7: Broken Bottle Party
IT was ten o'clock.
Callaghan sat at the table by the window in Lyons Corner House, Shaftesbury Avenue. He looked out and watched people meeting other people, going into the Monico, laughing, talking.
For a few seconds he saw London objectively! Saw it as a place mainly consisting of two parts— a very thin upper crust and a damn thick lower one. The upper crust was the veneer of respectability, 'niceness', cleanliness, which London showed the world; the lower crust— the thick one— all the rottenness, cheap crookery and general lousiness that existed in that Jungle in the heart of the metropolis whose boundaries are known to every intelligent police officer.
He smiled to himself as he thought how little the majority of Londoners knew about London. Some of them vag
