Spelling errors? It was written at 3:30 in the morning. What can I say.

<hr>

What I didn't know about guitars, or swords, you could write on the back of a crisp packet. That is, if the packet was really, really big. The two biggest parts of who I am are a mixture of instinct and neccessity. I guitar because I like to, and to some extent it keeps me alive, and I draw the sword because it keeps me alive, and I like to fight. Sometimes. There are others when I just like to sit there, and play the guitar. I'm not even that good. In fact, I'd say most of what I do is just uninspired strumming. Every so often I thrash out stairway to heaven to annoy the punters, or quell the beast of fame within me.

I've been busking for a few months now. Not because I need the money - oh no, I make a reasonable amount off of some arty-farty column for the telegraph. I answer letters. Pays the bills, I suppose. No, I busk because I really, really like tube stations. I always found them to be eerily friendly environments, full of hustle and bustle, and yet with me, ironically the one piece of harmony within this ball of chaos. I'd sit, or stand, or kneel, strumming away. Someone would throw money my way, and I'd take it, and pocket it. I'd probably spend it on a pack of peanuts, or maybe a beer. Or a glass of wine. God only knows what drink I pick up - it's a roulette.

But now, I've got bigger problems. You see, a while back, I ran into some money troubles. I had to borrow...some money. By troubles, I say, big troubles. And by big troubles, I mean, I was eating scrambled egg out of a shoe. Raw scrambled egg. The shoe wasn't even mine. Anyway. I had to borrow this cash to live. Of course, I got a job, and started paying it back. I then paid it back fully. I was happy. They were...silent. I assumed this meant that they were as happy as I was. This was not to be. I had borrowed the money to help out a friend. He was a businessman...and you can tell where this is going. Investments were made, it was apparently the greatest idea, and my relatively small investment was guaranteed to be quadrupled. �2000 out of pocket was I two months later, and my friend was worse off. But that's irrelevant.

I paid them back the two grand. But then they came back to me, this month. Apparently, I had forgotten the "interest" that I owed. I was never told about any interest. This interest, for some reason, meant that I owed them a further five grand. I've never been too hot at maths, but for the most part I know that interest free usually doesn't mean that I owe anything more. I got off the interest via doing some simple jobs for them. Simple...yeah. In any case, they had me do some jobs, involving the sword. And with that, came the natural escaping the law. Thus, I can't really go to the police about these problems that I have. It's not so much that I'm wanted for murder, but that I'm practically a domesday for the dastardly. This makes me liked, hated, and needed all at the same time.

But here I am. It's late - eleven or so. I've not been doing Aldgate East for too long, but I liked the environment, and I liked the trade. Not a huge amount of people, but it was a nice thing to do after a long day of whiney bastards, and simple questions. I'd just broken into a slow, bassy piece that had no real significance to me at all, it just sounded good, and felt appropriate to the mood. Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by heavies. Three of their usual - men in suits, with suitcases. It looked like a business meeting. The tube staff wouldn't be much help anyway against these guys,
but it's not like this looked unusual.

"Ken." I broke into a rant. "Look. I don't owe you guys anything. I did what you wanted. I'm finished with you, I want nothing else to do with you. Got it? Christ." The men in suits looked unphased. "You...owe us money. We understand that this may come to you as a surprise, but we are very careful with our finances, we-" "-WE
made a deal. I did what you wanted. You said "that's great. Now pay up." I paid up. You hounded me but I paid up by the agreed date of the end of 2003-" The man shook his head. "Yes, you agreed to deliver it by the end of the year. Not...the beginning of the next." I stood, a little dazed. I remembered checking my watch - I was on the money, 11:59pm, on the day, with the...money. "But I was on time!" Again, the patronising bastard shook his head. "By our watches, which, by the way, are all synchronized, you were there at a second past 12. Time was of the essence. Maybe a less festive new year would have put you in better stead for this one. Now...we have been told to take anything of value from you, if you cannot provide us with the money...by hook, or by crook."

They smiled, and looked at me. They reached for my guitar. I slapped their hands away. "No...you're not taking anything. I am not being fucked over for five grand, and losing my guitar because I was a second late. You can not do this to me." From the side of their suitcases, something clicked. Blades. Marvellous. I suppose now is when I tell you about the sword. I call it the sword, because I hate japanese. Not so much the language, the people, or even the culture. No, I hate more the western bastardisation of it. The constant need for some people with two fiftieths of their blood reaching to the east justifying this by saying random japanese words they learnt from cartoons as if they actually truly understood them. No, I don't know japanese.

No, I don't call my sword style the exquisite art of the blade. I was taught a while back, when I was in prison, by a little man. Ironically, he was half english, and halfjapanese, and taught me using mostly toothbrushes and miming. Katanas aren't the most commonly found things in the english prison system.

Anyway. When we both got out of there, he promised me this blade. I don't know what it does, but it's got something to it that brings out the best in whoever holds it, blah blah blah. I hate myth, and I hate legend. No, I just know that I have a sword, and it's bound to me by this old man, who told me that I was like a son to him.

Sweet. My heart warms slightly to know that, instead of some grand teacher called Pai-Mei, who taught me with ceremony and pomp, I was taught by a little man called Ted in some Sheperds' Bush cell, the air rank with piss and whatever else was on the menu.

These guys were trained. They'd been told what to expect - this guy with the guitar knew how to handle blades, and would kick your arse if you didn't handle him correctly. But that's not it. My "style" (ugh, kill me if I use that too much) isn't smooth, it isn't graceful, and it isn't pretty. It's what Ted taught me, and it's what I learnt myself. "Ken...we're going to have to take the guitar. That'll be �500 or so off of the bill..." they fully unsheathed their blades. Not japanese, but not western either. Straight, but they had some weird writing on them. "Fuck that. And fuck you too,
that thing's my life." I didn't really mean it, but I didn't feel light a fight. If I was able to talk my way out of this, I could leave, and be home in time for some cheap pornography on Channel 5.

One of them shook his head, and kissed his teeth. The sound was like nails on a blackboard. "It's not as if we didn't warn you, Kenneth." I twitched. One of them was behind me. I rolled backwards, and in my haste grabbed the guitar to block a slash. His blade swung down and went through all six strings. In his surprise at the block, I slammed him in the face, and knocked him backwards with the head of
the instrument. I looked down at it, like I was cradling a wounded animal. "You CUNT!" I said. I'm not too proud of the sword. I don't particularly like taking it out in public, but now I was surrounded. "Alright. I can take you one at a time, and I can cut you new shitters. Or you can all come at me at once, and I can kill you." They smiled, and raised their eyebrows, grinning spotless smiles. Ibeared my pearly-yellows.

One of them swung at me. I moved my hand in a motion over my shoulder, as if I was swatting a fly. From nowhere came the sword, and I moved forward as if tripping, but I'd taken one of their hands.

He screamed. Fucking amateur. The least they could do was give people a brief. I mean, even the telegraph did that. The other two backed off, and moved into some sort of ridiculous chinese artsy pose. I twirled the sword a little, and moved into a stance that almost constituted something japanese. It wasn't. I kicked off and moved forward. My foot landed squarely in the nuts of the rightmost man, and I flipped backwards, bringing the foot up for a kick in the chin. He hit the low ceiling, and fell down unconcious. The one-handed man knelt in the corner, crying, and the last one moved his blade downwards. He leapt at me, kicked off a wall, and I ducked as he flew over me. I blocked, he slashed, we met blades. I span and ducked out of the way of his �45 an hour training, and when he made a mistake, punched him in the jaw. In his surprise, I disarmed him and brought the sword to his neck. "Go and tell them that they're pedantic fuckwits, and that I'm really, really unimpressed. Oh, and that now that I'm done with you, I'm going home for some icecream, a wank, and a long sleep."

I picked up my guitar, slung it over my shoulder, and patted the man with the bleeding hand on the head. A shocked tube guard looked at me. I raised an eyebrow. "Best not tell anyone about this, eh mate?"

I read it all man, i want you to write more things like this, best read ive ever had.

What inspired you to write this?

I've been living in and around Labroke Grove for longer than I can remember. From living with my mum, dad, and brothers to the ripe old age of sixteen, to where I am now - in the upper floor of some posh bar that prides itself on selling overpriced muscles, chips, and beer. My mate George had been good enough to put me up here for a decent enough rent for over a year now. He was something of a monetary genius anyway - it wasn't like he needed the cash I was giving him anyway. We'd met when I was on assignment to cover the opening of the first one of these bars opening somewhere up west - and we'd hit it off over a few drinks. I never quite had the heart to tell him about what I used to do, what happened to me, and most definitely nothing about the sword. He just thought I was some sort of musical beatnik journalist who slept in a lot and forgot what day of the week it was.

There I was though. It was one in the morning, and out on the balcony out back was I, feasting on some reheated chips. I took one out, admired it in the moonlight, and wolfed it down. It was about here that I usually contemplated how everything had gone down the tubes for me. From a beautiful wife, money, friends, and everything I could possibly want...to this. I'd agreed to do some sort of deal with these people. I did deals with them that should never have been done, and got caught, and went down for it while they scratched their chins in the background. I don't know what happened to my wife. I know that I never saw her for one second in prison. I know that none of her friends know where she is. I don't know where she went, where she is, and where she will be going. I ducked out of the balcony binned the rancid chips, and opened up a draw. Inside was a note, weakly and hastily written out, ink smudged by tears, or rain, or something.

"Ken.

Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

We can't go on like this."

This was the last contact I had with her. I did what I did every night, and punched the wall with my free hand, in my own little melodrama. I remembered her, everything about her, the dresses, the eyeliner, the perfume, the loyalty and the love and all of the shit that I would never see or touch or feel again. All because she'd left me at the last moment. The day before it'd all gone down. Half of me wanted some sort of revenge against her, the other half wanted to swim in that smell again. I put the letter back in its draw and walked back onto the balcony. It was times like this that I felt as if I needed to be doing something to enhance the melancholy. I should light up my last cigarette for the day, and stare mournfully into the rain, or grab my guitar and play out some song that I wrote for her, or when I left prison, that means oh-so-much-to-me. I even thought I should cry. I would force the tears, but all that happened was I would feel stupid, and stop.

It was then that my mobile rang. It was one in the morning, and no doubt George would be downstairs fucking whatever waitress he had in this week. He wouldn't mind the noise. I scooped it up. "Hello?" I groaned. I heard scuffling. Screams. Clanks, bashing, grunting. "Hello?" "Ken! KEN! It's Morris, I'm in a bit-" something had obviously hit the phone away. I heard more scuffling, and he picked it up again. "Get over he-" The line cut out. Half of me wanted to rest. Not so much sleep, but just lie against the mattress and wait for the day to continue without me. But Morris was the one who I had given the two grand to. And it was at that moment that I began to connect up soggy thoughts. I drew the sword, and jumped off the balcony, skidding down the wall. I always kept my door locked, and I had no time to lose.

A black cab drove by, and I hailed it down. "Brewster Gardens, just off North Pole Road-" the driver nodded and I sat down, hiding the sword. The rain was coming down reasonably heavily, and the roads were clear. This wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want to be drawn into this again. I could already feel the eyes upon me, not just of the police, but those I used to work for. Except I didn't have a side. If the police got to me when I asked for help, they'd see I had a concealed weapon. I'd go down again. But without the police's help, it was me against...them. I was too close, now. I could see the playing fields, and knew that I'd turn the corner into trouble that I did not need. "Mate, stop." The driver pulled over by the side of the pavilion pub. I paid, and I got out. I took the first step away from North Pole Road when I heard an explosion.

That...I couldn't ignore.

I turned the corner into Brewster Gardens to see Morris' house burning. Outside, there was a car, and three men. Morris was there too. One man had a gun to his head. I drew my sword at the end of the street, and charged with all my might. As strong and fast as I was, the bloke with the gun was that bit faster. Morris' wide eyes were linked with mine as he fell to the ground, left with a glassy stare of disbelief at me running a sword, and the metal in his brain. I skidded to a halt a metre from the guy. "What...what the fuck? What the fucking fuck is wrong with you? Christ! Oh god, Morris!" The man with the gun put it back in his pocket, and turned away. He got back in the car, as did one of the others. The tallest turned towards me, and gave a toothy grin. I drew the sword.

"Hello again, Kenneth."

This was Arthur. He was the man I borrowed money off of. He got me into the mess that got me in prison. And there he was, my friend's blood on his goon's hands, looking down at the corpse with no remorse, and no smile. He neither liked nor hated his job. It just seemed instinctual. But something was different about him. "I see you brought along that katana-" "-sword-" "..."sword" of yours, Kenneth. I shall be brutally honest with you. We did not expect you to be so...possessive of it. We expected you to offer it up instead of the guitar. When you took down my friends, I decided that you needed an incentive to hand it over. I do not care about the money. I really do not. My friends do, however, but I care mostly about the blade. If I was to extract that weapon from you, I would gladly foot your bills myself. But you keep hold of it like your life depends upon it." I gritted my teeth at him, and drew the sword close to my eyes. I leapt.

I slashed, and he was already ducking, and kicking me in the stomach. From nowhere came his right hand, grasping a smaller sword, and I blocked it, balancing on thin air and kicking him in the side of the face. I rolled and jumped at the same time, unfurling and skidding backwards to get an idea of what I was up against. "Silly boy." He had two swords. Smaller ones. They must've been Wakizashis, and he wasn't fucking around. I sprung at him, and slashed downwards in the air. He locked, and knocked me off balance. As I rolled behind him, he landed a hard kick to my stomach. I spat blood and hit the wall harder than I ever thought I could, or could take. He went for the neck again with his blades, but I blocked, and roundhoused him, using the opening to slide out of the gap. He blocked without looking as I made some wild slashes for his head, and donkey-kicked me in the chest. This time, I dropped the sword, and spun wildly against the sodden stone. My teeth caked with blood, and my head spinning, I looked up as he grabbed me with one hand, lifting me off the ground by my hair.

I groaned.

"Little...shit..." He dropped one wakizashi, and put the other right next to my adam's apple. "...you weren't even worth burning a house for...look how easy it was...for me to take...your last possession...your friends...your house...your wife...and now..." the blade moved closer, "...your life." My eye twitched, and from nowhere the blade flew towards me. I flipped backwards and grabbed it, then slashed downwards, across his left eye. The blood flying from the wound must've curdled from that scream. He stumbled back, dropping his wakizashi, blood flowing and mixing with the dirty rain coming from the broken pipes above him. I breathed heavily, taking in the cold air mixed with my own blood. I put the tip of the sword to his forehead. "I'm faster than you are. Don't even fucking think about trying to take me, or I'll give you more to worry about than sight." He coughed laughter out of his dry mouth. "Yeah...go on...do it. I guess I deserve it, lying about your wife and all." My eyes widened. He knew something. "What, what about her?" but as I said this, the sirens were in the air. Someone had rung about the flames.

He kept laughing. I looked from side to side, and saw his friends getting out of the car. I backed off, and looked around. I dashed across the road, hopping over the walls of the houses surrounding the roundabout. I leapt over the wall of the school there, and breathed a sigh of relief. The sirens were distant.

So was I, and so was she. I propped myself against a wall, and groaned. Now, instead of being law abiding, but with criminals after me, I'd be purgatory on legs until I turned myself in, and dead soon after. I flung out the sword, and looked at it. I didn't know what it is, but Arthur did. And he wanted it. A thick trail of blood was being washed away by the rain, and it seemed to gleam a little. I didn't know what to think anymore. From what he said, she may�

No. No, she would have said. She would have said if something was wrong that would�ve stopped her talking to me. If she suspected anything, she�d�ve said.

And right then, I was bleeding. I probably had a few broken ribs. I knew there was a hospital nearby, and I wouldn't stick out too much. My head stung like a bastard, and I thought I had swallowed a tooth. A friend of mine was dead, and I was a man wanted for questioning as to his murder. There was a one-eyed man after me, who had many more eyes attached to other people that he could use to look for me.

In other words, I needed a coffee, a biscuit, and a sit down.

<hr>
I was playing a grotty little bar in kingston. It was late, I was drunk, I knew they'd be in contact again soon, and all I wanted to do was get the set done with and get some sleep. Things couldn't get any worse.

"Play sweet child of mine!"

...scratch that.

And so I broke into that riff, and watched in awe as the intoxicated twenty-somethings cheered and danced their lives away, while I thought about what I would say, if I wasn't so busy groaning out lyrics that made me want to die, and slowly but surely did the job of killing me inside.

"Ohhhh, sweet child o' mine..."

I wanted to vomit. This was it for me. This was my last stop. Running from the police, running from Arthur, and with no real start on finding her. I was gigging my own funeral, and I knew it. They didn't. They just stood there, swaying, dancing, crying, laughing and whooping, drinking and living up their time. And muggins here just kept playing.

"Where do we go...�
Where do we go now..."

I turned the microphone away quickly, and went back to playing. Everybody was singing along. I heard somebody speak next to me. Some skinheaded fuck. "I hate this song. I really fucking hate this song. Change song."

"Where do we go from here..."

"Not your pub...not your guitar...WHERE DO WE GO NOW! ...and not your set." Somehow, I knew what came next. He swung wildly at me, and I ducked back. I kicked a chair up and it clocked him right in the jaw. He fell badly on some glasses, and tumbled to the floor, cradling his bleeding mouth and leaving the pub with his mates. It was then that I realised I'd stopped playing. Everybody was looking on in stunned silence.

"...sorry everyone. Guns 'n' Roses. Brings out the worst in me."

I swaggered out of their, guitar over my shoulder, �50 in my pocket, and a head full of memories that I didn't want to come back. There we were on in our room, leaning against the window frame, drinking the complementary champagne. It was the dead of night, and yet it still lived, the living, breathing, smiling, dancing metropolis, seemingly putting a friendly arm around us and telling us we were welcome to stay as long as we wanted. She turned to me and gave one of those girly grins, without any grace or style. An outburst grin, but not so sudden. Just a grin of being warm inside. I kissed her on the cheek and we went back to admiring the surroundings, and getting drunk at our own leisure, because we enjoyed eachother's company, and because it just felt so good to not be alone.

Now it felt like a race. A race to get drunk as fast as possible, to stop this from all slipping back. A race to kill what few braincells I had left. I viciously swiped at a tear, and kept moving towards the overground train. I hopped on just in time, and slung myself into one of the seats. An empty carriage. I put my feet out across the seat, my head against the glass, and remembered the skyline, $100 theatre tickets and expensive icecream. I dreamed of nights warm enough to wear just a t-shirt and trousers, no jackets, no jumpers, just strolling through times square, like I was out of a film. The train bumped me out of the past, and I realised I was still in London, and still in a thirty year old train carriage.

I checked my watch. 11:30.

"Heh. I remember when I was like you." I twitched, and turned. My hand had already began to draw the sword from the air. A tramp sat across from me. I eyed him. I suddenly felt incredibly scared. He didn't have a sword, or a gun, and he wasn't even flinching when I was obviously..."I can hear the cogs turning, mate. When's the wino gonna ask me for money? When's he gonna call me a fucking bastard for not giving me a quid to throw into a newsagent's hand for some more special brew? And why, in god's name, is he coherent?" I froze. "For god's sake, either take it out or leave it alone. You're embarrassing yourself. Either kill me or listen, it's your choice." My hand dropped to my side. I had no idea what to do. I thought I felt myself begin to shake.

"Calm down, Ken."

I froze again.

"We've all got times in our life when we wish we were somewhere else. Sometime else. SomeONE else. I think we're all kept places by what we need to do, or who needs us. Even you." He held out a greasy, crusted hand, with a piece of paper in it. I took it from him, and he smiled a grotty grin. "Don't!" he snapped as I grasped at the flap. "Open it when you get home. After you look read what you read every night. Things should come together." I blinked, and I must have missed him leaving. The piece of paper was still in my hand. I shivered a little more. Then I realised the train had stopped.

I got out.

Walking through London was something I did to sober up. It saved me the trouble of hangovers - just waiting for the alcohol to pass, and then falling asleep when I felt less drunk. I'd move at my own pace, and freeze my nuts off, and enjoy doing it. It was something very personal to me - those quiet moments on the bus rehearsing your own private concert, or writing your own book, or just getting ready to tell somebody you loved them. Yeah. All of these were moments for me. Sadly, this time, I had too much on my mind. All I could do was think about how things had gone. I'd forgotten about the piece of paper, and barely registered the guitar. It was all about New York skylines and her makeup smudged on the pillow. When I passed under the bridge, I felt presences near me.

One of them said something about my guitar. Another said something about my hair. They swapped comments. It all moved in a haze. One leapt on my back, but hit himself in the face with the neck. Another lunged at me, but I had the sword out, and he screeched to a halt with his neck to the edge. I wasn't angry. I wasn't even willing to hurt them. They said something about how everything was okay, and that they were just fucking around. I looked one of them in the eyes. He wasn't part of it. He was an unwilling participant. He was shaking. I could see a tear rolling down his cheek. Any other time of the day, any other time of my life, and I probably would've made them piss themselves. Now, I just wanted to go home. I put the sword away and walked up the alley to the door to my flat.
...

It was open.

I pushed my way in. There were papers all over the floor - old articles I'd kept that I wrote. The draws were pulled out. The TV was still there, so was the video, the dvd player, the stereo...and I noticed the one draw left alone. My eyes widened, and I pulled it open. It was empty. I began to shake violently. I dropped to the floor and blubbed like a slit baloon. I just stared at the open draw in my hands, and watched a teardrop fall into it. I put it back in, and sat down on the bed. I opened the piece of paper in my pocket. It was as if it was torn off of the bottom of...another. "We've got to move on. Both of us. Together. Meet me tommorow at our usual place. Don't be late. I love you - Helen." I shook even more violently. I folded the piece of paper, and put it in the draw. I placed it back inside the chest. Suddenly, the stereo clicked into life.

"I'll follow you, I'll lead you about a round,
Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier:
Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound,
A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;
And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn."

I roared, and leapt at the player the moment it finished, pressing the eject buttons. No tapes. No Cd. It wasn�t a radio player. Nothing. I cradled my head. I crawled up onto my bed, slipping on strewn paper. I just about reached the mattress before I collapsed, head in hands, tears drenching the pillow. I didn't even want to die. My mind was overburdened. I saw stars. My eyes began to close involuntarily.

I shut down.

<hr>

I got woken up by my mobile ringing. My editor, probably. I waited for it to stop ringing, and rolled back over, ignoring the squalor. I don't even think I was remembering the night before - I think my body knew that something was wrong, and just forced me back to sleep. Thankfully, I wasn't dreaming. The few dreams that I had were brutal, focused, and honest. They dealt with my life in an analogous fashion, but were as clear as day to me. If I remembered my dream, there was a reason. There always seemed to be a reason. And that was what that tramp had said to me, before handing me that note...My sleep was broken by the mobile again. This time I picked it up. "Ken? Ken, are you there?" I swallowed whatever it was swilling in my mouth. "Yeah. I'm here." Silence. "Uh, well, here's the thing. We're going to be giving your...your column is...uh...well...it's business. You know. Have to keep shuffling people through." I rolled my head from side to side. "So, I'm fired?" Yet more silence. "It's...it's not like you're FIRED, as such, just that..." "...I no longer have a job." "Yeah." I took the phone away from my ear, looked at it, and hung up.

Stellar.

I moved down onto my knees and began clearing papers up. Old articles, ironically. I felt very, very weird. Instead of considering everything at once, my brain just decided to ignore it all and make me clean up the place. Something else had crept in...a kind of self-pity and loathing that I hadn't felt for a long while, as I looked at quite literally my entire life, shaken up and shat out in front of me. I picked up an article where I reviewed some bar in Soho. I called it expensive, noisy, and smoky. It was a bar in soho. That's what you get. This usual depressive routine crept in, and I felt like a drink. This wasn't even because of any shade of alcoholism...I just felt like it was the thing to do. I snapped out of it, and sighed all too deeply. I folded, I pushed, and I cleaned until there was a neat pile of crap in the corner, balanced on top of my portfolio. I wasn't touching anything in that tower for a while.

I walked downstairs to find a bemused looking George. "Forget your keys or something? Found the backdoor open, looked like it had been forced. You've gotta remember to take them with you, man!" He winked at me, and I grinned my finest �fuck off" grin. It was twelve, and there were only a few dotted customers, looking stupidly pleased at how cultured they were being. I slumped down behind the bar with George, and folded my arms. "Rough night?" he ventured. He wasn't good with this sort of thing. He was reasonably perceptive, but could never quite get the right start on helping them out. I never held that against him. Sometimes it's best not to have someone throwing ideas at you. "I lost my job." He breathed out in a hiss through his teeth. "Seriously, don't worry about the rent. It's fine...until you get back on your feet." I smiled at him, and he grinned back uneasily. "...Thanks" I said after
what felt like far too long. More silence.

"Fancy a drink?"

We sat down on the sofas he had near the bar - the best seats in the house, and he usually put a reserved sign on them for mates, or just when he wanted a minute off. I lounged back. He looked at me, and I heard the cogs turning. "Enigmatic at best, eh, Ken?" I shrugged. It wasn't even that I didn't like talking about myself. I quite liked that. If there's anything I knew about thoroughly enough to talk about, it was myself. It was just that I didn't want to get other people caught up in what was bothering me. How could I just tell him "yeah, okay, so, like, there was me, and this other guy, he had two swords and shot my mate but it's okay I didn't get in any trouble and I got the fucker's eye!"? I felt out of breath just thinking that. I didn't even want to think about the tramp, and the note. The moment I remembered them, I took a deep glug of beer. "Steady on there, fella...you know how you get." I sure did. But softening everything seemed to be the best idea.

My head was already fuzzy from thinking about the scrap of paper, and trying to remember whether the original note had been torn. I wanted to fall back to sleep again. But something kept drawing me back to where we were supposedly meant to meet that day, whether I was meant to meet her there and we were meant to escape - maybe she knew about what was coming for me. George was just staring at me, now. "There's a lot more on your mind then I know about, eh?" Some customers were walking up to the bar, and he was rising to meet them. "Look, mate, get out of the place a bit. No job means you've not gotta be anywhere, and hey, you could probably use the air. Hope things work out for you soon..." and his voice trailed off into a rapid fire of pleasantries. I nodded, and skulked out the back door.

There was only one place I could go, really.

I'd ignored Leicester Square since I got out of prison for this very reason. We would always meet here and talk about our work, the things we hated in life, in our relationship, in everything. We would go on for hours like we were writing our own tabloid, cutting apart our friends' lives with our nitpicking, trying to predict what was going to come for them. And that was most likely what caused us to be so blind to what was coming for us. We always focused on what other people were doing - she was an English scholar, flipping through sonnets and prose and drinking it in with little effort. I could always name her favourites, but I was never much of a poet. When we first got together, before I proposed, I made no attempt to serenade her or win her over via poetry or acoustic love songs. We fell together, you could say, and the gravity of our lives was just enough to keep us passionate, and adoring, and set. I walked onto the green, and sat down on a bench that gave me a view of the coffee shop across the road. A friend of hers just wouldn't stop going on about the yogurt there, so that's where we settled.

Both of us lapped up the fact that, while it was intimate, it still had the immediate hustle and bustle of the west end surrounding it. She, wrapped in some wool jumper, and a thick scarf, burning her tongue with a cappuccino, with me downing a sugarless latte while huddling close to her, my weak leather just not enough to hold off the cold. That was love, I thought. Not sweaty nights or candlelit dinners, or burning passion. Not crying that you need them, but just sharing warmth. Farting in bed, and laughing at it because you love each other too much.

I hadn't noticed, but my head was in my hands, and I was sobbing, not weakly, but juddering, painful yelps. Without seeing them I could feel the passers-by standing back, and looking at me like I looked at those maniacs on the side of the road. Maybe they had taken a punch too many, too. Maybe giving up was just a little easier for them than it would be for me. I stood up, resolved, and startled an elderly couple who were close to patting me on the back, and telling me it would be alright. I smiled at them weakly, and walked towards Leicester Square tube.

I sat down and rested my head against the window. The carriage was empty - what was it, one? One thirty? Most people were in work, or about to go on lunch, but not quite. I breathed in, and felt a little better after a good cry, but weaker for the outburst.

"Real, raw emotion opens old wounds, doesn't it?"

I really had had enough of being surprised on public transport. This time, I stood up, and was faced with a man of about my size, dressed in a white robe. One of those Japanese ones. He didn't look Japanese to me, but he had all the sword he needed to back it up.

"I am here to take the sword that you carry, boy. I do not have time for silly games, and if you do not want to be injured, I would suggest merely throwing it this way, and allowing me to be on my way."

He moved into a stance, and pointed the tip of the blade at me. The sword dropped into my hand.

"I've had enough of giving, and having things taken from me. I've had enough of being threatened by mystery men, and being told to wait and expect and do things without knowing what to really do. You want to kill me. I don't want to die."

The man shook his head. "I do not want to kill you. I would gladly do glorious battle with you, however, and give you the warrior's death that you deserve, in return for that blade."

I didn't look confident, nor spit on the ground in defiance. "I am getting off of this train, and going home. I'm not giving you anything. I am going to take my train home, even if you're one of the stops." I held the sword out in front of me. "I've nothing against you, mate. I'm not going to convince you to go home. Let's get this done with, and fast." His eyes narrowed, and he nodded.

"Then let us begin."