starter for @fagpoof
The Double R was packed out, the rafters ringing with music and laughter and the occasional shout in either celebration or insult – sometimes it was hard to tell which. Old East End boxers and new West End criminals stood shoulder to shoulder, everyone with a drink in hand, a comment to throw wildly into the loud chatter. Cigarette smoke gathered storm cloud low over the crowded tables.
These were the kind of nights that Teddy liked best – loud, busy, the press of conversation on all sides. As it was his first time at this particular club, he watched the scene from the edge of the bar, scouting out the place with all the watchfulness of an old thief. The problem with Teddy’s vigilance though, was that when he spotted the potential for danger, he tended to walk straight for it, rather than heading in the opposite direction.
He was here on the recommendation of an old acquaintance, the kind who would slip you a cigarette or a tip off, but certainly not the sort that you would invite back to yours for a cup of tea. Of course alongside that, it was common knowledge that the Krays owned this place, and Teddy would have been lying if he said he wasn’t hoping to run into at least one of the twins this evening. He imagined impressing one of them with one of his many well-embroidered tales. Visions of grandeur, perhaps.
So his mood was high, a sense of excitement and expectation mingled with the smoke in the air. But with that height came precariousness, like a mountain peak or a knife edge, it didn’t take much to tip Teddy over from exhilaration and anticipation into the sharpness of violence.
He hadn’t been looking for a fight, but sometimes – he would always maintain, of course – the fight found him. Swelled up inside him like the crest of a wave, raised emotions, laughter and violence pressed inside him into one tight coil. A crash of bodies somewhere further down the bar and suddenly Teddy found himself covered in most of the contents of a hastily upturned pint glass.
“Sorry mate,” came the apology, and the carelessness in the other's tone, the seeming lack of regret, was enough to tip Teddy. It was hard to say whether a different tack would have swayed him in the opposite direction – a bright laugh and a clap on the shoulder, no harm done – but as it was, he could feel the anger spark and crackle in him like sudden electricity.
“Look where you’re fucking going,” Teddy retorted, turning to face the offender. It was not like Teddy to throw wild punches, he had grown out of that childish shit years ago; but the bar beside him was littered with bottles that he would happily use as potential threats.
“Fucking idiot,” the man muttered, an under the breath comment that seemed to be addressed to no one in particular.
Teddy reached one hand – shaking fingers, he noticed – into the inside pocket of his jacket, where the familiar weight of his switchblade lay, pressed comfortably against his ribs. “What did you say?”
