One or t'other

So, I've been practising what I preach, as far as getting back to the actual business of writing goes. I've turned up two prologues - each for a different novel. Both, I think, will involve Thomas Bladen and Karl McNeill from Standpoint and Line of Sight, but the two books are quite different animals. So, by way of a social (media) experiment, here are the two prologues, along with their draft titles.

Any thoughts?

1. False Positive

Harnell Street, a Tuesday morning. Playgroup is closed for the day, Janey is out of ciggies and that bloody kid won't stop screaming.            "Just shut up will you?" she snaps, as little Jacob bawls on defiantly. She feels her hand tremble with rage, waiting for him to look away. It's stupid, but she can't hit him when he's staring right at her.            Jacob's in luck - Janey's remembered the twenty in the emergency tin; the one that her uncle, Jack Lane, used to top up periodically when he came round to check up on her, and his post. She scrabbles at the back of the cupboard, pops the lid and leaves it clattering on the Formica, smiling to herself. Sorted.            "It's all right, Jacob, we'll go out and get some sweeties yeah?"            Jacob cuts the racket at the sound of the magic word; now he's smiling too. She's still rough with him as she gets him ready, because it's all she knows. And he doesn't really make a fuss because it's all that he knows as well.            It starts pissing down when she's half way up the road. Jacob's all right, lucky bastard - the plastic cover fastens down, no bother. Janey hunches forward, pushing the buggy along like a penance. The high street is a ghost town; the East London that opportunity and regeneration somehow bypassed.             Janey relaxes her grip on the buggy handle as the shop comes into view. "Nearly there, darling," she waves a hand in front of the blurred plastic, and little Jacob squeals excitedly. She snatches her hand back and pulls her mobile out of her jeans. "Greg, where's my money this week?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Don't be bullshitting me - your kid's gotta eat." It's a short call - promised extracted, there's nothing more to say. Jacob wriggles in the buggy. "That was daddy," she says with spite, "being an arsehole again. He'll be over later, if you're a good boy."            She reaches the shop, parks him up outside so he can see the cars, and nips inside. The girl serving is about as slow as the old cow in front of her. So back out she comes, and sure enough the little sod is kicking off again. He wants to see the cars and the cover is all steamed up. His choice then; he can get rained on watching traffic. She rolls back the cover and legs it back inside before some other old dear arrives to take her place.
Janey doesn't hear the screaming at first; it's someone else rushing into the shop that wakes her up. The buggy hasn't moved, thank god, but Jacob... She rushed round to pick him up, and stos, paralysed. For a moment she's certain it's blood puring down his face, and then she realises that it's paint. Someone has sprayed her baby's eyes. And now the two of them, mother and son, are screaming together.


2. Intervention

7.00am, the alarm went off; that was the rule. It didn't matter how drunk he'd got the night before, there had to be some standards. Almost mechanically, he got up, shuffled to the bathroom and wrung out his kidneys in preparation for the next onsluahgt. He avoided the mirror these days, but sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of the man he used to be - that straight-backed, square-jawed servant of the crown. Memory would paint in the beret and fatigues - those were the really painful days.            By 07.40am he was ready for the day; a crisp, ironed shirt and creases in his trousers sharp as paper cuts. Cereal, toast and tea; all to the backdrop of Radio 4 and big decisions he used to care about.            He locked up the bedsit - flat was too grandiose a word - and moved briskly down the steps before anyone else's doors could open. Occasionally he'd pick up some shopping for one of the old-timers, but not first thing - that time was sacrosanct. His shoes clipped the stonework rhythmically, reminding him of the marching gait - maybe that was why he didn't like being interrupted.            Sometimes, when he drew that first breath out on the street, that fragrance of decay and neglect, he'd wonder how he ended up like this. A wife remarried and a daughter he could hardly pick out of a line-up, living god-knows-where in the North East and sending a photo at Christmas. So he always picked up the pace, first thing, lulling himself with the tap-tap-tap against the pavement.            The guy in the corner shop gave him a nod and watched, nonjudgementally, as he picked up a tabloid, some provisions and a four pack of lager. A brief exchange of words, and cash, and he was on his way. 'As you were,' he liked to think.            As the door shift at the club didn't start until 8pm, the wide expanse of the day stretched before him. The world played out around him like a tape loop. Cars and commuters left their positions with secure routine. Two schoolgirls across the street drifted on their way to a local comprehensive - as you were. He smiled, once he was past their line of sight; he was camoflaged, invisible. There was a spring to his step now, as he re-entered the block. On a good day, the tabloid would fill up half an hour. He took the steps two at a time, ears pricked for the sounds of life. A ground floor radio balring out hits he'd never heard of, that screaming kid along the landing; a familiar landscape to welcome him home.            He turned the corner and stopped in his tracks. It took an instant to analyse his instinct. The black rubber mat outside his door was twisted diagonally. Not a great deal, but enough to jar his senses. Too early for the post. He approached warily - no wires on show, but a faint bulge in the centre. A deafening pulse led him in, guided his arm to a corner of rubber. He eased it back, lifting the mat away, inch-by-inch, until he found an envelope. He turned it slowly, examining it at arm's length - nondescript and anonymous, apart from his flat number typed on the front.            Safely inside again, he rested the envelope on the kitchen table and put his shopping away, never more than a couple of steps away from it, circling it like prey. Kettle boiled, tea poured out; now there was nothing else left to do.            A single piece of paper had been folded twice. No marks on it. Just the same size type, showing a mobile number, a time to call and the phone box to call from. The last line read: Work opportunity.            He rested the page against the cruet set and sipped his tea. Someone knew where he lived, knew the area, knew his routine and knew that he needed the money. And they hadn't wanted to be heard by the neighbours otherwise they'd have used the letterbox.            At 13.30, overfed on a diet of tabloid opinion and daytime television, he left the bedsit, leaving himself half an hour to make a ten-minute journey. He pulled out two hairs and set them top and bottom of the closed front door, haf convinced that some bastard planned to rob him while he was out. But they could have done that this morning. Even so, he'd brought along his good luck knuckle-duster that accompanied him to the club.            The world seemed different in the afternoon, foreign and foreboding. Cars he didn't recognise - new faces. He dropped into the corner shop for some chewing gum he didn't need a handful of change. After walking past the phone box three times, he creaked the door back and took a good look inside. Nothing out of place, even the usual smell of stale cigarettes and BO. He could hear his own breathing, echoing in the old-style kiosk. Just curious, he told himself, wanting to follow the rabbit's trail. HIs watch counted down the last couple of minutes.            The phone picked up first ring. "Who's calling?"            "Ken Treavey." No point pretending when they already knew so much.            Silence followed. He closed his eyes and imagined two people at a desk, exchanging notes. He wanted to smoke now, even though he'd given up six months ago.            "Very good. Take down these details."            Two hours' time, across town; no explanations. He figured it was a test of his ability to follow instructions; he could live with that for now. At least until he knew what the job was and what the pay was worth. And it wasn't as if he had anywhere to be, apart from his TV date with Trisha.