Dying Seconds (Boxer Boys #3)

Prologue

IT LAY there, heavy, in the lining of his coat.

Through a forest of facial hair, the tramp's bloodshot eyes scanned the room full of low-lifes, many of whom would mug their mothers for loose change. Was anyone paying him special attention?

Goose bumps tap-danced along his spine like a column of ants seeking shelter beneath his tangled, greying, rock-star curls. Feeling vulnerable and afraid, he rubbed at his forehead, irritated by the prickly sweat forming there and amazed his body could react this way when the temperature barely rose above damn cold.

Eyes settling on a group in the corner playing dominoes, his finely-attuned ears picked up laughter, banter and jokes interspersed with the odd argument, just normal guys letting off steam. They were the exception to the rule, though. Like the tramp, most of the other customers relied solely on loss, regret, shame and debt for company.

More self-respecting establishments would have pumped this tide of human flotsam out of the door long ago.

Not The Sheldon.

The landlord here turned a blind eye to his customers' shortcomings simply because it gave him an edge in the market, affording him protection from an avalanche of economic pressures. As the publican served the thirsty hordes gathered around the bar he remained completely oblivious to the tramp, who busied himself wrapping the donkey jacket more tightly around him.

The coat was of the type once worn by Irish navvies on the building sites and had been his single constant companion for more than twenty years. When it was new it had provided him ample protection from the elements on the market stalls of London. Now it was a worn-out husk, the guts spilled out, the pockets ripped, all manner of things having fallen through the gaps over time. Still, at least it provided a suitable hiding place for things he didn't want discovered, like the padded envelope residing there now. It contained £3,000 in notes, enough cash to get him out of the shit though, as with anything good, there were strings attached.

Patting the bulge, he allowed himself a moment of melancholy, thinking back to a time when Stan Marshall had meant something to someone.

The teeth-jarring sound of warped wood scraping on uneven tile jump-started him back to the present. Looking in the direction of the noise he saw a tall, bulky figure push his way through the front entrance, watchful dark eyes peering out through skin the shade of mocha, jewellery dripping from throat and wrist.

Damn it!

It was too soon.

Stan needed time to collect his thoughts before the inevitable confrontation. Abandoning his drink, he levered himself from behind the heavy, wrought-iron table and sank further back into the room, watching as the new arrival pushed his way through the crowded bar.

'Hey!'

The protest came from one of the domino crew, Stan having nudged their table inadvertently in his haste to escape. Ignoring the complaint, he pushed hard at the rear door and disappeared into the alley beyond.

If it was cold inside The Sheldon, outside the bitter wind hit him full force, icy tentacles shooting through the dark to penetrate his bones. For God's sake, it was almost April. Surely he had a right to expect it to be warmer. He doubted he would ever acclimatise to the weather in this God-forsaken part of the world.

Holding his breath to block out the pungent smell of urine wafting from the outdoor toilet, he bowed his head and pressed on, his arms wrapped tightly around the jacket. Reaching a fork in the alley he turned left and, having escaped the prying glow of the solitary street lamp, stopped to light a rolled-up cigarette. The nicotine spread a welcome sense of calm through his body.