The Genesis Secret

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Alan Greening was drunk. He'd been boozing all night in Covent Garden: starting at the Punch, where he had three or four pints with his old friends from college. Then they'd gone to the Lamb and Flag, the pub down that dank alleyway near the Garrick Club.

How long had they lingered there, sinking beers? He couldn't remember. Because after that they'd gone to the Roundhouse, and they'd met a couple more guys from his office. And at some point the lads had moved from pints of lager to shorts: vodka shots, gin and tonics, whisky chasers.

And then they had made the fatal error. Tony had said, let's go and look at some girls. So they'd laughed and agreed and ambled halfway up St Martin's Lane and bribed their way into Stringfellows. The bouncer hadn't been keen on letting them in, not at first: he was wary of six young guys, obviously out on the lash, swearing and laughing, and way too boisterous.

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