pound the alarm

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She looked up at the man hearing him speaking. Just one night when she wanted to get out of the flat and do something, anything, maybe even try to have fun, there he was—an asshole on her way. She pulled out her ID from the pocket of her leather jacket but she really had no intention on handing it to him. “You do look oddly familiar. Have we met before?” she asked instead, scanning him with her dark eyes. 

Luther's eyebrow rose with the experience of being an old man who thinks he's hip. "Nah. I think you'd be a bit young to know me girly, no offense." She looked, what, twenty-three at most. Entirely too young to know his face. His name- yeah sure. Possibility. Not his face, unless she worked with the police and had a fetish for cold cases. He sighed, seeing as she had no intention of handing over her ID. "No ID, no entry, sweetheart. May as well give it up." 

Her eyes darted from the man to the club, dismissing the former, “It’s not seem to be my scene, unless you know something about it I don’t.”

The woman in front of him though- put together and pristine in the way she held herself. Another story entirely. "What's a pretty lass like you doin' down the wrong side of Mayfair?" That wasn't entirely true. There really was no wrong side to Mayfair. It was all tall, sand-coloured buildings that had withstood the test of time and pompous idiots in tailored suits who didn't know a flower from a- well, you get the idea.

Clive Owen

See, I have a small problem with that.  Do you want me to be h o n e s t?

'Course. 'onesty is the beat policy ain't it?

Normandy actually. I have family over there. Ah. I should have been clearer, yeah? I’m busy because of the holiday, but damn me if I didn’t need one. It’s been planned for a few months, hardly impromptu.

Ah. How nice for you. My apologies. Silly of me, assuming you just up and left. So 'ow was the weather there, then? S'just you didn't answer. I 'ear it's always still very nice around this time o' year. Thinking of going meself. 

Once again, I’m afraid you must be mistaken, Enoch. I’ve been on holiday in France for the past three weeks.

Oh yeah? Down to the South of France, eh? It's still beautiful this time a year aint it? Was it nice weather? Thought you said you were a busy man, though. Busy men 'ardly have time for impromptu visits to France. But what would I know? 

Clive Owen by Vincent Peters

You’re going to have to keep looking, I’m afraid. It’s Vaughan, not Moran. Now, I’m a very busy man, mate, but I work in security and, if you like, I could have a look through my records and see if I’ve ever encountered a Moran or a Moriarty, was it?

Ye' alright, Vaughn. 'n my name is of course, Enoch. I'll humour you, then. 'ave a look through your systems. See if you can't find 'em. 'n then we can talk about me following you around for the past few weeks and what my little eyes 'ave gone and seen.

However, I think you might have the wrong man here, mate. Haven’t the foggiest who you’re on about.

You've got a few leaks, it seems. D'ya know how many men and women I 'ad ta go through to even get your name? Took me months it did. Months. 

What d’you want then?

From you? An appointment with yer boss man. The mysterious M. Or, aft'a a little digging on my part: Moriarty.