BELLE, DANGEREUSE
Friday 16th August 2013 Continued.
He watched her go.
This enigmatic creature who didn't belong here. The more time he spent with someone, the more of a mystery they became. The longer he spent with John, the less he understood the man. Why he did certain things, why he thought the ultimate relaxation was watching the inimitable domestic strife that was 'The Eastenders', his obsession with food. Janine's obsession with sex. Why?
But he couldn't compare Janine with John. John was his actual friend. Janine was just a - what? The mark? An instrument. A means to an end.
This was uncomfortably unlike the weeks and months he spent infiltrating gangs and crime syndicates. He'd been forced to spend a lot of time with those people, but it was more like watching animals in the zoo than shooting the breeze together. The crucial difference was that they were the bad guys. He didn't care about their, boo-hoo, tragic back-stories. This was different. Janine hadn't done anything wrong, she was innocent, yet he was still being forced to analyse her lifestyle and her motivations, her darkest thoughts.
As long as people were just a problem to be solved, it was easy. As soon as they became part of ones life, it was personal. They were like onions. There were many layers of pain, and the inmost layers were the ones that they themselves often refused to confront, or even remember. Sherlock was no different. In order to understand someone's deepest secret hurt, he would have to confront that in himself, but he wasn't prepared to do that yet. Some things were better left buried. If that was the cost of understanding someone truly, completely, then he would never have the ultimate knowledge, the ultimate power. Perhaps that was why he avoided all this human relationship stuff, because it made him feel like his powers were diminishing.
Janine was kryptonite.
She was taking a long time and it was getting darker, so he reached out and flicked on a lamp.
She'd seemed unsettled, but that hadn't been his intention. He'd shared the secrets of the cards, included her in on his methods, to try and extend a little trust. If he was the one who turned her on to all this stuff, deception, detection, then he would be under less suspicion of doing it himself. She had to believe they were accomplices.
He heard Mrs Hudson's voice downstairs. 'You can't just walk in like that.'
Then his brother's, 'private property is an illusion, Mrs Hudson, propagated by the powers-that-be to keep the population under control.'
There were footsteps on the stairs. Hmmm, Sherlock thought, he's put on a couple of pounds.
Mycroft entered without knocking.
"Oh, it's you." Sherlock said spitefully.
"I haven't heard from you in nearly a week. Why haven't you returned my calls?" Mycroft had a newspaper in one hand and his ubiquitous umbrella in the other. His waistcoat buttons were slightly strained.
B u s Y W e E k i N P a r L i A M e n t
f 0 r g o T A n d R e a 's B i r t H d a y
F r u S t r a t e d W 1 t h T R e a d m i l L
C 0 n s u L t i n g _D | e t i c 1 a N ?
W h A t ... ?
"Is that what those annoying buzzing sounds were?"
"Yes, it's a remarkable invention, the portable telephone, makes it ever so much easier to spy on people."
"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock repositioned the violin case and flumped down on his chair, grasping the arm rests to show that this was his castle.
"I was worried about you," said Mycroft with his usual supercilious air, "anyway, the real question is, what do you want?"
They both knew the subtext of those words.
"You underestimate me. I have plenty to occupy my time."
Mycroft only now let his gaze drift over to the kitchen where two empty teacups were resting on the tray. "A client?"
There was no point in trying to hide it, he could already smell her perfume. "Yes, an acquaintance from the wedding. I'm helping her find something she lost."
"Oh, what was that?"
"Her self-respect." Sherlock loathed the words falling from his own mouth. It felt disloyal somehow, but he had no choice.
Mycroft chuckled lightly, taking the bait. "As if they can't do that for themselves down in the sewers."
"Anyway, that reminds me. I need money. For expenses and whatnot. I'm practically haemorrhaging cash at the moment."
"Well, that's your own fault for lending it all to John Watson."
"Come on, you know I have no intention of asking for it back."
"So that he can save face in front of his darling new wife."
Sherlock regarded him coldly. Anything Mycroft said about love or marriage was a thinly veiled attack on his brother's shortcomings in that department. What was it Stamford said the other day? Pot, kettle, black. "It's my money, Mycroft!" he shouted.
"And you're not getting a penny of it beyond what I deem is safe to dispense. A hopeless junkie let loose in this town with those funds? I don't think so, dear heart." Mycroft sucked his cheeks in, he was always wary of his brother's heightened emotion.
"Stop treating me like a child! Have a little faith in me for once. I'm not going to go off and - " But he already had, hadn't he? "I'll go to Switzerland," he threatened, "I'll impersonate you. You know I will. The bank - "
"Oh, try not to sound so desperate, Sherlock. Talking about money is so vulgar. It's unbecoming of a man of your predilection. Besides, you'll never figure out the password. I made sure of that."
"It's mine," he hissed.
Finally, Mycroft relaxed his posture and sighed. "I suppose I could increase your monthly stipend. Although I wouldn't have to if you actually charged the clients. What about this one, are you charging her?" He said the word 'her', like it was something vile and repugnant.
As if on cue, the toilet flushed and Janine came out through the hall, smoothing down the skirt of her dress. Sherlock prayed she'd figured out what was going on and played along with it.
"Hello," she said, holding out her freshly washed hand, "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."
Mycroft's micro-expression gave away his discomfiture at her beauty, and confirmed his belief that Sherlock wasn't interested in her.
"My brother," Sherlock introduced him coldly, almost bored, careful not to show any kind of connection between himself and his 'client', "Mycroft Holmes."
Mycroft tucked his umbrella under his other arm and shook her hand, weakly and briefly. The reptilian smile was as insincere as any seen. "Enchanté."
"Mike Croft?" Janine said doubtfully.
"My-croft, with a Y, Holmes." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Never-mind."
Sherlock was beginning to enjoy his brother's frustration. "Ms Hawkins was just leaving actually."
"She was?" said Janine, seeing Sherlock's expression, "yes, she was. Lovely to meet you both Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes, but I must be getting back before my boyfriend figures out I've been enlisting help." She turned to Sherlock, playing her part perfectly, "please be sure to let me know straight away if you hear anything."
"I will." Sherlock could almost kiss her with relief. Atta-girl, he thought. Her façade was flawless. He mustn't look at her as she left. "You'll have to see yourself out, I'm afraid," he called after her, eyes fixed on his nemesis.
"How about a game of Monopoly?" said Mycroft, making himself comfortable, "just like old times."
"I can hardly contain myself." Sherlock yawned, getting up and stretching theatrically. "Haven't you got more… nefarious things to be doing? Doesn't 'Question Time' begin soon? You'll have to hurry home if you're to beat the traffic."
Mycroft glanced at his watch. "On the contrary, I have plenty of time."
"I have work to do, thanks to that Hawkins woman. You need to leave."
"Fine. I'll see what I can do about the funds. As long as you're not planning on falling off the wagon again." He gave Sherlock a meaningful glare. "Don't think about hiding anything from me. I will find out. Mark my words."
"What-ever," Sherlock flounced like a teenager as he closed the door behind his brother. Then he raced to the bedroom and texted Janine. He calculated she hadn't reached the tube yet.
Wait for me at the entrance to Regents Park. S.
"What was that all about?" She stared at him as he caught up, one brow raised. "Self respect?"
The sun had all but disappeared now and the comforting, golden glow of the day's ebb was upon them. Gnats swarmed over the hedges.
"Sorry," Sherlock pulled on his suit jacket. "I figured you'd play along if you thought I didn't want him to know who you were. You passed the test."
"You brought me here to test me?" She was definitely pissed off.
"I brought you here for a cup of tea and a chat, but the opportunity arose and I took it. I have to know if I can trust you."
"And was that conversation with your brother for my benefit, or is it always like that?" She followed as he took the Outer Circle south-east.
"I swear, I had no idea he was coming round. He doesn't announce his visits, just lurks in the shadows like the nachzehrer."
"Why don't you want him to know what I am to you?" She shook her head lightly.
"You know those consequences I was talking about? Well, most of them are down to him. The day after I met John he kidnapped him and took him to an abandoned warehouse to interrogate him under a spotlight, ended up offering him a bribe to spy on me. That's his entry-level intimidation."
"I'm pretty sure that's illegal," she squinted.
"He works for the government. He's practically untouchable. The most dangerous man in the city. Bar me. I don't want him interfering in our relationship. It's better if he thinks you're just another forgettable client."
"This is the world you live in, isn't it? All the spying and secrets and danger."
"Does it scare you?"
They passed another couple coming the other way on the pavement. A student type with a too-big head and his too-tall blonde girlfriend. They were holding hands. Sherlock wondered if he should take Janine's hand. Probably not.
"No," she said, levelling with him. "Does that surprise you?"
"No."
They slipped through a gap in the hedge into the park, and he made her sit on a wooden bench. They'd officially strayed into an alternative universe now; Sherlock's life. He'd have to share certain things if he was to gain her complete trust. Some of these things were unsavoury to him, but he had little choice. He had to tell her about his drug abuse because, before very long, his antics at the Paradiso would become public knowledge. It was a big part of the plan. He'd also need to make himself vulnerable in some way. Women liked that, apparently.
"Close, isn't it?" He regretted his attire. It was sticky and humid.
"Your brother," she breathed, not a question, but a confirmation to herself, "is he much older?"
"Seven years. I was an after-thought as far as my parents were concerned. They'd finished having kids and I wasn't planned. A nasty, peri-menopausal surprise. The others never let me forget it either."
"Are there any more I should know about? Am I going to get threatening letters?"
"Just the one surviving brother. And one sister."
"What's her name? Or shouldn't I ask?"
"Enola. Don't worry, she's in the states, safely ensconced in the FBI headquarters in Oklahoma City."
"What, as a prisoner?"
"She's the acting Special Agent in Charge of her division. We can't all be genii. She likes to pretend that I don't exist. I'm the black sheep."
"Oh, right." Janine blinked. There was a lot to take in. "I didn't know you could do that, if you weren't - "
"You don't have to be born in the USA to be a law enforcement officer. My parents are over there visiting right now actually. They like to take in Graceland, the Grand Old Opry and Pensicola on the way. Keeps them out of my hair for a few months of the year."
She laughed. "They sound excruciatingly normal."
"They are so boring it makes me want to cry." He smiled warmly at her. She couldn't stay annoyed with him for long it seemed. Sure, this stuff was uncomfortable, unknown territory for him, talking about everyday stuff like family, but he was doing it. He was really doing it. They were sitting near a bed of yellow roses planted in memory of Princess Diana. The fragrance washed over them, but they were not without thorns; beautiful, dangerous.
"You said 'surviving'. What happened to your other brother?"
Sherlock's smile dropped. He'd slipped up somewhere along the way. Ugh, how was he going to tackle this? It had been years since he'd even thought about it. "We don't really talk about - "
"Oh sorry, I shouldn't pry. Bad habit."
"No," he said, "it's fine. He's dead."
Just like that. He's dead. His own words were like a dagger.
She must have heard the unbearable load upon the word 'dead' because she laid a hand on his forearm and said, very thoughtfully and very sincerely, "I'm really sorry, Sherlock. You know, you mustn't be ashamed, we all have our losses to come to terms with."
"Alastair Armitage StJohn Holmes. Those four words could get me twenty years in prison." The spot of earth between Sherlock's shoes was strewn with ungerminated grass seed and a torn corner of a Cadbury's wrapper. When he looked up, Janine was frowning, so he explained. "Als... betrayed his country. MI6 hung him out to dry and he was publicly executed by Chechen radicalists for being a triple agent. He'd been selling British secrets to anyone willing to pay, for years and years. It was absolutely devastating for our parents, as you'd expect, and I just got lost in the storm. I was fifteen at the time. They'd lost their first-born, their golden child, why would they care about me? To make matters worse, Mycroft had an injunction put on the case, so we can't even talk about it to each other. On pain of treason. I'm not just breaking the law by telling you about his loss, I'm breaking the law by telling you I ever had a brother.
"No wonder Mike's so paranoid about you. I'm liking him less and less."
"Did - did you hear everything we said while you were in the - "
"Pretty much," she said, "why, does that worry you?"
"Look, there's something we need to talk about. I think it's important that we get this out of the way sooner rather than later."
"I agree. I've been meaning to talk to you, It's just that - "
And at exactly the same time he said, "I'm an addict," she said, "I'm in therapy for - " and they laughed when they realised they'd been talking over each other.
Janine spoke first; "You go. I didn't catch that. You're what?"
"An addict."
She leaned back on the bench and tucked her hands under her thighs. "Okay," she said slowly. "Of what?" She was obviously hoping he was going to say Rich Tea biscuits, or shoe shopping or something hilariously innocuous.
"I had a... brief dalliance with narcotics for a... few... years."
"Which one?"
He looked down, swallowed thickly. "All of them."
"All of them?" She blinked.
"Not… not any more. I haven't… I went into rehab several years ago and I haven't been addicted to anything for a long time now." True. To a fashion. "Look, I just thought it was best if you knew what you were getting yourself into. I'll understand if you want to stop seeing me, I - "
"Well, I do prefer to go into things with my eyes open."
"I'm a scientist, not just a 'druggie'. I don't just take drugs, I study them. I test the purity. I prepare myself. I am informed. I know the risks. I am careful. It's when you stop caring about the providence and start taking too much that you get into trouble. I was experimenting to find out what substances had what effect, whether they enhanced my ability to solve puzzles. I was functioning. Very well, as a matter of fact. You have to remember that I was still working the whole time, for years. That was just how I got through the day. It's no different to how people drink multiple cups of caffeine, or cigarettes, or nicotine patches or even just sugar. Alcohol. Alcohol is the worst drug by far, I don't usually - the effects of alcohol are far too unpredictable."
"Oh, that's alright so," she said sarcastically, "as long as you weren't getting drunk."
He was not proud. He'd rehearsed this, figured out the best way to deliver bad news without trying to justify himself, without indulging himself in explanations, but it was so much harder than he'd anticipated, now that she was watching him stumble through the story of his life. Those eyes that nearly everyone made when they realised that he was a shameless junkie. The look John had that first day. He wanted Janine to like him, wanted her to see that it wasn't his fault.
It was all true, but it wasn't his truth. His descent into addiction was far more complicated than a mere list of sins. Still. He hadn't realised how raw and exposing this would feel.
"Are you angry?" he breathed.
"I have no right to be. It's none of my business, is it? I hardly know you."
"That's part of the reason why I wanted to talk to you tonight. Partly it's because the case I'm working on exposes me to people who are going to want to spread rumours that I'm using again, but mostly it's because I need - I - I've been living a lie for so long. I need to tell someone how it really is, what I've been through. I can't keep it all inside any longer. Sometimes I don't think I can take any more."
And the Oscar goes to...
Janine grasped his arm again. "Hey. It's Okay," she soothed.
"I created this tough persona," Sherlock gesticulated with his hands, "this outer shell to convince the world that I knew what I was doing, but inside I was lost. I – I – I - "
"Go on."
"I just need someone to know who I really am. I feel like I can be honest with you."
"You can't be honest with the others?"
"They have too high expectations of me. See, John thinks - "
"I don't have any expectations of you."
" - thinks I can't get hurt, tired. He doesn't understand what it's like having people constantly bombarding me with pleas for help. The government, the public. I have to filter them out, I have to have something left for myself."
"I think you're perfectly entitled to feel that way. It's not like the movies, they can't just use you up and expect you to come out of it Okay."
"I knew you would understand." He licked his lips. "I've never... told anyone about any of this before. Not even John."
A park warden wandered by about a hundred yards away. He saw them, yet respectfully ignored them when he saw that they were not the hooligans he expected, but lovers deep in conversation. Janine took Sherlock's hand in hers and squared up to him, preparing herself to say something very serious. "Sherlock," she said softly, "I'm not naïve. I know you've got a past."
"I was prepared for you to walk away from this…" he turned away, "this thing, whatever it is, between you and me."
"This insane mutual infatuation."
He tried to look slightly embarrassed, innocent. "Is that what they call it? Okay."
"This doesn't change how I feel about you. I'm not going to walk away from this just because you told me you had a drug problem."
He turned back to look at her, almost afraid he would find real compassion. He didn't deserve that. Her gaze tracked all the detail in his face, flitting from his eyes to his mouth. She probably didn't even know she was doing it. It suddenly struck him how incredibly beautiful she was. Probably just the light. "Thank you." He smiled sweetly. It was as easy as lying.
The jury was still out on whether he liked this version of himself. Luckily he'd been on his best behaviour at the wedding and that had easily segued into the persona he used when he was with her. There were three personalities vying for attention now. Sherlock Holmes, the real him, a detective who was concerned only with trying to get some incriminating letters back for his client. Sherlock Holmes, the public version, who was an urban legend, a fantasy figure who was fair game for the media. And 'Sherl', a talented, lonely, vulnerable young man who was as misunderstood as he was falling hard for this infuriating, bewitching, compulsive woman.
Trouble was, he wasn't quite sure which one of those was the one that wanted to kiss her. He wanted it to be the third one. He looked down at their entangled hands. It was nice. She had good hands; small and perfectly formed and well taken care of. He hoped he was applying the right amount of pressure, responding to her touch the way she expected, the way she desired.
"As long as you're alright now," she smiled.
He laughed lightly, "I promise. I'd have to be insane to go back to that lifestyle." Completely true. He'd never actually said 'I haven't injected any morphine derivatives this week', so he hadn't really lied.
Sherlock Holmes you are a shit. You are a complete and total fucking arse-hole, do you know that?
He mentally batted away the voices and decided to change the subject. "Did you say you were in therapy?"
"Oh," she almost laughed, "Yeah. I don't think we need to talk about that. In no way does it have the same gravitas as your story."
"It doesn't need to. If it's important to you, then it's important to me." He quickly added, "don't feel like you have to share something you're not comfortable with."
"Really, it's... nothing." She drew a line under it suddenly, jumped up and unconsciously adjusted her cardigan. Her hair bounced and reflected the sunset like dark glass as she skipped toward the lawn. "You've played for me, now you have to dance."
"Oh no," he followed her in spite of himself, "we can't dance without music."
She caught up his hands and placed them on her waist. "We'll dance to the music inside our heads. Come on."
He grasped her firmly and she held her head high, just like he taught her. Her heels sunk in the grass. "One, two, three - one, two, three," he chanted in triple meter as he spun her around, and he began to feel like everything was going to work out.
It was working.
She was enchanting.
"I've got to tell you the truth, Janine," he said, and she looked up from her feet then, worried that he was going to drop some other life-changing news, but he just said, "you are a terrible dancer."
"Oh, you're cute. You're too cute."
He began to enjoy himself and let himself go to the music in his mind. They were surrounded by the aroma of freshly cut grass and serenaded by the distant roar of the traffic, the hum of the city alive. He caught the tail end of someone's stale cigarette, but rather than making him crave nicotine, it just added to the olfactory profile of the moment, one he knew he would remember forever, whether he wanted to or not. Summer grass, smoke, roses and Janine.
They waltzed in the twilight in Regents Park, making complete fools of themselves, until they were interrupted by a few spots of water on their heads.
Sherlock looked up. It wasn't even cloudy, let alone raining.
"Oh, I love that smell," said Janine, "the after-the-rain-smell. What do you call it?"
"Petrichor."
"Petrichor?" She tipped her head back and laughed, "I love that. You know everything, don't you? I'm going to remember that for ev - "
Then they both ducked as the sprinklers erupted and soaked them to the skin. Janine shrieked and ran for the hedge.
"I think that might be why they close the gates at nine." Out of the downpour, Sherlock ruffled his damp hair and pushed back the strands that were plastered to his forehead. He took off his jacket, futilely shook it out - he had no idea why he did that - and hung it on the bench. When he turned, she was very, very close to him, looking up at him with huge eyes like jewels in the half-light. Her soggy dress clung to her breasts. She took a step forward and he could see her cleavage rising and falling from the shock of the cold water and their sudden flight. It was a very close, humid, sticky night indeed.
'Sherl' kissed her deeply.
"What do you think they'd do if I brought a knife and fork to a place like this?"
"I think they'd kick you out." Janine took another chip from the paper. They were both a bit drier now. "It's part of their policy. No pretentious gits allowed."
"Ha ha."
"Anyway, messy fingers are part of the charm. Do you want any more?"
"I'm fine." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, tossed down his napkin and watched her eat. She did everything with a kind of epicurean grace, nothing could just be taking a sip of cola, or touching him lightly on the arm, it all had to be delicious and sensual. She enjoyed life.
"So," she wiped her mouth, "where are we going to go for our next tourist attraction?"
"I have something in mind."
"You're not going to tell me any details?"
"It's a surprise. I'll text you on Tuesday morning."
"Or you could pick me up," she said hopefully, "or... you could stay over on Monday night... Then you'd already be there."
"Or I could tell you that my mother brought me up to respect women and it's far too soon for that kind of thing."
She cocked her head a little, pretended to punch the table. "Oh, it's that darn old-fashioned thing again."
"Are you terribly disappointed?"
"I'm just going to have to accept that you're the kind of person who likes to take things slow."
"Very, very slow."
"I suppose gentlemen do still exist, and I was going to come across one sooner or later." She propped her chin on her upturned hand.
"And a gentleman treats a woman like a lady."
"I get it. You don't have to keep rubbing it in."
"I wasn't suggesting that your other boyfriends don't treat you like a lady."
"Okay, the way you said 'other boyfriends' made me think you're a teeny bit jealous."
He blushed. It was a good skill to have, that. "I might be. You can hardly blame me if I want you all to myself. In fact," he pretended to psych himself up, "I'd prefer it if you didn't see anyone else while you're seeing me."
"Wow," she crossed her arms, slightly mocking, "that took a lot of balls. You're asking for exclusivity now?"
"I suppose I am." A smile spread across his face. He could feel it.
"We'll see." She tossed her hair.
He screwed up the chip paper into a fist sized ball, looked at his watch, flicked his head toward the door. "Shall we go?"
"Yeah," she said, but then she grabbed his hand again, stopped him getting up. The mocking tone she used in general conversation was replaced by a certain seriousness. "You know I was only teasing. I wouldn't dare two-time you."
"I know." He held her gaze for what felt like a geological age, letting his hand wander and stroke her forearm a bit. She wrenched it sharply away, her eyes innocent and wide. "What? What did I do?" he said, "did I hurt you?"
He gently held her hand and pushed up the sleeve of her cardigan.
She allowed him to examine her arm, looking away.
"Did your boss do that to you?" He was suddenly inflamed, horrified even.
"It's nothing." She quickly covered up the burn. "We were playing a silly game, that's all. He got a bit close with a spoon."
"For God's sake, Janine, I can tell when people are lying. Don't try to lie to me!" This was - the anger inside of him nearly made him faint - this was insane. He knew what kind of man Magnussen was, but this was too far. Sherlock suddenly felt very protective of her. She ceased to be just another commodity and he was in danger of letting his rage take over, make him say or do something he'd regret. It was Mrs Hudson and the CIA all over again.
She flinched a little at the thunder in his face. Other customers tried in vain not to look over.
"Will you try to keep it down," she glared.
"You told me he was a nut-case, but I never expected this."
"I told you I can handle it."
He was still scorched from their earlier dissection of his personal life, and this wasn't doing much to staunch the flow. He found himself flailing for the right words. This was an unexpected deviation from the plan, a revelation he couldn't have foreseen. He needed to say... something... comforting? "You need to let someone take a look at that, it could get infected."
She looked down, figuring out what to say, what to do. "It's fine. I'm fine. It's barely a scratch."
"That's what they all say." He was sick and confused. "If your boss is bullying you, you need to tell someone."
"I can't. He knows... stuff."
So he is, then. "What are you telling me, that he's blackmailing you?"
"Not yet, but he will if I do anything."
"Where did it happen? Isn't there CCTV in your office?"
"He's very secretive, there's never been any kind of surveillance in his office, he makes sure of that. He has cameras on everyone else, just not himself. Ironic, really."
"So it'd be your word against his." It was good that he finally had some information about Magnussen's office, but at what price?
"There's no chance of ever proving anything."
"I know a guy, if you want to, you know - "
"Don't joke about this, Sherlock." She grew cross.
"I'm not joking. I could come in with you, intimidate him a bit."
"I don't need a fecking knight in shining armour. I can take care of myself."
"Clearly."
"I should never have let you see it. We were having a nice time. Did y' have to go and spoil it?"
"Forgive me if I don't think it's Okay for your boss to physically torture you," he almost shouted.
"I'm tired," she gathered her things and gestured for him to stop with a hand. "I'm done talking about this now."
Great, he'd made her shut down. Maybe he'd over reacted. He lowered his voice, "I'll - I'll take you home."
"You don't have to go all the way with me."
"I know, but I don't think you should be alone right now."
She smiled reluctantly, gratefully, and he reciprocated, yet inside he was still a ball of lava.
They spilled back out onto Marylebone Road. It was still early and cars whizzed by as they headed for the tube, the unmistakable sounds and aromas of a summer night, takeaways and pollution.
It was time someone did something about that psychopath.
