Read Almost Perfect for Free Online

VERY PRECISE
    It had been a long, long night, thought Ianto, but he had one thing more to do.
    He was walking down St Mary Street. It was raining, but Cardiff was in full party mood. Tight hunting packs of single men, pumped arms and white shirts, strode past. Little groups of women stood queuing sulkily outside clubs. Everywhere were bouncers, flyer girls, and police just, you know, waiting.
    And it was freezing. Last time he was out on the lash he’d been wearing a duffle coat. Now all he had to keep the elements at bay was a mini-skirt, a pair of tights and a light denim jacket. The rain was slicing through him. He was dying with each step.
    Around him were girls wearing less and laughing more.
    A gust of icy breeze lifted his skirt, and he heard some men across the street make a ‘Woooooo!’ noise. He glanced across at them, and they barked back.
    Ianto cursed under his breath and carried on walking. ‘Lovely night for a spot of MurderRape.’ He got stopped briefly by an enormous queue outside a club. He stood there for a bit, trying not to jostle, sensing the ogling glances of the men, and the strange, jealous glares of the women.
    A meaty hand landed on his arm. ‘Aw, not going home already, luv, are we?’ A boy’s voice, rough and slurred, sweet with beer, too close to his ear.
    Ianto nodded. ‘I’ve got a boyfriend, sorry,’ he said quickly, and carried on walking.
    All around him was noise and screaming, and empty glass bottles and rain, and the greasy smell of kebabs and piss. By the time he found the chip shop he was looking for, he was fed up and dripping, and he pushed gratefully inside, past a sign advertising curry with half and half. The shop stank of salt and vinegar and comfort. He shivered and made his way through the quiet crowd to the counter.
    The shop was busy, as ever, the windows fogged up – couples sharing chips and sauce on the tiny lean-to formica counters, tight huddles of lads arguing over their orders, quiet groups of drunk girls, nudging and waiting and texting and stabbing at their chips with dainty mini-forks. And just one tiny little old lady behind the counter doing everything. Bren was a Cardiff institution, and a personal hero of Ianto’s – she was more organised and placid than he was. He just saved the world on a regular basis – but she kept order in St Mary Street on a party night. To the best of his knowledge, no one had ever had it large in Brenda’s.
    She barely peered at him through her enormous fishbowl spectacles, waiting patiently for his order.
    ‘Aw, hello, Bren,’ said Ianto, cheered to see a familiar face, ‘How are you?’
    She fixed him with a sudden razor gaze. ‘I don’t know you, dear,’ she said, quite certain of it.
    ‘No, sorry,’ said Ianto, slightly crestfallen. ‘I’m actually looking for Patrick.’
    Bren held his gaze ever so firmly. ‘He’s out the back, luv, doing the batter.’ She leant back and raised her voice delicately. ‘Lady for you, Pat.’ And then Ianto was swept aside in favour of Vimto and a saveloy.
    Patrick emerged, puzzled and then blinking happily. For a dead man he was in great health. He was tall and broad, with a grinning rugby-build that showed no signs of going to seed. He was wearing an old T-shirt, a little chef’s hat and an apron covered in flour. ‘It’s you – funny name girl. Er, Ianto, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Still checking up on me? Come through.’
    He lifted the heavy formica counter, and Ianto stepped through into another world, past Tupperware, a smell of hot oil and jars of pickled eggs, and a slowly spinning kebab.
    ‘Sorry if I don’t shake your hand, but I’m breading fish,’ Patrick explained, moving to a table and working quickly. ‘What brings you here? Girls’ night out?’
    Ianto looked baffled and then remembered. ‘Oh, no. No. Well, a bit, but just a quiet drink with friends. Tombola’s,’ he put in quietly as an extra detail. No reaction. ‘Although we nearly went to