Arthur Straw strolled quietly down the pedestrian street. He was not exactly tall, not exactly broad, but there was about him the air of potential violence, a frame that moved fluidly and not in any way identifiable with any of the usual traits.
In fact it was this that led to trouble – as it always did – whether or not Arthur gave a damn. Which he usually didn’t.
His face was violent only in its calmness, and his eyes roved sardonically from incident to incident with barely a flicker of interest.
He had a scar above his left eye, a small scar that told little of the fury that had caused it.
As he walked down the street, he saw the local neighbourhood kids standing outside one of the doors.
He liked them. They’d asked him his name and made friends with him. On the way back from the Chinese take-away the other night, they’d showered him with their water pistol while screeching with delight.