Nightmares of Winter Dreaming

Prologue (Or Rather, the Beginning of Bad Things to Come) Victor Martin, gambling-addict-in-denial, was on a winning streak when the poker-faced gods of gamblers and punters decided to lay waste to his small fortune. Within minutes, his blackjack winnings had been decimated to zilch and he was reduced to begging for spare change on Euston Road, empty paper cup in one hand and a filthy, sympathy-inducing bandage tightly wrapped over the other (the result of a drunken, slot machine-punching rampage he was on earlier that week, when his last coin had been swallowed up and his wife had taken complete control of his already malnourished savings). An attempt, naturally, to persuade kind passers-by to contribute to feeding his addiction. Unfortunately, it was a late Tuesday night; pedestrian traffic was negligible and public sympathy was at its lowest. His lack of success was making him contemplate nicking the handbag of an approaching brunette talking excitedly over her phone when he felt a sharp pain in the small of his back. He screamed. The lady, purebred Londoner that she was, decided to take action the traditional way by giving him a determining once-over and then, upon deciding that he was of no immediate threat, picked up her already-quickened pace, speeding towards Pentonville Road. Victor immediately took note of two things: that he no longer felt the urge to gamble and, that he was now standing in a pool of blood, most likely his own. His burning back suddenly felt as if it were a tender ball of catnip- flavoured yarn and a rabid wildcat had had a go at it. It was a good thing that he then passed out from fright — with the current state of world affairs who knows what kind of heightened public alert a screaming, bleeding 40-year-old gambling addict begging in front of King's Cross might cause, even on a quiet Tuesday night. It was an even better thing that the next group of passers-by happened to be a gaggle of Japanese tourists unschooled in the ancient, human-contact-avoiding customs of London pedestrians; they naturally proceeded to kindly dial 999. ––––––––