Payback: VAUXHALL GAY VILLAGE, #2

By MARK HOUSTON

The heroes of HUNTED return in a new thriller - PAYBACK.

 

The gay village of Vauxhall has been liberated. The vicious homophobic gang that terrorised gay men has been arrested and await trial. Their alpha wolf, Maxim Azarov, is dead. Arran Rush killed him.

 

Arran is living in a self-imposed prison, plagued by nightly nightmares of having killed the big Russian and disposed of his body in a makeshift grave. Distanced from his friends and family, he fails to see what is happening around him.

 

A mystery avenger is making Arran's friends pay for putting an end to the gang's activities and bringing them to justice. Someone is seeking payback.

 

Could it be a friend or relation of one of the gang members? Could it be a copycat? Someone who idolises the gang and is following in their homophobic footsteps? Could it even be Maxim – back from the grave?

 

Whoever the avenger is, he has to be stopped before he succeeds in his mission to wipe out Arran's loved ones. They are fighting for their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MARK HOUSTON
• Release date: Feb 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201218638

Book preview

Chapter One

Arran Rush’s long shift at Bananas left him dead on his feet. The bar had been crammed with men, clamouring for drinks, dancing themselves silly and desperate for some man on man action. All thought of the homophobic Russian gang, targeting gay men in Vauxhall to groom, abduct, torture and kill had been forgotten. Old news. The sickening sight churned Arran’s stomach. These guys should have more respect for their fallen brothers. The war against homophobes was neverending. Gay rights were hard won and not set in stone. They had to be jealously guarded. Politicians were a fickle breed that swayed in the breeze of public opinion. Gay people had to make sure their voices were heard, loud and long.

Arran pulled up the zipper on his jacket against the chill night air and hurried through the dark streets of the industrial area outside Vauxhall, keeping his eyes keen. The Russian gang had been rounded up by the police and were in custody, awaiting trial. All except one. Maxim Azarov had eluded arrest and had been on the run for weeks. Maxim would be hellbent on revenge against those who had brought his gang to justice - Arran and his friends. If Maxim caught any one of them, it would mean almost certain death. Where was his bar mate, Serge, when he needed him? Off sick with man flu, the slacker.

Twenty minutes later, Arran reached Boy Lane and let himself into the house he shared with Miss Givens and Gregor. In his bedroom he tore off his clothes and fell into bed just as his phone pinged. Shit! Who the fuck would be texting him at this time of night? Another minute and he would have been dead to the world. He wouldn’t even have heard it. He snatched up his phone from the bedside cabinet. The text was from Alex. Arran bolted upright, unable to believe his eyes. Alex had found Maxim.

Come now. I need your help.

An address was given for a garage not far from a place he knew well - Shah’s Clothing Company was the place where he had been picked up by the Russian gang. The place from where it had abducted all its victims. Arran texted he was on his way. He didn’t risk calling in case the sound gave Alex away. He jumped out of bed and threw on a sweatshirt, hoodie and trackies. On the way down the stairs he deliberated whether to alert Miss Givens or Gregor as to where he was going. Deciding against it, he left the house. Miss Givens would only worry. Worse, Gregor might want to go with him. No way could he deal with babysitting duties. He and Alex could look after themselves, but Gregor wasn’t built the same way, being more of a bookworm.

Arran let himself out of the house and unlocked his bike. He walked it to the pavement before mounting and pedalling off into the night. How the hell had Alex done what the police couldn’t and found Maxim? All along the route Arran waited for another text from Alex, keeping him up to date with what was going on. None came. He might not be in a position to use the phone again. Or was there some other reason he couldn’t get back in contact? With no traffic around, Arran sped along the middle of the road, eating up the yards. After leaving behind Shah’s Clothing Company, Arran slowed his pace, wanting to avoid rushing headlong into a situation not in his control. His days of rushing in half-cocked were over. He had learnt that particular lesson the hard way, coming close to death at the hands of the Russian gang because of his reckless nature.

At the end of the street, where the garage was located, Arran dismounted his bike. He couldn’t afford to announce his arrival and give away the element of surprise. He parked it out of sight, by the side of a unit selling motor accessories. Halfway along the street he picked out the garage, a yellow glow showing at the small window. Where was Alex? He knew Arran was on his way. He should have been here to meet him. Minutes ticked by and Alex didn’t show. Something must have happened and he’d tackled Maxim on his own. He had to be inside the garage with Maxim. The question was: Which one of them was on top? For Alex to have won out, he must have surprised Maxim. Arran only hoped that was the case.

The street lighting wasn’t good in this area, dominated by commercial properties, factories and industrial units. By day it was populated by an army of worker ants. By night they had fled to their nests and the area was deserted. The orange light from a solitary street lamp provided scant illumination. Useful for keeping him hidden, but putting him at risk of ambush. Sticking to the shadows, Arran crept along the cracked paving stones and crouched down behind a low wall. A quiet breeze ruffled his hair as he watched and listened. No sound came from the garage. No indication of what was going on inside. Desperate to find Alex, he forced himself to wait. Getting captured wouldn’t help his boyfriend. More minutes passed and still nothing happened. Rising, he edged forward. Coming to the garage, he slid down the side wall. It had the look of a place long abandoned, in bad shape, the door splintered and the window cracked. He tried peering through. Dirt and grime made it difficult to see anything. He would have to make his way inside. He didn’t like it. The whole situation smelled of a set up. But what choice did he have? Alex was likely inside and in need of his help.

An inch at a time, Arran eased open the door of the garage. One creak and he was done, all element of surprise gone. From inside came a slapping sound, reverberating around the walls. Heavy breathing and grunts of pleasure accompanied the slapping. What the hell was going on in there? It sounded like a brothel. Probably teenagers with nowhere else to go. Jesus, if he’d got the wrong fucking place ... He shrugged off the uncomfortable peeping Tom feeling and opened the door wide enough to slither through. He had to check who was inside and see what was happening. One check, just to make sure. The sex was coming from the back corner. Between here and there the floor was littered with car parts, old bits of engines, tyres and hub caps. Dark blotches showed everywhere. Oil patches, judging by the greasy odour. A dark rectangle dominated the centre - the work pit. If he took a tumble down there, he could well break his neck. Game over.

Arran edged forward, careful of each and every foot placement. Ten steps into the interior and he realised the commotion was not coming from teenagers. All the slapping and grunting was coming from Maxim. He was on some kind of makeshift bed and near naked. He was lying on top of Alex, his meaty hands around Alex’s neck, forcing him down. Alex was just lying there, not crying, not moaning, not making a sound. Maxim was fucking the life out of him and revelling in every thrust. The fucking hypocrite! Good men had died at his hands because he hated homosexuals. Or so he said. Best mate Jez had died in great pain because this bastard had kicked the life out of him.

Please don’t let Alex be dead.

Arran searched around for a weapon. Anything to help him in his fight with the big Russian. Only a fool would risk hand to hand combat against such a brute. He spied a length of pipe a couple of feet away. Taking care not to make a sound, he reached for it. Maxim was oblivious to his presence. His full attention given to raping Alex, ripping into him. With the pipe gripped in his hand, Arran edged towards the bed. One trip and Maxim would be on him. Arran had to catch him unawares if he was to have any chance of overcoming him.

Six feet away, he raised the pipe above his head. Maxim still had no clue he was there. In two strides Arran was on him, swinging the pipe down at his head. The two connected with a sickening crack. Maxim gave one last grunt and collapsed onto Alex, a red streak opening up on his head. Blood leaked out from the wound. He wasn’t moving.

Neither was Alex.

The ground was shaking beneath Arran. Someone was calling his name.

‘Arran, wake up! Wake up!’

Arran opened his eyes. Alex was looking down on him, his hands resting on Arran’s shoulders.

‘Another nightmare?’

Arran turned onto his back. The sheet beneath his naked body was drenched in sweat. He swung his legs out of bed and sat on the side, resting his head in his hands. A heavy sense of dread clung to him and wouldn’t let go.

‘You need to talk to someone. You can’t go on like this, night after night. These nightmares are killing you.’

‘How the hell can I? After what I’ve done?’

Alex reached his arms around Arran and hugged him. ‘What we’ve done, Arran. You didn’t do it alone. I helped you. That makes me just as guilty in the eyes of the law.’

Alex’s loyalty crushed Arran. When Alex had needed him, he’d taken the high moral ground. He hadn’t listened when Alex had explained how he’d been just a kid when his sister and the gang had forced him to be a honeytrap for gay men. He’d dismissed the massive burdens on Alex in turning on his old gang and helping the police with their prosecution case. He’d had the gall to label Alex a murderer, even though he hadn’t actually murdered anyone. To Alex’s face, he’d told him that whatever the situation he still wouldn’t have done what he’d done. And now he had. Worse. He’d killed Maxim. Even though it was an accident and he hadn’t meant to hit him so hard, the man was still dead.

Banging on the front door made them jump.

‘What the hell is going on?’ Arran said.

Downstairs, doors opened and closed. A light showed under the crack of their door. The murmur of voices was heard. Then footsteps pounded up the stairs.

‘Oh, fuck! It’s the police. They’ve come for us.’

Alex took Arran by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes. ‘Say nothing when they get you to the station. We’ll speak to Sydnee. She’ll find us a good solicitor. When the police tell you I’m talking, that I’m betraying you, don’t listen. Don’t let them get us to turn on each other. You hearing me, Arran?’

Arran nodded. ‘I hear you.’

Someone rapped on the bedroom door. ‘It’s me, Gregor. You awake?’

‘What is it?’ Arran said.

‘You need to come downstairs. Now. It’s important.’

‘Be right down.’

Arran and Alex pulled on t-shirts and trackie bottoms. Before leaving the bedroom, Alex hugged Arran. ‘We can beat this, I promise. Stay strong. I love you.’

Walking down the stairs, a strange kind of relief came over Arran. His mum and stepdad would be devastated, heartbroken, at finding out what he’d done. That he’d killed a man. But at least this soul-destroying burden would be lifted and the nightmares would end. He could plead his case in court, take his punishment, serve out his time and start afresh. In the living room, only Miss Givens, Gregor and Sydnee were waiting for them. No police.

Arran looked at Sydnee. ‘What’s going on? Why are you here so late at night?’

‘You’d better brace yourself, love. Bad news, I’m afraid. Mr Cheung has passed away.’

Arran sank down onto the settee. Somehow he’d sensed something was wrong. He just hadn’t expected this, the death of his friend and mentor, and at a time when he needed him most.

Chapter Two

The train on the London Waterloo to Reading line stopped at Ashford in Surrey. The man hadn’t expected it to be on time, given everything he’d heard about British inefficiency in general and public transport in particular. Though the journey was in the middle of the day and there weren’t too many travellers on the train. It would probably have been a different story at rush hour. He pressed the exit button and stepped out onto the platform. After asking at the ticket office for directions, he left the small station and walked a short distance to a bus stop.

The town consisted of a strip of stores and a cluster of houses surrounded by lots of green. It wasn’t much more than a blip on the map. He moved around and stamped his feet to keep the blood flowing. He should have worn a heavier jacket, he thought. The air was fresher here than in the middle of London and the thin spring sunshine did little to warm him. After twenty long minutes, a bus pulled up at the stop. He checked the number on the front - 117. The bus was almost full. He got on, paid and took a seat halfway back, next to a young guy with lots of tattoos on show. He hadn’t asked the driver to put him off at his destination, imagining it would be too big to miss. Hardly had he settled into his seat before his journey’s end came into sight. Someone rang the bell. When the bus came to a stop, it emptied, everyone dismounting. This was a popular destination in these parts - HM Prison Bronzefield.

The man stood for a few seconds and took in the prison, disappointed it wasn’t as he’d pictured in his mind - a dark and foreboding structure, like the Tower of London. This building more resembled a giant leisure facility. So much for modern punishment, he thought. No wonder crime did pay. He followed the signs to the visitor facility and joined the end of the queue. When his turn came, an obese female officer ran her shovel mitts all over him. Probably the closest she ever got to sex. Rolls of fat spilled over her black trousers and large patches of sweat soiled the underarms of her white shirt. Gross. She asked if he was bringing in alcohol, drugs or weapons. Oh yeah, blimp, I have a giant meat cleaver stuffed up my sweater that I’d like to embed in your head for asking such a dumb fucking question. He smiled and shook his head. Ms Blimp directed him to a bank of lockers in which to leave his personal possessions. He took out a five pound note from his wallet before depositing it and his mobile phone inside a locker. He was then allowed to enter the Visits Hall - a large open-plan room with tables and seating dotted around. Some overpaid architect’s idea of an indoor plastic picnic park. At the refreshment counter he spent all of the money on two coffees, the colour of cloudy piss. He took them over to a corner table that had a bit more privacy than the others. Not that privacy mattered. No one other than the no-count jailbirds would see them together.

The man only had to wait another few minutes before the lowlifes came spilling in. He recognised the one he’d come to see straight away. She looked like her photo, only rougher. He waved his hand and called her name. She picked him out and came over. Up close she looked especially rough, hair in bad shape and eyes ringed with black. As she sat down opposite him, he recoiled from the whiff of boiled cabbage. No wonder she’d dropped weight.

A mixed race bitch walked by and drummed a meaty fist on their table top. All the while she kept her eyes fixed on the woman opposite him. The mongrel made for the nearest table to theirs. Svetlana shrank down under her hostile gaze. Hello, the man thought. What’s going on here? Svetlana’s blackened eyes weren’t just from a lack of sleep. Ha! How juicy.

‘Svetlana,’ he said, sliding over a coffee to her, ‘this is for you.’

She rewarded him with a weak smile. ‘Great to finally meet you. I was surprised to hear from you again. What brings you all this way?’

‘I think you know why.’

‘Maxim.’

The man nodded. ‘Maxim. Someone has to look after his interests, since he has no one else.’

She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘I couldn’t believe what you told me on the phone. I had to come here and look you in the eye. So why don’t you fucking make me understand?’

She glanced at the next table. Her charming mate was engaged in furious conversation with her mirror image - another fat black bitch.

‘Don’t worry, your girlfriend isn’t listening. Even if she could understand Russian.’

‘She’s not my fucking girlfriend.’

‘Turned her down, did you? Is that when you got those lovely bruises?’

Svetlana took a sip of coffee, her blackened eyes cast down. Seething. A direct hit, the man thought. He sat back in the plastic seat, smiling to himself. Luxuriating in the fact he’d dug under her discoloured skin. ‘So, tell me ... Why has Maxim’s girlfriend and mates abandoned him?’

Svetlana continued staring down at the coffee, still steaming at his jibes. Either that or trying to think up an answer that wouldn’t make him want to tear her fucking tatty head off. He waited her out.

She slowly lifted her head, a defiant look on her face. ‘It’s what Maxim would want. He’s disappeared to help us. We’re only saying the deaths were down to him to get us off the charges. That way we come across more as witnesses. And, as witnesses, we’re saying these deaths were nothing but accidents. Do you see? It’s a win-win way out.’

‘All I see is that you’re blaming my cousin for what all of you did together. The whole lot of you are nothing but a bunch of fucking cowards.’

Svetlana shook her head. ‘No, you’ve got it all wrong. That’s not it. I slept with the man for years. I know him inside and out. This is what Maxim would want, I know it.’ She sat back and crossed her arms, a petulant look on her dreary face. ‘Even if the police do catch up with Maxim, he wouldn’t spend much more time inside than we have. No one really cares about a bunch of queers. They just say they do and go through the motions, pandering to the bleeding hearts. That’s the liberal West for you. We can all come out of this with barely a slap on the wrist. If they deport us back to Russia, fucking good. It’ll save us the air fare. Our president will hang medals on our chests. He hates homosexuals as much as we do.’

What a fucking self-serving bitch! the Cousin thought. Where was that meat cleaver when he needed it? He snatched at the plastic coffee cup, splashing liquid onto the formica table. He wiped away the spill with a paper napkin before taking a sip. It was nasty. He set the coffee down to one side. ‘If you know Maxim so well. Where is he? Where would he go? Who would he turn to? I need places and names. I have to find him and you have to help me. You owe him.’

Svetlana scrutinised him with her dark me-me eyes, no doubt wondering if she could screw anything out of him. Fat fucking chance, he thought.

‘Don’t worry, I can give you contacts. Will you come again? And bring me a few treats? Some smokes would be good. Tobacco is a currency in here. With it I can buy favour.’

‘Enough to buy someone off? Or keep the girlfriend sweet?’

The petulant look returned to her sour face. ‘Don’t be mean. You don’t know what it’s like in here.’

Her wheedling voice annoyed the Cousin, but he managed a small smile to keep the bitch on side. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

Svetlana leant forward and took his hand, squeezing it and smiling, as if they were close, lovers even. Her clammy touch made him want to throw up. He felt a scratch on the palm of his hand, snatched it back from her and secreted the slip of paper into his pocket.

’There’s one guy we used to deal with all the time,’ she said. ‘He could get us anything we wanted, drugs ...’

His face must have registered his distaste.

‘... Don’t stress, nothing heavy. Just a little smoke, some powder now and then. Mainly he shifted all the equipment we stole from the building sites we used for the honeytraps. It was so fucking easy. This rotten country is a joke.’

‘What’s he called?’

‘The Fencer. It’s all written down.’

The Cousin stood up, having got what he came for. He leant over the table and looked Svetlana in the eye. ‘I hope they keep you locked up and throw away the key, you treacherous fucking bitch.’ The total shock on her face delighted him. It was as if he’d punched her. If only he could have. But if he started he might never stop. It would be him that got locked up when he had important work to do. He had to find Maxim and would do whatever it took. He stalked out of the hall, the visit terminated. The journey had been worth it, just to see Svetlana suffering in lock-up.

Long may it last, the Cousin thought, a smile warming his face and heart. And it would last, if he had anything to do with it.

Chapter Three

Three days after the passing of Mr Cheung, Arran was getting ready to bid him goodbye. He’d been invited to the funeral service by Mr Cheung’s eldest son. It seemed sad that this was the first time they’d ever spoken.

Miss Givens put a hand on Arran’s shoulder. ‘You’ll wear those shoes out if you keep on polishing them.’

Arran looked over his shoes. Shined to a mirror finish, he could see his own anxious face reflected in them. Having never been to a Buddhist funeral before, he wanted everything to look perfect. He didn’t want to come across as slapdash and cause offence. Not when Mr Cheung had been so good to him, offering his time, experience and patience without ever asking for a single favour in return. Seldom in life did you get to meet such a selfless person. It saddened Arran to think that never again would he get to listen to one of Mr Cheung’s stories about his long and eventful life. Never again would they practise Tai Chi in the park together. Never again would he get the benefit of his wisdom. ‘Do I look okay?’

‘Relax, Arran. The Cheung family won’t put you on trial for what you’re wearing.’

‘Mr Cheung’s son said to come in lighter coloured clothing and to make sure I wore something white.’ He was dressed in a white shirt and black tie, with charcoal grey trousers. Jon Jacks, Jez’s old boss, had lent him a light grey dress jacket. The last funeral Arran had attended was for Jez. Young and hungry for life, he should still have been here. It wasn’t fair he’d been robbed of his future by a mob that hated gays. Even now, Arran found it hard to accept that his friend was gone. Every day he remembered him. It was hard not to, when so many places in Vauxhall conjured up a memory. Mr Cheung’s passing, Arran could more easily understand - it was his time. His elderly mentor had died of natural causes.

‘Stand up and give us a twirl,’ Miss Givens said. ‘You look stunning, like a fashion model.’

‘Who’s a fashion model?’ Sydnee said, breezing into the living room.

‘Arran.’

Sydnee got a far away look in her eyes. ‘I should have been born ten years—’

Miss Givens coughed.

Sydnee rolled her eyes at her. ‘Twenty years later—’

‘And the rest.’

‘Whose story is this? Now they have normal full-figured women modelling, I would be a cinch for the catwalks, if I wasn’t—’

‘Too old.’

Sydnee glared at Miss Givens. ‘Even now, in Big Girls, I swish up and down the aisles like a super-model, showing off the fantastic clothes designed by moi. The compliments I get from the customers—’

‘How did you get in here?’

‘Through the front door. It was unlatched.’

‘I meant with your big head?’

‘Oh, shush, a girl can dream. You look scrumptious, Arran, by the way. What time is the service?’

‘Thanks,’ he said, fitting on the grey jacket. ‘I should get going, it starts in less than half an hour and I don’t want to be late.’

Sydnee handed Arran a bouquet of wild flowers to take to the funeral, saying that Mr Cheung and his family would appreciate their beauty and simplicity.

*

Mr Cheung’s flat was situated over the takeaway run by his eldest son. Arran knocked at the open door. The same son came out to greet him, placing his hands together and bowing. He introduced himself as Lee. Arran returned his bow before handing him the wild flowers. Lee accepted them with a smile, looking every bit as pleased as Sydnee said he would. Lee ushered Arran into the flat and introduced him to his younger brother, Jian. They looked almost identical in dove grey suits, white shirts and dark coloured ties. Their wives waved at Arran. They were fussing over the kids, three boys and one girl, all under ten and really cute. Their black hair shone against their flawless golden skin. Both the wives looked lovely in simple white dresses, one with red flowers and the other with blue flowers. The only other people present were four monks, dressed in traditional brown robes, their heads shaven.

The small flat had always been sparsely furnished. Now it was practically empty, to accommodate the small gathering and the coffin, set up in the middle of the room. The sideboard was laden with bowls of fruit, polished and arranged like a still life. Incense spiced the air, emanating from brass and copper holders placed in the four corners of the room. Lee invited Arran to pay his respects to Mr Cheung, laid out in a simple wooden coffin. Arran had to suppress a smile, careful not to show any disrespect for a man he’d grown to care about. Mr Cheung was wearing the same outfit he’d worn every day to the park - a simple loose white tunic, gone grey with age and use, that allowed him to bend and stretch into the many poses of Tai Chi. In his mind, Arran talked to his mentor, giving thanks for the many kindnesses shown to him, teaching him an ancient martial art and advising him on how to live a balanced and fruitful life. In Mr Cheung’s youth, he’d been involved with a gang. On the chief’s orders, he had raped the young daughter of a casino boss who had cheated them. The poor girl had committed suicide. Mr Cheung had lived every day since then with her death on his conscience. Somehow he had found a way to survive and thrive and become a better man. He would have helped Arran if only he’d found the nerve to confide in him about Maxim’s death. Now the opportunity had been lost for ever. On finishing the paying of respects, Arran rejoined the family and the monks, kneeling beside them on the spotlessly clean wooden floor.

The simple ceremony felt fitting for a man who revelled in peace and tranquility, and the dignity and purpose of the ritual was in keeping with how Mr Cheung had lived his life. He regularly sat for hours in the community garden in quiet contemplation. Arran recalled his still white figure under the cover of a tree and felt his presence, here in this room, among them. Every now and then the silence in the room was punctuated by one of the monks rising to his feet and chanting. Whenever that happened, everyone rose with the monk. When the chant ended, everyone would kneel again and return to their solitary thoughts. The chanting was in Chinese, so Arran had no idea of what was said. Instead, he let the gentle vibrations in the air permeate his body. They were soothing and instilled a sense of oneness with everyone around him. In this way he felt a part of proceedings, included.

All too soon it was over. The coffin lid was closed and Mr Cheung was carried out to the waiting hearse for the trip to the crematorium. The final send-off was for family only. Arran walked out with them. On the small open stairwell, the family assembled and faced Arran. They all had big smiles on their faces. Arran wondered what was happening. Lee came towards him and took his hand. In it he placed a key.

Arran shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘My father was very clear. He wanted you to have his flat. It’s yours for as long as you want it, rent free. He was very fond of you and wanted to gift you something that would help you in your young life. This will explain.’ From his jacket pocket he took out a sealed pale blue envelope and handed it to Arran.

Arran protested, saying that Mr Cheung’s gesture was beyond kind. ’But the flat should be for your family to do as you wish.’

Lee waved away his protest. ‘Our father’s wish is our wish. Please honour him and us by accepting.’

Arran could do nothing other than as they wished. He closed his hand over the key and bowed to them in thanks.

Chapter Four

Arran entered the Sanctum, bought a pint from barman Donny and found a quiet booth away from the chatter in the room. He glanced at the clock behind the bar - a quarter to seven. Alex wasn’t due to arrive for another fifteen minutes.

Arran took the top off his ale before pulling out Mr Cheung’s letter from his jacket pocket. The pale blue envelope remained sealed. He inserted a finger into a gap in one corner, slid it along and opened up the envelope. He pulled out a single sheet of paper, unfolded it and read his mentor’s last words to him.

My dear Arran,

I remember the first day I saw you, stretching in Kennington Park. You were so keen and enthusiastic but doing it all wrong. Your face dropped when I happened to mention the fact. Credit to you that you took it in your stride and let me help you. You are the perfect student, always willing to learn, always keen to know more and even listened to my old Hong Kong stories. If you were bored stiff, you never let it show.

Arran shook his head. Mr Cheung was always right, but not in this case. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The pictures Mr Cheung painted of his early life in the Far East were so vivid that Arran could remember many of them word for word. He had loved listening to his mentor’s tales.

Don’t think it was one way traffic. I gained so much joy from spending time in your company and huge satisfaction from seeing you grow as a person. You arrived in Vauxhall as a boy and grew into a man. You were devastated by the loss of your great friend Jez, taken from you in such a cruel way. I was immensely proud that you did not close your heart. Without a thought to your future, you gave up your savings for Jez’s funeral and remembrance bench. Many times I sat on that same bench in the community garden and felt Jez’s presence. I believe his spirit lives on in the world through you. You carry him around inside of you. Never forget that.

Mr Cheung was the sharpest person Arran had ever met. He saw the truth in everything and always found his way to the heart of any issue. Sadness over losing Jez had hovered over Arran like a black cloud. He would miss Jez and Mr Cheung to the end