End of Anarchy

The Night is upon it, but the City never sleeps. The lurid and listless lights alike illuminate its streets. Its many bar’s music merges with the sound of socialites socialising. Achieving anonymity in such a setting is no achievement at all. 1

Two Hackney cabs, travelling almost parallel to one another, opposite sides of the River Thames, come to a halt, not far from Tower Bridge, each in front of a phone booth. The passengers exit, with unknown synchronicity. Socialites, they are not. 2

Each man is slow and studios, deliberate and seemingly deliberating, as they pace before their respective phone booths, smoking cigarettes. Business is at hand. Their long black coats, their pork pie hats, and their stern expressions appear to be a uniform; a unity between them.3

As the cigarette’s burn down, so too, does their seeming reluctance; each man moves towards his booth. Big Ben strikes 10. 4

Neither Mr. A, nor Mr. B, see punctuality as a triviality.5

One dials, one answers.6

“Mr. B?”7

His gravel like voice is met by one similar.8

“Mr. A.” 9

“See you in 5.” 10

Both replace receivers.11

The two men stray from the often too beaten path, and travel unlit, treacherous, yet for them, well travelled tracks, down to the clandestine banks of the Thames, directly underneath Tower Bridge. 12

Little light is reflected by the still water of the river, and to Mr. A, the other’s approach is only signified by the glowing cherry of a cigarette, floating towards him, burning with only a fraction of the intensity this meeting promises. 13

A strong handshake is exchanged as eyes meet. One last drag, and cigarettes are discarded. 14

“Been a while.”15

“It has.”16

“I’m thinking… why now? You wanna talk?”17

Feet shuffle.18

“No. I need to.”19

“Sounds ominous.”20

“Doesn’t everything?”21

This is considered.22

“Depends where you’re coming from.”23

“Not the good old days, old friend.”24

“Then where are you coming from, friend?”25

“Grey today, Mr. B, grey today.”26

“Why the morbid colouration?”27

A long, inevitable breath is exhaled.28

“The shit’s hit the fan.”29

“Meaning?”30

“Meaning I’ve been turned.”31

Mr. B recoils, begins to pace.32

“No shit?”33

“Plenty of shit. A shit storm. For every one of us.”34

Mr. A’s head unconsciously, disappointedly shakes. He pulls a cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket, offers to Mr. B, who accepts, then places one in his own mouth. As the men light up, inhale, and internally assess the situation, a boat passes.35

They stand adjacent to one another, looking out at the passing boat. Mr. A sends his cigarette chasing it. He removes his hat then runs his hand through his hair.36

“This shit I’m referrin’ to; it don’t have to touch you.”37

A pause.38

“No?”39

“No. That’s why I’m here. Leave tonight. Get your belongings, get your girl, get gone. You getting the picture?”40

A seemingly infinite pause.41

“In Technicolor. What about the others?42

“They’re done.”43

“Why me?”44

“Because when we started out, we wanted to do this right. Because of them, our vision got blurred.”45

A contentious snigger.46

“Well… everything’s in pretty sharp focus now.”47

They turn and face each other, their eyes burning, blank countenance’s concealing all that they can. Mr. A replaces his hat. The two men hug, sharply, mechanically. They hold each other at arms length, and nod. 48

“I’m sorry to have to do this to you”49

Mr. A tips his hat, and almost reluctantly, turns away. As he begins his ascent back to the London life above, Mr B. fingers his holstered gun, and weighs an uncertain future against killing an old friend.50

“I’m sorry, too.”51