Bottle-burnt
Across the walls there are photographs mainly of sports teams. The London Irish team of the early 1930s is faded and hangs next to a street scene of how Lancaster Gate looked in the late 1890s. The wall is mottled and shows signs of flood damage, the faux Etruscan beige peeling in the corners to show builders' markings on the stone beneath.

Incongruously, in the middle of the ceiling, is a white plastic fire alarm, circular with little red lights blinking frantically. It emits a shrill noise, slicing through the upper air of the room. Two wires are connected to it, snaking back to the nearest wooden beam and then along the beam's spine and down to the ground for electricity. They don't look subtle, nor perhaps are they meant to be.

Along the shelves cutting across one wall, silver trophy cups and brass tankards rest gleaming, smelling of Brasso. Old Pernod bottles with candles in their necks stand abandoned next to fading rosettes and miniatures of agrarian equipment which look like torture devices. There are books lined up in one corner, dark-covered, bought by the box-load from car boot sales or rural antiques fairs, with self-help advice from the 50s or nautical tales of derring-do from the days when Britannia ruled the waves and plucky midshipmen saved the day.

By the fireplace, where the three bar gas warmth has replaced logs and kindling, the carpet has rucked up, exposing dull piping, the brute grey blunt against red and green intricate patterning along the floor. The woven coverings on the stool cushions match nothing else in the room, their worn buttons exposing years of wear, with burn marks and dark patches to show their care. Their legs are dark wood, each chip and graze letting out the different layers of colour underneath, a changing history of fashions and fads under the clean gleaming black gloss of today. Bubble and crackles are clues to their experiences.

A plant sits in the corner alone, its outstretching leaves and fronds grasping for company. It seems out of place and uncared for. The pebbles in the dish underneath the pot have stuck together and look dusty. There is little light thrown on the token greenery, as the lampshades are angled away towards the table and stools, one unprotected bulb casting its wattage against the bevelled windows, throwing unreal shadow shapes onto the pavement outside.

The windows in turn angle light onto commemorative mirrors with frosted lettering, golden ribbons or multicoloured toucans, rainbows from opaque prisms. The curtains by the main window are heavy and bottle-green, with silverfish crawling among the frayed stitching down to the low window mantel. Tied back with off-cut material, they hang from wooden curtain rings which once were expensive, ordered from John Spedan Lewis himself, and paid for in instalments.

As I remember this room, it will remain this way. Despite the curling, licking orange flames, golden yellow sparks and red flashes rampaging along, seen through cracked, smoke-broken glass from across a street where sirens perforate the suburban leafy canopy and early purple blossom falls singed to the concrete earth.

The LondonMark X Guide
(Sponsored by Smitten – the blog that's tough for guests to access)

Firstly, congratulations for choosing LMXG. Well done, you lovely, shiny person, you. Assuming that your cheque or postal order for £49.99 has already been sent to me (made payable to LondonMark Cayman Islands Number Three Account), we can all proceed.

You've had a date. It went well, you didn't spill wine all over your companion, you didn't accidentally kill the waiter or severely maim the maitre d', you sparkled with your witty conversation and amusing anecdotes. The coffee came and went, as did the bill, and you went on to a small bar you know for more drinks and some flirty chat. Cocktails have been delicious and you've had a wonderful, magical evening.

Excellent.

And now you're back at your place with your companion, for the stated reason of "a cup of coffee". Do they really want coffee? Do they have to be up for work at an ungodly hour tomorrow? Did you remember to switch your Power Rangers duvet cover for the black satin one? Is your 'Snoopy Wuvs Me' mug full of Vicodin still on your bedside table? (Gents: are all the, ahem, cough, you know, bongo, ahem, magazines safely hidden?) (Ladies: are all the grey Asda pants and bras still in a heap in the middle of the room?) It's time to prepare for lift-off.

And with the LMXG, we can solve all your problems. Simply follow the options you are most likely to take and, based on actual science, LMXG can predict (with a 0.078% margin of error) the precise chances of you getting – rawr, hubba hubba, aieee – lucky.

Question 1. You are male. Your female companion asks where the bathroom is. Do you:

1. Sigh, turn down the volume on the Deep Space Nine rerun and point vaguely at the door.
2. Sigh, put the razor blade back on the mirror and point vaguely at the door.
3. Panic, remembering the state in which you left the bathroom.
4. Rise and show her the way precisely, then go to the kitchen to make coffee.

Question 2. You are female. Your male companion has stated that "any music is fine with him". Do you:

1. Scream "Just pick a CD, you spineless wimp".
2. Take this as a good sign to put on Alanis Morissette's 'You Oughta Know'.
3. Ask him to get his arse over there, pick a CD and alphabetise the lot while he's there.
4. Select something modern, upbeat but not something that will dominate the conversation.

Question 3. You are male. Your female companion has asked how you take your coffee. Do you:

1. Shrug and raise your hands to make the W of 'Whatever'.
2. Give her precise instructions on cream and sugar amounts, including which direction to stir the cup.
3. Respond "Black and strong. Like my men."
4. Tell her how you take your coffee.

Question 4. You are female. Your male companion has just said he likes his coffee like he likes his men. Do you:

1. Tell him to get the hell out of your apartment and stop leading vulnerable girls on.
2. Think he's really funny, and hope he has plenty more good jokes like that.
3. Roll your eyes and recommend Sense Of Humour Replacement Therapy.
4. Half-laugh and mock slap him playfully.

Question 5. You are male. Your female companion has suggested you get more 'comfortable'. Do you:

1. Immediately change into a really old T-shirt and boxers and watch Champions League Weekly.
2. Immediately change into your Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas and ask her for a bedtime story.
3. Strip naked and begin a tribal rain dance.
4. Lower the lights, kick off your shoes, light a candle and move closer to your companion.

Question 6. You are female. Your male companion has suggested you get more 'comfortable'. Do you:

1. Work out what this means. You're pretty comfortable now, thanks.
2. Get what this means. You don't go that far on a first date, thanks.
3. Get what this means. Help him strip and join in his tribal rain dance.
4. Kick off your shoes and move closer to your companion.

Question 7. You are male. You want to move things from the living room to the bedroom. Do you:

1. Say "Me Tarzan. You Jane" and carry her struggling body into the bedroom.
2. Knock her unconscious and carry her prone body into the bedroom.
3. Say "Look, are we going to do this or what?"
4. Whisper the suggestion in her ear.

Question 8. You are female. Your male companion can't undo your bra. Do you:

1. Wonder what the hell he's doing; you're not wearing one.
2. Wonder what the hell he's doing; there's only one clasp.
3. Wonder what the hell he's doing; oxyacetylene torches can't be good for the skin.
4. Help him.

Question 9. You are male. Your female companion can't work out your button fly. Do you:

1. Wonder what the hell she's doing: it's a zip fly.
2. Wonder what the hell she's doing: you undid them in the restaurant.
3. Wonder what the hell she's doing, but sort of quite like it anyway.
4. Help her.

Question 10. You are female. Your male companion is licking your neck and he appears to think it's working. Do you:

1. Wonder why you didn't just buy a dog for the licking and a sex toy for the rest.
2. Pray that he doesn't give you a love bite, because you're seeing your real boyfriend tomorrow.
3. Slap him and ask if this is his first time.
4. Gently but purposely guide his tongue elsewhere.

Question 11. You are male. It's the condom moment. Do you:

1. Fumble, mumble and generally make a right arse of yourself.
2. Try to make a joke of it. And fail.
3. Blow into it to make it a balloon, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
4. Be suave, smooth and recognise that you're both worldly people.

Question 12. You are female. It's the condom moment. Do you:

1. Take the opportunity to work out exactly how overweight he is.
2. Feel incredibly awkward while he spends five minutes opening the damn thing.
3. Wonder how you always end up with the clowns.
4. Be calm, patient and recognise that you're both worldly people.

Question 13. You are male. You are having sex with your companion. What are you thinking?

1. My knees really hurt now.
2. Ann Widdecombe, Ann Widdecombe, come on, three more minutes, please.
3. That headboard could do with a new varnish.
4. ohmigodyesssssss

Question 14. You are female. You are having sex with your companion. What are you thinking?

1. Did I return that book to the library?
2. If he doesn't move that elbow right now, I'm going to stave his head in with a brick.
3. I cannot feel a thing.
4. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Question 15. You are male. Your companion asks if you would like to try something different. Do you:

1. Answer: "God yes, I'd love a sandwich."
2. Nod your head while attempting to regain your breath and stop yourself turning blue.
3. Bring out the Gimp mask.
4. Ask what kind of different they are thinking about.

Question 16. You are female. Your companion asks if you would like to try something different. Do you:

1. Wake up.
2. Answer: "What, like actual sex?"
3. Become afraid. Very afraid.
4. Ask what kind of different they are thinking about.

Question 17. You are male. Climax has been reached. Do you:

1. Fall asleep instantly.
2. Marvel at how good it is when someone else is there.
3. Kick her out of the apartment, the hussy.
4. Make sure that she has climaxed too.

Question 18. You are female. Your companion has rolled over and is panting like a German shepherd dog after a time trial. Do you:

1. Wake up.
2. Ask him when he'll be ready to begin.
3. Wonder what time your real boyfriend will be home.
4. Offer him a cigarette, glass of water or oxygen mask.

Question 19. You are male. You and your companion are laying in bed. Do you:

1. Compliment her on her technique, saying "You must be a pro".
2. Idly wonder who would win a fight between Captain Sisko and Captain Kirk.
3. Grin, giggle and start texting all your friends.
4. Begin pre-flight checks to start all over again.

Question 20. You are female. Your companion has fallen asleep. Do you:

1. Remember that you did return the book to the library, but you still owe some films to the video store.
2. Nudge him until he wakes up, asking "Sorry, did I wake you?"
3. Silently collect your clothes, dress and leave immediately, while erasing his number from your phone.
4. Fall asleep too.

Now, the more observant among you will noticed that predominantly (d) answers are better than any other choices. But, using a complex points scoring system where (a) answers score 1.71 points, (b) answers score 4.25, (c) answers score 6.88 and (d) answers score 9.63, tot up your scores and enter them into the comments box below. Through the magic of real LondonMark science (the science that likes to say 'crikey'), you'll see how highly you rate on the LMXG scale.

Good luck!

Further guidance:
Tips to Land It from Emma.

He said, she said
Standing in the airy, chromed and glass-plated atrium of their building, Coraline and Andrew are talking quietly, their heads turning periodically to register people as friend or foe. This is what Coraline is doing, at least. Andrew is turning his head to register some of the girls from the third floor and the view between the hem of a skirt and the beginning of shoes. Quick flashes of the eyes, flickering from one to the other, then back to Coraline.

"Cause you know Ingrid had the key to all the personnel files."
"Ingrid?"
"That temp last year. South African girl."
"Oh yeah."

Andrew has no idea who Ingrid is.

"And she saw everyone's salaries, even Kristina's."
"She saw our salaries?"
"Yeah."

Andrew hopes that she hadn't looked at his CV because it was, according the friend who read over it for him, "total bollocks". His brother thought it was hilarious when he found out that Andrew had even lied about his age.

"How do you know?"
"Because I was there, and she told me."
"How much does Kristina make, then?"
"Well, Ingrid was looking through the files and apparently, Kristina's on about seventy."
"Seventy? Christ almighty."

Seventy thousand pounds, not including annual bonus. Roughly three and a bit times more than Andrew makes. As his eyes roll around, trying to calculate the exact number of times that Kristina trumps him, he spots a diminutive brunette from Client Audit Services crossing to the lifts. He tries to catch her eye and fails.

"And she was rated as a nine at her last review."
"A nine? Who the hell gave her a nine? Even if the scoring was out of a hundred, not ten, she doesn't deserve a nine."
"Well, Kristina is in charge of all the review forms, so …"
"So …"
"I wouldn't put it past her to, you know, touch up the numbers a bit."

Andrew desperately wants to believe this, but somehow can't.

"Come on, she's not going to forge her own bloody review, is she?"
"Are you asking or telling me?"
"Do you think she needs to? She's already making loads more than any of the rest of us."
"I wonder why."

Coraline has a cunning look on her face, Andrew thinks. They have worked together for the past two years and they know each other fairly well, though at times only in stereotype. Coralie: lives in Hertfordshire in a small flat with two dogs. Not bad looking in an M&S kind of way. Useless with anything electronic. Devoted to nature programmes on TV. Andrew: lives in a shared house in Clapham with friends from university. Likes very loud dance music, cartoon character ties, banana milkshakes. Dislikes his job, his clients and the Northern line.

"There's sod all we can do about it."
"Isn't she due for retirement soon?"
"Yeah, I think she's retiring early."
"If I was being paid that much, I wouldn't turn up here for a second longer than I had to."

He wonders whether to break the news and decides that, as they are sharing the confessional, he might as well.

"I'm leaving."
"Leaving what?"
"Leaving the department."
"But not leaving the company?"
"No. I don't have enough spine to do that, but I've got to get out of the department."
"Where are you going?"

Andrew just points, thumbing over in the direction of the Media Markets room.

"Oh."
"Yeah, I know it's a bit sudden, but it's not as though I'm going anywhere anyway. Besides, Kristina would be quite happy to just let me rot here."
"I suppose. When do you go?"
"It's not settled yet, but hopefully just after financial year end."
"Well, we'll have a big do for you."
"No need, I'll still be here."

And I'd better get something decent as a leaving present and not more sodding vouchers, Andrew thinks. Something loud from Paul Smith, maybe.

"Well, that's another success story for the escape committee. The way we're going, they'll be no-one left by Christmas."
"Probably."
"Okay, well, I'll see you upstairs then. I'm just nipping out for a fag."
"Right. See you up there."

Andrew starts for the lifts and just manages to nip through the closing doors. Coraline walks out through the atrium and onto the street.

How well you know me
Two of the best words in the English language:

Duty free.

Thanks, R. Soft pack Marlboros are always welcomed.

Oh dear
Marketing executive: My legs seem to have stopped working.
Mark: Reboot them.

9th Street V
The streetlamp flickers on and off with a disturbing regularity, as though it has been especially designed to do that. It claims the distinction that it is one of the few lamps on the street which is actually working at all, and so a flicker is better than nothing. It provides the effect on bypassers that they are walking in some stop-motion world, intermittent glimpses at a film, or a cartoon book where the pages are being turned so rapidly that it looks as though people are moving. If there were any people out on the streets, at least.

There is one, and he is not moving. Dresket is standing, steadily waiting. The rain stopped a few minutes ago and he is glad for small mercies. His wide-brimmed soft fedora has become soaked through the incessant drizzle, and he has recently discovered that there is a small hole in his left shoe which has let some of the rainwater in to dampen his sock. He shuffles from foot to foot, trying to avoid stepping in any of the collected pools of water. Although the camber of the street drags rain down to the sewers, some of the grilles are blocked with garbage, leaving the water to rise and spill over onto the pavement.

Whenever he pauses to think about the city, he always imagines the buildings in the rain, as though the city fathers had built the streets and the houses and the offices so they would only seem to belong that way. The sun hasn't shone through to the streets for so long now that the grey masonry matches the dull permanence of the sky, creating a peerless match between the two. Things are even in the rain, Dresket knows. All are equal when walking or standing or fighting or running under a fusillade of droplets, unceasing for hours. It's a great leveller.

He is low-level, someone who works for a man who works for someone else. He doesn't carry a weapon, he doesn't carry ID, he doesn't even carry a Metroway pass. He isn't anonymous because that would serve no purpose. He isn't like the hired goons in bad gangster movies because life isn't like that, life won't let him get away with the ineptitude and bungling which Hollywood loves so much. He's not too smart but he isn't dumb either. He had a tough childhood, but so do most of the people in the city, so that doesn't make him special.

What makes him special is that he doesn't stand out.

An average man in an average suit on an average street. Doing the normal things at the normal times with dull brown eyes and a weary look. He shuffles his feet again, waggling his foot to try and keep further water from seeping into his shoe. The only place he has to be is here and the only thing he has to do is wait.

He glances along the street to see if anything is approaching. Nothing is moving, and the quietness is only punctuated by the crisp, almost icy smell in the air now the rain has stopped. Although no amount of rain can wash away the grime of this neglect, the sharpness in the air feels as though it should cut his nostrils. He closes his eyes for a moment to take in a lungful of this new air, like drinking a cold glass of water on a hot summery day.

He opens his eyes at a snap when he hears the sound of a car approaching. It slows down as it nears him, coming to a complete stop with the passenger window directly by him. As he leans in towards it, the window is wound down.

"Alphece."
"Dresket."
"Did you deliver it?"
"Yes."
"Did he say anything? Anything about me?"
"No."
"Did he give you anything?"
"Yes. A box."
"Let me see."

Alphece passes the small wooden box across to him, and taking it in his hands, he turns it around and over several times before opening it. He gives a small sigh, then redoes the clasps and returns it to her waiting palm, his hands wrapped around both the box and her hand.

"You're taking it to Pelbman?"
"Yes."
"And Tu… the boy said nothing?"
"No."

His eyes mist slightly and his hands tense then relax.

"Speed you on your way."

Dresket releases his soft grip, the hands hesitating for a moment before lowering them to his sides. One arm raises and he leans further into the car, bringing the back of his hand softly along the lock of blonde hair which has fallen down onto Alphece's cheek, before tucking it back behind her ear. She looks up at him for a moment, then begins to wind up the window. He steps back onto the pavement and matches her gaze until the car begins to pull out and drive away.

He crosses the road and starts down a side street. He can't remember exactly how long it is since he last saw Tughban, and he can't remember what either of them said when they spoke. He remembers his face, the room, his son's raised voice, the light and the dank muskiness, but not what they said. Now they are both go-betweens, only connected by car journeys and other people's secrets. He is only a few streets away from where he met the car but already the clouds have begun to spit down upon him again. Things are even in the rain.

9th Street IV
She lays the flowers down gently upon the black marble, placing them one by one, side by side. She crumples the light lavender paper in her hand and drops it into her shoulder bag. As she stands to one side of the headstone, Yembin puts her gloves back on and claps her hands together to warm them up. Wrapping her raincoat around her more tightly than before, she pauses, head bowed, then straightens up and walks away slowly, not looking back.

Her sister Nelifue died three years ago today, and this is Yembin's third pilgrimage to the Wrokey Park Cemetery. Each year the sky is ashen grey, the wind blows across and through the overgrown ivy and long grass, and the blackbirds look over the lichen-specked stones as custodians of those who have passed. The pebbles on the pathways between the various lots crunch underfoot at the weight of each step. Pieces of paper flap on the notice sign at the end of the row.

Yembin walks out of the main cemetery gates, headed towards the nearest Metroway station, fumbling in her bag to find some soft cloth she can use to clean her thumb-smudged spectacles. Crossing the street, she reads the street signs slowly to make sure that she is going in the right direction, remembering the zig-zag of streets that can take her to the station more quickly. She passes a drunk man sleeping in the transit shelter half-way up one street and walks softly and carefully past him, so as not to wake or confront.

Along the street, she notes the tall, thin houses bunched together, their curtains drawn and the lights muted behind thick fabrics. She recalls her childhood home to be like one of these, hiding behind curtains while her sisters hunted her in hide-and-seek. Polished wooden floors which they could slide across in their socks, the static of the material crackling in their hands when they had picked themselves up. Pristine pastel-coloured walls which showed up every stain from what their mother called "pawprints".

The oldest of the three girls, Yembin was a second mother to Nelifue, the youngest. The middle daughter, Swalica, had been a classic middle child, ignored and ignorable. Nelifue was the apple of everyone's eye, the darling of the family, while Yembin was left to tie others' shoelaces, wipe snotty noses and look across the street both ways. The responsibility bore well on her shoulders, for the other two grew to love her for her efforts and not resent her for her control.

She had not seen Swalica since the funeral. Swalica had behaved as though she was deficient in some way for allowing Nelifue to die; a dereliction of duty or an unforgiveable lapse in responsibility. To say there was a rift was both understating and dramatising the simplicity that meant the two living sisters did not speak.

Yembin has twisted and turned along the city map and is about to cross the road when a green sports car screams past her. She jumps back in surprise and stands shakily for a moment, watching the car disappear along the street. Shaking her head and wondering how she had not heard the car beforehand, she crosses the now silent, now dead road and resumes her walk to North/Hayldan. In a moment of weakness, she stops by a phone kiosk, wondering whether she should call. Searching her coat pockets for telephone tokens, she finds only a few coins, and walks on.

Periodically, taps of guilt struck at Yembin and she would attempt to call her sister. The telephone would never be answered. There was no way to know that she had the right telephone number, and there was no way that Swalica could screen the call to avoid her, yet no-one picks up. Yembin hopes even for the acknowledgement that she has the wrong number, or to hear her sister slam down the phone when she recognises the voice. The constant ringing tone, however, is no answer at all.

Climbing up the steps to the side of the Metroway station, Yembin fancies that she hears a sound like a car backfiring, a sudden shocked stop sound to pierce the quiet of the neighbourhood. Pausing on the stairs, she hears nothing else and so continues to walk up to buy her transit ticket. Feeding the coins into the machine slowly, she checks her purse to see how much money she has remaining. She walks onto the correct platform, finds a seat and arranges herself carefully in it, the loop of her shoulder bag pressed between her back and the seat.

It is no less windy or cold on the platform and though Yembin feels that she wants to cry, she can't. There is no-one else waiting for the train, on either side of the tracks, and so no-one to see her break down, lose control, rage at the world, scream at the injustice, sob with self-pity. Yembin does none of this. She sits, shielding her bag, holding her ticket between hands whose fingers are interlocked, and waits for the train to take her out of here.

9th Street III
As he hears the noise of the trash cans falling into each other, Ghuryel looks out of the bathroom window but can't make out the shape of the dark animal scampering away. He turns back to the mirror and rubs his thumb across the underside of his chin, feeling for patches of stubble which his old razor has missed. Time for a new blade, he thinks.

He runs the blade over his chin one more time, against the grain, and is duly rewarded with some specks of blood appearing. One cut releases a tiny raindrop of blood down into the scum-stained sink. Ghuryel winces, wipes his face roughly with a ripped square of toilet paper, then tightens the knot of his tie up against his unbuttoned collar. He stares back at himself for one more moment.

He leaves the bathroom and, walking through a small hallway, checks the carriage clock balancing precariously on old telephone directories in the corner of the living room. He takes his suit jacket from the back of a chair, puts it on arm by arm, brushes non-existent fluff from the lapels, then picks up various chattels from the table and distributes them among the jacket pockets.

Billfold, pocketcomb, switchblade, keys, breath mints. A stack of loose change goes into his trouser pocket, the smaller value coins left to one side to be put into the electricity meter jar. A little way across the table lies a small snub-nosed revolver with several .32 calibre bullets strewn next to it. Ghuryel walks towards the bullets but the telephone rings and he stops. He feels he is being watched and so moves quietly to the phone, lifts the receiver then replaces it. He takes a quick step and pulls the telephone cord out of the wall socket.

In the next room is a small canvas bag with various tools both inside and protruding through the worn leather handles. Searching through the screwdrivers, hammers, calipers and other instruments, Ghuryel withdraws a small file and walks back to the main room. He is about to sit down when a gust of wind blows through from the bathroom window, causing the living room window to slam shut, in turn knocking over a small photograph frame.

Ghuryel curses under his breath as he goes over the broken glass and begins to collect it up into the palm of his right hand. As he turns over the back of the frame, he looks at the black and white photo inside with eyes wide, behaving as though he has never seen it before. Placing the shards of glass back on the floor, he rises, holding the photograph with the tips of his fingers, careful not to smudge or crease it.

Returning to the table, he sets the photo aside and takes up the file in one hand and a single bullet in the other. Although the file is wide and awkward to handle, the side edge is incredibly thin. Using this, Ghuryel begins to file around the circumference of the bullet, carving a narrow thin waistband around the small projectile. He does not file deeply, but just enough to make a belt around the metal. When finished, he places it carefully back on the table next to the Detective Special.

Completed, he picks up a second bullet and performs the same routine, this time carving two lines around the metal. Ready again, he picks up a third, this time to carve three lines around it. The three bullets stand next to each other on the chipped veneer of the wood, next to the Colt, next to the small black and white photograph. Ghuryel returns the file to the toolbag and puts the bag away.

Satisfied that all has been cleared away in this room, he looks through the other rooms and makes rudimentary cleaning motions. A picture is straightened here. A cushion is tweaked there. All is in order, yet still untidy. He turns his attention to the table and removes everything bar the gun, bullets and photo.

He loads the Colt slowly, placing each of the three bullets in the cylinder with care and deliberation. When loaded, he takes the gun and the photo with him and walks out to the fire escape at the end of the corridor outside his apartment. Climbing through the window, he walks along until he comes level with his own bathroom window. Standing on the rusty, weather-worn metal, he looks at the photo and turns it over to see the time and the date written in looping handwriting, the ink now brown and faded.

Ghuryel gently kisses the photo, a small tear snaking down his cheek, then raises the gun to his head and fires. The photo, with small splatters of blood across it, twists and turns in the wind as it swivels and falls to the ground below.

9th Street II
As Meugrel passes the window on his way to the kitchen, he sees a car waiting outside the building opposite. They don't see many cars on their street, as it isn't a very safe place to leave anything valuable. The apartment below was broken into twice in the past month and two months ago he came home with his wife Crijsa to find their own home ransacked. Although some of the jewellery had been taken from Crijsa's dresser, nothing much else was stolen.

Five years ago, Meugrel decided that the odd job life was no longer for him. He had run errands, taken day-to-day courier work, worked cash in hand, done whatever needed doing for whoever needed it done. He had started to step out with a young girl and had realised that he needed a bit of solidity, an anchor for himself. With no qualifications other than a cleanly pressed suit, fair wavy hair and a smile which showed off his white but slightly crooked teeth, he presented himself at the offices of the City Metroway to apply for a position, any position with them.

Impressed by his enthusiasm and his suit, the Metroway director offered him a job working as an attendant at the North/Hayldan station, a position Meugrel immediately accepted. He went out that night with Crijsa to a central bar and proudly informed her that he was now a 'railwayman'. She smiled and wondered whether this would mean they could move in together. Several pay cheques later, they did. Meugrel proposed to her, and they married in a small ceremony downtown. For their honeymoon, Metroway presented them with rail passes to wherever they wanted. The passes, with their unlimited expiry, still lie in one of their bureau drawers.

While Meugrel worked his way up to become the stationmaster at North/Hayldan, Crijsa stayed in, as the master of the station that was their home. With small touches, and inexpensive flourishes, she transformed their poky fourth floor apartment into a more hospitable place and one which was suitable, if she only dared whisper it, for them both and maybe even a little addition.

On days of stress, Meugrel would return and they would argue about whether it was fit and proper to have a child. On days of calm and peace, they would lie on the sofa with the lights off, listening to records; Meugrel would think of the baseball, Crijsa would think of children's names.

Five years on, and the days still follow the same patterns.

The most perfect time of the day for Crijsa is in the early evening. As the days and nights are so dark, she sits by the table in the hallway, looking at the lights from her lamps. Each year for her birthday, Meugrel comes home with a box wrapped in brightly coloured papers, blues and yellows, greens and reds. He places it on the hallway table and calls her through while he takes off his hat and overcoat. She comes through, looks at the box and inevitably squeals as she throws her hands around his neck, kissing him, then grabbing the box and taking it through to the main room. Each year she thinks that this is the year he'll forget. Each year she wonders and hopes about what he has bought.

Each year, he buys her a Tiffany lamp. The first year, it was a small lamp, bought from a second-hand junk shop past Caldrewn station run by the brother-in-law of one of his train drivers. The year after, an even smaller lamp, but more expensive, ordered by post from a antiques man he had seen in the newspaper. The delivery alone had cost a pretty penny. The third year brought a bigger lamp, no more costly but with brighter shades and more intricate work around the edges of the glass. Last year's present was the big lamp, the one which sits by the window with the four lilies intertwining at the top, their leaves rolling down and matched by the carving work at the base.

This year's present was a return to the very first year. Meugrel had spent weeks scouring the papers and second-hand stores to find it and, at the last minute, it appeared. It was the sister lamp to the very first one he had bought her, identical as twins. When she opened the box and saw it, she had cried and hugged him again and again. She had taken him through to the main room and they put the lamp on the low table and gazed at it while she played with his fingers in her hand. Brother and sister lamp now sit next to each other on the hallway table, waiting for the annual arrival of another member of their family.

As he passes her in the kitchen, they both hear a noise from the alleyway by their building. Crijsa glances up at him and they both grin at each other, because they know precisely what they are both thinking. Cats. Stray cats. A window nearby bangs closed in a gust of wind. Meugrel brings the broad plates through to the table and they sit down to eat. They hear a car start up and pause, looking into each other's eyes, until the whine of the engine has died into the distance, the tyres screeching away into silence.

9th Street I
Although the sky had been dark for days, the streets of the City were awash with illumination from the flickering halogen bulbs of street lights, shop fronts and cars. Careering through the intermittent pools of light on roads slick with rain and leaked engine oil, the car slid slightly when turning into 9th Street. Dimming the headlights and slowing down to a less unreasonable speed, the battered dark green Jensen Interceptor approached the thin corner building on Hayldan and pulled in outside the main doorway.

A tall, thin woman gets out from the passenger side, adjusts her coat, closes the door and walks slowly up the steps into the building's atrium. A weasel-faced man stays behind the steering wheel, lights up a cigarette and lowers his window to flick the ash that has hardly yet formed into the street, to burn down and hiss in the rain puddles. In the back seat of the car, another woman sits staring through the windshield into the distance, occasionally glancing down at her wristwatch.

As Alphece walks through the atrium towards the old-fashioned elevator, she glances quickly at the faux-marble columns and the stains expanding across the ceiling, the rust water marks spreading like a spider's web. She checks her pockets to make sure all is well. Inside the elevator, she presses the button for the third floor, each button marked with Roman numerals, and drags the outer door closed. The elevator moves up.

Vaereta looks at her wristwatch again, noting the scratches on the glass face and the broken hand on the date wheel. Lifting her left hand to her ear, she listens intently to the ticking of the second hand as it sweeps around the circle. Carefully, she tugs her French cuff across the watch to rest on the very edge of her wrist, straightening the burnished silver link which holds it together.

The end of the cigarette seems certain to burn the tips of Bherei's fingers, but he throws it across the road just before the burning orange embers can make contact with flesh. He winds up his window and starts to play with the keyring by the ignition. Looking across the street at the Tiffany lamp in the fourth floor window, he squints to see shapes moving behind the thick, yellowed net curtains. Abruptly, a window bangs closed in the adjacent building and the clatter of a trash can toppling over can be heard from the alleyway behind. Bherei moves around in his seat to look back at the steps.

Walking through the maroon-painted walls of the third floor, turning left then right through the rabbit warren of corridors with their cheap carpet underfoot, Alphece silently acknowledges all the door numbers, looking for apartment 24B. A gloved hand reaches up to brush back her matted blonde hair over her ear and then down to the neckline, before tugging up the back of her collar. The window at the end of the corridor has been shattered in the grimy top right corner and blows a thin reedy note of wind along the passageway. She stops at a door and knocks twice, her knuckles making the sound ripple against the wall.

The door is opened by a small boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old. He looks up at his visitor and then turns his back on her, returning to within the apartment. Tughban has lived in 24B all his life but only recently on his own. Alphece walks into the apartment, closes the door and follows him into the main room where he has lain down on a divan in utter disrepair. Springs and stuffing expose themselves from every corner of the piece and escaped parts lie underneath in chaotic patterns.

Alphece brings out a small string-wrapped package from her overcoat and hands it to the child. He looks up at her uncertainly, then accepts it. While he struggles to untie the string, she steps tentatively through the home debris and gazes at dusty, cracked pictures on the walls, fragmented porcelain plates and objects on shelves and the discoloured metals of cutlery across the room. Tughban removes the string, unwraps the overlapping squares of newspaper carefully and then smiles. She turns to see him rewrapping the newspaper and retying the string. He moves from his makeshift bed into another room, motioning for her to remain.

He returns to the room to see Alphece staring out of the window and down at the car. There is only one car on the street, and she can dimly make out Bherei's hands on the steering wheel through the streaky windshield three floors below. Tughban offers her a small wooden box, with elephants carved into the lid, which she takes from him with both hands then places in her pocket.

He walks her to the front door, ushers her through into the corridor, brings his hands together with index fingers pointing at her, dips his hands, then closes the door. She remains staring at the closed door, arms by her sides, for a few moments before retracing her steps towards the elevator.

As she pushes forward the front passenger seat to get out, Vaereta looks at her watch again. She climbs out of the car and begins to start up the steps only to see Alphece walk through the door towards her. She arches one eyebrow and turns to resume her place in the back of the car. Alphece gets in the car and taps the dashboard for Bherei to begin moving. Looking up, she sees Tughban watching the car pull away, turn around in the street and drive off.

As they pass underneath the elevated railway, Alphece hands the box over her shoulder to Vaereta, who handles it with reverence. She undoes both the brass clasps and, running her fingernail across the engravings, opens it. Inside, there is a key resting in soft material, along with a small folded tickertape of paper. Vaereta smiles, closes the box and hands it back to Alphece.

"We're ready."

Champion
I was privileged to attend the recent World Chess Championships in London, where the current World Champion, Pyotr Victorov, was due to play his challenger from Georgia, Valeriy Andreyev, in a round of 24 games. The rules were simple: whoever ended up with more points won. Other than that, anything goes.

Andreyev went into the finals as the underdog, though his status changed somewhat when large sums of money were placed on him to win the Championship by a small cartel at the Ladbrokes on Walthamstow High Street. Claiming to have had a tip off from "the stable boy", this group of gamblers wagered some £12,500 at odds of 12-7 that Andreyev would successfully claim the title.

Their spokesman later claimed that "Me, Billy, Ron and Smasher reckon that Val's got a better chance with the Tarrasch Variation of the French Defence than anything what Victorov can come up with, innit". Ladbrokes declined to comment other than to state that they were continuing to give odds on anything from chess, Elvis and the existence of life on other planets to more esoteric and amusing bets, such as football, horses or greyhounds.

Victorov's preparations for the finals had not gone smoothly. Being far from fluent in English, his arrival in the town of London, Alabama was considered a partly understandable mistake, but delayed the start of the games for several days. When he arrived in London, England, after an arduous journey in which the pilot suffered a mild heart attack and severe indigestion, the champion seemed upbeat, grimacing at the cameras and displaying his middle finger to the many cheering onlookers.

At a lock-up garage in Mile End, the two grandmasters faced each other in front of a crowd of literally tens of people, all waving banknotes and tugging eagerly at the ropes of the ring. In a uncustomary development for modern chess, the matches were all to be played in the centre of a 1950s-style Lonsdale boxing ring. The organisers had brought Diamond Del from Essex to the venue especially for his experience of such big name events and he was to be both the MC and the arbiter.

The undercard before the first game comprised two potential masters of the game. Alexei Svetlin from the Ukraine was renowned for the speed at which he played, as well as his precision during the end game phase and his preference for the Ruy Lopez opening. Ricky Tatton from Haringey was primarily known for being a nifty light welterweight with a good left jab but often wayward footwork. It was, needless to say, a whitewash.

I had settled in my seat with a warm can of Skol and my notebook when a wave of excitement rushed along the chipped brickwork of the lock-up. Victorov had stormed out and Andreyev had secured the title without having to lift a piece. The Georgian was borne aloft on the shoulders of the bouncers and led into the dingy, ill-lit street for celebratory brandies all round at The Old Denmark.

It was only several rounds later that I found out from Tony, who had 'borrowed' the lock-up, exactly why the now ex-champion had left. Victorov had been enraged to find that Diamond Del's Hasbro 'Attack of the Clones' chess set was missing one of the pawns shaped like Jango Fett. He had then left in what could only be described as "a right hump".

Truly, the game of kings.

Shop
Across the road and up the steps there is a small shop. There are eight steps to climb and handrails on either side to help you. Take exactly seven paces – my paces – forward and you will be at the door of the shop. When you open the door, a little brass bell will ring to let the shopkeeper know you've arrived.

He is a middle-aged Asian man, always dressed in slacks and a garish jumper. He wears glasses and the lenses are quite thick. The shop is named after a famous Greek or Roman hero, but the lettering has faded over the years, so you can't read it. The interior is a grubby beige and shelves made from cheap wood are struggling under the weight of display boxes and presentation cases.

This shop sells porcelain figurines, chocolates, newspapers, postcards, cigarettes and dreams.

It's close to where I lived four years ago and if I find myself in the area, I generally pop inside to say hello to the shopkeeper. He calls me Mister Mark and I call him Mister Rishan, because I don't know his first name. He instinctively reaches for a pack of cigarettes when I walk in because he knows the brand I smoke and why I've come.

Once or twice, I've bought chocolates from him, as a gift or an apology, and I've even bought the odd postcard, to write silly messages and send them to friends who complain that they never receive anything in the mail. I have bought several newspapers but, to date, I have not purchased any of the small porcelain animal figurines.

I bought a dream, once.

When I had received my cigarettes and chosen my newspaper, I enquired about why the sign outside the shop claimed that he sold dreams. He told me that the sign was correct and that he did indeed sell dreams. I asked how much they were. He claimed that the price varied depending on what I wanted. I asked for a happy dream. He said that they were quite common and therefore not too expensive, adding (in a half-whispered aside) that it was the sex dreams for which he could charge top prices. I reassured him that one happy dream would suit me fine. I paid for the dream, the cigarettes and the newspaper and he went back into a room behind the shop.

Five minutes or so later, he emerged with a small cream-coloured box which he handed to me.

"Place this beneath your pillow when you sleep tonight and you will dream of happiness."
"What's in the box?"
"Your dream."
"It's an awfully small box."
"But, Mister Mark, you will have an marvellously big, happy dream."

I thanked him and left the shop, wondering about the extent to which I had just been conned. Clever man, I thought, getting gullible optimists like myself to pay up for what was definitely a small box and most probably an empty one. I went back home and continued with my work.

That evening, as I climbed into bed and dragged the sheets up to my chin, I remembered the small box which was sitting on the desk in my study room. Well, I thought, I may be gullible but what harm can it do? I got up and fetched the box, returned to my room and put it underneath my pillow. After laying back down, reading for a few minutes before my eyes started to drop, and switching off the light, I fell asleep.

And I dreamed. And dreamed of such wonderful things and people that I cannot begin to express them. When I awoke, I felt refreshed like never before, happy like never before and completely at peace. As the day went on, though, I began to forget some of the details of my dream, some of the people I had met and the places I had visited and seen.

I went back to the shop to get more cigarettes and to see Mr Rishan so that I could thank him for the dream. As I walked in, and the little brass bell rang, he looked up at me and smiled.

"Sleep well, Mister Mark?"
"Very well, thank you, Mister Rishan."
"I am glad to hear that."
"I have a few questions, though."
"I'm sure you have. But I have no answers."
"None at all?"
"Only what you see on the sign outside."

The sign outside still reads: Porcelain Figurines. Chocolates. Newspapers. Postcards. Cigarettes. Dreams.

Attention
I hope that you're not working to a deadline. What seems, from where I sit, to be a text message slowly evolving, can only be delayed by the swift, searching looks you're giving me. But then, I'm no better. I've read the same line in the match report four times now, because I'm working out that the angle of the glass divider lets me see you without looking directly.

Walking along the eastbound platform, you glanced up from your handbag at me too many times for it to be general orientation or a scan for the train times. I stood, as always, waiting for the last carriage, trying to do the quick crossword. In my search for answers, my eyes roamed across the train lines, the commuters, the poster and across you.

You were looking at me, but then immediately turned your attention back to your book. I can't read the title or the author, my contact lenses aren't telescopes.

The train pulled into the platform slowly and painfully. You hung back until all the passengers had cleared both doors and then got on the train. I allowed you on before me with a small nod of my head, and you nodded your thanks in return. Don't thank me, I thought, thank my parents for making me this way.

There are plenty of empty seats to choose from. I sit by the glass divider, you sit opposite and three seats along. Sight lines. The glass partition is smeared, mainly from all the gels and waxes and hairsprays of commuters leaning against it to fall asleep or rest their eyes. Small scratches from coins or keys give it an almost camouflage pattern. When the train is in a tunnel, it shows a dim, blurred reflection of you.

If I look directly, I can notice several things. How the toes of your boots are pointy, yet scuffed. How there is a tear in the lining of your trouser pocket, allowing a small glimpse of outer thigh, pale against the dark material. How the label of your headscarf shows it to be Italian, a fashion house or shop I've never heard about before. How your left ear has been pierced twice, two small silvery studs paired like Gemini in the delicate lobe.

I can only build a picture of you in small episodes, with discreet reconnaissances, drinking in the small details I can glean from each foray.

What have your glances told you, I wonder? That I am rich or poor, funny or serious, intelligent or stupid? Perhaps you are studying the facing page of my newspaper, rapt in your attempt to read. Possibly the protrusion of cuff from under my jacket, showing a little glint of light reflected from the metal of my cufflink. Maybe you are glancing at my shoes, my brown Oxford brogues with their laces probably untied.

We haven't looked in each others eyes yet. It's my station next, so I raise my head and look at the tube line map. I know all the stations on this route, but you don't know that I do. Sweeping my gaze across the line to just above you, my eyes fall down your hair to your forehead and to your eyes, to find them staring back at me. We hold the look for a few moments as the train pulls in slowly to my destination. I fold my paper and leave you.

Craft
The cello rests, propped in the corner by the rusty music stand. The scroll of the cello has several cuts and bruises while a small chunk of the bridge is missing entirely. Although in poor condition, it has character. Coverless scores lay abandoned by the feet of the music stand. Empty cases for all kinds of instruments are strewn on plastic chairs about the room.

Picking up one of the scores which has not yet had the cover ripped from it, I read the name of the work. 'Saint Saëns concerto no. 1 in E minor'. I'm amazed. I have actually heard of it. I must mention it to my friend, to reassure him that I'm not as ignorant of classical music as he believes me to be. It is his cello in the corner.

Gregory told me about the cello made for Charles IX by Niccolò Amati, and how he would love to have played it. The cello had small paintings of the King's arms and some of his mottoes all over the belly and ribs. On the back of his cello was a full coat of arms and a crown. It was known as 'The King'.

Though Amati, like Maggini and de Salo, were the first renowned luthiers, Gregory told me that Antonio Stradivari, the maestro of Cremona, was regarded as the finest violin and violoncello maker. It was estimated that over the seventy years in which Antonio toiled to create, he made approximately 1,100 stringed instruments, both cellos and violins. Such workrate.

I touch the wood on the cello in the corner to find the varnish imperfect and sliding my hand down the neck, it is bumpy and uneven. The maestro apparently used local maple wood to construct his instruments. From the feel of Gregory's cello, he seems to have bought one constructed from balsa. He informs me it's walnut wood, though I wouldn't know the difference.

In the Piazza San Domenico (No 1, Piazza Roma), Stradivari established his shop in 1680 and went on to become renowned throughout all Europe. There is a plaque on the wall where the Piazza Roma once stood which reads:

Here stood the house in which Antonio Stradivari brought the violin to its highest perfection and left to Cremona an imperishable name as a master of his craft.

I stare at the battered cello in the corner of the room and I wonder what triumphs it has known.

Madeleines
There's a big bag of madeleines sitting on top of the kitchen counter. I bought them yesterday but didn't touch them, promising myself a comfortable evening to drink pots of tea and slowly to munch through the bag. I'd like to get further through my book, and there's a play on the radio at half past ten. I might let you have the odd cake, but they're mainly for me. I'm selfish that way.

But I see that the bag has been opened.

I can understand why you've opened the bag. Soft, almondy cakes, perfect for dipping slowly into hot tea, are a temptation for anyone. That's why I bought them – I can't resist temptation, especially in the form of the patissier's art. The baker smiled at me when I was piling them into the bag, clearly seeing that his work was being appreciated to the point of gluttony. But surely such light and airy pastry can't be a deadly sin? Confiteor Deo, mea maxima culpa. Bless me, Father, for it has been some months since I last bought madeleines.

It's not blame, though. You were only enticed by the bag on the counter. I was seduced by the smells and the textures in the bakery, passing between rows of delicacies, golden glistening apricots nestling into choux pastry, alert raspberries perched atop freshly whipped cream, streams of melted chocolate oozing slowly down through the layers of freshly prepared pains au chocolat. I was helpless, a child in a sweet shop armed with a credit card and a growing hunger.

You speak French fluently. I speak it inconsistently, badly and with a school-learned accent which marks me as English immediately. At Gare du Nord last year, the ticket girl responded to my halting request for information by speaking to me in English. She may have preferred to avoid me raping her native tongue. I wish I knew the language better.

I wish I knew the language better to wander through the patisserie and name all the different types of cake, fancy and delicate pastry. I could roll the plosives and sibilants around my tongue, tasting each treat before I even buy them, crunching the accents like so many tiny grains of sugar caramelised, or the tiny edges of burned almond croissants.

You opened the bag of madeleines. I can see why. At least you left me a few.

In memoriam
A year ago today, our friend Margaret was murdered in Victoria Park, Hackney Wick.

We went to that place in the park this morning for a short memorial service, and to see a tree being planted in her memory. We all wrote messages in the memorial book, C laid her flowers by the tree, and then we left.

We've promised ourselves and each other that we'll visit the tree in summer to see how it is doing.

Too × 3
Too much work.
Too many ideas.
Too few words.