London Fields

This is a true story, but I can't believe it's really happening.

It's a murder story, too.

I can't believe my luck.

And a love story, of all strange things.

I know the murderer.

I know the murderee.

I know the time.

I know the place.

I know the motive, and I know the means.

I know who will be the foil, the fool, and the poor foal.

I couldn't stop them even if I wanted to.

You.

Always you.

You can't stop people once they start.

Please...

You can't stop people once they start creating.

It all started three weeks ago

when I flew in on a red-eye from New York.

Nobody in their right mind wants to come

to London right now.

They're afraid the crisis is going to reach a conclusion,

that everything's going to fall into chaos.

I thought I would be able to find something to write about.

See, I write fiction, but my novels...

aren't really fiction.

You have arrived at your destination.

You know, not many people rushin' in

to merry ol' London town these days.

I answered a personal ad in The New York Review of Books.

The celebrated writer Mark Asprey was offering up his apartment for a swap.

He would have been overwhelmed with responses

if it weren't for the crisis.

Instead, poor Mark ended up with my shithole in Hell's Kitchen.

Well, fuck me.

And I got the keys to his inspiring three-bedroom flat

in the heart of London.

Mr. Samson Young.

Mr. Mark Asprey here.

Checking in to see if you survived your plane trip, mate.

Make yourself at home.

Do feel free, by the way, to touch everything.

Everything in that place has inspired a book

in some way, or a million sales at least.

And I hope it does that for you. I really do.

I-I'm sorry it's not all finished.

You know, I'm refurbishing the building

but this bloody panic everywhere,

you just can't get all the stuff you need

no matter how much money you throw at the problem.

I left a copy of my third novel on the desk.

Crossbone Waters.

It never hurts to reread the classics,

for a spot of inspiration.

Your place is just phenomenal.

I had no idea this would be so...

wonderfully diminished.

As you know, my latest character lives in Hell's Kitchen,

and I think I might make him even poorer.

It's just going to be delicious, and I can't thank you enough.

Oh, I just hope you enjoy yourself.

Hey, tiger.

Oh, yes.

I do hope you get a chance to enjoy the mirrors.

I do.

Anyway, see you, mate.

If London is a pub and you want the whole story,

well, where do you go?

You go to a London pub.

Oi!

Here he is. Samson Young.

My famous American friend.

Now, here we got my boy Thelonius, Dean...

Yeah, man. Zbig, Zbig 2, Big Dred,

- Shakespeare... - Shakespeare.

Norvis, Fucker,

Bogdan, Juniper...

Yeah, that's Pepsi, Pongo, and God.

And my mate, Guy Clinch.

Nobility, he is.

Yeah, he's like cousin to the King or Queen or something.

He had a bit of trouble when he first come into the Black Cross,

but I introduced him to some faces

and now he's got a face all on his own.

Guy Clinch, Samson Young.

- Pleasure to meet you, Samson. - Sam's fine.

You know, Sam here is newly arrived.

American. Writer.

Well, fuck me.

- You all right, mon? - Yeah, loan sharks.

Loan sharks?

Keith, you really shouldn't be doing that.

What? Every time I borrowed money from you, I paid you back, didn't I?

Well, no. You've never actually paid me back.

Pleasure to meet you, Sam. Yeah, you too.

Yeah, listen. You don't loan money, do you, Sam?

No, I'm just a broke writer.

Why should they own me, right?

Yeah.

But I'm behind on me rent. Two fucking weeks.

Listen, I appreciate your trustworthy instincts.

Yeah, right.

I had to borrow a pinch from me old loan shark,

Kirk Stockist.

Trouble was, I already owed a ton for me darts training and other expenses.

I recognize the stench but not the face.

So then I had to borrow money from Ashley Royal

to pay the vig on Kirk's loan.

You've got a week.

Then you suffer.

Woulda been fine had it not have been for an unwise investment.

So now I gotta borrow money from me old mate Chick Purchase.

Trouble was, there's a bit of bad blood between us.

You know something? I'm actually fucking ecstatic,

to loan you as much as I can.

So that I can fuck you up as hard as I can when you don't pay.

Don't tickle me with that.

And, love...

it will not be over quickly.

And I promise, you will not enjoy it.

So, my advice to you...

is to celebrate while you can...

go and drop a bit on a bird?

Now, all three require payment,

immediate and in full.

Take care, love.

You don't play darts, do you, sir?

I'll give you lessons if you like.

Darts...

is destiny.

My God.

Do you have any Gauloises cigarettes?

We don't sell French fags here, darling.

Carlyle!

Come here.

Right. Now.

Go and get this lady her French snouts, will ya?

Go on. Fuck off.

Poor grieving girl?

Is the world against everything?

I've lived down the road for over a year now,

and this is the first time I've been in here.

Always wondered what it was like.

Just never had the courage.

I suppose this is...

by way of having been at a wake?

Yeah. Weren't family, was he?

Not anyone I knew very well.

Still. Does you credit.

No, shows respect, don't it?

Here we are at the event horizon of a black hole.

Anything, including matter and photons,

that pass this boundary are unable to escape.

A black veil.

It's ironic how becoming it is.

One never gets enough opportunity to wear one.

People should die more often.

What's your name, sweetheart?

Nicola Six.

What? Sex?

It's S-I-X.

Fuck off.

Thank you.

Now.

An honor...

to service you.

You all right?

Sorry. Thank you.

I must be leaving now.

You've been very kind.

Keith...

You're... You're not, are you?

A girl like that?

A girl like what?

- Well... - Mate, she's dreaming of it.

Yeah, she's begging for it.

She's just been to a funeral, Keith.

Well, then she's praying for it.

Life fucking goes on, don't it?

With Keith and Guy,

I had two promising story characters.

Two men forming a social contrast.

But none of this would have started without the girl.

There was no book without the girl.

You know, they say the first thing that will go,

with the hot sun will be the flowers.

Won't be any more flowers.

Now, I see a girl like you.

You know, bit of a beauty.

Head in the clouds, as such.

Now, me? I'm Handy Andy.

You know, I'm Mr. Fixit.

So what's your phone number, Nick?

Of all things, she lives in my building.

Remarkable.

The pain kit from Dr. Slizzard arrived in good time.

Like a box of candy.

Why can't I do it?

Why can't I just write?

I write. I'm a writer.

From the moment Nicola's thoughts began to be consecutive,