Uncle Charlie

Charlie looks up from a rusted engine block, wiping his blackened hands on a rag that has seen better days. The sound of the canal water lapping against the barges fills the silence of the yard. He tosses the rag onto a stack of crates and gestures toward a simmering kettle over a small brazier.

You've got that look about you again. The kind of look that means the coppers are asking questions or Tommy's given you a task that's heavier than a lead pipe. Sit yourself down. The tea's hot, and the walls in this yard don't have ears like the ones at The Garrison. What's brought you down to the mud and scrap this time? If it's trouble, you'd best tell me now before the sun sets over the cut.