Iris Giorgianni is no ordinary girl. She's living a double life: a neglected daughter at home, but a fighter on the streets. As the leader of The Sangue - one of the most wanted and well-known gangs in London - Iris has a reputation to uphold. Only...
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"We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep."
- William Shakespeare
TREVOR LLOYD was a man of many surprises. Nobody knew what they were expecting when they waited for him in that cold, empty Waldo Train Station; shivering in a huddle, staring at the clock anxiously as if he would magically appear. When he finally did, half of the group barely acknowledged that the man standing in front of them actually was Trevor. Rather, they assumed that he was waiting just like them, despite the odd hour and despite how close he stood to them.
Rex, who had paid Trevor to deliver a bank card to Iris, only mentioned brief facts of Trevor's appearance: that he was an ex-convict, he had several piercings and a sleeve of tattoos. What he failed to say, however, was that Trevor was in fact nearing the age of seventy; having to use a walking stick to aid his sore back, and, without letting them know, arrived half an hour late due to his lack of mobility.
"Hello? Am I going to be standing here all day or are you going to take this damn card?" Trevor's voice yelled, though his tone wavered with age and his hand wobbled on his stick with each annunciation. He was wearing a buttoned-up duffel coat that seemed two sizes too large – engulfing his body right from his neck to below his knees, paired with baggy tartan trousers and some grey sports trainers. His skin, that seemed to be dry and reddening in the cool air, was delicate and wrinkled, barely framing his face below his neck where it seemed to droop with the pull of slow gravity. His eyes however, seemed kind against the light of the station, juxtaposing the downward wilt of his lips as they gazed through at the group of juveniles, burrowed underneath a set of bushy dark eyebrows.
There were no visible piercings as Rex had said, apart from on his ears that seemed to bare a scattering of small holes, as if scars to indicate what was once there, but had now been changed as life carried on. As for his tattoos, nobody could tell – both arms were covered.
"Oh – are you Trevor?" Iris asked, frowning. She stared directly at his face, which stared angrily back.
Trevor fidgeted, shifting the weight of his left leg onto his right. "Of course I'm bloody Trevor! What, were you expecting some damn teenager?"
Wrench pursed his lips. "Actually, we were."
"Well then." Trevor rummaged through his pocket and pulled out the card, a portal to all the money they would need. "You need to stop assuming things then, you fucking pricks."
Levi couldn't help but laugh, the sound booming through the quiet air around them. Immediately, as his eyes settled on a fuming Trevor, he shut his mouth and stifled it. "Sorry, it's just – who are you?"
"Trevor James Lloyd. And someone who'd like to punch your face right now."
Iris, noticing the tension, stepped in to avoid any more of a dispute. Trevor was no doubt much too old to be starting fights with young adults, let alone ones that were tall and well-built. "Trevor, thank you so much for coming. It really means a lot."
