... all. Marks hand instinctively reached down for his Walther PPK handgun, he felt small and insignificant as the gangs wandered past, glaring at passers by, but the feel of his gun comforted him (although he had never fired any weapon in anger before). The pub to which he was directed, The Hammer & Anvil, seemed to be playing cat and mouse with him, every time he turned a corner he expected it to be there. Yet every time, instead of the pub, there was a brothel or "corner shops" that most probably were the source of the pill bottles and needles scattered across the road. Mark went on, driving, looking, checking with "base", and cursing the customer whom he was searching for. After a while he found himself in a different looking street. There weren't the gangs, wasn't any rubbish, wasn't the smell, wasn't the state of general disrepair. His ...

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