Chapter Nine
The beauty spots of London.
The rancid stench of garbage was overpowering. The derelict tunnel flickered in and out of shadow thanks to the broken streetlight at one end. Graffiti decorated the walls, complete with slang, pornographic sketches, and political-themed rants. Somewhere, a rat skittered by, and further down, the intelligible mumblings of a homeless man bounced around the space.
“And they say romance is dead,” Miranda Abbleton said, looking distastefully at the surroundings.
“I personally think it’s beautiful,” I replied sarcastically. “We even have some artwork to admire,” I said, pointing to a crude spray-painted depiction of a large-breasted woman on the tunnel walls.
It had taken me ten minutes to reach the rendezvous point. A place specifically chosen to h
