The door slammed open making everyone jump, freeze, and stare. A blast of icy cold wind spread through the shop. The singers stopped, a lady shrieked, and there, in the door, stood Stanley March. Eyes bloodshot, filthy hat at an angle. The stench of ale and gin seeped into the shop as he stood there, swaying on his feet.
Christy wanted to die.
“Ere. You. Money,” he slurred, holding onto the door jamb with one hand and gesturing angrily at Christy with the other.
Every eye in the shop that had been fixed in fascinated horror on March turned with excruciating interest to Christy.
Face flaming, Christy strode over and put a hand on his chest to move him outside. “Yes,” he hissed. “I will bring it tonight when I have been paid. I told you I would.”
March shoved him off, hard. Hard enough
