No bells and whistles. No streamers, balloons and bunting hanging from the trees. Not even that old staple of a million films and TV shows, the best mate waiting in a flash car with a bottle of champagne, cigars, a change of clothes and two horny tarts up for anything. Jimmy didn't have a best mate. Or any mate, for that matter. He walked down the long road from the prison gate to Brixton Hill in the early morning light. Under one arm was a brown paper parcel, and in his pocket, £27.86. He walked alone. Other prisoners had been released that sunny, spring morning, but he left them to it as they met with friends and loved ones. He was soon standing alone on the corner, watching the rush hour traffic moving towards central London. And that traffic. It hadn't been like this the last time he'd driven through London as a free man. Even the buses had changed - apart from the occasional, ancient Routemaster. Oh yes, he remembered them all right, and the part the traditional London double-decker had played in his downfall.
