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</div>Belle Morton was not exactly happy about the situation. Since her mother had passed on (May the old cow rot in hell for eternity) She'd been somewhat accepted back into the fold. Black sheep or no, family is family, after all, and blood is thicker than piss... But ever since then her big brother had started being all "big brotherly" again, and trying to look out for her. Not that she needed looking out for. Belle had survived for forty five years on her own, without the help of her family. She was retired now, after all who wants a sixty year old drummer?<br/><br/>Well, it turned out there was a revival of the old seventies rock, and she had been amazed when a royalty cheque arrived in the post a few months ago, when one of the band's songs was used in an advertisement. She was still in touch with the two surviving members of course. Tracy was living in Monaco, and Tina was on a kibutz somewhere in Israel. Andrea had died a few years back from cancer. But it was the death of the lead singer, Louisa Sprang, from a drugs overdose, back in 2006, that had broken The She-Wolves up forever and sent them on their own separate career paths.<br/><br/>Belle had become something of an entrepreneur, buying and selling 1970s memorabilia over the internet. She was comfortable in her old age, living in a small (by comparison to her band-mates) house in a small town in the middle of nowhere not far from where she grew up, her security systems were state of the art, and she was content to live out her days in relative comfort.<br/><br/>Until she hit that greasy patch of road and slid into a ditch. So now here she was, back home (she had insisted on being let out of the hospital as soon as they had her patched and plastered), with a broken ankle, two bruised (not broken) ribs, multiple compound fractures to her left arm and a cracked collar bone. She had quipped to the doc that she'd been off the pills for ten years now and they were putting her back on them... The doc hadn't thought it was funny and had given her the prescription for the painkillers anyway.<br/><br/>And now her nephew, charming do-gooder that he was, had insisted that she needed someone to look after her. She had told him she didn't. Her brother had got in on the act and told her she was too old to go riding that thing, and she had laughed. "I fell off my mobility scooter. That's what I told the hospital and I'm sticking to it!" Anyway, they told her she didn't have a choice and they were putting her on a community age help scheme.<br/><br/>And last week she'd got a call from some sanctimonious bitch from the county probation service who asked her a whole lot of nosy questions, several of which received the answer "I plead the fifth!" and one of which had Belle telling the cow to "Mind your own fucking business!" And that, she had hoped would be that. But no. It seemed the probation service were desperate for little old ladies to make minor offenders do community service helping. Yesterday she'd got another call from the same goody-two-shoes, saying they had someone they would like to place with her for four hours a week community service and could Muzz Leibenrood come around tomorrow with the offender to complete the paperwork?<br/><br/>Belle was tempted to say no, but heck, she was bored being stuck at home, watching the same day-time soaps. Maybe she and this crook could get up to mischief or something. So she agreed. And now here she was, sitting in her lounge, sipping on a glass of iced tea (that had a little drop of brandy in, just to give the painkillers a nudge), waiting for some snooty cow to brink some criminal to her home, supposedly to help out...! Hah.<br/><br/>The door bell played the opening guitar riff from Clapton's classic<i>Layla</i>and she heaved herself out of the chair, grabbed her crutches and hobbled to the door. She eyed the two people that stood there, a woman in her thirties and a teenage girl. She grinned wickedly, and addressed the youngster, "Muz Leebinrude, thank you for comming. Is this the convict?" She pointed at the older woman. "Are you sure she's suitable? She looks like an axe-murderer to me..."<br/><br/>Before the kid could say anything, the older woman bristled and said "<i>I'm</i>Ms. Leibenrood, may we come in Ms Morton?"<br/><br/>"<i>Miss</i>Morton. Of course, this way, do take a seat. And who is this charming young lady?" The irony in her voice was dripping onto the floor in an icy metaphorical puddle as she showed the two into the study. The house was more like a small mansion really and since her accident, Belle hadn't managed to do much cleaning. The desk was covered in dust and the computer screen was too. Everything was neatly put away, books lined the bookshelves, two platinum discs, two silver discs and one gold disk hung on one wall, behind the drum kit Belle had played on their last tour as an all-girl quintet. The bass drum still sported The She-Wolves' logo.