Mark Shearman Quotes

Danny was unfazed at the size of the large-stomached man, with hairy arms waving about like a pizza chef, all violent gestures and shouting. His crude, pinch-faced wife spat salivated swear words at him. She was in her thirties and behaving like a grounded teenager, screaming at him to leave her property.
"One hundred thousand pesetas please." Danny took a bony, female fist to his cheek, jarring him. He shook it off.
"Two hundred thousand now."
She jabbed at him again, as her fist poked towards his nose, he head-butted it. She recoiled in pain gasping and nursing her hand. The husband, a chubby, but solid Valencian, went ape-shit and lobbed a hairy, dimpled fist at him, causing Danny to shift on his feet. He pulled his head out of the way with the skill of a middleweight. The man drew his fist from three o'clock and blasted scarred knuckles towards his face again. Danny's reaction was lightning; he caught the fist and held firm, flipped down the hood, his face showing something new. The man recoiled, recognising grim determination and knew this man would never give up.

Pedro, the Guardia, asked him if he could inspect the inside of his van because hundreds of very expensive ham legs had been stolen recently and the robbery perpetrated by a gang of men dressed as priests ‒ how do you say, monks. Danny felt the beads of sweat trickle down his back as he slid open the door. Along the side was a clothes rack with different costumes hung on hangers. He couldn't actually remember when he'd last cleaned the van out, hadn't the front to admit to such slovenliness. Pedro the cop lifted off a cassock.
"I use that for my work."
Pedro put his hand on the van and poked his nose in, sniffed and backed his face away and looked at his hand covered in sticky egg yolk and shell.
"It's for the wash," continued Danny, fighting a smirk.
Pedro pointed at his eyes with his fingers and then at Danny's to indicate, I'm watching you.
Danny reluctantly handed the cash over to the cop. They ambled off as he watched his money scrunch into his pocket.
Danny slumped at the bar, deflated.

A brisk wind spiralled down Camden street kicking up debris, causing Jerry Morgan to retreat further into the doorway of Larkins the Bookmaker. He covered the flame from his lighter with his chapped hand. Inhaled and coughed, a deep rasp, the sort of chesty wheeze that came from forty years of smoking his first drag at thirteen years old.