Chapter 1 - Bar Anglais

Autumn Jones looked at the clock flashing at him from the table. It was a quarter past twelve, too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep. He stretched out and reached for the first rush of the day. As he unscrewed the lid of the little brown bottle and inhaled deeply he let his mind stumble through the rough & grumble debris of the previous evening.

It had been just like any other boring Sunday Soho night. The Angels of London had finally shed what remained of their respectability, in the small courts and alleyways off Wardour Street and were slumming it with the lazy and the lame. The Smart Cabs were hugging the centre of the roads and the tourists were standing in awe of the power and poison of this silly little hamlet. Jones, who had left the 'Bar Anglais' at just gone ten alone and unimpressed, sauntered down Old Compton Street and headed for the taxi rank in Dean Street.

As he stepped off the pavement he saw the most beautiful woman he had ever set his weary dark browns on. She sped past him like a Ferrari doing a time trial at Monza, stuttering and slipping and then bursting past with such grace and purpose. Never being one to let the sight of a gorgeouos tear soaked girl pass him by, he turned swiftly on his battered brogues and followed after her. She dashed past 'William Shatners', 'The Giant Steppes' (where the dance floor bent and pulsed to the gentle shuffling of the handsome and bored) and ran into Soho Square. He finally caught up with her outside the graffiti smothered wall of Southbound Records, he grabbed her arm, caught his breath and was about to start speaking when she beat him to it. "I wondered how long it would take you to catch me. God, you really are getting slow in your old age; All that drink has finally got to you, hasn't it".

It was her, in the flesh, in Soho and in tears but still calculating and setting him small tests that only she knew existed and that only she knew the rules to. He fumbled for his little brown bottle. It was nearly all too much for him to control himself. His thoughts ran riot down Charing Cross Road, smashed windows and stole saxophones on their way and spilled out into the open arms of Trafalgar Square. The tears were still strolling down her olive-coloured face, catching the ochre of the street lamps and reflecting their luminescence. Even though her make up was ruined he knew that she really was the most perfect woman he'd ever known. Where to start, what to say? When in doubt he thought, stutter, mutter or better still kiss her. He lent forward to follow his instincts as a car backfired or stalled noisily somewhere on the other side of the dirt-blistered grey square.

“Surely in the world of 4x4’s, 6x6’s and computer controlled automotive excellence they can get better engines or at least better drivers…” Jones muttered as he turned away from the girl in time to see a dark red blur complete a clumsy but surprisingly rapid exit from view. He turned back with an affectionate smirk. In return a wicked smile played on her lips which seemed redder than he regarded decent. He was about to return to the kiss but was prevented from doing so as she slipped gently to the floor. Jones tried desperately to help her to her feet but it was useless. Iced panic filled his every pore.