Page 105 of Crave

So I crossed, got honked at by a black cab for taking too long, and the driver leant out the window to shout something rhyming with punt. I didn’t bother apologising. I kept walking, heart thudding, until I was in front of the door.

Then I drew a breath and pushed it open.

The air inside was warm, thick with grease, coffee, and the faint tang of fried bacon. I kept my hood up. Just in case. A few people dotted the café. A couple by the window sharing toast; two older women in cardigans, their tea steaming beside a small dog under the table; a builder in high-vis with The Sun spread open next to his full English.

“You in or out?” a bald man bellowed from behind the counter.

“Uh… in.” Christ, what was I doing?

“Take a seat, I’ll come to ya.”

I picked the corner table by the window facing the door, back to the wall. From there I could watch the street, see anyone coming in. Including him. The last thing I wanted was for Razor to walk through that door and see me. Which made it all the more ridiculous why I was here at all.

“What can I get ya?” The same man came over, pen behind his ear, tattoos of crossed hammers climbing his neck.

“Coffee, please.”

He gave a look that said tourist and trudged off.

A moment later, a mug hit the table with a solid clunk. Not the barista stuff I was used to. No, this was instant. Served with a tiny pot of milk and sachets of sugar. I added both, stirred, and forced myself to drink. It tasted burnt and bitter. But it was hot. And right now, that was something.

Then the door jangled open, and my stomach dropped.

A man stepped in. High-vis jacket, hard hat tucked under his arm, steel-capped boots echoing against the tiles. Big, broad-shouldered, Black, with an easy kind of smile saying he knew this place. I sank lower in my chair, told myself I was being ridiculous, that there was no way—

“Usual, is it, Len?” the man behind the counter called.

Len.

My pulse kicked.

“Cheers, Joe.” The man leant his elbow on the counter. Lennon. It had to be. The Lennon. Razor’s best mate. Levi’s brother.

Joe, the bald owner, snapped a lid onto a takeaway cup and slid it over. “You seen him?”

Lennon huffed a short laugh. “No. You?”

“He’s too important for here now.” Joe handed over a roll in a brown paper bag, grease seeping through. “I’m waiting for when he needs my help with a bit of washing, if you catch my drift.” Joe winked.

“Unless he’s other thing,” Lennon said quietly.

“Not your Rich.” Joe shook his head. “He’s invincible.”

“No, he ain’t.” Lennon took the bag. “You don’t know him like I do.”

He turned and his eyes found me.

Even with my hood up, even half-hidden in the corner, he saw me. Looked right through me. I froze, pulse hammering, and for a second, I was sure he knew. He couldn’t have. But he looked at me as if he did. Or maybe I looked more out of place here than I gave myself credit for.

Then he strode towards the door, pushed it open and stepped out into the street. I was on my feet before I’d even thought about it, dropping a note on the table, coffee half-full, and pushing through the door after him. Daylight hit hard. Cold air in my lungs, too sharp, as if trying to knock sense into me. I stopped on the pavement, told myself to turn around, then muttered a curse and kept going.

He was halfway down the street, cutting into an alley when he stopped. Turned. “What’s your fucking game, eh?”

I froze.

And realised how I must look. Long black coat, hood up, moving fast behind him. I’d never been accused of looking threatening before, but paranoia’s second nature to people who live with it.

I shoved the hood down, hands raised. “Nothing. Sorry.”