"Tough scene for the neutral, that," Mooney said as I, unexpectedly, was ushered back from the pub door. "There was me thinking you were supposed to be some sort of legendary hard arse, and here you are, being humbled by mere door staff."

The bouncer I'd just tried – and failed - to intimidate to move out of the way still hadn't moved a muscle. Not an inch. He just continued to stare back at me like I was a problem that would solve itself if it was glared at long enough.

"Who would have thought it of you, Undershaft? After all your 'look on my works ye mighty and despair' posturing, it turns out you're utterly stoppable on your day. An entirely believable talent. Always doubted you. Replaceable. You strike confidence into the hearts of men. One of the people I have seen. Always doing the thinkable. Ability from this world. Dedicated to keeping the fans in their seats. I guess I shouldn't smile because it's over, but cry because it happened."

"You quite finished with the lame comedy, mate?" I said, retreating back a few steps and considering the frontage of The Spillway Arms anew.

This part of East London was firmly embracing that odd, damp-cat smell it gets when the Thames remembers it's brine before it's river. Griff's latest hideout was hunched over the bank like an Edwardian schoolmaster, all barred sash windows, brickwork the colour of dried tea, and a car park with three miserable trees and even fewer spaces. A burnt-out scooter was bricked up in two of them.

"Can I just say, you bring me to all the most glamorous of places," Mooney stage-whispered. "Romantic like."

"I really am missing my time as a lone wolf," I said, reconsidering the bouncer. "It was a much simpler time."

The big man blocking the door had not shown any reaction to my attempt to intimidate him out of the way, which was actually quite impressive. That suggested he was, in Griff's terms, a 'proper' one. He had no noticeable neck and had hands emerging from his navy coat that looked like they'd done a stint as hammers.

I breathed out, feeling the Lugat's cold hands in my memory and Aunt M's warmer ones overlaying them. Griff was inside this building. My second dad. Mentor and fixer. But also the guy who'd put a ticket on my head and sold the date and time to the highest bidder. And, apparently, someone who was trying to bring about the end of the world.

"Remember, we're looking for answers in here, Undershaft," Mooney said, unusually gently, "A bit of old-fashioned vengeance can wait until we have them."

"Oh, don't worry. It's definitely going to need to be answers first," I said, "but vengeance is scheduled into the near future."

"Can't say fairer than that."

"You carrying, mate?" the bouncer asked as I approached him again.

"No," I said. Which was a technical truth, at least if you ignored everything I had stored in my inventory. Was a morningstar even really 'carrying.'

"You got any ID?"

"Seriously. You telling me you don't know who I am?"

"Oh, nice D-list celeb energy you've got going on there, Undershaft," Mooney said. "Yeah, don't you know who he is?"

The bouncer remained looking unimpressed. "You piss anyone off in there, it's on you, you understand? We don't call the fuzz around here. Things kick off, and there'll be no cavalry on the way. And you leave when told, okay?"

"Fine by me."

He crackled a radio and said to someone inside, "Two more coming in, eyes on." The door came open an inch, and the old wood gave a theatrical creak

Mooney and I crossed the threshold and, instantly, the temperature changed. This was a proper old-fashioned pub. Not unlike the one I'd met Roderick… this morning? Was that really right? Was it still the same morning after I was shot? Time-dilation for the win.

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The Spillway Arms had a high ceiling, polished taps, and the background hum of the low continuous murmur of the dangerous and the lonely. The staff were clearly not 'just' barstaff. The two positioned at either end of the bar, for example, had the posture of men who'd once kicked doors down for a living. The old girl on a stool in the corner was checking corners without turning her head. And I spotted what looked like a panic button by the till painted the same colour as the skirting board.

The way the place was arranged meant it had lanes you could sprint, tables placed for sightlines and mirrors which I thought saw more than they reflected.

If this went bad, it would go bad in a hurry. Or at least it would have done if I weren't an Iron Provocateur. Sensible men might leave their heavy kit at the door when attempting diplomacy. But I only ever aspire to sensibility on Thursdays.

The barmaid – a tall blonde with forearms that could crush walnuts – tilted her chin at me. "What can I get you, love?" she asked, the way a nurse asks if the cannula's comfortable.

"Nothing right now. I'm looking for news," I said. "And a chat with Griff."

"Well, I'm fresh out of news," she said. "And you'll be wanting Bingo if you want a chinwag."

"I always want Bingo, given half a chance," I said, and, for once, that was the truth. Bill "Bingo" Glasson was a retired, if that was ever possible, bank robber. And he was also Griff's quartermaster. If he were here, then it very much meant my minimap was on the money.

My quarry had to be upstairs in this pub somewhere.

"Well, look at who it is!" someone muttered from a table with cards splayed like a broken fan. "Ain't that big lad supposed to be dead?"

"Rumours of my demise were greatly exaggerated," I said.

"Someone buy that man a pint," another said. "Anyone who finds himself hanging around with Mooney deserves a drink."

"Just the one?" the first shot back.

"Maybe a vaccination shot, too?" a third said. The argument folded into the general murmur around us. I let it. This wasn't somewhere I would have considered my 'local' but I'd been in here often enough to feel like it was pleasantly familiar. It was odd to stand here knowing what I did now.

"Eli?" a deep voice rumbled from the corner of the bar.

I turned and saw Bingo. He had that gift some men have of appearing and never arriving. Which had served him well in some of his more nefarious activities over the years. And it really had been many years. The man was seventy, if he was a day, and was currently wearing a cardigan that I reckoned could stop a knife dead. His hair had, decades back, decided to surrender with honour, and his grin was the kind of warm that makes you check your pockets.

I was surprised how good it was to see him.

"Been hearing things about you today," he said.

"I'm sure only most of them are true," I said.

He flicked a thumb towards the ceiling. "Griff's in, and he's open to a sit-down with you. Although, looking at you now, I'm thinking you might be a different you."

"Don't reckon Griff's quite himself right now, either. Am I right?"

Bingo studied my face for a moment and then gestured for me to come closer. "He's up to his elbows in something. Has been for months now. You know what that might be?"

"I might," I said.

Mooney reappeared at my elbow with meatloaf on a plate and contrition in his grin. "Lettie felt sorry for me," he said. "Also, I might have survived a small local assault by crisps."

"Eat up, soft lad," Bingo said, then he jerked his chin at me. "You going up there, or what? I wouldn't suggest it would be wise to keep him waiting."

The stairs angled up and the carpet had the wrong kind of plush. It tried to hold my shoes, as if the building itself was not sure this meeting was going to be a good idea. Photographs of old landlords hung in a cluster on the landing wall, faces blurred, not by motion but by intent. How many times had I done this walk? My minimap spun, steadied—

—blink—

I was younger by several loyalties, and found myself nervously polishing my shoes on my calves. As I stood waiting to be allowed in, I anxiously rehearsed three versions of the truth: the one for him, the one for me, and the one I could live with later.

I spotted a nick on the skirting where someone had missed with a chair leg. A cigarette burn the shape of a comma, as if whatever sentence had been begun wanted to keep going. The landlords on the landing watched me with their rubbed-out faces. Somewhere, a pipe made an apologetic cough. I checked the corridor twice, then a third time for the part of me that never believes corridors when they say they're empty.

I knocked again and my reflection ghosted in the brass. The handle clicked. Silence rearranged itself beyond the jamb, acquiring weight. The boss's voice came through the wood with Midlands gravel it used for bad news and favours.

"Meddings," he said. "If you're here to lie to me, you better make it an interesting one."

I smiled down at my newly shined shoes and stepped in, certain that I was smarter than the man I was about to meet. I know better now. Sometimes the trick is living long enough to realise how dumb you are.

—snap—

The red dot was now a heartbeat feet away from me.

It was on.

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