1705 17.05 PETE

17.05 PETE

A new shaved head comes in, lanky, sleeve rolled up over his scrawny arm putting a cup of tea down.

‘I guessed, milk two sugars.’

‘Ta. Is my boss sti-’

‘Hold on hold on they’re just running a few checks. Cheerio.’

‘I need a piss.’

‘I’ll bring you a bucket.’

The door shuts and Pete doesn’t like the way Lanky smiled. Starts thinking of all the things they might have on him.

Decking Dave Walker – Walker never grassed, even though they couldn’t stick his retina back.

That car Maz knicked in Ponte he drove home wasted.

The rest daft stuff.

The two halves of glass table they left propped together in Ibiza, cereal boxes balanced over the crack like it had never been danced on. He’d wanted to leave some cash but they had none left.

Dogs hit by scooters don’t count do they, not in Thailand?

Knicking fivers from his dad’s pockets.

Nothing they can know. He looks round the walls and ceiling for cameras. Someone’s laughing. Pete looks in the cup at his almost reflection.

‘Twat. Twat. Twat. Twat. Twat.’