Copyright © 2011 by Marcus Blakeston. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.
This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of Richard (Sooty) Sutton, who didn’t survive the 1980s.
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Colin Baxter was already buzzing when he walked through the door of The Queen’s Head half an hour after opening time – four cans of beer to go with the bag of chips he had for tea had seen to that. The pub smelled of furniture polish and stale tobacco, masking the sweet scent of malt and hops he expected.
An old couple playing dominos near the door looked up at Colin and tutted to each other. The middle-aged woman behind the bar eyed him with a frown. Colin ignored them all. He was used to getting funny looks – everywhere he went people stared at him, like he was an alien or something. You’d think nobody had ever seen a punk before, the way they always stared. Still, it was their problem, not his.