Snow Hill

The crossroads where Pentonville Road turned into City Road was clear of traffic in every direction. A lone policeman stood in the doorway of the Angel cinema. He nodded but did not bother to extinguish his cigarette. Johnny’s head ached. Lack of sleep or excess alcohol? Both, probably.

He knew it was a bad idea to go for a drink with Bill, but he hadn’t had the heart to put him off two evenings in one week. Even so, as they had sat in the Tipperary, which Bill still insisted on calling the Boar’s Head—printers returning from the Great War had given the pub its new name—it was all Johnny could do to stay awake. He could not tell him that he had been up since five, and that he would have to be up again in a few hours time, because that would only invite questions.

He did, however, have one question of his own.

“How come you didn’t tell me that a wolly had transferred from Snow Hill to the Met?”

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