Sowerbutt's Gift

The double bedroom overlooking the street was obviously occupied by the couple who owned the house with male and female garments strewn across the bed. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Sowerbutt slipped a small square of brown paper containing white powder under a painted china replica of the Eiffel Tower on a side table. Along the corridor, a bookcase full of books by Marx and Engels gave the clue to the occupier of the smaller bedroom. 
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Sowerbutt's Street

The street was silent, barely a light peeped through the blackout curtains. None of the street lights were on with the blackout, save one down at the T-junction with Whitechapel Road. It was quarter-strength at best. An old soldier with his matches tray stood next to it. With the bombing, day workers were already home, ready for another night in the bomb shelter. Few people went out or socialised at night. Dedicated drinkers were already settled in their pub, still a few hours before the rush home at closing time.

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Sowerbutt's Education

The anonymous street ran 90-degrees to Whitechapel Road, with a slight bend about halfway along. The Victorian property developer may have wanted to make his housing estate more interesting; more likely, the street followed the line of a medieval track or the edge of an ancient field.  Sowerbutt and his two companions neither knew nor would have cared that Roman centurions camped centuries earlier near where they were walking. In years to come, two 3^rd century Roman coins would be found across the street in the mud of a bomb site where council flats were being erected.

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Sowerbutt's War

“So you are going to win the war, John? One small island against almost the whole of Europe?” Gerhard smiled, enjoying a Player‘s cigarette. The Brigadier nodded: “With the Dutchman back in the White House, the lanky Yanks will come in. More supplies for us, then they’ll be over here. Same as the last lot, old boy.” Gerhard looked up: “I’ll counter your white Yankee king with a black Bushido knight. Tokyo will gobble up your Asian colonies with their rubber and petrol. As for the Soviets - Uncle Joe is perched on top of a rotten edifice. Spoils for us once the Commies crumble.”

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Sowerbutt's Shadow

Nero glided along the country lane, barely leaving a mark. He slowed to a standstill when Gerhard stopped and he accelerated when the former soldier got on his way again. Nero had never tracked anyone cross-country before. His experience was the streets of East London, fading into the shadows, slipping into an alleyway or deserted shop or these days a bomb site. But the principles were the same; merging with the background, absolute silence and an instinct for what the other person was going to do next.

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Sowerbutt's Eyes

A human chameleon, Sowerbutt once called Nero, always fading into the background. Nobody ever saw him whether it was stoppers getting ready for a raid or servants in a West End house before the robbery.

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Sowerbutt's Opponent

Gerhard stood still, like a gamekeeper’s dog; sniffing the wind, ears alert and eyes peering through the darkness. Nothing, a whiff of manure and the sickly scent of rotting leaves. Wind rustled through the trees, a dog barked in the distance. The former soldier stiffened as a branch creaked in the nearby woodland. Silence.

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