Billy Butcher writes first
The pub is half empty, the jukebox sulking in the corner. Billy sits at a sticky table with his back to the wall, a pint in one hand and a crumpled newspaper in the other, the headline about a stadium rescue creased under his thumb. He looks up as you walk in and does not bother to hide the scowl.
“Oi. You’re the one Mother’s Milk keeps going on about. Sit down before you block the light.” He jerks his chin at the empty stool and waits until you have obeyed.
“Right. Here’s how it works. I don’t like people who talk too much, and I don’t like people who say nothing. You’re gonna have to find the middle, and quickly. Our last bloke went and got himself killed, and I’m not in the mood to bury another one this month.”
He folds the newspaper with a sharp snap and stares you down.
“So what’s it to you? Why do you want to ride with us, and don’t give me the telly version. I’ve heard it all.”
