Three hundred feet southwest of West Ham Station, Brad’s satnav voice told him he’d arrived at the location. He drove slowly along Banker Avenue, watching his target approach and worrying over new developments. The plan had sounded so good: nail Grafton, blame Ramirez, watch the two crime lords wage war on the streets, then six months down the line he’d elope with Ian. A new country and a new life.

Then Mick had gone too far and killed Grafton, and they’d discovered that his house hadn’t contained quite the war chest they’d hoped. Brad remembered a time when Grafton carted at least a million around with him, but the secret stash under the bath had contained only enough to give each man ninety grand.

Not the end of the world, but then Ramirez had spoken Brad’s name, and now the police wanted to talk to him. Ian thought Brad was out of the crime game and was actively seeking legit employment back in the construction trade, so that was going to cause tension, even if Mick came up with a plan to clear Brad as a possible suspect. A day in and already two kicks in the teeth. What else might go wrong over the next hundred and fifty days that Brad was forced to remain in the danger zone?

But, as Benjamin Franklin had claimed, there were no gains without pains. So, he told himself to stop moaning. To be a cup half-full guy and get back to the job in hand.

The street was a mix of residential and commercial properties and backed onto Memorial Recreation Ground. Just before the entrance to the park, where the road turned left and became Springfield Road, was a building housing three shops with brick walls painted white and bay windows with black frames and fake antique signs hanging from brackets. Over the fourth doorway hung a small sign saying The Apocalypse. Underneath the white paint above the entrance, Brad could see the faint remains of a relief naming the previous establishment: BAL. So, Mick had been right.

---

There was an intercom with a camera, so he buzzed in. A cockney female voice returned within seconds, telling him they were closed.

‘I see that, ma’am.’ He flashed his fake warrant card at the camera. Just long enough for someone to see it was police identification, but not to register the name or get a good look at the photo. He regretted donning jeans and the Varsity jacket, but then how was he supposed to know Mick’s latest plan would involve pretending to be a cop? ‘Detective Sergeant Smith, Metropolitan Police. I need a word with the manager. Inside, if you don’t mind.’

She didn’t mind at all. She’d been waiting to give her version of the story, and he was buzzed right in.

He walked into a short corridor. Just two doors here: another vault-like iron door in the left wall, shut, and a closed wooden door facing it. Beyond both was a thick black curtain pulled across the corridor, and he quickly peeked through. More doors, only one open, with a toilet inside, so cramped it looked as if you could barely shut the door behind you. Dead ahead, at the end of the corridor, was another curtain, pinned to a length of wood nailed at door height.

The big iron door buzzed. His cue to enter The Apocalypse.

It was a long, thin room. The tables and chairs were wrapped in canvas, as if they’d freshly exited storage. Shelves were loaded with tinned food and dry cereals, all dusty, and water jugs stood against walls with gas masks and biohazard suits hanging above. A large standing menu didn’t say menu but ‘emergency rations’. Bowls on the bar held military-style ration packs. There was an ancient CRT TV in a corner. Framed posters displayed mushroom clouds, savaged cities and lists for the perfect ‘Disaster Supply Kit’. This place was kitted out like a bomb shelter. He got it. Apocalypse. A themed bar.

There were two women behind one of the bar tills fiddling with paperwork. One wore a tight long black skirt and tight white shirt. Brad decided to approach the lady in casual clothing. But first he flicked off the lights using a switch by the door.

‘Hey, what are you doing?’

He stopped ten feet away. In the light cast by the fridges, he could still make out their faces, and they his. The name on the warrant card was invented, but he could imagine her sitting with real police and jabbing out his mugshot.

‘I’ll explain. You the manager?’

She said she was and gave her name, Carla. Owner of that cockney voice, which was an unusual mix with her Chinese appearance. She started to absolve herself of any blame in a bar fight last night, until Brad cut her off.

‘This isn’t about a fight. I’m investigating a separate crime, and I need your help.’

Carla’s cold front thawed instantly. She worked her way around the bar, all smiles, eager to help. And she stood too close, which he didn’t like because she got a good look at him. Brad took a step back.

‘So what’s this about? And why do the lights need to be off?’ she asked.

Brad spun her a tale about bank robbers believed to have frequented this bar. Told her he needed to take fingerprints. He spotted a thin door in an end wall. It had a window, though all was black beyond and he swore he could feel a breeze coming from it.

‘That lead outside?’

‘Sure does. Did you hear about those murders last night? Some country cottage in London. Four dead. The killers raped a woman and took her body away. What do you know?’

Newspaper bullshit, that was what he knew. He repeated his line about fingerprints, then added the portion he wasn’t looking forward to: ‘I need to be alone when I do it. Body heat affects the chemical. As does heat from lights. I kindly need you both to leave, and I need the lights off.’

The women looked at each other. If either of them was a fan of detective fiction, they’d sniff his bullshit and his guise would come undone.

‘Oh, okay. That makes sense, I guess. But can I not help?’

Carla took a little more convincing, locking the till before she left. He was surprised his trick had worked so easily, but work it had. The women were soon gone, and he was alone.

He approached the end door, lit only by the fridge, feeling his adrenaline rising.