Water chopped lazily around the rotten and rusting pilings that jutted out from the rivers surface. Frost-capped waves, the only white on the slick black surface, reflecting the dull orange glow of the city over the opposite bank and the periodic flicker of the neon sign behind Samanthas head. Thick clumps of snow fell from the sky, giving the world that localised muffled peace only provided by snow, fog or your own thoughts.

Looking up, her deep brown eyes blinked aside any stray flakes as she regarded the city-light-pink clouds overhead. Totally overcast, and not a star to been seen. Not that there would have been with the light London put off anyway. Sam decided that all the waiting around was making her far too introspective for the time of night. A brief glance down to the glowing dial of her watch confirmed it for her, and she marched back to the door of the wooden shack so brightly named a “Café”.

Releasing a boiling cloud of smoke and steam she stuck her head in through the door, ignoring the jump of the weasley looking scroat standing guard, and scowled across the mismatched tables. “Bernard! You said five minutes! If I'm going to be board and freeze my butt of at the same time, I'll start charging you for it! Hurry the fuck up!” She yelled with a slight Hertfordshire twang, squinting at the albeit only slightly brighter lights inside.

Sitting near the serving counter a squat looking man with a thick but well-kept goatee, half stood out of his chair and waved dismissively. “Hold on, I was savoring it!” he called back with a sideways glance before sucking firmly on the little stub of cigar left between his gloved fingers. “Aaaaah..” he breathed out with obvious satisfaction and another cloud of pungent smoke, “Okay, coming, coming..” he said, finally standing. He peeled off the latex gloves and dropped them into the ashtray of another table as he made his way toward the door, letting them sizzle against the remaining butt. As he stepped out of the door he pulled on his proper thick gloves and wrapped a scarf around his bristly neck, with a friendly wave to the european gent behind the counter before closing the door behind him.

The snow was gathering up in small drifts at the edges of the path, while the rest of the cobbles were coated in a sheen of ice-water and slush, resisting the settlement of the winter weather with every last bit of remaining heat. The pairs thick rubber soles walked along over them, Samantha casting her eye around while Bernard popped a lump of whitening gum into his mouth. Glowing ahead of them, the long arches of Battersea bridge. Ancient lamps shining diffusely through the mist of snowflakes, and reflecting on the high water sloshing around the base of its arches, already having hidden the supports below the surface. As Sam noticed Bernard chewing noisily, she turned and firmly thumped him sideways in the arm.

“Oi! What was that for??” He exclaimed, reaching and rubbing his arm where she'd hit him. She frowned, giving him a sideways look, “When you said you were going to take me to a real life poisons bar, I didn't think you meant some dingy little smokers dive where I'd have to stand outside just to breath!” Her arms crossed over her chest as her voice shifted into an almost sulky growl, “Next time, I want something more impressive than a tobacco den.”

Bernard turned his head and spat out into the river, clearing his mouth of some of the whitener, replying between chews, “It's not meant to be impressive,” he swallowed with a frown, “You said you felt like seeing something dangerous. I'd loose my job if they found out I smoked.. Pelé'd get some serious jail time for running a place that allows smoking.. and that's not to mention his Chinese 'importers'. So a bit less lip there. You'd get into serious shit for just knowing about it.”

Sam brightened a little, smirking slyly back across at him, “Only if I don't turn you in. I'd probably get some decent reward money, you know.”

Bernard smirked back down at her, eying the hand on her hip, “I'd probably get a few quid myself for mentioning that ceramic blade you keep in your belt.. 'if you're armed and your not police, you're a criminal', and all that.” He ended with a chuckle.

She blinked in surprise for a moment before frowning, realising she'd unsheathed the small blade without realising. Purely by habit as they approached the bridge. Even today the underpasses were often still poorly lit and patrolled. A perfect place for someone to lay in wait for you if you weren't prepared to fight back. She chastised herself mentally, looking at the water lapping a clear few feet up the inside of the arches. A little more and the footpath would flood over too. A mugger hiding for any length of time near there would freeze like she'd started to outside the bar.

“You have a point there,” She admitted eventually, “Guess we'll have to accept we're in a standoff.. or try and kill each-other here and now.” Sam ended with a wicked grin.

The pair stopped and stared at each other for a few silent moments, neither breaking eye contact. Eventually though Bernards chest shuddered, and a laugh escaped him, Samanthas following shortly after.

“Oh sure,” Bernard laughed, easily into a chuckle, “Like you could kill me! I'd just fall on you and suffocate you!” He grinned, patting his small pot-belly.

Samantha cackled in return, clutching the front of her coat and squeezing her breasts up into a stunning display of bust, “I don't even need to touch you! These can kill a man from 50yards!”

Bernard clutched at his chest and staggered back against the railings melodramatically, hamming it up with rough coughs and wheezing, before standing and chuckling as they walked on, “you shouldn't forget I'm immune to those sort of charms.” She chuckled back at him, feigning disappointment, “Damn damn damn... Oh, by the by, it wasn't 'if you're armed and your not police, you're a criminal.' It was 'There are two types of armed people in the world. One is the police.' And it had that condescending little 'Don't be one of the others' subtitle underneath. Remember? Some of the posters had the proud modern policeman on them, the other had societys enemy, the common criminal.”

“Yeah, I remember." He replied, tilting his head and obviously casting his mind back, "One clean-cut and done up in the latest flexible body armour, taser, baton rounds.. the other dirty, wearing a ski-mask, carrying a kitchen knife..” He replied, rolling his eyes. Sam did the same and mused on, starting up the steps up to the bridge from the footpath, “At least they're not illegal yet. Those rounded-end knives are bloody useless. You ever tried cutting a ripe tomato with a rounded knife? Can't open it with the tip, you just press and press until it pops like a fucking balloon!”

Her tounge lingered between her lips for a moment in disgust as they turned onto the bridge, disturbing the first layers of more settled snow. “Hey..what's that?” She asked, eyes peering out through the haze and looking down the arc of the bridge, suddenly alert.

In silhouette against the trident streetlamp, there was the figure of a man. His suit jacket flapping open, hair tussled and a satchel slung around him. Standing on top of the wide railing, just staring into space and a grimace on his face.

“Oh my god..” Bernard gasped, “It's a jumper! Hey you! Stop!” He yelled out and began to run toward him, but Sam grabbed his arm, hissing to him, “Shut up! You'll scare him! Or make him slip!”

She looked up and began to walk slowly toward him. Her heart was racing all of a sudden, and she became horribly aware of every crunch her footsteps made in the snow. She looked up at the man again, making eye contact with him. His eyes were wide like a trapped animal, flooded with fear. He mouthed something, the words lost in the wind.

Spreading her arms wide, trying to look non-threatening, Sam kept walking slowly forward, "Hi there.. You.. ah.. I think you should come down from there." She called out, panic setting in as she realised she had no idea what to say. "Come on down and we can talk about this.. we can help you!" She continued, a knot in her stomach as she forced herself into the position of having to help this perfect stranger with whatever severe mental problems he was having.

"Ohgodohgodohgod.. I hope it's something stupid like he's drunk and his girlfriends left him. I hope he's not a crazy person. Oh god, what if he attacks me when I get to him??" The thoughts rushed through her mind as she stepped closer. She could see him clearer now. His whole body was shaking, and his suit was studded with snowflakes. Expensive looking suit. Tears running down his face, panting with adrenalin and fear, spluttering on his own words, coughing them out at her. First quiet, then again. Louder, a simple affirmation.

“You can't get at me now!”

With a nervous jump, knees bent and barely clearing the edge, he went forward as Sam and Bernard ran toward him, already too late. As he dissapeared over the side, the satchel trailed behind him. The strap snagged on one of the railings studs and tightened for a moment before falling limp, the crack of plastic buckle exploding under the shock load.

It fell to the pavement for only a few seconds before the pair were beside it leaning over the railings, straining to make anything out below. Sam spun around instantly and ran across the deserted road and almost flung herself over the downstream side of the bridge, craning to see anything of the man. But there was nothing but the swirling black waters of the Thames.

Bernard ran up behind her, swiveling his head back and forth franticly. “Shit! Do you see him?!”

Sam bit her lip fiercely as she half staggered back from the railings, “No.. he's just gone..” She looked up at her friend before pouncing on him, grabbing and rifling at his pockets, “Quick, give me your phone! We have to call the river police!” He however just batted her hands away crossly, “I don't have it with me!”

Her eyes grew wide and incredulous as she grabbed his jacket and shook him in frustration, “What do you mean you don't have it with you??” She yelled. He barked back at instantly, “What, you think I want my boss asking me why my contact number was out wandering the banks of the Thames at 3am? On a weeknight?? I wouldn't even get into the building tomorrow morning!”

The scene fell quiet for a few moments, as Sams face fell. She wiped her nose over her sleeve and looked around them, hardening herself as best she could. “We can't tell anyone then..” She said quietly with a huskiness in her voice.

“Good thing he jumped I suppose. He could have got us in trouble if we'd brought him in.” Bernard began, trying to see the upside.

“Shut the hell up Bernie!!” Sam turned and screamed at him as she sternly walked back across the road, her short brown hair flying around her face in the rising wind. Combing it back with her fingers she squinted up at the smashed and vandalised lenses of the bridge's CCTV terminal, before kneeling and picking up the satchel with it's broken strap. “C'mon. We're going to leave an anonymous tip at the nearest public information terminal about this..” she rummaged in the small internal pockets of the businessmans bag, digging out a crisp business card, “..Micheal Barton.”

Bernard shook his head slowly and began walking across the bridge again, leaving her to scoop up the satchel, knot the broken strap together and run to catch him up. He only stopped as she got back by his side, turning to frown at her, “What are you doing with that?” He asked, nodding at the dead mans bag. “Someone else would just come along and take,” She rationalised, “This way it goes to someone who cares enough to let the authoritys know he's dead. Anyway, if there's anything personal in it, I'll think of a way of getting it back to his family, how's that?” Her friend just sighed and started walking again, “Just make sure you don't try and sell any of it. Corps mark their shit well, and that's a corp-issue bag if ever I saw one. No phone in it I hope?”

As they walked off the other side of the bridge, Sam looked back at the way they'd come. The snow was covering their tracks and starting to howl down the lay of the river, funneling down between the high-rises in the city-center to the east. She looked down at her gloved hand on the bag.

“No, no phone. Just a laptop and a handfull of business-papers.”

Her companion grunted thoughtfully, “Guess he didn't want his boss knowing where he was going either..”

Shortly, at the junction of Westbridge and Battersea Bridge Road Sam pulled her friend aside, spotting the smashed cameras on the terminal there too. Dialing up the police, she left a curt message with the automated virtual policeman. Just that she'd seen a man jump off the bridge, dropped a business card, the mans name and when it'd happened.

“Come on you,” she said after hanging up, “We'll head back through the park and grab a night train at the power station. Grab a cup of soup or something and head back.” Bernie just nodded, raising his collar around his neck and plodding onward.

Half an hour later, they arrived in the warm white glow of the station's entrance hall for the park.

After nearly half a century of dereliction, the old power-station had finally been saved and given a new purpose. Of all the ideas; theme park, museum, theater, community center, luxury housing, even turning it back into a power station, only one idea had come to fruition.

The shopping center had sprawled modernist limbs out to cover and enclose it's mainline station from the elements, allowing the consumer an uninterrupted and air-conditioned walk from the train to the main turbine-hall arcade. The pair shuddered and shook themselves like dogs, showering the station's entrance floor with caked-on frost, stamping the rest off their respective boots as they walked over to the open barriers and the platform.

“Well there goes my night vision!” Bernie grumbled, blinking in the bright fluorescent lights, “Hmph.. board says a night train should be here in a couple of minutes. Good timing girl.” Sam huffed back at him, swinging her arms and patting her sides briskly, “What did I tell ya? I'm a fucking lucky charm..” She managed a slight smile as she looked around the deserted station, beginning to mutter to herself, “C'mon, c'mon.. just want a hot drink!”

The soft hiss of an approaching train began to lift from the tracks, as the male of the pair canted his head to her, “What're you going to do when you get back tonight? Gonna check out that computer?” She laughed back at him mockingly, “Hah! If I'm not dead and frozen, I'm going to bed and stuffing this thing under it for a few days! Let things calm down a bit.”

The two-carriage train rounded the corner of the tracks, casting yet more dazzling light over the platform through the clear plastic safety barrier, refracting it in odd multicoloured ways on the top of it's arch. Bernie nodded in quiet agreement, waiting for the small automated train to align itself with the outer doors which hissed open momentarily. “Probably a good idea..” He muttered as he stepped aboard ahead of her. She skipped aboard after him, and immediately fell against the drinks machine, hugging it bodily and pawing over the lighted buttons, “Oh my savior!” She squealed to herself and the mechanism as the doors slid closed behind her and the train began it's crawl out of the station under the slow-but-safe computer control. Eagerly she dropped a five pound coin into the slot and waited patiently after stabbing one of the lit buttons. Within seconds she was rewarded with a steaming cup of hot mocha, the foamy head scattered with chocolate powder.

Her hands were shaking as she sat down on the soft and squeaky washable seats, cupping the mug close to her as the train began to recross the river. She joked to her friend who sat across from her, “You know.. I think I may might marry the person who thought of putting hot drinks machines on the night-trains,” She shivered as she took a sip, “God, I needed that..” She breathed out, her body collapsing back into the seat with a flatulent plastic noise. “Bernie,” She mewled after a couple of moments, one hand brushing the satchel beside her, “It really just happened didn't it..?”

Her friend nodded, “'Fraid so hun.. nothing we can do about it now though. Just go on and forget it. It won't do anyone any good to try and do more, least of all us.”

After a fifteen minutes they changed to the underground at Victoria, and finally separating at Oxford Circus. Bernard carried on home on the Victoria line, while Samantha skulked off on the Central, Stratford-bound for her home and (she figured) a well deserved sleep.

More good timing greeted her and she shouldered open the rain-swollen front door of her house, as the light fixture shuddered from side to side at the vibration from the late EuroStar shooting past on the line at the back of her garden. It was one of the few houses left on Manbey Street that had eventually been spared demolition for the line to service the olympic village, barely half a kilometer west. The six corner houses were all that was left of the nineteen-hundreds era homes. But the railway had not only cut the garden short, but the price too. And since she'd got the Carbon Grant to line the house with reinforced aero-gel wallpaper, it wasn't such a pig to heat anymore. It was a good home, even if the area wasn't all that much to talk about. It hadn't kept the gleam of the new any more than any other public convenience, and since the main stadium had been raised to the ground by fire a decade ago, the downward spiral seemed irreversible. But at 4am, she didn't care. All she cared about was that she would be asleep soon, and the next rattle of the house from the late train service was an hour away.

She went upstairs, her skin burning as she pealed off her coat and blouse, warming so suddenly from the extreme chill outside. As she stripped down to her panties, she eyed the satchel on the floor for a moment, then regretfully shoved it under the bed with her foot. Thinking about it all now was not going to let her get to sleep, she decided and crawled under the thick duvet. Against the odds, she drifted off soon after, clutching one down pillow restlessly, but exhausted.

“Sir, the audio filters have just processed a name ident capture on Micheal Barton.” A young man in a crisp black suit announced, standing straight under the spot of a downlighter, backdropped by the projection of a sophisticated computer terminal.

A man in an imperceptibly more expensive suit stood in front of him, eyes slow and almost sad as if looking at the young man before him was an annoyance he could barely be bothered with. “Details.. where is he?” He asked with a controlled tone. The younger man swallowed and turn-stepped to one side, allowing his senior a clear view of the screen. “The Carnivore algorithm intercepted an anonymous message left with the police tip-off service in London, England. I took the liberty of accessing the system and removing it from their records before it was processed. The message is brief. They witnessed a man who dropped one of Bartons business cards jumping to his death from the Battersea road bridge.”

The older man nodded, absorbing the information with a steady gaze, “River temperature?” He asked, watching the young man closely.

“Judging by Bartons BMI and health record, there's a 97% probability that the temperature shock would have induced an immediate heart attack. However I have also set up recognition links on all areas along the banks of the river in case he has survived somehow.” The young man replied, foreseeing where this line of questioning was headed. He was rewarded by the slightest upward turn of the gentlemans lip. “And what of the witness?”

The younger operator nodded and turned to the monitor to tap a few keys, having the relevant files ready to pull up and display, “I've run a local search. Unfortunately this is a high vandalism area and a lot of the cameras have been disabled. However the microphones still work. There's a confirmed voice match overheard from the surveillance system on the northern side of the bridge in question. This is what cleaned up..” He said as he tapped the keypad.

“Oh my god..It's a jumper! Hey you! Stop!” A period beep. "Come on down and we can talk about this.. we can help you!" A period beep. “You can't get at me now!” Followed by a cracking noise, then the period beep. “We have to call the river police!” A beep. “Good thing he jumped I suppose. He could have got us in trouble if we'd brought him in.”Shortly followed by the female voice again. “Shut the hell up Bernie!!”

The file finished and the young man looked back to his superior expectantly. “Is that it?” He finally said. The young man stiffened to continue, “I'm afraid so sir. They continued across the bridge out of the microphones range. The wind noise at the next terminal was such that ranged recording is virtually illegible. However, we've begun cross-referencing males named Bernard or 'Bernie' with the national database for those who may have minor crime or substance abuse problems, and from there with mobile phone tracking data on which ones had not moved in the time period in question. Obtaining the information from the phone companys will take up to two days however.”

The older man raised a hand to silence him, and looked him dead in the eye with the glare that comes from asking something absolutely critical. “Why,” he questioned, “are you checking for substance abuse or minor crimes, specifically?”

The tip of the young operators tounge flicked across his lips for a moment, unable to see whether this was leading to a correct choice made or not. “I judged, sir, that the only reasons to be out so late and unable to let your location slip would be some crime. I judged a minor one because there is still some concern over the welfare of a stranger to them.”

“You judged it on your own perception of their personalities?” The old hawk probed once more.

“Yes sir.. I did.” He said, stiff and straight as a board, waiting for his final judgment.

The older man let it hang in the air for a dousen torturous seconds before finally and mercifully nodding to himself. “Very good, Jones. Carry on.”

As the manager walked away, Operator Jones sat back in his seat, wiping a cold sweat from his forehead. He'd made the right call and earned a compliment from the boss. And with that pride swelling, he dived back into his monitoring for any and all leads surrounding the traitor Micheal Barton.

Behind the soundproofed sheet glass of the managers lobby, he turned to his secretary, “That boy's smart.. good smart.. arrange a loyalty test for him before the February Operation.” Taking note of it on her PDA, the secretary nodded her close-cropped head, “I'll get right onto it sir.” as she watched him close his doors behind him.