Biter Bit (Gregg)

Men of a certain age. Ungrateful, really. Nothing to hide, nowadays, had they? It got his goat. 1967 saved lives from the shadows, didn't it? And yet. Trolling was still bona for some of them. It was as though they missed it. The secrecy, the clubbiness – members only, ha ha. Sure, there had been setbacks: but the same people so outraged by section 28 would find themselves arrested in Hampstead, because it just wasn't.... as exciting any more. Still, one man's weakness was another's opportunity. Always had been, always would be.

Gregg let the door slam and didn't look back. The rare sun made the city look like its postcards for once. He soon left the block behind, and walked to the DLR station at the other side of the park. Another jet left City Airport for a European hub of finance. He started whistling LDN, smaning at the two teenagers glaring at him from the bus stop.

The city bound train wasn't full, it was mid-morning. It got a little busier before the end of the line. Gregg spilled out onto the platform at Bank with the tourists and immigrant workers. He was hungry, he took the escalator and regained the over-world from Monument. He'd have to find a cafe for something to eat. Breakfast had been coffee, toast and four paracetamol: three major food groups satisfied. He was hungry though. It had been a while since the last time, and other appetites had to compensate.

Leadenhall Market was teeming with brunchers: tourists - mostly Harry Potter fans looking for Diagon Alley - and plenty of people from the city, power-suited women marching in Reebok and Nike searching for just the right super-food from the over-priced organic green-grocery stalls. Gregg took a turn around the market. Not many men though, one or two looking for the same produce as the females. Not the right place, whatever the time. Although a second glance from a pin-striper might have been worth a run. There were so many opportunities, though, why take the first? Or even the easiest?

The S and M Café was on the exterior of the Market. British cuisine, internet guides to London would tell you. Polish staff of course, front of house, that was: God alone knew who worked in the kitchens and he was keeping it to himself. It was convenient for brokers, bankers and the butchers from the market. It was also popular with the butch: they came originally as an ironic joke at the expense of the café's name. But things become habits, Gregg knew that. It was busy. You could expect that; wide-boy brokers refuelling just in case the hangover was going to come back, secretarial staff from the banks taking a weekly lunch away from the desk. Enjoying it while it lasted, Gregg supposed. Doubtless even this brief foray away from the grindstone would be withdrawn soon. He imagined a lumpy fellow in a suit too good for his physique telling his minions they all had to pull together, the crisis wouldn't go away on its own, would it? There'd still be fizz at the lunch with the chaps from Credit Suisse, even so.

Magda came out with a pad, a pencil and an attitude. Gregg thought that was brave when your name was on your left breast for all to see.

'Is your English Breakfast still on?' he gave the girl a sappy smile. And that's how he thought of it Had to. Had to be the character.

'It is 11.15. Breakfast finish 11.00.'

'C'mon, I came all the way 'cross Lunnon, for the English Breakfast.
Whatcha gonna do? Throw out the stuff ya already got ready?'

He didn't go for the wink, just spread the sap's smile wider.

'I think yes, I go ask, OK?'

Gregg pictured himself breathing on his fingernails and buffing them on his lapel. Couldn't do that in his preppy clothes: polo and chinos, sweater round the shoulders. A retro look – but right for the part.

Maybe the accent wasn't necessary. Magda was only a Pole, after all. He reckoned he couldn't tell the difference between a Belgian and a Francophone Swiss, if it came to it. Why should a Polish waitress know from Ohio State and Orpington? Still, 'stay in character' , it would help when the time came to pay.

The breakfast was good, apart from the beans; a congealed mass sat on the plate like something from a joke-shop. The eggs were fine, bacon crisp and the sausages full-on greasy, whilst the black pudding was excellent. Gregg remembered to compliment the 'Blood Saaa-sayge' when Magda came for the plate. She returned with a 'cawfee' and Gregg asked for the bill. Gregg took out the wallet, still unfamiliar in his hand although he had the contents by heart. He slapped the black card on the table. Magda looked at it for a moment,

'I don't know... the machine...'

'There's no praw-blem, I use it all the time.' Gregg said.

The machine read the magnetic strip on the card and spewed out a slip with a place for a signature. Gregg signed the name as if he'd been doing it all his life. The girl eyed the signature and the back of the card. Gregg would have sworn she gave the tiniest shrug before handing the card and customer copy back. Thirty quid for breakfast! He fought the thought down, after all Gregg hadn't paid had he? The five pound note he dropped on the table top almost brought a smile to Magda's face.

It was still sunny; lunchtime trade was passing in and out of the market. He admired the bare-legged girls, beautiful things were deserving of admiration, if not desire. The twenty minutes to Long Lane passed quickly enough, as though the sun made the earth move faster on its axis. He laughed silently, wondering what his 20 year old self would have made of that. Gregg turned into the Old Red Cow. It looked like rain.

A second bottle of Sol was on the bar in front of Gregg when the man came in. Late 50's maybe 60. Jacket, tie, full head of short, military-cut hair. He ordered a 'Gin and it' although it was still one o'clock. Gregg watched the man out of the corner of his eye. The barmaid, past forty but dressing like she was still game, let her hand linger on the man's when she gave the change. He didn't wipe the hand afterwards, but he looked like he was considering it. The man looked over at Gregg.

'Visiting London?'

'Yeah, I like it. I was born in England. My dad was US Air Force.'

Just too much information. More convincing, more American, that way.

'Really.'

British reserve, Gregg thought. He was considering what to say next, when the man cleared his throat.

'Navy, myself,' he said.

'Wow, small world.!' This was the point for an American to hold out a hand.

'Jack Rosencrantz, Des Moines, Ohio. Pleasetameetcha!' Gregg said.

The man waited a moment and took Gregg's hand. A firm grip, a quick search for the square shake and

'Flemyng. Sorry, Jim Flemyng. Old habits.'

'Die hard', Greg thought.

*******************************************************************************

Was it still morning mail when you opened it at 4 pm? A strange time to have breakfast, but at least he recognised the flat. Not his own mind you. Greg didn’t have a flat, a house, a cottage, mansion or even a tent. Greg used to pick up older men. On the tube, in the pub, once even at the Dome. Greg would go home with them. He would murder them and stay in their home until he couldn’t stand the smell. He always checked the post though. There might have been a cheque or a replacement credit card in the mail. You didn’t want to let the letters pile up on the welcome mat either, And you had to take the milk in. Greg didn't need nosy neighbours, thank you. Or maybe this time, they might have been a good thing. What with the curtains drawn and being tied to a chair and all.