Prologue

It is the night before I start my new job. Tomorrow I head out for London, leaving shitty little Bridgend, South Wales, behind me, to become an agent working for none other than my country. More than that, as it’s not just Wales, for the greater good of Great Britain. Me, responsible to the Queen, responsible to the Prime Minister, protecting the nation from the perils that come from all manner of unknown sources. I am to join an organization known as the F.I.B., so secret that no-one knows what it does or even what the initials stand for. All I know is this; every now and then, a story will crop up in such esteemed newspapers as the Star or the Sport. There is such secrecy that even the articles themselves are hard to find. Usually one paragraph, maybe two, alluding to one of their mighty and important investigations. But little information is leaked to even these hard-nosed of reporters, just stories such as ‘F.I.B. investigate claim that humans evolved from Chavs’. And of everyone in the whole world, they have chosen me, that’s Me, to be their first ever work experience lad.

I bask in my glory, sitting out here on a damp patio chair out on the balcony smoking a cigarette. My mum won’t let me smoke inside the house, and it’ll be time for me to go to bed soon. Normally I won’t listen to her, but as I have to catch the train at 6 o’clock in the morning, I’m prepared to listen to her for once. 

I see something, a man standing on a balcony opposite, looking forward, staring intently. I glance behind me, trying to see what so fascinates him. All I can see is a moon in a clear sky. When I look back, there is now a woman standing directly behind him, brandishing something, a knife? She too is staring straight ahead of her. I look back to the moon. A thin cloud, carried by a strong wind, passes straight across the moon. I look back. The woman has the knife to the guy’s eye now. She slices. 

I look into the house. There’s something that I just need to check. No, the place is empty, my mum must still be washing her hair. I slump down, just so that nobody can see what I’m doing as I unbuckle my belt and pull down my trousers. I start masturbating, spurred on by the excitement of both what I have just witnessed and getting caught by my mum.

Chapter 1

I get off the packed tube at Charing Cross, having not been able to get off the packed train at Piccadilly Circus. I wander around the labyrinth that is the station for about quarter of an hour before managing to find my way to the Bakerloo platform, needing to go Northbound. The platform isn’t that packed, which is encouraging, but when the train arrives, it is just as packed as the one I got off a little while ago. I stay by the doors, and as the train departs, I fall back, tripping over somebody’s luggage, and then falling into the crowd of people getting looks of disgust and sniggers. I can’t help it, my face just goes red. I’m probably muttering something, but I don’t care. I just need to keep my eyes down, avoiding all contact and find something to hang onto. Managing to pull myself back, I don’t care that my arm is right across someone’s face as I hold onto a pole for dear, dear life. 

I manage to get off the train at the first station the train stops at. The problem being that it’s Embankment. I have gone even further South on a train going the opposite way. Finding my way to the correct platform is easier as I discover there are signs pointing the way, and the Northbound platform is adjacent.

I want to find out the time. My clock, naturally, is on my phone. As the Underground apparently has no signal, I find I am unable to know what the time is. I can only assume that I am late. The train is hardly any less packed. I actually struggle to squeeze myself on. The door closes on my backside, really trying hard to close, before its sensors tell it that there is an obstruction and open again. There are plenty of rolled eyes and sighs. I do my duty to thrust my hips in as much as possible. They’re skinny, I have practically no arse, but still the doors will not close. I am actually pushed out, my leg falling down the gap, the air knocked out of me as I land heavily on my back. At least the doors close. I manage to free my trapped leg just before the train moves off, getting a dirty look from the platform guard hardly bothering to aid me with the exception of telling me to stand behind the yellow line. Cheers. 

Time to formulate a strategy. As the other trains have pulled in, I’ve noticed the first carriage or two are emptier. I head down to the edge of one of the platform. And as the train arrives, I even manage to get a seat. My luck, it seems, is finally in. I count two stops, Piccadilly Circus. I’ve managed to get there, at least, now to get out. 

I stand on the road at Piccadilly Circus, looking around me, giddy at the idea that I am in London. I just can’t process it. It looks so normal. So real. The taste of the air no different to that back home. There’s even a breeze, which I could never before have imagined. I stand and watch the famous adverts that look completely different in the daylight. Less vivid, less vital. The famous Black Cabs look nothing more than just cars. The red buses are buses. Someone barges me as they walk past without even so much as looking around. As I hunt out the map I printed off the internet, I begin one of my many paranoia attacks, having to make sure that the letter I need to hand in at the reception is still in my bag, and didn’t manage to magically open the bag, and leap out on the platform at Embankment or anything stupid like that. It just explains who I am, and why I am there, basically. It’s in there. 

I am looking for Soho, somewhere called Duck Lane. Trouble is, I don’t know which way is North from where I’m standing. My best guess is to find somewhere called Shaftesbury Avenue and make my way in from there. Going up Great Windmill Street, somewhere past Ham Yard, the first prostitute I have ever seen calls out to me. At least, I think she might be a prossie, as she stands in the doorway to a strip club. It makes me so chuffed as she must fancy me, or at least think I’m good looking enough. I am definitely a man now. However, I’m just too embarrassed to look in her direction and just keep walking. 

The incident makes me remember that Soho is supposed to be a dodgy area and I have to stop and check that the letter is still in my bag. It’s still in there. I zip up the bag, start to move off, then stop again. I have to check that I did see it in there and it wasn’t just a trick of the mind or the light. Opening the bag, I touch it. It’s definitely still in there. I zip up the bag then, hoping it hasn’t fallen out, check the ground around me. I can’t see it anywhere. Shit! I open the bag and just carry it in my hand. Five steps later, I turn around to make sure nothing else has fallen out. I don’t think anything has. To be honest, I’d be surprised as that letter was the only thing in there. I forgot the book I was going to read on the train at home. No! My underwear. If that’s fallen out… what’s the prossie going to think? They’re in my bag, thank God. My wallet’s still in my pocket, as is my phone and my tobacco, the letter, a quick double check, is still in my hand. Buoyed up by my success in still having everything in London, of all places, I carry on. Just act like I’ve lived here all my life, and don’t act like a tourist. 

It is not long before I am completely lost. The problem being this; there are a damn sight more streets in Soho than the handful printed on this piece of paper. And Duck Lane isn’t one of them. Nor is the street that I am standing on, looking around trying to spot a street that is on the map. There’s not even anyone to ask, the street is empty. Luck calls. At the end of the street ahead of me, someone steps out of a building, patting their pockets. I speed up, aware that I am now late. As I get closer, I realize that it is in fact Ewan McGregor! And he’s trying to light a cigarette. So excited to be anywhere even remotely in his presence I feel as if I am about to float off. I cross the road to pass him, a huge smile on my face, but too afraid if not ashamed to ask such a major celebrity for directions. But that’s not the only reason. I know that I don’t deserve to be in his presence. 

I come into another street. The first person I approach for directions is a tourist, as is the second, third and fourth. The fifth doesn’t respond to me, the sixth doesn’t have a clue. The seventh, eighth, ninth and ten are tourists, eight and ten not able to speak English. Still, I know at least I am in Chinatown. A shame, then, that Chinatown isn’t obviously marked on the map.

Finally somebody is able to help me and, forty-five minutes late, I stand at the entrance to Duck Lane. But I can’t see the F.I.B. headquarters. I check the letter in my hand. Definitely Duck Lane. Then I understand; such a secret organization is hardly going to advertise itself. 

I find the door with the right number and ring the bell. I am let in. I move up to reception, presenting my letter and announcing myself. “Hi, I’m Nosferatu Crunchy. I’m starting work experience today.” I give a big friendly smile. First impressions count. Look smart, stand up straight and act friendly and confident. 

The receptionist pulls out a gun, pointing it at me. “Are you, or have you ever been a spy for a rival organization?” I furiously shake my head. “Are you, then, the Prime Minister?” By now I’m too afraid to move, barely registering the fact that she blows a bubble from the gum she is chewing. All I hear is a pop before the blessed blackness…