant, mercifully, though he turns his beady eyes on her and narrows them.

‘How’d you mean? How would I do that?’

‘Kiss me,’ it sounds strange, coming out of her mouth, directed at Billy Boswell of all people, and it’s all she can do to keep her cringing internal.

‘You what?’ It’s not the first time she’s seen him confused, but it’s certainly one of the most memorable.

‘You need to make her think you’re not desperate,’ Martina lowers her voice to almost a whisper, ‘And I’ve got a bet I need to win. What d’you say?’

Billy considers for a grand total of three seconds (possibly a long time for a brain as generally impulsive as his) before answering.

‘Yeah! You know what? That’ll show Julie! Pathetic my arse – that’ll get her comin’ crawling back, me with another woman, and an older woman too, wants me to—’

He’s getting a bit carried away now. She’d better cut him off before he gets the wrong idea entirely.

‘It’s for a bet, love,’ Martina shushes him, pulling him closer. ‘Just for a bet.’

‘Yeah. Right. That’s what I meant. I knew that,’ Billy is babbling, which would be endearing, were it not also a bit of a turn-off. She kisses him to shut him up.

She sometimes forgets Billy’s only twenty, given how much he’s apparently crammed into his short life. It’s far too obvious in the moment. He’s got the desperation of a teenager, an inexperience which comes from having probably only kissed one girl in his entire life (and that girl not critiquing him in any way). And he doesn’t seem to have got the memo that while yes, tongues aren’t just for talking, they still need to be used with some degree of skill and technique.  And preferably with a less-is-more approach.

Martina lets herself retch when they separate, suspecting (correctly) that he won’t even notice.

‘Aw, ‘ey, I’m gonna find Julie right now! See how she likes it when she’s not the centre of attention!’

‘Er – hold on a minute, love,’ she grabs the lapel of his shirt to keep him there, because he’s practically bouncing away. ‘There’s just one more thing I need to do.’

‘What’s that for again?’ he demands as she stamps his hand, furrowing his brow at his new adornment.

‘Evidence.’ She doesn’t even bother to lie.

‘Wow,’ Billy says, admiring it as though he’s just won a medal. ‘Mega. Can I show Julie?’

‘Oh, go on, then. If you want to.’

He bounds off with a spring in his step, and she can’t help being a bit endeared by that.

~X~X

Jack Boswell is a man of few words. Of all the ratbag Boswell brothers, he’s the one she knows least about, for the simple fact that he doesn’t volunteer much.

He also isn’t coming in today, which means Martina needs to make strategic use of her lunch hour.

Fortunately, she knows the Boswells’ movements pretty well, owing to a bit of espionage over the years trying to catch them out. Jack always goes to the same cash point the day before he’s due to sign on, and pulls out the remainder of his money, presumably to splurge.

And so Martina lies in wait until he strolls up as usual, and then makes herself known.

‘Don’t come near me,’ Jack says, somehow making taking a step backward look intimidating. If Jack Boswell has any strengths, his size and stature are two of them. He’s too softly spoken, however, to really pull off any degree of menace; a walking contradiction in terms.

‘Our Adrian and our Billy both came home from the DHSS today looking haunted. I don’t know what you’ve been doin’ to them, but I quite like my sanity.’

‘I only need a minute of your time.’

‘Vampires only take a minute to drain you of yer blood.’

Martina makes a face. ‘Vampires aren’t real, Mister Boswell.’

‘And yet you’re standing there lookin’ like you wanna sink your fangs in.’

She supposes she deserves that, to some extent, after making it her life’s mission to terrorise her claimants. And after…well, leaving Adrian and Billy haunted, if that’s to be believed.

Jack Boswell isn’t as easy a victory as she’d thought. Any seductive techniques are undoubtedly going to backfire, only serving to convince him she does have predatory motivations. Better to take the straightforward approach.

 ‘I’ll level with yer,’ she says, folding her arms and leaning against the cash machine. ‘If I can snog every single one of you Boswell brothers today, my colleague will give me ten pounds.’

Jack’s countenance flips like a switch. His lascivious grin is, quite frankly, unnerving, as is the accompanying eyebrow waggle.

‘Oh, yeah?’ She can picture it now – Jack Boswell’s the brother who teases you about something embarrassing for the rest of your life, bringing it up every time you think he’s let you forget.

‘And that’s the only reason,’ she raises a finger, pre-emptively cutting him off, ‘before you’re taken to any flights of fancy and read anything more into it. I could do with ten pounds. In this economy, you take what you can get.’

Let’s leave her pride out of this; it would only be ammunition against her.

Jack snort-laughs. ‘Whatever you say, darlin’. Whatever you say.’

Martina rolls her eyes. ‘Will you help me or not?’

Jack’s brow knits together as he considers.

‘Oh, yeah? And what’s in it for me?’

She shrugs. ‘Ten per cent cut?’

‘That’s ten p.’

‘Yes.’ Martina doesn’t bother to point out that ten percent of ten pounds is a pound, because she’s got this at a steal. Besides, if Jack Boswell’s mathematical skills really peter out this easily, it might work in her favour in future. Say, with preventing him walking away with more money from her department than he ought.

‘Ten p.’s ten p., I suppose,’ Jack says thoughtfully. ‘All adds up. Go on then. But, er, I’m not all that keen, so let’s make this quick.’

‘Please do.’

For all his feigned indifference suggests, when it actually comes down to it, he’s more timid than Adrian.

‘Thank you,’ Martina says curtly when it’s over. ‘Much appreciated.’  She pulls the stamp out of her coat pocket and reaches for his hand.

‘Eh – you’re not puttin’ that on me.’

‘I’ve just taken a liberty with you and that’s what you’re worried about?!’

 ‘You never said anything about tattooing me.’

‘It’ll wash off. Just as long as it stays there until after your appointment this afternoon.’

‘No way.’

‘It’s part of the deal,’ Martina says, gritting her teeth. ‘I need proof.’

‘I’ll need more incentive,’ Jack says stubbornly, but he’s no match for her. He never has been, really.

‘Make it twenty p.?’ she asks, pretending to be exasperated, worn down by his negotiating skills.

‘You’re on,’ Jack says, shoving his wrist at her.

~X~X

She saves Joey for last.

She’d been a bit worried, particularly when tracking down Jack and Billy, that she might not make it. She’s had no such worry with the eldest Boswell.

Because while she fumbled a little bit, trying to work out how to ensnare the other brothers, she knows exactly how to get hold of Joey. She flatters herself she knows him well enough to thoroughly push his buttons – and not just get her kiss from him, but get him to plead for it, just to add a bit of icing to the cake.

She goes about the rest of her day with confidence, knowing it’s not a question of if she encounters Joey, but when.

It’s half past three when he walks in, and he makes quite the ostentatious show of it, walking in very slowly, deliberately, so the click of his smart shoes echoes ominously through the empty room.

Martina plays along with his dramatics, turning, mock-gasping, one hand to her mouth.

‘Mister Boswell! Fancy seeing you here!’

‘I’ve a bone to pick with you.’

‘I’m closing up,’ Martina gestures to the empty room around her, the half-stacked chairs.

‘Oh, then we won’t be interrupted by anyone else coming in, will we? What better time to pick the bone I’ve got with you?’

‘This couldn’t wait until opening hours?’

‘Sadly not, sweetheart. Sadly not. You see, I believe me brothers and myself are attending a joint appointment in the other department this afternoon.’

‘You are, yes,’ Martina says, the go on implied by her tone of voice.

‘And in preparation for said appointment, my brothers have all received – a stamp of approval, shall we say.’

‘Go on.’

‘Which begs the question…’ Joey fixes her with a serious look, holding up the very blank back of his hand, ‘where’s mine?!’

‘Oh,’ Martina feigns innocence. ‘Of course. Here you go.’

She picks up the stamp, reaching for his hand. Joey immediately snatches it away.

‘Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah,’ he tuts, ‘that’s not how this works, is it? I believe there’s supposed to be something that comes before the stamp.’

‘Oh, do you, Mister Boswell? And where would you have heard that, I wonder?’

‘Oh, around, sweetheart. Around. I have my ways. So, er…’ he crosses one leg over the other, leaning against the desk, and Martina is aware there is an attempt at striking a pose somewhere in there, only he doesn’t quite hit the mark.

‘How’s a bet like that come about, I have to ask? Is this what you DHSS ladies get up to in your spare time?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister Boswell,’ Martina says coyly, watching his eyes flash with shock and disbelief, even as he retains his outwardly cool, devil-may-care demeanour.

‘You have spent all day,’ says Joey, sounding offended now, ‘coming up with master plans of seduction…’

She snorts; that’s a bit of an exaggeration.

‘…for every single one of my brothers. I’m hurt, sweetheart. Is it too much to ask that I might also be worth the time it takes to come up with a spectacular course of action?’

‘I didn’t have to,’ Martina folds her arms, but there’s an almost coquettish element to it, subtle but there, when she smiles. ‘I knew you would come to me.’

Joey looks floored. ‘You did?’

‘Mm, yeah, I did. Because I know you, Mister Boswell,’ Martina hits him with her most triumphant grin to date, ‘and I knew that overinflated ego of yours wouldn’t be able to stand it, knowing everyone was in on it but you. And all I had to do was lay that bit of bait…and wait…and you’d take care of the rest yourself.’

Joey’s mouth falls open, face turning pink in the way only being wrong-footed can make him flush.

 ‘Quite possibly,’ Martina says triumphantly, ‘the easiest trap I have ever set.’

And she can pinpoint the precise moment when his brain short-circuits, when realisation sets in. She knew full well he’d find out from at least one of his brothers – it’s not as if she swore any of them to secrecy. And by doing nothing, leaving Joey to stew, waiting for his turn to come, it was all too easy to get what she wanted from him – by leaving him until he could bear it no longer and took matters into his own hands.

It takes him a good couple of minutes to gather himself from this blow to his ego, and when he does, he regards her with a mixture of respect, disbelief, defeat, and if she’s not mistaken, arousal.

And she knows the game is won.

‘Well, then. You’ve got me, then, haven’t you? Lookin’ very pleased with yourself, sweetheart, I have to say.’

 ‘Of course I am. Once we’re finished here, I’ve won me bet, you see.'

‘Saving the best til last,’ Joey grins.

‘Oh, yeah? So says you.’

Joey leans in closer.

‘And that’s a guarantee.’

Well, at least one of them knows what he’s doing. Joey is gentle, measured; he more than makes up for Billy’s disgusting lack of technique and Jack and Adrian’s rigidity.

And if Martina lingers a little longer than she technically needs to…nobody need know.

Joey holds his hand out proudly to be stamped.

‘Much obliged to you, Mister Boswell,’ Martina can’t keep the smile out of her voice (nor off her face). ‘Now on your bike. I’ve got things to do here before I close up.’

 ‘Eh – where are you going?’

She’s barely got two steps when a hand has grabbed her by the arm, turned her back around and pulled her in. Joey arches an eyebrow at her, and then, in a move she’s not expecting, pushes her sleeve up.

Martina’s brow furrows.

‘What are you up to?’

Joey brushes the stamp through the black ink, and brings it almost tantalisingly slowly towards the back of her hand. He presses it in gently, the wet kiss of the ink against her skin almost sensual, the resultant mark shining up at her, slick and gleaming.

Martina looks from the mark on her hand to him, raising a questioning eyebrow.

‘Only fair,’ Joey says, raising his hands, palms up, into a dramatic shrug. ‘You’ve been bestowing these stamps all day, and you’re the only one not sporting one yourself. And as I am oh-so-well aware of your disdain for all things hypocritical…’

He steps closer, loops one arm around her waist, and the next thing she knows she’s up close against him, mouth inches from his once more.

‘I thought I’d better save your reputation – don’t you think?’

And, well…yes. She supposes that makes sense.

~X~X

Lorraine looks impressed when she hands the ten pounds over after the Boswells’ appointment.

‘Well played, love. Well played.’

‘Just shows yer. Don’t underestimate me. Next time you’ve got your doubts about me handling the Boswells, just remember I have my ways of dealing with them.’

Lorraine shakes her head, ten pound note in her outstretched hand.

And then she catches sight of Martina’s hands and forearms, almost every square inch covered in black ink, and nearly wets herself laughing.