Chapter One: Whitechapel

Time for a quick brew. Yeah, good idea apart from one thing. No bloody milk in the fridge. Sod it, he’d have to go to the shop. That meant going out there, where the noise was.

Baz Carter sighed like a deflating bike tyre. Shoved his feet into his trainers and grabbed his keys. He locked up the flat and walked down the steps, fifteen of them, to the front door. Take a breath, open it.

Fuck.

Whitechapel Road. Traffic. Dust and noise. The sun warm, the air hot and heavy. He stepped onto the street. It smelled of fruit and veg. Also, of stale beer and the grime of the East End.

He walked the few yards to the local One Stop. Milk, bag of sugar and maybe some nice cheese. Yeah, a bit of cheddar or something. That’d be good.

Inside the shop the air con was working. He walked around people looking at the fresh stuff and made it to the fridges. Bugger, he hadn’t decided what to get. Well, not semi-skimmed shite. Full fuckin fat, mate. All the way. But what size? He cursed himself. Should have planned. Ex-army, so the mantra was “fail to plan, plan to fail.”

He picked up a litre. That would do it. He drank coffee like it was the only liquid in the world. Ah, two litres then? Nah, the shop was near. A litre would do. He walked along to the aisle where the sugar was. Picked up a bag of Silver Spoon. Yeah, sorted, mate. He took his coffee the old army way: NATO-standard, milk, two sugars.

Next, the self checkout. Awesome idea. No need to talk to anyone. Swiped the milk and sugar. Pay Now. Use his iPhone to pay. Brill. Done. Out the store and back to the flat. He let himself in. Put the milk in the fridge. Fuck all else in there. And the sugar in the cupboard. Something was wrong.

Bollocks. He forgot the cheese.

Ah well. He made a brew. Watched the “fast-boil” gurgle like the proper slow twat it was. He’d thought about taking it back. Or moaning to trading standards. Fast boil? Fuckin thing was no faster than an ordinary kettle.

Ah, it was getting there. He spooned in a heap of coffee, Nescafe Azera, mate, proper stuff. Two sugars, then the milk. Give it a proper stirring to make a dense mixture in the bottom of his mug. The one that said: “Not Today” on it. The mug was a bit bollocksed now, chipped here and there. But it was his favourite.

The slow bugger almost reached boil. He switched it off. Don’t boil the water for coffee. Scorches the beans. He learned that in Belize. They knew about coffee down in that neck of the woods.

He sat in his armchair by the grimy window. Grimy on the outside. Couldn’t do much about that. It cost to get the windows cleaned. Inside? Fuckin spotless, mate. Tidy spaces, tidy mind.

Something to eat? Nah, fuck all in the fridge. He checked his phone. Nothing. Proper Billy No Mates. Trouble with havin mates? You had to talk to ‘em. Baz kne he weren’t great at that. It’d be nice though. To have mates again.

It was warm in the flat. A glance at his watch. G-Shock, like the one he had in the army. None of that fancy bollocks that would stop working if you bashed it. He could go to the Nags Head. Yeah, have a pint. That’s be good. It would shut the fucking demons up. And have a nap. Oh yeah, up there for thinking.

He drained his coffee. Washed the mug hung it back on the tree. With his other two mugs. Grabbed his keys off the hook. Locked up and went down the stairs. Fifteen of them. He knew those things. They mattered. Stepped out onto the street again. And walked.

No shitting around. It wasn’t far. But get the pace up. Sixteen minutes per mile. No need to rush. Though he was moving faster than most people. He dodged and weaved the packed pavement. People bloody everywhere.

He stepped into the cool of the Nags Head. Ah yeah, that was better. Walked up to the bar. He noticed the two guys about his age sitting at the table by the window. They notice him as well.

—Guinness please, love.

—Righto, coming up!

What was her name? The barmaid, fuck, he couldn’t remember. She had told him. Fuckin memory like a sieve. What the fuck? One of the old blokes was stood next to him.

—Alright mate? We seen yer a few times. Fancy sittin with us? Me name is Ronnie. And that nobhead over there is Jack.

What did he do about that? They looked alright. Yeah, better than sitting on his own. Fuck it.

—Yeah, ta.

He followed Ronnie over.

—Ah, alright, mate? Have a seat.

The one called Jack moved over to let him in.

—Ta.

He sat down, put his pint on a beer mat.

—So yeah, I’m Ronnie, he’s Jack. Yer name mate?

—Ah yeah, I’m Baz. Baz Carter.

—Good to meet ya, mate. You livin around here?

—Yeah, flat just down the road there, above the shops.

—Ah, handy fer the boozer then, said Ronnie.

—Yeah, me and him live on Parfett Street. It’s a fuckin’ nightmare livin that close to him. Couple of doors down. Jack was grinning.

—Fuck off, you. I was there first.

—Yeah, but the street needed a better quality resident.

—When’s it gettin one, then?

They laughed. So did Baz. This was great. Banter. He’d missed that.

—I’d say the trouble with you pair is, you talk a lot of shite.

Oh, fuck. He might have overdone it there. There was a moment of silence. But then, they both roared laughing. Phew.

—Ha! Good one, there, Baz! Fuckin hell, Jack. We’ll have to watch ourselves with this one, innit?

—Yeah, sharp he is, proper sharp.

—What do you fellas do for work?

—I drive the fastest milk cart in East London, said Ronnie.

—I work for a distribution outfit down at Wapping, said Jack.

—Ah, I work for Parnell’s, the furniture place on Commercial Road?

—Yeah, I know it, how did yer end up there?

—No fuckin idea. I’m ex-army. But there ain’t much call for a marksman in civvie street.

They all had a laugh at that one.

—Fancy another one, lads? Asked Baz.

—Yes, mate. Pints. A good idea, that. Ronnie was grinning and Jack nodded.

—What’s that lass behind the bar’s name? I’ve forgotten.

—Ah, that’s Maeve. She’s a grand lass, said Jack.

Baz walked up to the bar with three glasses, not one. That felt like progress. He smiled to himself.