Playing Dead: Book One of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 2

"I'm just going to the bar," I shouted, repeating myself for the third time as I attempted to be heard over the thumping bass of the club music.

Clara, my friend and work colleague, just nodded enthusiastically to me, her forehead glistening with a thin layer of perspiration as she pounded in time to the music, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulders in that annoyingly flirtatious way she always did when she had her male prey in sight. Tonight, there was no shortage of targets as to be fair, Clara always had her pick of the men and they were inevitably the super good-looking ones who knew that they were super good-looking. The interesting thing was that they always thought they were the ones closing in on their prey, when in fact; it was always Clara who was in charge. With a Caesar-like thumbs down, Clara had the ability to shatter many a man's arrogant veneer and bring him crashing out of the arena.

She turned away from me and played up to her audience, pretending that she couldn't care less that they were there lapping up every move of her hips and every pout of her glossed-up lips. I sighed, knowing I had lost her to the thrill of the hunt and turned away, pushing my way through the sweat-glistened throng on the dance floor, wondering how on earth they found space to breathe, let alone dance.

When I finally reached the edge of the floor, I exhaled deeply, feeling the weight lift all around me and revelling in some much-needed personal space.

I hated coming here. I always spent the whole night feeling incredibly uncomfortable. I mean, what was the point? Getting all dressed up to come and stand in the local knocking shop with Clara, waiting for her to get, well, knocked I guess. I was her wing-man, or wing-woman to be precise, but goodness knows why she needed me as she invariably coped with the attention quite well on her own. Maybe she thought it would be frowned-upon if she came here on her own, despite the fact she spent most of the night on her own, or wrapped around some victorious would-be suitor whilst I stood by the bar, keeping an eye on proceedings and acting as her escape plan should she need one. Or alternatively I was forced to keep the would-be suitor's friend company; something which was always excruciatingly painful as one, I'm incredibly awkward in those types of situations and two, because I'm married and always aware that entertaining another man could lead to no good. There I would be, desperately trying to strike up something that vaguely resembled a conversation or fending off some very unwanted advances from Mr Octopus Hands who had conveniently failed to spot my wedding band. It just wasn't my scene at all.

Pushing my way through the tide of people who were all heading to the already-jam-packed dance floor and wincing as my toes got trampled on a number of times, I managed to somehow locate the top bar close to the exit and clung to the edge, hoping that the bar staff would notice me as I was sandwiched in between a raucous hen party on my left and a group of appreciative men on my right, laughing at the hen's inflatable willy which she skilfully carried whilst balancing a jug of some bright pink cocktail that looked on the verge of being radioactive.

I sighed, knowing I would probably be here for ages waiting to be served. And I was right. Every time I thought one of the bar staff had finally noticed me, someone else caught their attention and I was pushed to the back of the queue again. Resting my elbows on the tall bar, I massaged at my temples, feeling the tentative beginnings of a headache creeping in across the front of my skull.

Closing my eyes for the briefest of seconds, I felt the tingle of somebody's gaze upon me and I opened my eyes suddenly, sure that one of the bar staff had eventually taken pity on me and was now standing waiting to serve.

Instead of a bartender looking at me, I found myself staring into a pair of startling emerald eyes fixed upon me from the opposite side of the bar.

The owner of those eyes was tall, lithe but muscular, with a short beard and dark mahogany hair that was straight and fairly long at the front and cut into the neck. He wore a simple black t-shirt that showed off a landscape of tattoos stretching down both his arms and around his neck was a small silver cross on a short chain. I couldn't help but think how he looked completely out of place in a club like this. He would have been better suited to a rock pub, shaking his hair to some grimy, sweat-drenched metal band, not standing here amongst the Topshop-ites and garish neon lights.