Part 1 - Chatter 3

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Walthamstow Stadium was all garish neon, smells of fast food and desperation, and populated by down and outers looking to make a quick quid. Despite being set in his ways, this was where Archie took Alistair on most Saturday nights to spend some 'quality time' with his grandson watching the turbo charged whippets in pursuit of the sonic lure. Desperate punters and owners urged on the drones despairing when both gaskets and pay packets were blown.

Archie didn't bet, merely sipped a pint and ticked off the winners from an ap-sheet he'd circled earlier in the day. As ne'er do wells frittered away their earnings, Archie would remind Alistair why it was wise not to throw away good money, especially when it took hard graft to earn it in the first place.

On this particular Saturday evening, as an ill wind swept across the outer, Archie seemed a little on edge. Fidgeting as he checked his watch, he continued to check over his shoulder. Whilst Alistair nibbled on a battered saveloy sausage, liberally smothered in tomato ketchup, he clung to the outer railing as they loaded the starting boxes prior to the last rave before the mid-meet break. Archie stood, stretched and told him not to wander away as he trudged off to the amenities to relieve himself.

"No 2, Mountjoy Diamond In The Rough," Alistair predicted but Archie was off. The starter counted down and beeped as the whippets roared out of their hutches on to the track. Archie dashed to the gents as the local favourite kept everyone's attention. Locking himself in cubicle three, he double-checked the latch and quickly removed the cistern cover and placed it quietly on the toilet seat. He could hear the crowd cheering, egging on the race leader and he found a book – Death Threats From An 8 Year Old In The Seychelles - wrapped in a plastic snap-lock bag deposited in the cavity in the wall. He tugged it out, opened the bag and flipped the pages; in a secret code, he deciphered the latest message and, in a rare show of emotion, pumped his fist in delight.

This is it he thought, trying to contain his excitement lest he be sussed out.

Recovering his senses, he scribbled a reply in the back cover and returned the book in to the snap-lock bag, squeezed it in to the cavity and replaced the cover, just as the whippers hit the home stretch.

Relieving himself and flushing, he opened the cubicle door and was confronted by a man in a long coat who stepped aside and they both performed that little awkward dance as they both moved to let the other said.  "Pardon," drawled the other man, who manoeuvred himself around Archie towards the trough.

Archie washed his hands and watching the back of the man in the mirror, he exited, passing a Banksy-themed graffiti stencil on the wall, decrying Futurist brutality.

As the whippets sprinted to the finish line, Archie rejoined his grandson whilst the crowd whooped and hollered.

"I won!" Alistair marvelled, happy to back the winner.

"Aye," Archie nodded as he draped an arm over the boy's shoulder. "Should've had a tenner on it, eh?"  The punters filed to the snack kiosks and betting agents and after Archie spotted a pair of guards patrolling the stands, he suggested they head off early.

"But there's still the second half of the meet," Alistair whined.

"Aye, but we can beat the crowds on the Overground and I'll buy us some hot chips, how about that?"

Archie never bought hot chips so it was with much zeal Alistair agreed to leave. Striding past the guards, they made for the exit. Blending in to the crowd, the man in the long coat exitedthe men's toilets. In his hand was the book in the snap-lock bag from the cistern cavity. He scoured the crowd, but couldn't get a fix on the old man. Slyly speaking in to a communicator, he tucked the book in to his inside coat pocket for safe keeping before evading the circling guards and disappearing in to the night.

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