Judas sat in the Wellington pub and drank his second pint less quickly than the first; as is always the way, the railway workers had badgered him into having a pint with them. Because he’d already eaten two of their special Marmite infused Scotch eggs, he felt that he couldn’t refuse. The bouncer at the door wasn’t going to let him in holding a spear, but he lied and said that it was for a fancy-dress party and was made of papier-mâché and couldn’t cut through an uncooked sausage. The company was good; they told jokes and laughed a lot, which is what Judas needed. The feeling of triumph was beginning to fade, and Judas knew that tomorrow he had an even more sinister enemy to confront. The new Chief Super and his army of removals wagons.
The ride home in a London black cab was mercifully s
