Judas Pig Part 5

'Nice to see someone happy with their f.u.c.king lot, Boris. You collect!'

'Of course. Usual place, I take it. By the way, I must ask, how do you do it?'

'Do what?'

'Have such a lovely tan and still manage to look like a man that's seen a ghost?'

'It's called keeping the wrong company. Anyway, changing the subject, how come you just keep this one pig here, and spoil the f.u.c.king thing rotten. f.u.c.king pet is it, or just remind you of the missus?'

'Haw, haw. I wish my missus was this good looking, William. No, no. This is my Judas Pig.'

'Come again?'

'Judas Pig. Judas Iscariot, the toerag that gra.s.sed up the Son of G.o.d.'

'Too early in the morning for me, Boris. I don't have a f.u.c.king clue what you're on about.'

'Jesus H Christ, William, didn't they teach you anything in approved school? Look, a pig is a clever animal, relatively speaking of course. Cleverer than a dog, certainly. Try throwing a stick for a pig and telling it go fetch. It'll look at you as if to say, go f.u.c.k yourself. So, when the new little piggie-wiggies arrive, some of them get an inkling that this place doesn't exactly bode well for their future. And if one of them panics they all start to panic. Absolute f.u.c.king nightmare. Enough s.h.i.+t and squealing to start a revolution. Extremely harrowing, dear boy, especially for an old softie like me. Still, there's no room for sentiment in this business. But the thing is a pig will trust another pig. One pig can lead the others through the walkway and into the slaughter. This one for instance. The Judas Pig.'

'So it gets to live another day?'

'Till it can't do the job anymore, then it's end of,' says Boris, making a slicing movement across his throat. 'That's life, William. No one here gets out alive.'

'Tomorrow all right?' I say, making a start back to my motor.

'Right-o,' I hear him say, before adding, 'Oh and William, it's rather ironic, don't you think?'

'What is?'

'Him being Jewish and ending up inside a pork pie.'

'Everyone a winner, Boris,' I say under my breath as I climb back into my motor to take the lonely drive back home. Now all I want to do is get my head down and forget this ever happened but I know that ain't how it's going to be. But at least I'll be driving home against the traffic, going the opposite way to all the little people wrapped up in their cotton wool lives. What the f.u.c.k do they know? Spending their whole existence peeping out from behind their privet-hedges, too f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t-scared to take even a single step outside their well-ordered little worlds. Twenty-five year mortgages and jobs for life. f.u.c.k that! All a proper man needs to fall back on is the cheeks of his a.r.s.e. I f.u.c.king hate straight-goers, more than I hate myself. What do they know about killing? f.u.c.k all. So what can they know about living?

THE INSIDE OF my head is like a box of frogs wearing steelies while doing the Skinhead Moonstomp, but after a few near misses I've made it back to my apartment in one piece. And even just pulling into the underground car park offers me some semblance of tranquillity. After parking up and pulling out the remainder of the Jack Daniel's I neck a couple of swigs and head for the lift, to find myself confronted by two mushes I've never seen before, causing me to pause instinctively. Old Bill? Nah, can't be. These two turkeys are wearing vomit coloured cardigans. Old Bill dresses bad, but he don't wear cardigans. He wears either snide Barbours or plastic sports jackets.

As I draw nearer they start to look more like a couple of nonce-cases out on the prowl. A closer inspection however, reveals them both to be holding a large book each and looking like they've never jacked off under their bed sheets. And what they got round their gregorys? Crucifixes? f.u.c.k me, Christians! Should've guessed. Recruiting sergeants for old beardy-b.o.l.l.o.c.ks may think they're infused with the holy spirit, but they sure as s.h.i.+t ain't blessed with any dress sense. And what's the score, these apartments are supposed to be exclusive. How the f.u.c.k can followers of a poverty stricken carpenter afford a luxury apartment next to Tower Bridge? Must have their fingers stuck in the collection plates, as well as up inside the choirboys' a.r.s.eholes.

But whatever it is they're up to they're doing it in the name of some m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic p.r.i.c.k, who whilst having had the good fortune to be born into a stable environment, still managed to get himself nailed to a plank of wood one lovely spring day for preaching sedition and claiming he was from outer s.p.a.ce. Necking another couple of swigs of Jack as I reach the lift, the burn of Kentucky bourbon at the back of my throat calms me, and I nod faked respect in the direction of the Bible-bashers. The lift arrives and we all enter, with them moving to the rear and me remaining at the front, giving them the view of my back.

'Where to?' I growl, without turning a hair.

'Top floor,' they reply, almost in unison.

'Next stop heaven, eh?' I say, as the lift ascends and I watch the illuminated floor numbers pa.s.s.

'You seem troubled, friend,' purrs a voice behind me.

'Yeah,' I say. 'Lost my conscience and can't find it anywhere.'

'We're holding something in our hands that can change your life. It's got five letters and begins with a B. Can you guess what it is?'

'The Beano?'

'Do not mock, friend. For it is written that those who accept the Lord gain eternal life, while those that deny him are doomed to the fires of h.e.l.l.'

'But what a lovely, long, slippery slope to get there, eh!'

'You're dancing with the Devil, my friend.'

'More like boogying with Beelzebub.'

'That's why Jesus died on the cross. For your sins.'

'Well, we all have to make sacrifices.'

After what seems like an eternity the lift begins to slow down.

'Glory be,' I whisper, as it stops and the door slides open. After taking down a tight, difficult breath, I step out into the hallway.

'Jesus loves you!' calls out one of the Christians.

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks!' I shout back, as the lift door slides shut behind me and I turn the hallway corner for the short walk to my apartment, ruminating on what a f.u.c.king load of old b.o.l.l.o.c.ks religion is. The greatest hoax ever perpetrated on humanity by hypocritical old c.u.n.ts in sandals. Take my poor pal Jewish Dave. His religion wouldn't let him eat bacon, but that didn't stop him f.u.c.king untold pigs. And I got another pal, Rash, who's a Muslim. Won't touch a drop of booze, not until he gets to paradise, where apparently there's rivers of wine. That's probably why some of the dopey c.u.n.ts blow themselves up, 'cos they're dying for a gla.s.s of Merlot. Oh yeah, I forgot about the seventy-two virgins. What they don't tell you is they're all seventy-year-old nuns, so unless they've also got plenty KY in the hereafter, it's gonna be like f.u.c.king a camel with piles.

Opening then slamming my flat door shut behind me I flop straight down into a leather recliner then reach for a nearby bottle of pills. After necking four valeries too many I wash them down with some more Jack. It's the only way I'm going to get any proper shut-eye. Another bad end to another bad day. Not for the first time do I feel overcome with fear about my future. About how I'm going to end up. In an unmarked alley, somewhere in the pits of the Smoke, with a bullet in the back of my f.u.c.king nut? Or like some of the other old-timers, lifed off without a s.h.i.+lling but still strolling the nick giving it the Harry Hard. f.u.c.k that! Don't want to end up no rebel without a pot to p.i.s.s in. Although to be truthful, from where I'm slumped at the moment, don't none of the future look that healthy. 'Cos even the ones of us that do slip through the net seem to spend our last days crammed into horrible suits and with receding barnets dyed an improbable shade of chestnut brown, sitting smug behind ghost-written, pig-s.h.i.+t, pointless memoirs about the so called good old days, and so petrified to do our own villainy we end up putting yoggers into the hands of chavvies and geeing them up to do our dirty work. London villains! We sure as s.h.i.+t ain't the Mafia, and even those c.u.n.ts lapse into parody.

The pills and booze slowly begin to kick in, sucking me gently down into much-needed sleep. But still I can find no peace, only more treachery. More distant memories flood back to torment a broken heart that's never mended. The only woman I ever loved. She was the colour of honey. I met her down the Cotton Club one night. No, not the one in Harlem, the one in Hackney. Slightly less salubrious, and Cab Calloway's never played there. But it was always full of premier league east London pearlers lining up to be poached. And for a prospector like me it was the Klondike. Before I became a gangster no woman ever looked at me once, let alone twice. But properly attired, packing a gun and with bad dough to burn, I could stroll into the Cotton Club any night of the week flas.h.i.+ng gangster style, and before I knew it, I'd be strolling back out with a bird on my arm as good-looking as any film star you care to mention. Then it'd be straight back to my Tower Bridge apartment to ply them with champagne and charlie, while dazzling them with tales of criminal derring-do. And so, giddy at the opulence of the surroundings, before they knew it they'd have their legs over the back of their shoulders and I'd be drug-f.u.c.king them silly for the next two days.

And so me and my girl met and so we f.u.c.ked. She moved in and I bought her a BMW convertible and treated her as best I knew how. She told me she loved me, and even though I had f.u.c.k-all idea what love was I had no reason to doubt her. She was a fly girl looking to spread her wings by spreading her legs, and I was a troubled man with a grudge and a point to prove. It was a match made in h.e.l.l, lubricated by the luxury of easy dough. It weren't to last. Because of my Soho shenanigans, west end Old Bill had been s.h.i.+tting rusty blades over me for years. They eventually cobbled together a variety of bulls.h.i.+t conspiracy charges and came through my door unexpectedly one morning. Because of previous absconding I never made bail, which meant I'd be stewing like a piece of steak behind the nick wall for the foreseeable future. I'd been through the same hoops before so I just put my nut down and got on with it. And things were sweet. Business on the out was booming, and as is the duty of a woman that lives off the proceeds of crime, my girl visited as often as I requested. Danny came once a week which meant I didn't have a care in the world.

Down to a bit of good luck and bad Old Bill work the case got chucked at the start of the trial, and I strolled c.o.c.ky and carefree out of the back door of the Old Bailey, past the posse of stone-faced plod that nicked me, to be welcomed in the sweet afternoon suns.h.i.+ne right into the arms of my honey. We went home and f.u.c.ked like it was the end of the world, and although neither of us knew anything about making love, it didn't matter. Sweating up a storm felt like the real thing.

'I've been unfaithful,' she said, as we lay there cuddling. Just like that. Matter of fact. I felt like I'd been hit in the face with a shovel by a six foot navvy.

'Nah,' I managed to croak, after an age of terrible silence. 'You've been f.u.c.ked.'

'It only happened once,' she said, through the start of tears.

'Once is once too f.u.c.king much!' I screamed, throwing her off me as if she was a smallpox blanket.

'It was a mistake, I was lonely.'

'Not as f.u.c.king lonely as I was in an eight by six f.u.c.king cell.'

'It won't happen again.'

'I know it won't, 'cos I want you the f.u.c.k out now!'

Jumping up from the bed and already starting to go loopy, I began to run around the bedroom banging and cras.h.i.+ng like a loon, but she just curled up into a ball screaming that she didn't want to go. Well neither would I. Not from living in a luxury slaughter apartment in the Docklands back to a paint peeling, poxy old council flat in Plaistow. But this was an issue above compromise. For all my failings I didn't deserve betrayal. I'd pulled her out of the gutter and she'd turned out to be just another s.h.i.+tc.u.n.t with desires on my pockets. We screamed and shouted all afternoon, the tears flowing the anger raging, but still she wouldn't budge. In the end I snapped and gave her a couple of well-aimed digs up her ribs that sent her cras.h.i.+ng to the ground, then ran and grabbed a sawn-off that I kept hidden in the kitchen cupboard. She was still lying on the floor holding her chest, sobbing and looking for the sympathy vote by the time I got back. Didn't mean a thing. You f.u.c.k me over and I go as hard as nails. I put the sole of my foot hard across her throat and shoved both barrels of the shooter in her mouth, imagining that that's what she looked like as she was sucking strange c.o.c.k while I was banged up believing in us. I pulled back both hammers and there she was staring up at me, her eyes pleading not to shoot. A couple of seconds pa.s.sed like a million years with my trigger finger trembling, as I prepared to squeeze and blow her to kingdom come. Lucky for both of us, the voice of reason sitting on my left shoulder shouted down the devil on my right, telling me this s.h.i.+tc.u.n.t ain't worth doing a day in prison for, let alone life.

It took me a while to take it all in but when I came to I grabbed her by her corkscrew hair and threw her half-dressed and weeping straight out into the communal hallway with all her clobber following close behind. And that was the end of my only foray into the love business. But what's funny is that although I still hate her with a vengeance after all these years, I still love her as well. Don't matter. I can't admit that to myself even if I do. I couldn't take her back, neither. Once a s.h.i.+tc.u.n.t, always a s.h.i.+tc.u.n.t.

SIX HOURS LATER and my intercom buzzes, cutting through my nightmares like a chainsaw. s.h.i.+t, I've been akip in my armchair, still wearing my clobber from the night before. It takes me a minute or so to pull myself together, and after prising myself out of my chair I stagger blindly over to the intercom to peer into the camera, only to find Stevie's ugly mug glaring back at me.

'What?' I shout at him, groggily.

'It's me, Stevie.'

'f.u.c.k me, I can see that. What's the matter?'

'We're outside. Bit of graft, double important. Wear a smother.'

'I don't f.u.c.king need this!' I shout, banging down the receiver before hauling myself off to the bathroom to empty my screaming bladder.

Pulling out the softening remnants of an impressive hard-on from my strides I take aim at the toilet bowl but end up p.i.s.sing all over my shoes. This is not a great f.u.c.king omen. Re-aiming, I hit the bullseye, finish my p.i.s.s and then hurry back out of the bathroom without even bothering to freshen up. Ain't no way I can face myself in the mirror this morning, I just know I'm going to despise what I see. As I grab my leather grafting jacket from the back of my wardrobe and make for my front door, it strikes me that this is the first time in my entire life, excepting when I've been nicked, that I've ever gone out in the morning without showering and cleaning my teeth. Plus, I'm still wearing the same clobber I crashed in. Dead men's clothes, that's what these are. You don't go wearing them back out on the streets the very next day. It's a bad sign. Means I'm f.u.c.king slipping.

I make it to the lift with my head still spinning and look hesitantly inside as the door opens, thanking Christ it's Christian-free. After stepping inside and hitting the ground floor b.u.t.ton I pull out my charlie bullet and knock back a couple of quick hits as the lift descends, then give my armpits a sly sniff. A hint of Persian rug-seller wafts its way to my senses, and I make a mental note to keep my elbows down. The lift hits the ground floor and I stroll out into the reception area, tipping the night and day porter the wink as I go. He smiles warmly back and suddenly I feel overcome with guilt. The man looks likes s.h.i.+t, what with his pale translucent skin and black sunken eyes. Reminds me of some kind of Martian panda. Ain't no wonder! The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d puts in more hours than the good Lord himself to make up the pitiful wages they obviously pay him. And what do I sometimes do when I come back in the early hours, after being out all night on the Joe Brown, to find him crashed out and catching some much needed zeds behind his desk? I hide his shoes in the lift, that's what. Bit f.u.c.king spiteful really but no malice intended.

Strolling through the revolving door into the street outside, the morning sun, although not that strong, still burns into my face as if I was a vampire, so I immediately slip on a pair of wrap-around shades and climb into the back of our firm's Mercedes, angrily slamming the door shut behind me.

'Sawn-off's under my seat,' says Danny from behind the driving wheel, as he eases the motor smoothly away from the front of my apartment block.

'Anyone we know?' I say, not really giving a f.u.c.k because I ain't in the mood for these dog-c.u.n.ts, not after what they've just done to my pal Jewish Dave. But I know that f.u.c.k all will be said. For these unfeeling slags it's just another day at the office. Slipping my hands through the specially cut-out pockets of my leather jacket, I lean forward and reach under where Danny's sitting to pull out the shotgun, happy at least to find it's my favourite tool, a lovely, handcrafted, double-barrelled little number that's been sawn down and tapered in at the handle to look like a highwayman's pistol. We call it the d.i.c.k Turpin.

'Some pikeys have nicked one of Perry Pomfritter's greyhounds,' says Stevie, who's sitting in the pa.s.senger seat beside Danny.

'His prize f.u.c.king greyhound,' says Frankie, who's seated to my left and pa.s.sing the time by pulling scaly lumps off the eczema that covers his arms.

'Ten grand to get it back,' says Danny.

'Ten poxy f.u.c.king gorillas,' I say. 'That's only two and half f.u.c.king large each. I put more than that in the spastic box every week. And it must be some f.u.c.king cherry hog for Pomfritter to be paying any sort of dough to get it back. That c.u.n.t'd skin a t.u.r.d for a fiver.'

'A favour for a favour,' snarls Danny, but I ain't buying it. This is all getting beyond a bad joke. Less than ten minutes ago I was soundo with my hands wrapped round my rock-hard k.n.o.b and now they're wrapped around the barrel of a yogger, all for a poxy two and half grand apiece.

'What favours he ever do anyone?' I spit back. 'That dry-lunch-c.u.n.t wouldn't give his grandmother the drippings off his foreskin. And why the yoggers for a few f.u.c.king hedgemumpers?'

'He wants us to teach them a lesson,' says Danny.

'Yeah, f.u.c.king hedgehog pie-eating c.u.n.ts,' says Stevie.

'Funny you should call them that,' says Frankie. 'They brought out hedgehog pie flavoured crisps a few years ago.'

'What did they taste like?' says Danny.

'Hedgehog pie, I suppose,' says Frankie, taking a deep breath, at which point I shudder involuntary, because whenever Frankie takes a deep breath, it means he's about to start a parable, and Frankie's parables, like the feeding of the five thousand are total b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, and just meander on to some unfathomable conclusion. Turning to press my face against the side window, the Old Kent Road, a rotten, crumbling vista of two-bob shops and permanent roadworks crawls slowly past, and I wish I was anywhere but here. Then Frankie begins.

'On the subject of hedgehogs, there's another thing I gotta tell yers. A few years ago, a good few years ago, I went down to Pomfritter's dog track with the wife and kids. I mean it's always a good f.u.c.king night out, especially for the nippers, they love a little bet and a sly drop of Blue Nun. And the scampi and chips there is different cla.s.s, 'cos they clean the cooking oil once a week regular like f.u.c.king clockwork. Real proper bit of scran it is. Well, anyways, this particular night they got a load of these little monkeys, y'know, the ones that are about the same size as squirrels. So they dressed the little f.u.c.kers up in jockeys outfits, put 'em on the backs of the greyhounds and made them race round the track. Funny it was. Like horse racing, only smaller.'

'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l,' says Stevie. 'I've been down to Pomfritter's loads of times but I ain't never seen that.'

'Nah, they only done it the once,' says Frankie. 'f.u.c.king things kept on falling off as the dogs flew round the bends. I f.u.c.king love dogs. Guide dogs are different cla.s.s. Remember I blinded that mush by mistake and then went out and bought him a guide dog, just to square things up with him, like? Well, I saw him the other day. Course he couldn't f.u.c.king see me. But the dog I got him is beautiful. Crosses the road, keeps an eye out for him, even acts as a guard dog. f.u.c.king amazing really.'

The car jolts unexpectedly and we all bounce up and down. I hit my head on the roof.

'Sorry, boys,' says Danny. 'Sleeping policeman.'

'f.u.c.king pigs, kip anywhere,' says Stevie, and we all have a little t.i.tter, but funny really don't matter. The truth of the matter is I ain't happy. I ain't long buried one of my best pals, the blood's still wet on all of our hands, yet n.o.body's said a word about it. It's like the man never existed. Then there's the fact that every one of us in this car has each made more dough in the last three months than the Prime Minister earns in a year. So this bit of graft don't make no f.u.c.king sense. Something ain't right. I ain't managed to suss it out yet but I will get Danny's angle.

EAST MALLING, KENT. Pikey paradise. If Kent is the garden of England, then East Malling is its compost heap. Reef round under the surface down here and you never know what you'll drag up, although the chances are it'll have a pikey hanging from it somewhere. We turn off a main road which leads to a smaller dirt road and then slow down to ease our way past rusting skeletons of cannibalised motors and towering mounds of bald, death-wall tyres. As we hit the main entrance to the pikey site, Danny drops gear once more and we stare out of the car in silence, watching as a posse of crop-headed, dirty-faced little oiks get their kicks teasing the granny out of a three-legged mongrel dog sporting a coat rotted with mange. As we pa.s.s the dog growls at us through a mouth of missing fangs. Following in the tracks left by a tipper lorry we reach a clearing dotted with caravans. Some are spotless whilst others are decrepit hovels buried tyre-deep in filthy, stinking mud patches.

'Don't seem to be no one about apart from them few chavvies,' says Frankie.

'Must be at university finis.h.i.+ng collecting their degrees,' I say, adding. 'Anyway, do we definitely know the cherry hog's in this f.u.c.king p.i.s.s-hole?'

'Yeah,' says Stevie. 'I had a chat with Lacker Bunghole last night and he reckons the mush that's got it is the chap out of all the pikeys and lives on his own in a little bubble-van. He gave me the full SP. Reckons we can't miss it.'

'I thought Gypsy John Johnny was the top man down this neck of the woods?' I say.

'He was,' says Danny. 'But apparently this mush jumped all over him and bit half his f.u.c.king windpipe out. They reckon he can right have it on the cobbles.'

Moving forward once more we draw alongside the first sign of adult life, a mini-skirted, ginger pikey bird who's standing beside one of the s.h.i.+ttier vans, barefoot inside a pair of her old man's unlaced working boots, and hanging out a pile of grey was.h.i.+ng on a bit of string tied to a nearby tree. And as we pa.s.s she squints at us through eyes of hate and mistrust.

'See the way that s.h.i.+tc.u.n.t's looking at us?' says Danny. 'If she says a d.i.c.ky bird, I swear to G.o.d I'll get out and punch her pikey f.u.c.king head in.'

'Look at the f.u.c.king state of her gaff,' says Stevie. 'Rotten as a pear.'

'If that's the state of her gaff,' says Frankie, 'I'd hate to see the state of her f.u.c.king knickers. What d'you reckon it'd be like down there, Billy?'

'f.u.c.king clinkersville, Frankie. Like a fisherman's tobacco pouch after two months at sea.'

'f.u.c.king filth,' sneers Frankie.

'There's our gaff!' says Stevie, pointing out a rotten looking bubble-van at the far end of the camp. Danny eases back on the gas and we skid slightly in a pool of stinking slush before gliding to a halt to take in the scene. This gaff is something else. I personally wouldn't let a goat live in it, even if I f.u.c.king hated it. Ain't no windows to speak of, just bits of torn-up cardboard stuffed into bare, buckled frames. No door, no wheels, and the only thing that seems to be holding it up is a few house bricks, built up in a couple of rickety looking stacks under each axle.

'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l,' I say. 'Surely nothing lives in that, that sits on a khazi?'

'I just saw a puff of smoke coming out of the roof, so someone must,' says Stevie.

Without anyone saying a further word the four of us climb out to take a closer shufti. And as we do, Danny steps straight into a puddle which causes me to snicker under my breath.

'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l,' he growls. 'I just give a gorilla for these Geckos and now they're f.u.c.king ruined.' Reaching back through the car window, Danny gives a couple of toots on the car horn, as the four of us form a loose line facing the van. Nothing, not a f.u.c.king sausage. The silence causes the four of us to bristle uneasily. Then, after about thirty seconds, the caravan wobbles, just slightly, sending our hearts jumping. Without warning, a quiet involuntary fart silently escapes from my a.r.s.e. Ain't no worry, it's the body's built in safety valve. Taking a steady breath I wrap both hands hand tight around the d.i.c.k Turpin, and the contrasting cold of the steel barrels and warmth of the wooden handle sends a slight s.h.i.+ver through my body, a feeling I find both pleasant and rea.s.suring.

A quick glance sideways shows us all to be ready for action. I quickly scan the pikey site, noticing that a small gathering of the camp's inhabitants are forming behind us in the distance. No f.u.c.king sweat! We've got enough firepower hidden beneath our smothers and enough a.r.s.ehole between our legs to f.u.c.k this little firm of Kentish diddicoys over properly. The caravan in front of us wobbles some more, rocks from side to side and then groans as though about to give up the ghost. As it shudders to a stop its owner, a pikey, a great big bare-chested, shovel-handed, Stone Age, simian pikey, wedges himself into the empty door-s.p.a.ce to check us out. The four of us take in the scene, and I know all of us are thinking the same thing. That if this f.u.c.king creature had another head with one eye in the middle of it stuck on the top of his shoulders, he'd look almost human. And now he's standing there soaking the four of us up, and we know exactly what he's thinking. He's looking down his bobbled nose at us, dripping with expensive tom, togged up in our designer clobber with slick barnets, and thinking we're just bits of boys come to do men's work. And that's what's so great about our firm. We're wolves in sheep's clothing. And believe me we've turned plenty of tables down to it. And what this genetically deformed Goliath of a p.r.i.c.k don't know is that we're tooled up to the eyebrows, and that when working as a unit take a backward step from no one.

'Mac?' says Danny, looking our man straight in the eyes.

'Big Mac!' growls the giant, drawing himself up outside his door to his full six foot seven and puffing out his chest to show off a beautifully tattooed eagle, spoilt somewhat by the columns of thick black chest hairs sprouting through the ink work, like weeds forcing their way up between the mosaic tiles of an ornamental garden.

'Big Mac!' says Danny sarcastically, causing a ripple of quiet laughter to run through the four of us.