Brick Lane Novels & Stories

The 'being' that followed her was strong enough to send shivers down her spine. She was too preoccupied in her own maze of thoughts that it was too late to notice the gun, held by a tall muscular man with jet black hair, at point blank.

Her mum returned the hug rubbing her back in the process, after a while they separate as her mum opens her phone to keep herself busy. The traffic lasted longer than expected and Grace was getting bored, she looked around seeing that no cars were still moving, she scanned the area, noticing a group of people gathering together facing the sea. Then it clicked to her , they were at the Long Express Bridge, She had always heard about it , and knew it was most popular for it's bad traffic. Her mother couldn't avoid it today, as it was the only way to get to Black entertainment.

Inspector Eallric's 404 picked up pace as it raced down a sloped, remote alleyway which went on below a bridge that connected Brickfield Row and Dove Route together. The alley, Providence Passage, had congested waste bins - places of tourism for flies and maggots, nearly everywhere one's neck turned.

I killed the headlights before we reached the public car park and rolled in slowly, finding a space in the shadow of a service building. We got out quietly. The pier stretched ahead, long and dark, the boats along it moving slightly with the water. Most were covered, unlit, the kind of vessels that sat for weeks between uses. Pier fourteen was at the far end. Bryan was already there, standing at the entrance to the walkway in dark clothes that suggested he hadn’t been home since the afternoon and had come prepared for exactly this kind of evening. He looked at Kate when we reached him. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.

It felt like crossing a border without leaving the country. "This is Brighton Beach," Marcus said. "Little Odessa. The Bratva's territory." I looked out the window at the people walking on the sidewalks—old women in headscarves, young men in tracksuits, families pushing strollers. It looked like normal life, except somewhere in this neighborhood was a man who could kill us with a single phone call. "How far?" Adrian asked. "Two blocks." My stomach twisted into a knot. Two blocks until we sat across from a man who wanted to turn our company into a criminal enterprise. I reached for Adrian's hand; he squeezed back, his palm clammy.

Sky snapped. “Whoa, easy,” Connie said, unfazed. “I just saw them walking into that bridal shop on Market Street, ‘The Bridal Palace.’ You know it? Super chic spot, I’ve been there twice—” “Don’t you have other things to do, Connie?” Sky interrupted sharply. “Oh, I’m the bad guy now?” Connie scoffed. “When next you see them, shove the address right down your itchy throat, bitch.” Sky hissed and ended the call abruptly.

Sometimes to the point of driving a person bats—or rather, once again for illustration, what old-timers preferred calling ‘shack-wacky’. Richard took a quick detour through an alley and swung past a small yard sale wrapping up business for the day, at last turning onto the thoroughfare called Brazier Drive. This was it. He shook his head, not knowing any answers, not knowing what the outcome of this all would be. Only time would tell that. Then he blinked, sitting up wide-eyed in his sticky seat. He stared out the windshield and a smile came grudgingly over his lips. “Still there,” he said. “Check it out, Katelyn Jane Franklin. It’s still there.”

Kyra gently offers. Not even bothering to close the jeep door behind me, I took off jogging across the parking lot towards Main Street. Bar Harbors Main Street is lined with quaint two and three-story brick buildings with small alleyways in between, some that are utilized as seating areas arranged with benches and bistro tables off of the main strip. Hopefully, the seating spaces aren't too crowded. “No, that's OK. For right now I really could use some time and space to think. I'll call you in a little while, okay?”

No problem, of course, but what are you interested in? I won't ask any questions. I want to see the answers with my own eyes. I watch the streets as she drives. We crossed all the boundaries of New York that I had never seen before. My heart pounds in my chest with impatience. The town is not very crowded, especially when crossing the bridge. The Bronx neighborhood is unmistakable. On one side, the billion-dollar buildings. On the other, small poorly finished houses and dark streets. As we enter the neighborhood, Skyla slows down.

1:52 PM — Hidden District, Old Quarter Gracelane #17 The front of the address was nothing but a row of crumbling brick apartments. Narrow alleyways stretched like veins between the buildings, filled with tangled laundry lines, stray cats sunbathing on metal roofs, and barefoot children chasing old plastic bottles. It was a place no Musk heir should belong. A place even Zogo’s network had ignored intentionally or not. But behind a chipped green door, under a rusted sign that read MG Tailoring (Closed), was a narrow staircase.