Judas Pig Part 4

'This might be a good time for us to slip into The Bug,' he says. 'I mean that c.u.n.t brought in over ten ton of gear last year. That's big f.u.c.king bucks. We could pull a couple of the Rites, say Jacko or Mackie, and tell them we'll give them some breathing s.p.a.ce. Then let them tell The Bug that we said he can take some dough first but that we'd like to buy in on his next load, on account of our goodwill.'

We all agree it's a good move. If we slip into The Bug, it'll take us up another rung of the ladder, and I can think of nothing better than putting my feet up in Spain and watching the dough fall like rain. With all agreed, Frankie and Stevie go straight round to see the Rite brothers in order to get to work smoothing out a deal, and to let them know that if they don't swing it, we'll be putting them under some very heavy discipline. After a few more rounds of natter we make a meet for later in the month to rea.s.sess The Bug situation, after which I head off happily for a night out with Delroy over the West End, and to hook up with another pal, a character called Johnny Peac.o.c.k, or as we just call him, c.o.c.ky. c.o.c.ky's a Soho tailor. I should say, he's the Soho tailor. He's also a balding, bols.h.i.+e egomaniac who bespokes top notch whistle and flutes for many London celebs, and like yours truly, he's well partial to a ream bit of nosebag. Best of all, you can wind him up like a clockwork toy.

I first met c.o.c.ky when I was beginning to make a name for myself in Soho. He was cutting cloth in a South Molton Street menswear shop where I had my suits knocked up. He let it be known he wanted to start up on his own, so I found him a premises, an old peepshow next to Charlie Chester's casino in Archer Street, loaned him ten grand, and away he went. He's grafted hard over the years and now business is booming, mainly because a lot of modern day celebs are sad-f.u.c.k, never had a fight, wannabe wide boys, and c.o.c.ky wins them over with his barrow boy banter, which is all the more fitting because he hangs with us, the proper chaps, and there's nothing that gives a celebrity mockney more of a storker than rubbing shoulders with the man that rubs shoulders with the men that rub people out. Yeah, of course, the world and his friend knows that c.o.c.ky's a plastic gangster, but he don't ever get too close to the fire, so there ain't no danger of him melting. But give the man his due, he's done his shop up proper and even left a couple of the old peep-booths as they were. And if there's any action going down we'll watch it through the slots. An apple core a nosh is the norm from one of the low rent rotters that graft the local streets, or a pony for the full fandango.

Delroy sometimes jumps in to wet his nuts as well, and sometimes I'll partake of a nosh, but I never f.u.c.k stray s.k.a.n.ks. And like I've said before, sloppy seconds ain't my bag. But c.o.c.ky's got the principles of a Tory politician when it comes to playing away from home. If he's really gagging for his hole and the bird looks a bit grimy, he'll just shove her in the shower with a bar of soap and tell her, 'Don't forget to wash downstairs, love.' To maximise his earning potential c.o.c.ky rents out two barber chairs and sinks set up in the back of the shop. But a word of warning. If you're in the area and fancy a haircut and choose c.o.c.ky's barbers, under no circ.u.mstances ask for a shampoo. Because when the boys that run the gaff ain't there, he uses the shower attachments in the sinks to cleanse his a.r.s.e of clinkers, if ever he has to knock out a quick pony. Putting the man's foibles to one side though, his business is a great front for our firm. We've laundered untold amounts of readies through his books, and because it's in the West End there ain't never any stink at all. We even used to use his wooden floor to stash yoggers under, and it was always great for any urgent West End work that needed a bit of firepower.

Mind you we had to put a stop to all that because one day I went there to pick a yogger up on the quick, and it had gone missing. I went f.u.c.king ballistic and flew off in a right f.u.c.king state. I eventually caught hold of c.o.c.ky round the bank, and the silly p.r.i.c.k had the yogger in his jacket pocket.

'I like carrying it, mate,' he told me. 'Just in case.'

'Just in case?' I screamed, s.n.a.t.c.hing the piece off him. 'What, just in case Ant and Dec turn up to put the heavy on you for putting the wrong turn-ups in their suits, you dopey c.u.n.t?' Sometimes it feels like I'm always on his case but I'm only trying to help him. Like I said to him the other week, 'c.o.c.ky, if you want to be taken seriously, you'll have to stop living at home with your mum. You're a thirty-year-old, hairy-a.r.s.ed man for Christ's sake. You shouldn't still be at home hanging out of your old dear's a.r.s.ehole.' But I don't suppose he'll be leaving any time soon, because the d.u.c.h.ess, for that's what he calls his mum, spoils him something chronic. Not only does she wait on him hand and foot, while he's poncing around their council house tonced up like Noel Coward, monogrammed slippers, cigarette holder, the lot. She even flushes the toilet behind him after he's laid a cable. Bless her!

I remember he told me that one day while he was at work, the d.u.c.h.ess was clearing up his bedroom and a charlie wrap fell out of his jacket, bust open and spilt all over the carpet. Of course, she didn't know exactly what the gear was, but she knew it was some kind of drug and therefore had to be very expensive. Coming from an age of 'waste not want not', she couldn't face just picking it up with the hoover. So she got down on her knees and sniffed up the whole half a gram. c.o.c.ky strolled in at six the following morning and the d.u.c.h.ess, who's seventy, was sweating like a donkey and flying through the housework like a twenty year old French maid.

'h.e.l.lo, boys,' says c.o.c.ky, looking genuinely pleased to see us, as me and Delroy stroll into his shop like we own the place, as I in fact do.

After the obligatory handshakes I make myself right at home behind c.o.c.ky's Chippendale desk, before patting his Mussolini table figurine on its bald nut, and then proceeding to chop up three big fat hairy ones, while Delroy reclines on an adjacent chair and takes a shufti through a fas.h.i.+on mag.

'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l,' says c.o.c.ky. 'Keep it discreet, I've got a punter in one of the changing rooms.'

'Anyone famous?' I say, ignoring his request by rolling up a fifty spot and offering him the first sniff, which he demolishes in a single loud snort. c.o.c.ky's a total f.u.c.king charlie slag.

'German f.u.c.king pop star,' he says, as the c.o.ke starts to kicks him in the head. 'If there is such a thing. c.u.n.t ain't got a f.u.c.king clue. I've altered the Kraut slag's strides six million times already. That's one for each Yid his mob topped, and he still ain't happy.'

The punter, a weedy, sour-faced little twink comes mincing out of the changing rooms, just as me and Delroy settle back to enjoy the show. c.o.c.ky's all over him, b.u.t.tering him up, kidding him along, but the punter ain't buying it. All he keeps on about is wanting a 'seexties keek' on the bottom of the strides, whatever the f.u.c.k that is.

As his charlie kicks in more, c.o.c.ky's getting more and more p.i.s.sed off. One, because we're here and he don't want to look like a mug in front of us, and two, even the tiniest amount of charlie sends him f.u.c.king garrity.

'Now, you listen to me you f.u.c.king Kraut c.u.n.t,' he says, growling like a gunslinger, and already me and Delroy are in st.i.tches. 'I've been making suits for longer than you f.u.c.king lot ruled the Third Reich and I've never heard of a 'seexties keek'. And I'll be totally honest with you, not only are you starting to get right on my f.u.c.king t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, but I ain't even charging you the full price. So that means I'm walking round Soho with a man's d.i.c.k and a boy's wages. Furthermore, you're embarra.s.sing me in front of me pals. Never mind about a 'seexties keek' on your strides. I'll give you a 'Soho keek' right up your b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, you Hitler-loving c.u.n.t.' And with that, c.o.c.ky strong-arms the Kraut back into the changing room, makes him get hold of all his gear then lobs him right out into the street. I tell you, it don't come any better. We then get down to some more charlie, and it sets c.o.c.ky to walking right out on the wire.

'I want a f.u.c.king yogger, Billy,' he says, foam forming in the corners of his mouth.

'What for?' I say.

'Got a bit of problem with me brother-in-law.'

'You don't need a yogger for him, c.o.c.ky, he's a c.u.n.t.'

'Yeah I know, but I wanna show him I'm a proper man, mate.'

'You are a proper man, c.o.c.ky.'

'I know, Billy. But f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, mate, I should be ironing out people, not their f.u.c.king trousers.'

'Let's go for a drink and talk about it later.'

'Promise?'

'Promise,' I say. 'But hadn't you better call The d.u.c.h.ess and tell her you'll be late?'

'f.u.c.k her, c.o.c.ky gets home when c.o.c.ky gets home.'

So the craic's on. But first c.o.c.ky, the p.u.s.s.y, needs to get his hair seen to, and a pal of his from a barbershop in Frith Street, has told him all about this spray that covers up bald patches. And being a vain b.a.s.t.a.r.d he wants to try it out. c.o.c.ky closes up his shop and we stroll out into the night. It's about a five minute walk to Frith Street from where we are, and the streets, as always, are rammed. But I tell you this gaff is deceptive. And do you know what's funny? That the majority of the punters out there don't even know that they're walking streets crammed with gangster lore. And I must admit on a night like tonight when I'm feeling fine, it feels good to be a part of it. Right here, outside c.o.c.ky's shop, for instance, is where the Jewish gangster Jack Spot played out the last call of his infamous knife fight with 'ltalian' Albert Dimes. Jack Spot earned his stripes fighting Mosley's blacks.h.i.+rts in the battle of Cable Street back in the thirties, and Dimes was an enforcer for the racetrack gangsters, the Sabini Brothers.

And right over there, opposite Charlie Chester's casino, is the very bra.s.s's flat where yours truly first cut his teeth in Soho by cutting his first gangster, on behalf of Soho G.o.dfather Bernie Silver. Bernie had been jailed for the biggest Old Bill corruption case in British history, and for shooting dead fellow gangster Tommy 'Scarface' Smithison in a row over protection. So while Bernie was stewing his life away in Wandsworth nick, Maltese gangsters had started squatting his various Soho businesses and weren't weighing on profits accordingly. Through my kickboxing club I was approached by Bernie's partner, an ex-Maltese traffic cop by the name of Big Frank Misfud. I in turn recruited two pals for the bit of graft and went out and bought my first yogger, courtesy of a black pal of mine, Gibbo, who sadly got beaten to death with a golf club over a two-bit drugs deal a few years later. Off we went into Soho, all of us with our a.r.s.es chomping at our ringpieces but determined to do the right thing. We caught up with the first transgressor, a Maltese enforcer by the name of One-Eyed Joe. After opening him up like a tin of beans, we beat him half to death with claw hammers and then threw him out of a first floor window. He screamed like a baby and broke two paving slabs when he hit the floor.

Then we went round to the Maltese gambling club above the Bar Italia in Frith Street to confront the main man, a Malteser by the name of Nutty Derek. Nutty Derek had just been released after a ten stretch for petrol bombing a bra.s.s's flat in Peter Street. I put the newly purchased yogger in his mouth, and the c.u.n.t melted. Which is strange, because if you read the packets it says, Maltesers melt in your mouth, not at the business end of a yogger. We chuck a left into Rupert Street where, just up past the Flamingo topless bar, Tommy 'Scarface' Smithison copped it in the nut. Right into Tisbury Court and that khazi on the right is the Lord Rockingham. It belongs to me and Danny. We used to rent it out as a shebeen to a dude named Johnny Shaft. Johnny's a white man who thinks he's a black man who thinks he's a Harlem hustler. True to name he did shaft us, for six months' rent. We caught up with him a bit later and stabbed the granny out of him, after which Danny cut off his counting thumbs with a pair of secateurs. So, if you ever see a white man who thinks he's a black man who thinks he's a Harlem hustler, trying to hitch a lift and not getting very far, you already know his story.

OLD COMPTON STREET. The gay capital of England and home to the country's true queens and some brilliant f.u.c.king bars. If you like stiff drinks then this is the street for you, and if you like stiff c.o.c.ks this is also the street for you. The gaff we're pa.s.sing now is another one of me and Danny's peepshows, and used to be the original 2i's Coffee Bar, the birthplace for the fifties British rock 'n' roll scene. Pop impresario Larry Parnes and his chums used to haunt it and prey on star-struck twinks, green from the provinces, who willingly had their t.u.r.ds burgled for a whispered promise of stardom. Some things don't never change! Halfway down Old Compton Street and to the left is the amus.e.m.e.nt arcade where Danny ended the days of Maltese Tony. Above that are the Venus Rooms, a pox-ridden watering hole where, six weeks ago, the notorious south London Arif brothers tried to top one of their old pals. Instead the whole thing degenerated into farce.

They'd been rumped out of half a kilo of charlie by a toerag of a crackhead called Mad Mickey D from Bermondsey. And after he rumped them he was going round telling everybody that the Arifs were total f.u.c.king mugs. So they called him out for a drink one night, palled him up and then proceeded to get him paralytic. After much mirth and a few bottles of Moey on the Joey, they all ended up in the Venus Rooms out of their skulls at four in the morning. Taking a silent cue from one of his brothers, Dogan Arif slipped down to his motor and came back with a sawn-off nestled under his jacket. Only thing is, he tripped up on the stairs, the yogger went bang, as yoggers are apt to do, and he ended up blowing the bottom of his own arm off. One of his brothers, Dennis, panicked, pulled out a revolver, aimed it at Mad Mickey D's nut and fired. Mickey ducked and the bullet sailed past his canister, striking an innocent bartender in the shoulder. Pande-f.u.c.king-monium! Mickey took his chance, swallowed hard then had it on his toes out of the West End sharpish. And now he's back on the Arifs' gear and walking tall round south London, telling anyone and everyone that, as well as being total f.u.c.king mugs, the Arifs should henceforth be known as 'The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight.'

We cross over Dean Street, where Tony Muller, a tough-nut sixties gangster, got his head blown off right outside the Gargoyle striptease club. That was down to Bernie Silver as well. Chucking a right into Frith Street, we pa.s.s Ronnie Scott's jazz club and cross over towards the Bar Italia, above which sits the Maltese gambling club where I put a yogger to Nutty Derek's head. Any s.e.x shops round here that ain't run by me and Danny are run by Ronnie O'Sullivan. 'Ron's the name, p.o.r.n's the game' is his mantra. Nice bloke, Ronnie, but he sells the filthiest p.o.r.n in the West End. And the way it is, the fouler and filthier the mags, the higher his sales. Strange breed, the English, especially the famous ones. One veteran TV comedian, now pus.h.i.+ng up daisies, and who was a firm family favourite, and smarm-ball par excellence, used to visit one of the bra.s.ses that worked over Ronnie's shops. He used to lay in her bath and have her crouch over the top of him and take a pony in his mouth. I've always thought that accounted for his s.h.i.+t-eating grin.

I've got fond memories of Ronnie O'Sullivan. He used to bring his boy, Ronnie Junior, around to the Amba.s.sador club in Dean Street to play us at snooker. The kid was only about ten at the time, but was already a feisty little f.u.c.ker. He had a specially-made box with wheels on it which he used to stand on because he was too short to reach the table properly. He was making hundred breaks even way back then. He used to hustle us rotten, and went onto become world champion. Good luck to him. And apart from being a blinding snooker player, there was one other thing that stuck in my mind about the boy: he was the only ten-year-old English kid I'd ever seen with a mullet. It's a crying shame what happened to big Ronnie. The media played him up as a villain and a racist, but he weren't neither. He was just a nice, barrow boy type geezer who got on the Devil's Dandruff, started to believe his own bulls.h.i.+t and ended up stabbing Charlie Kray's black chauffeur to death over total b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. And now he's lifed off. And no matter what you read in the papers, Charlie Kray wasn't a villain. To be sure his two brothers were the real thing. But Charlie, especially at that time of his life, was just a silly old sausage swanning about covered in snide tom and blagging dough by living in the twins' shadow.

And the saddest thing for big Ronnie about the whole episode is that Bernie Silver was friendly with one of the top cozzers on the nicking, and for two hundred grand the video tape of the stabbing that convicted him could have been 'lost'. Instead, Ronnie gambled on playing it straight but got a losing hand. Now he's got twenty years or so to sit down and think about it.

We reach the barbershop which is run by a Milky Bar Rasta who goes by the name of Nyah Keith. He's all right, but a bit of a plank. Gormless but harmless. And give him due he ain't a f.u.c.king minge. Whenever we pa.s.s by to say h.e.l.lo he always breaks out the spliffs and Special Brews, and you can't say fairer than that. So I ain't complaining, am I? It's ten at night, warm but with a cool, cool breeze blowing through the streets of my home town. I've got a can of ice cold Special Brew in one hand and a f.u.c.k off big blunt in the other, which means I'm getting hammered in stereo. Meanwhile, c.o.c.ky's stuck frowning in an antique barber's chair, looking like Ted Bundy strapped to Old Sparky, while Nyah Keith's all over him, carrying out some crafty combing on his receding tufts, and I'm one million miles away from all the gangster bulls.h.i.+t that's currently driving me up the f.u.c.king wall.

SIX THE FOLLOWING afternoon and we're still standing, albeit f.u.c.ked up beyond all recognition, having necked the night away with booze, pills and untold grams of the Devil's Dandruff. In fact, I'm so monged at the moment I can hardly speak, and my nose is leaking like a burst sewer pipe. But at least we've found one place that's still rocking.

The Dirtbox is run out of a plush s...o...b..x bas.e.m.e.nt right behind Soho Square by nightclub hepcat, Phil Dirtbox. The great thing is, it's West End hipsters with wonga only. No squares and no suburban sc.u.mbags. And Phil Dirtbox, a six foot six pipe cleaner in a black bowler hat and Doctor Martens, is the coolest man some doughnuts will never get to meet. And what's great about mixing with this sort of crowd is there's no aggravation. You couldn't find a fight with one of these people if you asked for it. It makes partying a pleasure. The only blot on the landscape so far has been silly b.o.l.l.o.c.ks c.o.c.ky getting carried away on the charlie. At two in the morning, we were stumbling across Wardour Street, when we got cut up by a s.h.i.+theap of a scallywagon. Instead of ignoring it c.o.c.ky went and threw a can of beer at it. So it stopped, and I was thinking, oh, we don't need this. Turns out the motor was full of heavy-duty bulld.y.k.es. One of them got out and cracked c.o.c.ky right over his canister with a starting handle, which me and Delroy thought was f.u.c.king spot on, but give c.o.c.ky his credit, he never went down.

Then we hit Fred's, another trendy watering hole and I started to get paranoid thinking I'd better keep an eye on c.o.c.ky in case he got himself into more trouble. True to form he went on the missing so I went looking for him. Eventually I found him in the ladies' toilets with some bird he'd just met. She had her skirt pulled up over her head while he was plunging into her like a piledriver, so I left him to it.

Five minutes later he came bouncing out with a silly smile all over his face and s.p.u.n.k spattered over the front of his suit trousers. Only the thing was, it ain't even his suit. He made it up for a punter who's due to be getting married in it this coming Sat.u.r.day. But if there's one thing I've learnt about c.o.c.ky, it's that his punters come a very poor second to his s.e.xual proclivities. A while back he made a trouser suit for Naomi Campbell and she'd sent the strides back for some minor alterations. c.o.c.ky pa.s.sed them around his shop so that we could all have a good sniff at the crotch. A sort of top of the range cocaine chaser, if you like.

So here we are ensconced in the Dirtbox, and c.o.c.ky's bang on form. He's pulling off some sub-James Brown moves on the dance floor and giving it the large one in front of a couple of skinny but drop-dead gorgeous models. You know the type, think their s.h.i.+t don't stink.

Out comes his white hankie, and he wipes his brow with it. I seen this trick a zillion times before but it always makes me laugh, so I move forward for a better look. After dropping the hankie on the floor he jumps down and does a one arm press-up before picking the hankie up between his teeth. The two birds are lapping it up, and he gives me a knowing wink. But what he don't know is that the gear that the barber sprayed on his head to cover his bald spots is running in dark ugly brown streaks down the front of his mooey. And being the good pal I am, I give the man a well-deserved round of applause and the thumbs up, then return to my drink and drugs without even letting him know he's making a total c.u.n.t of himself.

Despite flying high as a kite and in excellent company, for some reason this bad feeling washes over me. Acting on instinct I slip into the toilets and retrieve the messages from my mobile. One in particular worries me, so I ring it back and get some bad, bad news. Call it gut instinct if you like but I'm bang on the money. When it rains in this game it f.u.c.king pours and I ain't even lost my holiday tan yet. But I've got f.u.c.k all time to think like this, so I just leg it out of the Dirtbox without so much as a by-your-leave. It takes me fifteen drug-addled minutes to locate my motor, which don't bode well, and another precious minute of fumbling and dog-c.u.n.ting just to get the key in the ignition. Slamming my foot right down on the floor I scream my way out of the West End. Desperately needing to breathe I wind down all four windows and start sucking in the rus.h.i.+ng cold night air. A tiny piece of sick hiccups its way from the back of my throat onto the tip of my tongue, so I spit it out of the motor, only to find it getting stuck on the outside paintwork. With my lungs screaming for more air I push a b.u.t.ton on the dash and the sun roof rolls slowly open to reveal a cloudless sky full of winking stars. But it ain't all beauty, 'cos I know the vultures are already circling.

Jewish Dave's in deep s.h.i.+t, and I'm the only man who can save him. And no matter how much of a dog I can seem sometimes, one thing I'd never do is turn my back on a pal in shtook. But Dave's in very deep shtook. The p.r.i.c.k has gone and dipped his manicured, piano-playing fingers into the wrong pie. Namely one of ours. He's just f.u.c.ked a merchandising company that we've got shares in, for over two hundred grand's worth of gear. Now, I know well enough that if he knew it had anything to do with us he wouldn't have touched it. Like I said, he won't mix it in the ring with the likes of us. In fact I can picture him now, giving it the large one down on the port in Marbella. White silk suit, Mediterranean glow and a thick-as-s.h.i.+t tart hanging off his arm, not a care in the world and his pockets bulging with his new foreskin and a wad of spanking clean fifties. The next thing you know the poor f.u.c.ker's been taken off the street by some hired help, given an almighty larruping and brought back to Blighty in the back of a fruit and veg lorry. And I weren't told a d.i.c.ky bird. I reckon I've got just over an hour to get to where Dave's being held and I'll tell you this for nothing. I won't forgive myself or my firm if he cops it. That'd be a liberty too far.

Dave's been given such a beating that his head's now the size of a pumpkin. And what with his five front teeth missing, both eye-sockets smashed to b.u.g.g.e.ry and blood all over his once white suit, he looks more like a jack-o'-lantern than a human being. Six broken ribs, not to mention his nose, and every breath he takes is breaking his heart, but he's got to keep on trying because he don't want to die.

He's strapped tightly to a chair but he can't see anymore. Still, he knows he's in a bas.e.m.e.nt because of the smell and the damp. And he also knows he ain't alone. But he's talked himself out of tight spots before. Why not this time?

'Where am I?' he croaks faintly.

's.h.i.+t street!' snaps Stevie.

'In a pair of f.u.c.king Jesus Boots,' adds Frankie.

'Can I... I... speak to Billy?' says Jewish Dave.

'Billy ain't here,' sn.i.g.g.e.rs Frankie. 'And even if he was he wouldn't be able to do f.u.c.k all. The Old Pal's Act was abolished the moment you f.u.c.ked us.'

'I'm so... so... sorry,' he says.

'Not as f.u.c.king sorry as you're gonna be when Danny gets here,' laughs Stevie.

'I didn't know it was your dough, honest.'

The trapdoor above creaks slowly open and Danny drops down on a telescopic ladder, coming to a halt beside Stevie and Frankie.

'Now that's what I call a Yid on the skids,' he chuckles, rubbing his hands together. 'And all trussed up like a rib joint, lovely.'

'I think he's feeling a little queasy, Danny,' says Stevie.

'Bless him. Must have got seasick coming back on the ferry. Personally I recommend Quells. The slag got anything to say?'

'Reckons he didn't f.u.c.king know it was our louver.'

'Well he f.u.c.king knows now, don't he, the wally-nosed c.u.n.t.' And with that Danny picks up a baseball bat and smashes it angrily into Jewish Dave's s.h.i.+ns. There's the crunch of solid ash splintering already badly-bruised bone. But then nothing. Not a sound pa.s.ses Dave's lips. Instead, his scream, an agonising banshee howl stops somewhere near the back of his throat, turns, and disappears back down into the depths of his body, sending h.e.l.lish agony through every fibre of his being. Disappointed by Jewish Dave's apparent indifference to the pain just inflicted, Frankie steps forward and pokes him in the neck with an electric cattle prod. A blue fluorescent spark punctures the darkness, momentarily illuminating the four men. It's followed immediately by a spiteful crackle, as Jewish Dave's whole body convulses and lurches violently forward, testing his restraints almost to breaking point. After slumping back down in his chair, a large stream of milky vomit spews out of his mouth and onto his chest, after which he starts to sob uncontrollably.

'You're not a whale, so stop f.u.c.king blubbering!' screams Danny, steaming back over to Dave and punching the granny out of him with both fists. The force of the attack knocks the chair over and Jewish Dave's head hits the concrete floor with a dull thud.

'Reckon he's dead?' laughs Frankie.

'f.u.c.king hope not,' says Danny. 'I don't like c.u.n.ts dying on me accidentally. Takes all the f.u.c.king fun out of it.'

'Make you right,' says Frankie, stamping down heavily on Jewish Dave's chest before spitting on him.

'Pooh, what the f.u.c.k's that stink?' says Stevie.

'f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t himself, ain't he?' says Frankie 'What a f.u.c.king baby,' says Stevie.

'Anyone hungry?' says Danny.

'Yeah,' says Stevie. 'Let's go for some Chinese.'

'What about that slag?' Frankie asks.

'He don't like Chinese,' says Danny.

'Shall we bring him back something else then?' says Frankie.

'Yeah,' says Danny. 'A packet of f.u.c.king Pampers.'

SPECIAL SPICY RIBS, shredded beef, sweet and sour prawn b.a.l.l.s, curry sauce with noodles and special fried rice. All washed down with copious amounts of Bollinger and bulls.h.i.+t. Be it torture on the menu or celebrating a nice little earner, Danny, Stevie and Frankie always order the same stuff from the same place. Tony Yow's Bamboo Garden, Basildon. It ain't proper Chinese, of course, but they don't know that.

What Tony Yow's is, is a spit and sawdust, late-night chop suey house catering for the palates of the uneducated, who wouldn't know real Chinese food if it crept up and bit them on their a.r.s.es. The only time I ever go there is after the clubs have shut and I can't get a drink anywhere else. For those of us that hurt people for a living and have pockets full of wedge, Tony fills the table teapots with sake. So we'll sit there till six in the morning, getting hammered and talking b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. I'm less than fifteen minutes away from Jewish Dave now, and I'm sure I can swing it, if I only get there in time.

Having now finished their meal, Danny, Stevie and Frankie make their way back to the slaughter and down into the cellar.

'f.u.c.k me, he's still here,' says Stevie, chewing on a toothpick.

'Is he still breathing?' says Danny.

'I'll check,' says Frankie, lighting a cigarette and giving Jewish Dave's overturned body a kick. Jewish Dave gives out a slight groan.

'Yeah, he's still with us.'

With Danny looking on, Stevie and Frankie lift up Dave and set his chair back on all fours while outside I skid to a halt, jump from my car and leg it into the building.

'Jesus, Frankie, you smoke like a f.u.c.king beagle,' says Stevie.

'f.u.c.king things'll kill ya,' says Danny.

'Nah,lights, these are. Low f.u.c.king tar content,' says Frankie, blowing out a smoke ring which hovers in a halo over Dave's head. Without a word Danny steps forward, puts a yogger in the centre of Dave's face and blows a f.u.c.king hole in his head. I hear the bang just as I'm sliding down the ladder to come cras.h.i.+ng to an undignified halt.

'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l,' says Danny. 'Look who it ain't.'

'The Scarlet f.u.c.king Pimpernel,' sneers Stevie. Frankie says nothing, just stubs out the remnants of his f.a.g on the floor, then Danny speaks again.

'I need you to get rid of that Jewboy slag,' he says to me. 'And clean this f.u.c.king mess up as well.'

'What am I, the f.u.c.king caretaker?' I shout back at him, slipping awkwardly on the blood that's flowing from the back of Dave's head.

'Bad back, Billy?' smirks Stevie, noticing the pain in my face as I climb to my feet.

'Yeah,' I snarl. 'Got it bending over backwards trying to bail c.u.n.ts out of trouble every five f.u.c.king minutes.'

And then they're gone and here I am, just back from paradise and sitting alone in a cellar with a corpse turning cold. I don't know whether to kick Dave in the head or cuddle him, the f.u.c.king meshuggener. Like all of us he was just trying to hit the big time. Problem being, he just got hit f.u.c.king big time. But this was totally pointless. I could have sorted it out and got the dough back. It would have all been sweet. I'm on the verge of breaking down, truthfully I am. I'm just not cut out for this, not killing mates. Surely you give a man his out, and if he takes it, you let him go. I don't know how I'm ever going to face his missus and his chavvies again, especially once the whisper gets out. And the whisper always does. They say the dead don't talk. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. With the forensics they've got nowadays, they come back from the grave to point their bony fingers at you an' all.

It's taken me a couple of hours slumped in a chair while staring at a spider spinning a web, to even start to come to terms with Dave's demise. Can't be nothing much worse than having to leave a friend without a final farewell. And so, after taking an eternal trek back to my motor I tear off into the night, stopping only the once, to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniel's from a p.i.s.s-stinky off-licence run by a Turk with rank armpits, before heading for the sticks, driving recklessly down twisting roads trying to straighten out twisted thoughts. It's all a nightmare blur of flas.h.i.+ng images and winking road signs, but eventually I reach my destination deep in the heart of the countryside where I park up. It's deserted and lonely, but at least the dark night outside my car speaks to me of respite from my demons. Switching on the radio I tune into the World Service and it carries me away to distant lands which is really where I should be right now. After necking a couple of downers, I settle down and proceed to drink myself unconscious in the front seat of my motor.

DAYLIGHT, AND I'M f.u.c.king freezing. Ain't nothing like a night in a motor after polis.h.i.+ng off half a bottle of bourbon to make a man feel like a f.u.c.king corpse. Wiping a small hole out of the condensation on the inside of my windscreen, I take a charlie hit, followed by a couple of swigs of breakfast booze before getting out to stretch my legs in the morning chill. Steadying myself with the door of my car I find myself in a forecourt made up of cobblestones littered with small mounds of dried and drying pig s.h.i.+t, whilst in the background looms the depressing backdrop of Tilbury, Ess.e.x. The unwashed, unshaved armpit of England. And the bigger the p.i.s.s-hole the more patriotic the people who live in it. For some reason the knuckle-draggers who live in these s.h.i.+t provincial towns drape themselves in the flag of St George, who was in fact a Syrian from Palestine. And as for getting p.i.s.sed and singing the national anthem. G.o.d Save the Queen ain't a national f.u.c.king anthem. It's a submissive paean to a Kraut granny, who lives it large on land stolen from British forebears. If anyone don't need saving by G.o.d, it's that old c.u.n.t and her horse-faced family. They're cottrelled up to their f.u.c.king eyeb.a.l.l.s. Trying not to get my shoes covered in pig s.h.i.+t I tread my way gingerly through the yard, just as a large truck of pigs pulls to a halt. Crammed in like sardines, these soon-to-be bacon sarnies stare mournfully out through wooden slats. One catches my eye and I look away, feeling sort of guilty I might be having it for breakfast tomorrow. The driver of the lorry pulls down the back flap and the pigs begin to spill out in a confused cacophony of grunts and squeals, hurried along by the occasional kick up their a.r.s.es. It don't seem right. Just because we eat them don't give us the f.u.c.king right to abuse them. I seriously think about giving the driver a strong pull, but he's only a carrot cruncher. Besides, I've got bigger rashers to fry.

The man I've come to meet is standing some fifty feet away, smoking a pipe and peering into a pigsty. He sees me coming but makes no move to welcome me.

'Messy business, William,' he says, in a plummy, public school accent while flas.h.i.+ng me a sideways glance. 'One might even go so far as to say that it was a little over the top.'

'It shouldn't have happened, Boris,' I say. 'I loved the man. Got there too f.u.c.king late.'

We shake hands perfunctorily, and I join him up against the fence of the pigsty.

'How much?' I ask.

'Oh I do hate talking dough, William, it's so b.l.o.o.d.y vulgar. Let's call it twenty grand, eh?'

'Everything?'

'Brains to b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Toenails to teeth.'