They were in a large, loud bar off Leicester Square—the place was full of foreigners, all chatting away in their incomprehensible foreign languages, Jonjo thought, looking around him. Even the bar staff were foreign. He, Darren and this other bloke who’d been introduced as ‘Bob’ seemed to be the only true-blue English present. This Bob was another soldier, Jonjo had recognised instantly, though of higher rank—an officer, a ‘Rupert’—but a Rupert who had seen some nasty business: two fingers were missing on his left hand and he had a fairly recent, wealed, crescent-shaped scar four inches long on his jaw. “Cheers, dears,” Jonjo said and glugged three big mouthfuls of fizzy beer. He was in for a bollocking, or worse—might as well enjoy the free drink. “You fucked up, Jonjo,” Bob said quietly, when he’d set his glass down. “Big time. Do you know what we had to do to get you out? Any idea who we had to call?
What do You think about 2009 - Ordinary Thunderstorms?
