ONE CAN REASONABLY assume that dancing at the end of a rope can leave a man proof against further shocks to the system, but the vile swill that passed for dinner at the c**k and Egg challenged most assumptions. I leaned back in my seat barely two hours after the incident at the warehouse and closed my eyes. I wanted to wish away the bitter tang and thick oppressive odor of the seasoned egg and cheese slop Dickens greedily slurped and swallowed. The din and clatter of the pub crashed over me, Christmas songs merrily slurred by those full to the brim of mulled cider and whiskey pressed me like an inquisition’s victim. It pushed down on me with the thick smell of stale beer, rotting straw, sickly sweet perfumes, unwashed bodies, and urine. Shuddering, I opened my eyes and reached for the flag
