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The dark streets of Manchester's underworld play host to a vigilante of the worst kind. Wanting to rid the city of evil, the assassin constructs a poisoned dart and scours the newspaper headlines for the next victim.
Meanwhile, a young prostitute is viciously attacked and Doctor Clare Burtonall is placed in the unenviable position of deciding whether the terminate her life support. And as Clare contemplates the girl's future, her boyfriend, Bonn, does what he can to protect the other working girls in the city. He knows a criminal's imminent release from prison will cause waves on his patch; a patch already besieged by an every present undercurrent of unrest and ripples of suppressed anger caused by the girl's attacker still being at large.
plank. Akker walked to the main road, only two hundred paces from the hotel, and was collected by a night driver from Walkden on his way home to Lancaster. Neither man spoke. The driver had a plastic shopping bag ready for Akker’s rubbish, and a blanket for him to sit on. Lancaster was hell of a way, but Rack always insisted on details and the drivers were extravagantly well paid. The man dropped Akker at the Volunteer where, Akker knew, a whole crowd of pub regulars were in place ready to swear
sound signifying conclusion of a soap serial) Clare Three-Nine-Five was early for once. The children’s survey for inherited Garrod-type Enzyme-Deficiency Diseases was going badly. Part of her research finance had been withdrawn – in the words of Admin, ‘the furtherance advantages of subvention-sharing become extendable, enabling extra-hospital participation’, meaning Clare’s funds were cut. That meant a quarter of the GPs in the city would complain to her, first thing tomorrow morning, asking
write. He couldn’t, but moved the pencil like he knew what the marks meant. He was in the alcove, curtain pulled back. You could get a drink there, a new girl waiting on like it was computer science. She’d worked in the Shot Pot five days, not a smile yet. Rack reckoned she was overcome with lust for him, which only went to show. Today, he wore his green eyeshade with the inbuilt flickering yellow lights for effect, and his four-tone silk shirt. No wonder she was impressed. ‘What?’ the goon
supports. The clusters of spectators began to move. ‘Must cost the earth,’ Hassall started to say, then realised the drab man had left. Akker walked towards Greygate. He hadn’t once glanced Hassall’s way which, Hassall thought, was odd. That was the tactic of people who were partially sighted or blind. Or of blokes who knew you anyway, and had no need to fix you in the mind. Just for the hell of it Hassall strolled in the same direction. The dowdy thin bloke passed several of Grellie’s girls
double figures counting as a pretty good week. Its one priest was defeated by the tides of time and drifters who encrusted his side chapels of a night and raised fires in his vaults. It was an unusual evening if the fire brigade was not summoned by passing citizens worried by strange glows flickering in the partly boarded-up windows. Bonn knew of the priest. The sign announced Confessions – 6-8 or by arrangement. He entered the church. He had served mass here, when the parish asked for a