EL PECULIAR: CRAZY LONDON
Read the Chapter, Face the Music.
Warning: I'm giving you this chapter for free, but you need to know what you’re getting into. This is a story carved from the dirty pavement of London's underworld, soaked in noir shadows and splashed with dark humour. You'll find blood, bad decisions, and the kind of language you hear down the market, not in a tearoom. This version includes explicit, non-consensual violence and sexual content used to establish character and atmosphere. If you can't stomach the gory details of a Colombian gangster's worst day, don't read on. You’ve been warned.
EL PECULIAR: CRAZY LONDON
(Noir Fiction)
In this city, you pay your debts in blood, and the bill just landed
Marty Daniels thought he had the hustle figured out, stashing cash above a dusty Portobello Road pet shop. He was wrong. A Colombian enforcer called Carlos Gutty arrived with a knife, leaving Marty with a severed head and a one way ticket to Heathrow. The cleanup is quick, the violence brutal, and the humour as dark as a London winter night.
Meet El Peculiar, the ruthless mind behind it all, a man who uses torture to pass the time in his affluent Barnes mansion. Now, his half-drunk, scatter brained errand boy, Rodriguez, has a simple mission: start a gang war over a missing suitcase of cash. From the synthetic sleaze of a Soho bedsit to the manic bustle of the M40, Rodriguez must navigate pimps, drug-laced hook-ups, and his own incompetence to find the missing money and terrorise an Irish rival.
This is London's underworld exposed, a collision of class, coke, and corpses. El Peculiar: Crazy London is hard-hitting British noir, blending vivid, lived,in detail with a pace that never lets up. If you like your crime fiction gritty, authentic, and riddled with dark laughs, the streets are calling. Answer the bell. 🔪💰
Chapter 1
London, 16 October 2001, 7 am
Marty Daniels stuffed money into the suitcase, pleased with himself. He was eager to clear out of the rundown room he’d rented above the pet shop on Portobello Road. He’d used it as a stash house for years: empty kilo boxes and bubble wrap lay ready for the rubbish.
A high-pitched, South American voice stopped him. ‘Amigo, don’t forget this.’
Marty, forty-five and a chain smoker all his life, spun around, annoyance plain on his face. ‘What do you want now?’ His voice was so deep it sounded like a chainsaw tearing through concrete. He was impatient with his plans to finally shift out of this place.
‘I will have the money back. You didn’t think I’d just let you walk away,’ the voice said, the words spitting out like machine gun fire.
Carlos Gutty, a Colombian flown in on the orders of his boss, El Peculiar, plunged the blade in. He didn't hesitate for a moment.
A look of shock spread over Marty’s face as he grasped the betrayal, a sharp pain exploding inside his body. He expelled a pained hiss. The knife, thrust into his heart, twisted with such force its edge snapped off at the hilt. Marty’s face contorted into a grimace. Blood spurted over his crisp white T-shirt, embroidered with ‘Too old to die young’, beneath his leather jacket. He stumbled forward. His body began to shut down, shattering into shock.
‘Why?’ he groaned, falling to his knees on the shabby carpet. Marty wrapped his powerful arms around the attacker, plummeting down with the muscular body.
The killer stood and watched the life drain out of Marty’s pale green eyes. The face, sapped of colour, landed with a thud. Carlos, in his blue trainers, wasted no time. He hefted the carcass and hauled it into the bathroom. He left it there while he sprinted to the kitchen. His ice-cold brown eyes searched around. He dragged the drawers open, eyeing a gruesome blade with a serrated edge. He stuck a hand among the knives, rattled around, found the one, and pulled it out.
Running a finger across the knife's sharp edge, a broad smile lit his face. ‘He won't need this anymore.’
Carlos returned to the body, knelt, and placed the knife-edge across Marty’s throat. He carved into the flesh, shredding through skin and arteries. Lifeless blood spurted across the silver blade and along his arm. It looked as if he’d just slashed through a joint of beef. His neck craned from the physical exertion. Blood cascaded over the shiny white floor tiles and seeped between the joints. Marty’s eyes bulged in a state of shock. Carlos could feel a knot of his muscles strain in his abdomen as he ripped the head clean off.
The killer knew how to kill and behead from years of practice back in Colombia. He yanked the victim's trousers down, hacked off the flaccid penis, and jammed it into the corpse’s lifeless mouth. Such a weird sight never troubled the criminal; he was ordered to destroy Marty and bring back proof. A parrot in the cage below shrieked, ‘Fuck off’ in human
Beads of sweat dripped down his brow. His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck sticking out, as he stuffed the head into a brown leather holdall. The slaughterer stripped off his blood-caked clothes and stepped under the shower. He scrubbed the gore off. It ran around his feet and swirled down the drain. Once clean, he dressed in fresh clothes, packing the bloody garments in a plastic bag.
Anxious to leave the scene, his heart beat fast beneath a grey denim shirt. He snatched up the suitcase and the holdall, moving down the creaky stairs in the inky blackness. He cursed the missing bulb, leaving behind a horrific scene of carnage without a qualm. He opened the downstairs door. Daylight hit him square in the face. Stepping onto the pavement, he showed no expression. A car went past, tooting a horn. Street sweepers tidied last night's trash. A binman’s van beeped as it backed up. The clang of bin lids raised; black plastic bags were thrown into the truck. Loud voices shouted at the driver.
Life in the big city carried on. He hurried past shopkeepers getting ready for the business day, blending in with the swarm of characters marching down the street on their way to work. He went in search of the grey Ford Focus, parked behind the house of worship in a side street, and found it by a meter. A traffic warden ambled down the road and came towards him. Carlos moved faster. The boot clicked open. He stuffed the bags in, his eyes darting up and down to check nobody followed him. He jumped into the car and drove towards Heathrow Airport.
The Getaway
An hour later, after a forceful drive through the rush-hour traffic, he parked the car and dropped the keys off with the hire company. He entered the airport through the glass automatic doors, greeted by serpent-like queues of passengers at check-in. Names called over the Tannoy, departures announced. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to remember where the lockers were. He strode further into the Airport on the hunt, catching passengers’ conversations in many languages as they swept by. Relief washed over his face as he found the locker. He yanked open the grey metallic door and deposited the suitcase and holdall back inside the metal box.
He brought out another suitcase, which held his passport, left there on his arrival the week before. He locked the box, satisfied, placing the key in a brown envelope and scribbling down the address. He went on a quest to find a post-box, found one close to a perfume shop, and thrust his hand into the mailbox. He dropped it through the metal slot. It made a sound, and he heard the faint rustle of paper as it landed on top of letters below.
He moved to the departure desk, checked the flight to Colombia. With two hours to spare, he went outside, buttoned up his fleece jacket, shoved his hand into a side pocket, and pulled out cigarettes. He flicked the box open, dragged one out, and lit up. Adrenaline was in overdrive. He needed to calm down. He finished the cigarette, stamped it out, and went to find a phone box. He spotted one and made a call.
‘It went to plan. The key is in the post, El Peculiar. I will disappear today,’ he said.
‘Great news, hombre. I hope you enjoyed your trip.’
‘Adiós, my friend. I don’t know how you can live in London.’ His voice trailed off. He shoved the phone back in its cradle.
He went to the check-in desk, passed a suitcase to the attendant who gave him his ticket and handed back the passport. He joined the queue to pass through Immigration. The officer stamped his passport. Forty-five minutes later, he stepped into the Jumbo jet. A grin of relief fastened the seat belt as the engines started. The Aircraft rolled forward onto the runway. The captain announced, ‘We will arrive in Colombia in fourteen hours, enjoy your flight.’
As the jet blasted into the air, his shoulders relaxed. He unbuttoned his shirt to cool off, allowing himself another grin at a job well done. These gringos didn’t know who they were messing with. He looked forward to home, sex with his woman, and eating some decent food. Never to return: seven days was more than enough for his Latin temperament. He so hated this weather and their women.
The Collector
18 October, Barnes, London
Two days later, a letter landed on the doormat. Hector, or El Peculiar, as his sycophants called him, bent over and tore it open. A huge smile lit his face. After breakfast, he sorted his paperwork out. Later that night, he yelled at his Spanish sex slave, Jose. ‘Make some food for my return and don’t be looking at pornos until I come back.’
Jose stuttered, ‘F-fuck o-off,’ and stuck two fingers up as Hector stepped out into the drive. The boy already had the red marks of a rope burn around his neck, a sign of Hector’s bored routine before he left. He was lucky to be alive, and they both knew it. Hector jumped into his motor, hit his foot on the accelerator. Tyres screeched. He shot off to the M40 towards Heathrow, arriving forty minutes later.
He parked the car and went inside to collect the bags. He checked the locker key number: 666. He tramped through the airport, searching for the metal lockers further down the passageway. Amongst dozens of others, they all looked the same. Concentration covered his face. It lit up after he eyeballed the one numbered 666. He unlocked the door. The brass key dropped to the floor with a ping, spinning along the ground. He panicked, rushed over, and picked it up. His heart doubled its speed. He pushed his hand into the locker.
He hauled the bags out, placed them on the floor, shoved the door closed, rattled the key inside the lock, and made sure it sealed. Satisfied, he picked up the luggage, scurrying back out to the car park. One suitcase held £250,000. In his other fist, his rival's head languished at the bottom of the brown leather holdall.
He bypassed flight attendants and passengers headed towards their onward flights. The smell of coffee and burgers from the restaurants spotted a couple of police officers with security guards who patrolled the corridors. The sound of walkie-talkies buzzed through the air. He moved by with trepidation, trying to act ordinary, glad to leave the airport. It was eleven pm. He overheard the roar of the jets in the air, glimpsing their lights flicker in the sky. He stepped out into the night air, quickening his pace back to the vehicle.
He unlocked the car, throwing the case with the cash across the back seat. He slipped into the front, unzipped the holdall. The pungent smell of new leather hit him. A broad smile lit his face as he looked down on the skull of his enemy, penis stuffed into the throat. He spat in the bag, pulled a small lead weight from under the seat, plopped it onto the head. He zipped it back shut, laying it across the passenger seat.
He turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred as he set off out onto the road. He switched the radio on, settling in for the drive back. Still, one problem remained: getting rid of the holdall. He decided to take the long road home, realising the river Thames would be the perfect place. He’d dump the bag and make his way home.
Sensing the phone vibrate, he plucked it out and answered, irritated. ‘Who is it?’
A voice crackled through, one of his minions, Rodriguez Hermano. ‘I will come and see you tomorrow, boss. I’ve got business tonight,’ he said.
Hector replied, ‘You piece of shit, I know you’re with those whores. Make sure you’re not late tomorrow. I have business I want you to pay attention to.’
‘Okay, boss, see you tomorrow.’
Hector pushed a leather cowboy boot onto the accelerator. The car spun forward. His light blue eyes, speckled with hints of dark blue, saw a sign for the Thames. Two miles to go. Soon he would say goodbye to the head for good. The traffic was heavy as he cruised along the M40. He turned off five minutes later, found a secluded spot, parked up, and hurried to a nearby bridge. He then launched the holdall into the murky waters twenty feet below. ‘Goodbye, amigo. It was nice to have you slaughtered,’ a smile crept across his face as he added, ‘Spend eternity with your fat cock rammed in your lips.’
The bag landed with a splash into the murky waters below. Swells spread across the river as it sank out of sight. He made his way back to the car, shoulders back, chest out, chin held high. He never gave a thought to what had just happened. Devoid of pity, his face beamed with a sense of power. He was like no other man, he thought, contempt for his victim filling him. He opened the car, loosened his fingers, checked the mirror, and pulled away. He licked his drug-fuelled lips. He was eager to get home. The Irishman was no match for him.
The car travelled at seventy miles an hour down the M40, speeding past a chain-link perimeter topped with razor wire. Traffic was still busy. He criss-crossed over to the fast lane. He’d be home soon. A blue light drew his attention. A police car with sirens wailed by. Shit. He took his foot off the accelerator. The car slowed. Headlights flashed across the tarmac. He examined the speedometer and reduced his speed to sixty miles an hour. He was ready for bed and fun with Jose.
A Rough Morning
19 October
Chinatown sits in the heart of London, near Soho to its north and west, Theatreland to the south and east. It holds Chinese restaurants, supermarkets, souvenir shops, and other Chinese-run businesses.
Rodriguez was hungover. His head thumped, his throat like sandpaper. He peered through bleary, grey eyes. He checked the clock on the faded wallpaper. It was now eleven am. The appointment was in half an hour. He had to get out of this den of iniquity fast. The boss wouldn't be pleased if he turned up late. He looked out the filthy windows, sprayed with raindrops, onto the rain-swept street below.
A young Thai ladyboy lay next to him, fast asleep, naked, the sheets rolled around their feet. Rodriguez sprang out of bed, fell, and crashed to the floor with a loud bang. The ladyboy woke like a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights, rubbing the sleep from her glazed eyes. ‘Where you go, what the hurry?’ she said, her voice a sing-song, broken English wail that reverberated around the room. A befuddled look cut across her face.
He replied, ‘I’ve got an assignment. I have to get out of here.’ Now standing, he hitched up his Levi jeans. He bent back over, rummaging for his shoes and socks. ‘Fuck, where are they?’ he said. He scanned his eyes around the tiny bedsit, spotted his footwear, reached under the bed, and retrieved them. He dressed fast, no time for a wash; he needed to hit the road.
The Ladyboy shouted, ‘Where my money?’ Her voice croaked from the drugs she had consumed the night before. He ignored her. Hai was from Northern Thailand, on the Laos border. Street smart with short-cropped black hair, her eyes missed nothing. She took shit from nobody, knowing all the tricks the punters pulled. She rented the tiny bedsit in Soho above the sex shop, a Buddha statue in the corner. The room stank of smoke. Ashtrays overflowed. Sheets gave off the stench of musky sex. Dirty dishes were discarded in the sink.
She leapt out of bed, naked, her penis erect. She repeated in desperation, ‘Where my money?’ Her open mouth revealed a gold stud pierced through her tongue. Anger and hopelessness oozed out of her mouth. Until the next dose of the golden-brown she felt so nauseous she needed a hit. She stuck out a small hand, grasping towards the wallet nestled next to his balls. He knocked her hand away. His eyes swung from her face to her breasts, then ran down the length of her nude, tattooed body. ‘Put your clothes on,’ he said, his voice switching to a sarcastic tone.
‘You no say this last night, you bastard, when you forced your tiny cock in my arse.’ She pushed her grubby hands under the bedclothes, recovering a lime green G-string. She squashed her balls and dick under the flimsy material, slid her legs into them, and snapped on her bra.
Rodriguez was furious. Anger rose in his voice. He didn’t have time for this. He lashed out. ‘I paid you last night. I’m tired of you pleading poverty.’
‘You don’t pay me,’ she said, her chin trembling with self-pity. Crocodile tears rolled out of her red-rimmed eyes, over her come-fuck-me face.
He said, ‘I gave you a gram of smack. Do you think I’m loaded with cash to pay for your filthy habit? You might be good in the sack, but you’re not that good.’
His stomach was distraught from the booze, and he was desperate to leave. In anger, he peeled a wad of money from his pocket, throwing two ten-pound notes. They fluttered on the floor. He said, ‘Get your dick slashed off, for fuck’s sake, have the operation. It makes me sick you’re supposed to be a woman.’ He left her to pick them up as he carried on out the door.
Her voice washed over him as he shot down the stairs, feet pounding on the treads. ‘How can I pay for operation with the money you never pay me? You no come back, cheap Charlie bastard.’ she shrieked.
Hai slammed the door shut, rushed to the bedside table. She spotted the lighter, poured a small quantity of smack onto the tinfoil. She cracked the lighter, held the flame underneath. She placed a hungry mouth close to the vapour, inhaled it all. Then, sinking back on the bed, she held the smoke for fifteen seconds, blew it out, and slid further back into the mattress. She seethed with hatred as the warm glow drifted around her mind. Her tongue felt dirty. ‘I shoved my studded tongue in his arse, he came in my mouth, dirty bastard. No wants to pay me. Fuck him, all these filthy farangs were perverts.’
Running the Errand
The smell of curry and piss floated through Rodriguez’s nostrils as he sprinted down the filthy stairwell. Heaved the iron bolt back, he pushed the door open, slamming it shut behind him. He was relieved when he hit the street. A blast of fresh air mixed in with the fumes of the traffic. It took him a while to find the moped, parked down a side street next to a graffiti-painted wall.
Crushed coffee cups and cigarette butts were discarded all around the bike. The smell of putrid cabbage drifted from an open window of a nearby Chinese restaurant. He trod through puddles from last night’s heavy rainfall, cursing to himself. His shoes were waterlogged. Socks squished through the small hole in his trainers—meant to buy a new pair weeks ago. He sat astride the scooter, switched the engine on. A whiny noise spewed out. He jammed a foot down hard on the metallic pedal, heading towards the boss’s house in Barnes.
He swore to himself, that bitch kept him awake all night. He moved in and out of the traffic, changing lanes, blasting past Marble Arch, and finding the correct route. Black cabs, bright red buses shot past him. He tried to keep his head together. He didn't want to get knocked off as he made his way along Bayswater Road to Hector’s house in Barnes.
El Peculiar was in a foul mood. He had worked for the Sly Cartel for thirty-five years, known by his street name, the Snake. He lived close to the river Thames in the affluent part of Barnes, where the middle-class white people mowed their lawns and drank champagne, holding sex parties in discreet locations, away from the hub of the city. Hammersmith Bridge separated the two areas. Riverboats chugged by day and night. Their horns disturbed the peaceful area provided to the wealthy residents. Dogs would bark and howl around the neighbourhood when they sailed past. El Peculiar loved to live here but hated it when anybody made him wait.
He examined the clock. Where is this piece of shit?
He heard the screech of a motorbike as it parked up outside. Rodriguez took off his helmet, brushed himself down, bracing to ring the doorbell. Instead, El Peculiar ripped the door open. Rodriguez felt a sensation in the pit of his stomach when their eyes locked.
A flush of impatience covered El Peculiar's face. He shouted at Rodriguez. ‘Where have you been, you stupid motherfucker? I’ve business to do today.’
Rodriguez stepped through the entrance to his house. His body shrank. Shoulders slumped, his face blushed with acute embarrassment. ‘Sorry, I was held up by the traf—’
Hector cut him off in mid-flow with a solid, meaty slap across his cheek. It took him by surprise and made his ears hurt. The side of his face turned a blotchy red. ‘Fuck,’ he whimpered, his mouth flapping open. He felt dizzy and disorientated. Rodriguez pressed his palm onto his cheek, massaging it. Thoughts whirled through his mind, aware of how dangerous El Peculiar could be with his short temper, which was legendary. He bit his tongue in frustration. Nobody dared to upset the boss if they wanted to live. Rodriguez was thirty-two years old with life in front of him; he wanted to enjoy it.
‘You never make me wait. The next time you won’t be so lucky,’ Hector said, stamping his authority all over anybody he came across. He didn’t get where he was today by his pleasant manners. Anger flashed across his face. In no mood for this numbskull, he held the upper hand, giving no second thought to the embarrassment he caused Rodriguez.
Hector wasn’t in the mood for small talk either and got to the point. ‘Let’s get this straight. I know the Irishman will collect the cash soon. I want you to find out what he’s up to. He lives in Chelsea. He drinks in one of the shitty pubs they love to frequent. Terrorise this piece of shit, make him rattled, suspicious. Tell him he will be a dead man if he dares to interfere with my business anymore. Report back to me when it’s done.’
Rodriguez, still in shock from the blow, his jaw stung. Hector loved to disturb his balance, making him nervous. He replied, ‘Yes, I will go later tonight. I know the pub.’
He wasn't in the mood for this shit. He pushed the hair from his face, kneaded his jaw. A red welt rose from the slap. He detested when the boss spoke to him like crap and treated him like dog shit.
Hector replied, ‘You call me boss, you piece of shit, every time. Remember who puts the food on your table.’
Rodriguez’s mouth dried. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, boss.’
Hector used him as an errand boy. He stomached him because he knew the father, an alcoholic who spent his spare time in the pub. The father had no ambition other than to find him a job. He didn't care what he did if he paid his rent; he was happy.
‘You’ve had a peaceful life in London. It makes you soft,’ Hector said. Rodriguez’s parents were Colombian, although he was born in White City. He had been to Colombia once in his life. The family still lived there. However, he spoke Spanish well. Hector always threw this in his face, making him feel like a third-rate citizen.
‘Life’s hard to survive in this city, boss, with my parents in a one-bedroom flat. I have to sleep on the couch in the front room.’ His shifty eyes searched for kindness, any sign of compassion. He pressed his hand to the cheek, which still hurt.
Hector glared at him. He said, ‘Live in Medellín. You wouldn’t last two minutes.’ He smacked his lips in annoyance. ‘You don’t know what a hard life is. You’ve been spoiled. In London, where everybody has an opinion and lives a life of ease, you wouldn’t have a clue what a hard life is.’
This annoyed Rodriguez. No matter what he said, the boss, in his arrogance, listened to nobody. He always believed he was right. It was difficult to reason with him. Hector loved to exert his control with no sense of guilt or remorse, making malicious remarks and jokes about people beneath him.
Hector struck his forehead with the palm of his hand and said, ‘You have to fight in this life, climb to the top, be a man, take what’s yours, and if it’s not yours, take it anyway. Nobody gives you a break in this life. You think I got all this sitting on my arse, amigo?’
He waved his arm around the vast room. A smug smirk crept over his face. Sweat trickled across his brow.
At that exact moment, two dogs dashed into the room. Calamity and Lucky wagged their tails, full of energy. He tried to shoo them away. They raced around in circles around his feet, hopping all over him—full-grown, powerful Doberman pinschers. Hector laughed, stroked their heads, forcing them towards Rodriguez. ‘There’s your dinner, boys,’ he said. They snorted around Hector’s feet. They didn’t want to play with Rodriguez. Hector became side-tracked and gave the dogs his attention.
Rodriguez wanted to leave. He knew his instructions. ‘Okay, boss, I will head back to my parents and get changed. I will hunt the Irishman down tonight.’ He was eager to please and get the hell out of there.
Hector looked up and cautioned him. ‘Make sure you come back with good news when I see you next.’
As Rodriguez shuffled out, his cheek throbbed, his brain hazy from too much alcohol. The dogs barked, running towards him and shadowing around his feet to the door.
‘Don’t worry, boss, I will,’ he called over his shoulder, closing the door.
Relief swept over him. He jumped on the bike and made his escape toward home. He almost fell off, so angry with the boss. He lost attention at the traffic lights, ramming on the brakes to let an old lady cross. The booze surged through his system. He lost focus. Shit, a close call. He steadied his nerves and set off when the lights changed. Rodriguez was scatter-brained. Hector knew this and used it to control him.
White City is a district of London in the northern part of Shepherd’s Bush, a twenty-minute ride from Hammersmith. Both his parents had lived here for over thirty-five years. He arrived and parked next to his neighbour’s bright yellow Jaguar. The flat was close to the BBC studios. He strolled towards home, opening the blue-painted door. It gave off a creak, reminding him to fix the hinges. Thank God his mother was at work, and his father was out. He needed to sleep off the booze before tonight’s confrontation with the Irishman.
The room stank of air freshener. Mother kept the place spotless. He squeezed past the clothes hung on the clothes horse, grabbing a pair of clean socks. There was no room to breathe in the flat. He was sick and tired and couldn't fetch any hookers back. This was for sure. His feet saturated, he peeled his shoes and socks off, threw the trainers in the bin, grabbed a towel, and dried his smelly feet. Somebody left the radio on full blast in the kitchen.
He switched the radio off. The place fell silent. He drew the beige drapes, crashed onto the green leather couch, and pulled the quilt over his head. He was asleep within ten minutes.
He woke three hours later, with no sign of the parents. This put a grin on his face. He was in no mood to have them around. First, a quick wash in the sink. He screeched, ‘Ouch,’ as he rubbed his face in the kitchen. The icy water revived him; the welt had gone down. He headed out the door and made his way to the tube station. The pavement was jammed with people.
Desperate for a drink in Soho before he shot over to Earl’s Court, he needed the hair of the dog. He craved a beer to steady his nerves. He stepped off the tube thirty minutes later and went to his local, The Iron Man.
Filled with tourists, he pushed through the crowd. Faded posters covered the walls. Plush leather seats, along with brass and chrome, made the place look cheap and vulgar. A harsh blonde barmaid took his order. A glimmer of a smirk on her face as she wrenched the money from his hand. Her cold, dead eyes annoyed him.
He sat alone, disinterested in what went on around him. He sank four pints, another three whiskeys, checked his watch, got out of the chair, and departed. He made his way over to Earl’s Court, spied the entrance to the Tube station, and strolled down the escalator. He waited for the next train, sensing the vibrations of the tube as it squealed to a halt in front of him. The doors scraped open. Dozens of passengers marched off. As he stepped inside, he was jammed tight with Saturday night partygoers, much to his annoyance. He grasped the leather hand loop dangling from the carriage to steady himself as the doors closed. There were no empty seats. He moved his feet, feeling uncomfortable, wanting to scream, ‘Get out of my way,’ as passengers bumped and jostled him at each station. As they left, more passengers got back on.
Relieved when the journey was over, the doors whooshed open. He stepped out onto the platform, looked for the exit, followed by other passengers to the escalator. Spirits buoyed by the alcohol, he would show the Irish prick who was boss. He left the tube station, shoved open the door, and strode into the Seven Stars, ready for a row.
Four pool tables were busy with punters. The click of the balls sounded as they played their games. The Jukebox played Eminem, booming through the speakers. A rock band was ready to play in the corner. There was a hen party, balloons sailing over his head, women in short skirts and fake tans.
Essex accents rang all around him. They were out for a good night away from their husbands. The girls came in from suburbia, looking for action in the city, flirting with guys around the bar. Peals of drunken laughter annoyed him. His manor was in Soho; he felt lost in Earl’s Court. Still, he must carry out his orders. He moved to the bar, ordered a beer from a beautiful barmaid, unable to take his eyes off her. So, this was the one with the Irishman. He could see what he saw in her.
