Brant checked his watch: ten after ten. He was parked about a hundred yards from the Oval tube in a side road to the left of St Mark’s Church. During the day, a drinking school holds sway. Bottles of ‘white lady’ are the drink, if not of choice, definitely of necessity. Usually pure methylated spirit, sometimes it’s spiked with cider. Get a blend of tastes going. Come night, the hookers set up shop and a steady stream of cars cruise the patch. Though not on the scale of King’s Cross, it’s a steady enterprise.

Brant clocked the makes of cars, almost all in good condition. Not hurting for cash but obviously lacking in balance. Few things as hazardous as street sex and not just the risk of diseases but, he supposed, it all added to the rush.

Around eleven, a van pulled up, parked on the kerb. A white van, not unlike the one every American law enforcement agency was looking for in the Washington sniper case a few years back. A tall blond guy wearing a cream leather jacket (to accessorise the van?) and black combat pants climbed out. His hair thick and long, poured over his upturned collar. Brant muttered:

‘General fucking Custer.’

The guy’s back was pumped, muscles showing through the leather: steroids and gym, the new addiction. He approached the hookers, said a few words then backhanded one. Another started to shout and he punched her in the stomach. Brant reached for a tyre iron, paused, saying, ‘Naw…’ and let it be. He got out and slammed his car door but if the guy heard, he didn’t care. Brant was delighted, he loved the stupid ones.

The guy was raising his hands again and Brant shouted:

‘Yo, Custer?’

The guy turned, in no hurry. Whatever was coming, he could deal with it. He looked at Brant, asked: