* * * *
The place reeked of curry.
It was the first open restaurant he’d come across. He passed by building after building, all dark, all locked up. Yet despite the fact this section of the city was a virtual ghost town, scores of people wandered past him. Mostly young, dressed up, laughing, shouting, tipsy. It pissed him off—all of them full of life, not a care, über confident. Don could bet if they went anyplace in the United Kingdom and started f*****g around, they’d not be bothered for they were hetero-secksu-ellle. He could still hear the cop’s accent, the strange lisp the guy had on every other “s” sound. Speech impediment. Power trip. Closet case.
The waiter brought over his murgh makhani, which sounded a hell of a lot better in English. Butter Chicken. Still, he felt hungry and
