‘I'm sorry.’ The grey-haired man looked up from his counter.
‘Wanna buy a Breitling?’ The younger man repeated
‘Not today sonny, thanks.’
But the boy wasn't taking no for an answer, his dealer had the drugs ready and his body was ready for the drugs.
‘Take a look,’ he fiddled with the carrier bag he was clutching and handed the watch to the older man. The man held it in his fingertips not really wanting to touch it.
‘This is a fake,’ he said.
‘What?’ the drug addict looked genuinely surprised. ‘Can’t be.’
The antique dealer explained again that the watch was a fake and handed it back to the boy in front of him. It wasn't a fake, but it was better to say it was fake than to suggest it might be stolen.
‘That's no fake, that's genuine, look.’
The boy thrust the watch into the man's face. The man pulled back, in fear or disgust?
‘It's a fake,’ the dealer repeated.
‘How much? The boy asked scratching his face just beneath one of the open sores.
‘I’m not going to buy it,’ the dealer said, he looked around hoping one of the other dealers in the market was listening. They usually had each other's backs.
‘10 quid?’ the boy said. He’d been hoping for more, but anything would do.