CHAPTER 1

    The sound of retching did little to distract Harry from his thoughts. 
    Leaning against the outside wall of a North London nightclub, not far from a partially-open fire exit door, Harry drew long and hard on the cigarette he’d earlier scrounged off one of the nightclub bouncers. He felt the hot acrid smoke burn the back of his throat, closely followed by the soothing and mellowing effect of the nicotine - and yet another silent promise to once again give up smoking.
    Harry’s thoughts flitted between life’s day-to-day tribulations such as what, where and when to have his evening meal, to deeper and darker issues such as what was life all about and was it worth it.
    He glanced at his wristwatch. It was just after ten o’clock on a Friday night, the summer’s evening was balmy, the light was almost gone, turning day into what passed for the night in London City, the dwindling sound of birdsong before roosting, along with the sounds of traffic and the constant thump, thump, beat of the nightclub’s music, serenading its departure.
    After the close confines and pressing bodies of the nightclub and despite the handbag and jacket draped over one shoulder, Harry could feel his body starting to cool down, the dress shirt beneath his two-piece suit, drying out, and his tie having long been removed. What he wouldn’t give for a cold beer, but he was working. 
    Harry Windsor - given name Henry - was in his early forties, a lean six foot two inches tall, broad in the shoulders and with closely cropped dark hair which was beginning to grey at the temples. 
    A pitiful groan drew his attention. He looked across at his client for the evening, a twenty-seven-year-old young woman on a night out with a two of her girlfriends, already drunk and throwing-up amongst the empty beer barrels stacked outside the rear of the nightclub, a young woman whose husband had hired Harry as a ‘minder’, to protect and keep out of trouble. It wasn’t going well.
    Chantelle Grayson was a stunningly beautiful young woman with a body to die for, luxuriously long wavy blonde hair and a picture-perfect complexion. She moved with feline grace and a teasing smile, attracting both wanted and unwanted attention, well aware and knowing. Her demeanour was of style and class until she opened her mouth, pure Essex, loud and proud - louder still with alcohol. She was a modern-day Barbie doll.
    As minder, driver, coat and handbag holder, Harry was always in the background, watching and waiting. Watching for signs of trouble, signs of danger, waiting for his next instructions. What to do, where to go. Her leading, Harry trailing behind. At least the pay was good.
    Harry took a final draw on his cigarette before dropping it on the ground and then grinding it out under the sole of his shoe. Approaching the young woman, he said, ‘Chantelle, it’s time to go home.’
    Bent double at the waist, one hand resting on an empty beer barrel to steady herself, the back of the other wiping her mouth, Chantelle managed another groan before saying, ‘This is your fault!’. Harry frowned. ‘You’re supposed to protect me,’ she told him, her words slurred.
    Hands in trouser pockets, Harry stood close by, waiting, trying to be patient.
    Chantelle stood, a little wobbly, a little unsteady. She attempted to straighten the flimsy scrap of cloth that passed for a dress, before running the back of her hand once again across her mouth and under her nose while sniffing hard. She teetered towards Harry, one hand grabbing his arm for support, the other slapping his chest, again telling him he was supposed to be looking after her, the tears starting to flow, before then burying her face in his chest. 
    Harry liked to think he could handle most situations, but if there was one situation he did find difficult to handle, it was that of a crying woman. He always felt awkward, never knowing quite what to say, quite what to do.
    Putting an arm loosely around Chantelle, their bodies barely touching, he gently patted her back, murmuring what he hoped were reassuring words of comfort. 
    After a few moments, the tears subsided.
    Tilting her head back to look up into Harry’s face, Chantelle then blinked several times, trying to focus. ‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ she said, slowly and carefully, ‘it's not your fault. Someone must have spiked my drinks.' Harry's money was on a large number of Tequila Slammers she’d consumed in a wine bar, earlier, but didn’t feel there was anything to gain by pointing that out. Running her palm across his hard chest muscles, she then said, ‘You’re so strong. You make me feel safe,’ before leaning into him, her cheek pressing against his chest, bodily contact becoming hard and defined. Harry could feel her soft curves moulding to his taut muscles, the heat of her body burning through the thin cloth that separated her nakedness.  
    Acutely aware of their closeness, Harry looked down into the girl’s upturned face, its beauty marred only by streaked mascara and smudged scarlet lipstick. He could smell her intoxicating perfume along with the smell of strong alcohol.
    Raising herself up onto her toes, her arms snaked up and around Harry’s neck, the movement bringing her pelvis into hard contact with his, an appreciative murmur escaping her lips as she did so, the tip of her tongue briefly flicking across her teeth as she tilted her head to lean in and kiss Harry, who, on realizing, turned his head as she did so.
    Harry saw her affronted look of shock turn to humiliated outrage. She took a step back, slapping his face with an open palm as she did so, to leave a livid red mark across his cheek, along with a look of surprise that was quickly replaced with anger. When she attempted to slap him for the second time, he was forced to grab and hold her by the wrist. 
    ‘Leave it out, lady,’ he told her. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to kiss you after what you’ve just done, do you?’ he added.
    ‘You bastard,’ she yelled in his face. ‘At least I don’t stink like an ashtray,’ she retorted, as she attempted to slap him with her other hand, forcing him to grab and restrain that also.
    Just as he did so, the fire exit door was suddenly thrown open, to then be filled with the large figure of one of the nightclub bouncers, a frown of annoyance on his face as he searched for the perpetrators of the partially-open fire door.
    Seeing a man and a woman, he glared momentarily before then saying, ‘You all right, Harry?’
    Harry scowled back before giving a curt nod of the head while still wrestling a drunk and irate Chantelle. The bouncer grinned before disappearing back inside the club.
    Releasing one of Chantelle’s wrists, Harry removed the handbag and jacket from his shoulder and thrust them at her, forcing her to grasp them and cease her physical attack, though the verbal attack continued, with her threatening to tell her husband how he’d been treating her.
    Gripping Chantelle by the upper arm, Harry led her off and towards the car park where her husband’s Lexus was parked, leant to Harry to drive his wife. ‘You can tell your husband whatever you like.’ 
    ‘What about Arabella and Jasmine?’ demanded a protesting Chantelle, referring to her two friends who were still inside the club.
    ‘They can walk,’ replied Harry. Chantelle’s response was less than ladylike. ‘Anybody ever tell you you’ve got a potty mouth, young lady?’ he said, as he opened the rear door to the Lexus, before then adding, ‘Don’t puke on the leather!’ as he bundled her in.