He told me to meet him at seven, and don’t be late. It was an old joint on the bad side of town, between two dark alleyways. A dimly flickering neon sign that was missing a few letters stood above the entrance. The ground was covered in crushed cans, cigarette stubs and fish and chip wrappers.
Inside wasn’t much better; the thick stench of smoke, beer and stale sweat hung in the air. Paint talked off the nicotine yellow walls like dead, scabby skin. The carpet looked as if it had once been red, but was now covered in a weird grey fuzz that stuck to the soles of my boots. The tables were coated in grime and old chewing gum pieces.
My eyes flickered over the room; it was empty apart from myself, the malicious looking barman and a few old drunks half passed-out in the corner.
He was late.
Fighting off the growing sense of dread forming in my stomach, I sat on an empty bar stool, careful to avoid the stare of the barman. Without raising my head I ordered a beer, then sat and waited.
