Light spilled around half-closed curtains to pool on the pitted, uneven pavements. Graffiti-scarred tower blocks thrust into the night sky like giant tombstones and here and there houses squatted like waiting nightmares, their windows shuttered with blank steel plates. Sucker Town in all its midnight glory. I stopped running, not even winded from my sprint. A large pub, the Leech & Lettuce, complete with plastic Tudor beams, dominated one corner of the crossroads. The sign above the entrance creaked, even though the air was hot and still. Baring an impressive set of sharp cartoon fangs, the Leech on the sign was poised, ready to sink them deep into the plump juicy lettuce leaf it slithered across. A large blue heart thumped in the leech’s slimy breast. I’d reached my destination. Gold script above the pub’s door proclaimed Archibald Smith is Licensed to Sell Beers, Wines and Spirits to be Consumed On or Off the Premises and Licensed for Vampiric Activities.
