Free Clapham Lights by Tom Canty

schoolboys stop to watch and three old blokes have gathered at the pub window. The dealer snaps Craig into handcuffs, shoves him in the back and two other plain-clothes policemen surround him and force him to his knees.
    ‘You are being arrested for the attempted purchase of a prohibited substance,’ the undercover officer says, dropping the accent. ‘You have the right to remain silent, but it may harm your defence if you do not say when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Do you understand ?’
    ‘But I wasn’t! I wasn’t!!’ Craig pleads, a thin trail of blood trickling from his mouth.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    ‘S ee you later,’ Amy says, picking up her handbag and a pile of documents from her desk.
    ‘Where are you off to?’ Mark doesn’t look up from his computer.
    ‘I’m meeting Tom Carter from STA Shaw.’
    ‘It’s a bit late for a meeting isn’t it?’
    ‘We’re having dinner.’
    Mark swivels round. ‘Dinner? What, so is it a meeting or a date?’
    ‘A meeting.’
    ‘How old is he?’
    ‘I’m not sure, thirty-five?’
    ‘Is he married?’
    ‘Why does it matter if he’s married?’
    ‘I don’t know. I’m going on a date tonight by the way,’ Mark adds.
    ‘That’s nice,’ Amy says patronisingly. ‘Enjoy yourself. I’ve got to rush, if anyone rings could you take a message and tell them I’ll get back to them in the morning, or get them to send me an email. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
    Mark waits for Amy to leave and leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head. He’s alone in the office. He types two more seven-digit numbers into a spreadsheet, adds a pie chart and saves it as
Potential_Invest_Yield_Forecast_Sweden_2011
in his ‘Forecasts’ folder.
    Mark turns to look down onto Liverpool Street. A man in a bright yellow jacket is handing out copies of the
London Late
to the stream of commuters on their way into the station. It’s a blustery early-evening and most people are wearing jumpers or jackets.
    Amy’s phone rings but Mark ignores it. He browses the BBC Business homepage and then searches ‘mendax waelth managment’ on Google. There are 21,243 results. He clicks on a link to the MenDax website but instantly closes it.
    After staring out of the window for a few more minutes, Mark double-clicks on Krazy Golf from his list of favourites and logs in.
    He gets to hole eighteen on level par but takes five strokes on the last after his ball falls down a mine shaft. He beats his mouse on the desk in frustration.
    A new message from [email protected] appears in his Outlook inbox. The subject line is blank but there’s an attachment.
Thanks for the business card. Want to suck them do you? Well here they are.
Mark looks confused and clicks on the paperclip icon. A photograph pops up.
    ‘HUURRGGHH!’
    It’s Harry Todd, naked, except for a copy of the
Sevenoaks Chronicle
leisure supplement which covers his genitals. He is reclining on a double bed with one arm outstretched and his right leg cocked. His stomach spills down over his groin and he is cupping an enormous hairy breast with his other hand. Next to him on the peach bedspread are his tinted glasses, some furry handcuffs and a book about the Battle of Britain.
    Mark scrambles to close the photo. He deletes the email and then empties his deleted items. He shuts down the computer and stares at the black screen.
     
    Chernobyl vodka bar is dark, even though it is still bright outside, and Mark is one of only three customers. He examines the drinks list whilst the three female bar staff - all wearing tight shirts embossed with the chain’s radioactive logo - talk amongst themselves.
    He orders two pints of Glasnost and three caramel double vodkas. As the barmaid searches among the hundreds of bottles of spirits along the mirrored back wall, Mark checks his delicately sculpted hair and undoes another button of his sleek black shirt. It reveals pasty skin and sparse chest hair and he quickly does it back