GBH (Soho Crime)

GBH (Soho Crime)

Ted Lewis

Language: English

Pages: 352

ISBN: 1616956461

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

The lost masterwork of British crime icon Ted Lewis—author of Get Carter—is an unnerving tale of paranoia and madness in the heart of the late 1970s London criminal underworld.

In London, George Fowler heads a lucrative criminal syndicate that specializes in illegal pornography. Fowler is king, with a beautiful woman at his side and a swanky penthouse office, but his world is in jeopardy. Someone is undermining his empire from within, and Fowler becomes increasingly ruthless in his pursuit of the unknown traitor, trusting an ever smaller set of advisers.

Juxtaposed with the terror and violence of Fowler’s last days in London is the flash-forward narrative of his hideout bunker in a tiny English beach town, where he skulks during the off-season, trying to salvage his fallen empire. Just as it seems possible for Fowler to rise again, another trigger may cause his total, irreparable unraveling.

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phones. There’s still no reply. I didn’t think there would be, not unless the midnight movie’s something he wants to see. I ring him at four more regular intervals; the fourth time I get through. “It’s me,” I tell him. “Yes,” he says. “I may have had a visitor.” “What kind?” “Journalistic.” “That’s a pity.” “It looks like Sunday stuff. It could even appear tomorrow.” “Oh dear.” “If I’m right, I can’t go back to where I am. So I want you to phone O’Connell now. He’ll still be at the

retention of life, but because of the effects the flames are now having on the girl’s totally fire-enveloped shape, like a coarse charcoal drawing as it totters slightly to one side, already becoming one with the carpet and the upholstery and the melting plastic. THE SMOKE “I’VE JUST HEARD,” MICKEY said, sitting down. “So that’s where she went.” “That’s where she went,” I said. “A bit close to home, wasn’t it?” “In more ways than one,” I said. “I mean, they couldn’t be much nearer home if

hers and go and sit down opposite her again. “In any case,” she says, after taking a sip, “I’m frigid. So it wouldn’t really be worth it, would it?” “I don’t suppose it would.” “Or would you consider that a challenge?” “Some men might. If they believed it.” “And you?” “I thought you’d got me all weighed up.” She smiles her smile again. “There’s always rape; meant to be more exciting if the woman’s frigid, isn’t it?” “So they say,” I say. “Or are you more of a watcher. Yes,” she says,

illustrated boxes, because she’s not in one of them. Those that remain, I put in a big cardboard box, and carry the box to the top of the steps, and put it on the garage floor, and close the trapdoor behind me, without looking back. It’s a relief to slide back the bolts and re-lock the padlock, so much so that I kneel on the dusty floor for a few moments, letting the sweat fall like raindrops on the dryness of the concrete floor. As I stand up, I look at my watch. It is a quarter to seven. THE

memory becoming more to her than just the literal ashes he had become already. I’d told her, look, you mustn’t dwell on things like that. An accident’s an accident. They happen every day. THE SMOKE AFTER MICKEY’D GONE, I went through into the office. Jean was leaning back in the chair behind her desk. Some of the books lay open in front of her. The grey Soho daylight diffused her thoughtfulness. My entrance did nothing to break her present preoccupation. I sat down by the window. “You

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