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About Bray

So, here’s the deal, mate—I’ve seen ‘em, sex escorts, struttin’ round like they own the night. Makes me mad, it does! We hates it! All fake smiles and perfumey stench—ugh, burns me nose, precious. Reminds me of that line, “Do you want to die?”—’cept it ain’t a threat, it’s a vibe they give off when they’re done with ya. Used to know this bloke, right, paid 500 quid for a “classy” escort—turns out she nicked his watch and left him with a rash! Hahaha, what a muppet! True story, swear it—heard it down the pub, made me cackle like a mad git.

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I get back to the shop, and Mrs. O’Reilly is still sobbing. I’m trying to piece things together. I ask her if she saw anything suspicious. “Just the usual,” she says. “You know, the lads hanging around the park.”

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