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Kiss Him, Not Me, known in Japan as Watashi ga Motete Dōsunda is a Japanese romantic . 13, November 13, , ISBN , February 27, , ISBN 14, March 13, , ISBN , July.
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Opened the briefcase. The worst part of being shot is molten metal tearing right through you, Love. The way they always blush before their eyes widen, they turn stiff and sudden like a spider, that's how you can tell they know before they understand.
The funniest part is how upright they stand after that part, proud to be a taller target. But the one in front of you is never the one you have to worry about. It's the others you have to watch. I knew that but you didn't. So you stood there like them, tall and sweaty. Not sure where to look, what to do. So when the brief case was full and I ran, you ran too. When we were leaving I saw the woman I was supposed to know.
She wasn't as pretty and I shot her. This was my kiss-off job. Nice knowing you, thanks for your soul, lay the eggs and kick the nest.
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That job. You closed the passenger door and looked at me, the police cars playing our song in crescendo, your eyes five-shot Americano, your lips caramel latte. They dipped and soared, plucking my kiss-off and you said-. I was driving faster than our song was coming. You listened harder, but we were flying. It was gone and the day was bleeding out. You put your left hand in mine and reached your right out the window, grabbed the day's windpipe and squeezed to be merciful.
The way a good sniper is merciful. You killed for me like I'd killed for you. The sun turned stiff and bled pale and when the sky put on its funeral jacket the sun became our honeymoon. Where the city kisses the country, that's where you poured a glass of you for each of us.
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When I was plenty drunk you grabbed the wheel then a little of you, sweet and potent, poured on us both. I was still the speed, still the go, but you were the direction. You couldn't have known I was an angry drunk before you poured. And the more I drank, the faster we went. So fast I didn't notice where we were going. Flashing lights, red and blue, crawling toward what I've done. For transcripts of each episode?
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If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Paddington and King's Cross, you access them by clicking here. If you enjoy Murder Mile, listening to the authentic sounds, imagining the sights and wishing you were actually there? Tours are every Sunday at 11am, and feature many stories you will never hear on the podcast. For tickets, click on the link in the show-notes.
Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. And being a four-storey building of sandstone brick; with a dark-wood facade, frosted glass, brass fittings, black double-doors and a defunct Victorian gas-light above, as much as Soho may change, this pub has remained traditional inside and out.
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As it was here, on Sunday 14th June , in the bar-room of The White Horse public house, where 21 year old Larry Winters… stops …do you know what? Why am I telling you this? Let me show you. For the last twenty-four hours, Larry had aimlessly walked around the West End, as the endless streets of Soho scuffed his once shiny shoes. Illuminated by a Victorian gas-light, through its frosted glass, Larry spotted barely a handful of slightly tipsy drinkers, all of whom were being served by a just single barman, so with this being a usual quiet Sunday night, The White Horse would be an easy target.
It was a simple plan, fuelled by hunger, thirst and tiredness. And as his fingertips tingled, his brain thumped and his vision grew hazy, Larry pushed open the black double doors of The White Horse to commit an ordinary robbery, of an ordinary pub, for the usual ordinary reason — money. Taken from his prison diaries, the earliest memories of Larry Winters are at best patchy and at worst vague, so whatever is a truth, a lie or an exaggeration, is up to you to decide.
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Born in Townhead, on the eastern end of the bustling Scottish city of Glasgow on 21st March , Lawrence Costigan Winters was one of three siblings raised in a loving, loyal and devoutly Catholic working class family during the grip of World War Two, as the Nazi bombers obliterated its shipyards and factories, reducing great swathes of the city to rubble, as poverty and hunger became endemic.
And yet, still, the doctors did nothing. Seeing them slowly slide into petty crime and wanting only the best for her two boys, with her husband having begun a new job as a groundskeeper, the Winters family left the squalor of the city behind and uprooted to the stunning Carbisdale Castle in the Scottish highlands.
In his diaries, Larry talked of his time at Carbisdale Castle as the most wonderful part of his childhood; peaceful, joyous and calm; and being closer to his beloved mother and further away from his fears, his temper quelled, his hallucinations halted and his panic attacks got less frequent. But nestling in the murky mess of his mixed-up head, the dark demon sat; goading him to stab at deer with his knife, to stomp rabbits to death with his boots, and never telling him why.
By the age of 20, unable to curb his aggression, he had notched-up five more convictions for theft and violent assault. In early , a few months shy of his 21st birthday, being eager to instil some discipline into his own troubled life, having shamed his mum one too many times, Larry enlisted in the Parachute Regiment of the British Army and was posted to the Maida Barracks in Aldershot, 35 miles south-west of London.
What he wanted was structure, what he needed was medication, what he got was more walls, more doors, more locks, more bars and more guards.
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On Friday 12th June , in an unprovoked attack, Larry beat a fellow soldier into unconsciousness with his fists and feet. No-one knows why, not even Larry. On Saturday 13th June , fearing arrest, having packed into his canvas army knapsack a well-thumbed poetry book, a battered notepad, a stubby pencil and a 38 calibre Enfield MK1 service revolver as a gift for his gun-loving brother, Larry snuck out of Maida Barracks and deserted from the British Army.
Larry was heading home, to Glasgow and to his mum - that was his plan. Being stranded in a strange city with no friends, no family and no funds; as the sun set over Shaftesbury Avenue on the evening of Sunday 14th June , with his shoes scuffed, his throat parched and his brown suit crumpled having fitfully slept the night in an abandoned Soho sex cinema, as homelessness and hunger loomed once again, Larry ambled into nearest side-street and entered into infamy.
And being full of ordinary people, who Larry had no hatred, malice or grievance with, with speed and surprise on his side, no-one would get hurt.
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And as his fingertips tingled, his brain thumped and his vision grew hazy, Larry pushed open the black double doors of The White Horse to commit a very ordinary robbery. Smartly dressed in a dark brown suit, a crisp white shirt, a neat black tie and shiny black shoes; with short trimmed hair and a clean shaven face, Paddy was the epitome of a professional barman.
And to any punter in what he regarded as his pub, you abided by his rules, or you were out.