His hair was badly dyed – black, and visibly unnatural against his pale skin.  Lines on his face bore the excesses of booze, a poor diet or both.  The sunglasses almost gave him a “Keith Richards” look, the “screaming skull” from the sixties had a stunt double if he ever needed one.  However, motion or emotion weren’t in John’s repertoire any more.

The glasses hid the shock and horror John showed when the knife was rammed into his chest.  A scything circular motion between his ribs saw to it that he started drowning in his own blood, whilst also having the ability to breathe severely hampered by releasing the vacuum of the chest cavity.  The surge of adrenalin did the rest – John sat beyond help in just over a minute, the helpless goldfish-out-of-water look on his face seemed to echo the disdain with which his surprise guest reviewed him.  The gleaming hi-fi in the corner was on its third loop of “Mars” by Holst – it spoke to him like no other – it encapsulated all the emotions of life in just under seven minutes - Joy; strength; resistance; futility; and of course; death.  He’d brought his own brandy and glass – it would have been rash to expect John to have had such things at his home.  Cable TV, lager and third rate porn, no doubt – but the finer things in life were not likely to be here.  The added advantage of him bringing his own glass and alcohol was that it would cut down on the chance of any fingerprints being left.  He so enjoyed a refined drink with his acquaintances, as much to bring to their lives a small slice of sophistication – even if their spirits were the only ones in a position to appreciate them.

The brandy offered a mellow colour through the Waterford crystal, slowly spinning in time with the orbital movement in his hand.  Ah, the music, it touched him so – the thunder, the passion, the hope, the despair.  For some reason the thundering brass conjured up images of jack-boots down The Mall.  German storm-troopers marching towards the symbol of power at that time, the crescendo of the lighter horns towards the end signifying the attempt of plucky resistance; but being more than battered down by superior firepower and superior numbers.  The dying of the horns at the end matching the valiant but crestfallen efforts of the British army trying to stop explosives being placed at the base of Nelson’s column – the final note symbolising the fall of Nelson into Admiralty Arch and German victory in the capital.

It surprised him that he thought of such a thing, he didn’t believe himself to be engrossed with World War II or militaria, but in all the times he had heard that music it was impossible to shift the battle for London that played in his head.  The brandy was slipping down well, and despite the poor quality of his surroundings he was sufficiently comfortable on the settee not to be in too much of a hurry.  The music carried him – discordant colours that comprised the décor were crowned with a blu-tacked poster above the fireplace celebrating the treble achieved by Manchester United in 1998, a suitable souvenir for his evening’s work.

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