The music in Misfits pumped a subtle, thudding beat, keeping time with Lenny’s pulse as he rushed from table to table, pouring champagne and delivering towering burgers from the sizzling chargrill. He’d worked in quieter restaurants, but even on his worst day—and today was definitely among them—he couldn’t deny that waiting tables at Camden’s hottest food spot was almost as good as dancing up a storm at the club. The place buzzed, vibrant and frenetic, and four months into the job, it felt as much like home as anything had of late.
And the free ice cream helped with that. Midway through his shift, he took a break and loaded up with a bowl of Hackney-brown biscuit—a devilish mix of chocolate, caramel, and bourbon biscuits—and decamped to the bin yard to smoke a fag and catch some sun before the evening rush. He pulled out his phone and scanned the news website, but with no social media accounts to suck away the minutes, his cracked iPhone held little appeal.
He dropped it on the step beside him and finished up his ice cream, the last of his favourite flavour for a while, a fact that made his heart weep as he scraped the bowl clean. Misfits was famed for its burgers, but Lenny reckoned the ice cream—artisan-made at an East End dairy owned by the same company: Urban Soul—was its true gem. Where else could you get flavours like his beloved Hackney-brown biscuit, and Walthamstow’s marmalade cream?
Lenny ate every drop and moved on to the jellybeans he’d stashed in his pocket. Staff got a free burger on every shift, but Lenny stuck to the sweet stuff. Craved it. Let the sugar carry him until it was time to go—
A movement in Lenny’s peripheral vision cut his thoughts dead.
He’s here.
It was always the same: Lenny glanced around, almost forgetting what he might find, and then the sensation of being watched slammed into him, and drove his stomach to his knees.
He’s here.
Lenny stared hard at the vacant building behind the restaurant. The large bay window was now empty, but that didn’t matter. It wouldn’t be the next time he looked. Never was. His faithful tormentor always liked one last look before he scarpered back to whatever cave he’d crawled from.
This time was no different. Lenny forced himself to blink, holding his eyes shut for ten beats of his stampeding heart. Then he opened them and met the hollow gaze that had become his near-constant companion. Today, their encounter was brief. Another five beats and then the short, pasty man backed away from the window and disappeared into the depths of the empty shop.
And you still didn’t take a photo, dickhead.
Damn it. On the restaurant floor such a thing was impossible, but the few times Lenny had found himself face-to-face with his stalker, his phone in his hand, the moment had passed before he’d pressed the button, like he was the one hypnotised by what he was seeing.
The irony was beyond fucking annoying. Lenny stood, the ice cream he’d eaten for dinner curdling in his churning stomach. Reason told him he should be used to this shit by now—ten months after it had first invaded his life—but it hadn’t got any easier.
With weighted legs, Lenny trudged back inside and reclaimed his section twenty minutes early. The evening rush filled Misfits to the brim, turning every table ten times over, giving heart to the eclectic restaurant’s reputation. But the buzz that had carried Lenny through lunchtime was long gone, replaced by jittery hands and a dry mouth. He made mistakes, took his orders wrong, and forgot the side dishes that earned him a bonus at the end of each month.
Eventually, his shift manager lost patience with him and ended his shift prematurely. For the first time ever, he was the team’s weakest link. And despite the humiliation, he couldn’t even go home, at least not sober. A bucket of rum and Coke was the only way he could face the dark alleyway that led to his Chalk Farm studio flat.
Lenny took a seat at the bar and drank through the tips he’d managed to make before his day had gone to shit. His fourth Sailor Jerry’s was sliding down a treat when Ricky, the barman, set an envelope down in front of him. Lenny tilted his already booze-heavy head to one side. “What’s this?”
“Dunno. Tash found it in the staff room with your name on. Figured you’d left it there.”
Ricky went back to his work. Lenny stared at the envelope, the unease the rum had dulled reigniting with a vengeance. It was brown—he usually left white ones—but the writing was unmistakable. Perfect, like always, curved and script-like. With trepidation roiling in his gut, Lenny drew the envelope towards him. Experience told him he wouldn’t find anything pleasant inside, but the masochist in him had to look.
He tore it open. At first glance, it appeared empty, but then a single nail clipping fell onto the bar—clean and neat, with tracings of the blue polish Lenny had worn on his toes until yesterday.
Fuck. Lenny’s heart skipped a beat, and he spun around so fast he toppled from his stool, barely righting himself before he crashed to the floor. He scanned the restaurant, studying the yuppies, students, and tourists. There was no sign of a stained anorak and grubby jeans, but that did little to calm the panic fast rising in Lenny’s chest.
He kicked his stool away. It clattered into the bar, and Ricky shot him a quizzical glance. His gaze was one Lenny knew well, but as his brain imploded—terror and rum melding in a sickening mix—all Lenny could see was another set of eyes.
He’s here.
Lenny stumbled out of the restaurant and into the muggy night air. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but where would he go? His pockets were stuffed with the leaflets the police had given him, but what good were they now?
Despair washed over him. He dropped the leaflets onto a nearby bench and sat down. His back hit the dented metal with a thud that should’ve rattled his bones, but he felt nothing beyond the hopeless dread he’d lived with for so long. His trip to Kentish Town police station replayed in a loop in his head. “We need evidence, Mr. Mitchell.” Lenny had some now—but did he? What use was a clipping of his own fucking toenail? There might be fingerprints on the envelope. But Lenny was too far gone to catch the rationale before it slipped through his fingers. Too drunk, too scared, it didn’t matter, because whichever way he turned, he was fucked.
He’s never going to stop.
Lenny leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands. The world around him spun. His heart beat an ominous tattoo, and only the rum still swirling in his veins gave him any reprieve.
A car stopped in front of him. A door slammed. Familiar voices echoed in his head, but he didn’t look up. Couldn’t, even when someone called his name. The bench shifted as someone sat down beside him. Lenny’s pulse raced impossibly faster, and he braced himself for those dirty fucking hands finally touching his skin.
But they never came. Instead, warm fingers closed around his wrist, and a rough voice he’d heard somewhere before gently spoke his name.
“Lenny, mate? Do you need some help?”
Prep, cook, clean, sleep. Prep, cook, clean, sleep. Rinse and repeat. The process was as natural as breathing, but as Nero Fierro moved from kitchen to kitchen within the Urban Soul empire, no two days were ever the same.
