The engine starts to purr deep and low like a big cat stirring, as the long sweeping curves of the car stretch slowly into movement. We pull away and roll with the mist, up Frith Street to Soho Square. All I can hear are the clock ticking and the hiss of tyres on the damp road. ...
… Swoosshhh. The car stalks the forest of the night like that tyger. I love that poem. A dark metal sheen, smooth and stealthy, creeping among high buildings. Circling the square, we head down Greek Street and turn right into Old Compton Street, where closed restaurants and bars slide by like a sleeping film set. Night people lurk in unlit doorways here and there, shapeless shadows camouflaged in darkness. …
… Gazing out the car window I see someone looking at me, a strange look like they’ve seen a ghost. Obviously a weekender; no regular face would look that bothered or alarmed.
Everything else is normal: the usual shadows with the usual dark coated men inside them. The strippers clicking along on high heels between the Venus and the Keyhole Club, all with the small cases they use to carry their ‘costume’ in. A matchbox would do. Lots of those women work three, maybe four, clubs a night; you always see them walking between venues …
… We turn left at Dean Street, almost knocking over one of the infamous Meard Street regulars. I know all about what they do with their gentlemen friends; I’ve heard them enough times; it’s mad. Fagin knows some of those women too, but I don’t think he ever … you know. I wouldn’t. I know they say it’s an act, but it sounds like it hurts them. Who’d want to do that? Some of them are really nice when you get to know them.