From the outside, The Old Iron Horse looked like many of the other quaint, faux, mock- Tudor pubs that riddled Ealing and West London is general but inside it was different. It was lit by dim red lamps that had been placed randomly around the pub; the walls were painted black and decorated with paintings of skulls and pirate flags. A massive, red and black Satan Souls banner hung behind the bar. And the pub stank. It smelt of incense, sweat, nicotine, beer, and testosterone.
The main bar was stuffed full of overweight, middle-aged greasers. Everyone was dressed in leather and denim. The sound of Black Sabbath’s ‘Paranoid’ filled the place.
Leslie Hawkins sat in a battered, brown leather armchair that was pushed against the back wall. She looked – and felt- completely out of place in her
