The stranger at the bar sits; pint in one hand, shot glass in the other.  A lonely singer on the corner of the bar wails that the days are long and the nights are cold and she ain't wrong.  Fragments of the conversation drift over, he seems quite coherent despite the line of empties on the bar.

It’s been four long years since I last walked through these streets.  Time’s not been kind, you're right I look like shit.  Crimes committed have long been forgiven, some even forgotten.  Back in the day though , they weren’t crimes it was a game, a caper, a blast.  The game sucked you in, chewed you up and spat you out when your time had come and your family mourned.  The game moved on but then we stayed still.  My family had given so much.  It seemed to be getting a younger man’s thing back then too.  Had the respect gone?  I don’t know.  I was well out of it or so it seemed.

It hadn’t taken much.  The good old days had seen money flowing in left, right and centre.  Even for mid level hoodlums the golden age never seemed to end.  My grandfathers and uncles had raked it in but left nothing more than a pot to piss in.  The showgirls didn’t visit, the world outside seemed dark and miserable and no-one passed the time of day.  The neighbours knew the stories but said nothing, were they scared?  Doubt it, didn’t want the association probably.   Look at them, keeping their gardens tidy andcars all polished.  Bet they didn’t know there were bodies buried deep beneath the foundations, or at least so the tales had been told. 

An underground train rumbles past, the bottles behind the bar shake and rattle but still the stranger rambles on.

One day it changed though.  I was short of cash and the shopkeeper wasn’t paying attention.  What was it granddad had said?  Get him to turn his back and reach round to the till?  How hard could it be?  I’d seen the moves been made by guys, quite frankly, a lot dumber than me and they’d managed.  This ‘keeper though, he must’ve been around the block and kappow next thing, I was out cold waking up in the cells.

Anyway, that was four years ago.  Time served in the pen and now I’m back.  Can’t get no job so I’m here hustling the streets; a bit smarter, a bit quicker and needing some friends.  A connect or two.  Hell, I wouldn't mind finding somewhere to hang my hat of an evening but I'll be taking one step at a time.

Leaning back he figures you've overheard and fixing you a stare or maybe just trying to focus on the other side of the room he blurts out.

Listen pal, if you hear of anything, let me know.  On that note, I'm off for a leak.

With that little bit too much information, the stranger stands and staggers his way to the bathroom, briefly re-appearing before heading out into the night.

My grandfather spoke of a wild Scotsman, name of Ecky..  Described the fella, said he looked just like you.  I heard that was when Hearts were Chilled, before the Concepts took off in a big way.  Hell, I even heard he was around with Ganelon and Sam....

There's been some changes.  But the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Chris listens carefully to the guy, he remembers seeing memoires from his ancestors who spoke highly of a family of Ecky's they used to run with. Could this possibly be one of their descendants. It was true that it must be at least four years since he'd last seen a member of that bloodline grace these streets.

Pulling his hat down, Chris slips out into the streets to follow the man and perhaps gain more information.