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Stephen Leather


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Stephen Leather at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2012 by Stephen Leather


All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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This happened to a friend of mine, cross my heart and hope to die. He told me the story one night while we were sitting outside Pretty Lady Bar in Nana Plaza. He’d had a fair bit to drink which is why he opened up because I don’t think he would have told me otherwise. His name’s Dave and he’s from some northern town in the United Kingdom, Newcastle or Durham, one of those cities where you struggle to understand what they’re saying. Dave drove a minicab in the UK and saved every penny so that he could take three holidays a year in Thailand. Dave had started going bald at a young age and by the time he’d hit his late twenties he’d thrown in the towel and shaved off what little hair he had left. He’d been a bit of a boxer in his youth and had acquired a broken nose and a couple of tattoos and by the time he hit thirty he wasn’t doing particularly well in the female stakes. To put it bluntly, the average English girl found Dave as attractive as a case of cystitis.

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