'That c.u.n.t's ruined the f.u.c.king mood,' says Danny, after Tina goes back into the kitchen to wash up. 'I can't even watch my favourite f.u.c.king film. f.u.c.k it, come outside with me, Billy. We'll go up to my pigeon loft, I've got to do some nutting.'

So off we trod up to his pigeon loft, with Danny Junior in tow, and with Danny's mooey glowing as red as Tinky Winky's handbag. Danny spends a fortune on his pigeons. He's determined to be the best flyer in the south of England, but really he's a f.u.c.king cheat. My old uncle, Deaffy, hatched all his own birds, bred them himself, trained them and watched them home. Danny never won a f.u.c.king race in his life until he started to earn a few quid. Then he brought in a crack flyer called Ronnie Bigwood, who got his loft into shape, weeded out his weak birds, bought in good stock, got them into shape, and then most importantly of all, trained them to come straight back into the loft, instead of getting lost on the way home, as Danny's birds always used to do.

Finally Danny started to win some races for the first time in his life. Unfortunately for him the pigeon racing world is a very insular society, full of gossipmongers and back-stabbers. Word went round the gummy old c.u.n.ts that Danny's loft was actually being run by Ronnie Bigwood, so he was thrown out of the Canning Town pigeon club and had to decamp somewhere else. He's just had a new loft built, and you best believe, his birds live better than families struggling on the minimum wage. But like everything in Danny's life, if his birds don't bring home the bacon, they're totally expendable. We reach the loft and I start to shallow breathe, just so as I don't have to smell the stink of these dumb f.u.c.king animals. Give them a heated loft with their own little beds and what do they do? s.h.i.+t and p.i.s.s where they eat and sleep.

'Nut, nut, nut, nut,' says Danny, after entering the loft to point out particular birds, and then bringing the first selected one out.

'See, son,' he says to Danny Junior. 'This 'ere bird ain't no f.u.c.king good. Got itself lost on the last three races, took a week to come home, so it's got to be nutted. Understand?'

Danny Junior nods solemnly, as Danny twists the unfortunate pigeon's head off in one swift movement, and then throws it up in the air with a loud laugh. The headless bird flies straight up, its wings flapping furiously and with an abundance of blood-stained feathers already starting to rain slowly down. After reaching a height of about thirty feet, the wings suddenly stop fluttering and the dead bird drops like a stone, coming to a lifeless heap on the manicured lawn. His eyes aflame with pa.s.sion and with a smile spread across his face, Danny re-enters the loft and grabs another of the selected birds.

'OK, son, your turn,' he says, handing the next victim to Danny Junior.

'I don't want to, Dad, I don't like it,' says Danny Junior, a slight well of tears in his eyes.

'You little f.u.c.king queer!' screams Danny, before adding in a mincing, mocking voice, 'I don't want to, Dad. I don't like it.' Taking a step in closer to intimidate the kid, Danny carries on the verbal. 'You want Billy to tell everyone you're a little queer? The kid shakes his head, looks at me and I'm cursing my cowardice, because instead of backing him up I just stand there like a c.u.n.t and simply give him a half-smile.

'Nut it, you little c.u.n.t, nut it!' says Danny once more. And with that Danny Junior clumsily pulls the bird's head off, while it struggles in his grip. After managing eventually to rip the head off, he half-heartedly throws it, but instead of flying upward, the bird falls to the ground and simply flaps headless around us, as if performing some strange voodoo dance.

'You little w.a.n.ker!' screams Danny, stepping forward to kick the bird dead with a well-aimed boot.

ANOTHER LITTLE EARNER has just dropped out of the clear blue sky. Denny Dalston, who we last saw when Danny put a gun in his mouth for trying to put the heavy on his brother Colin's scaffolding firm, has told us that some pals of his in the IRA have confiscated five hundred kilos of puff from a little firm of dealers down in county Cork, and that they want to move it out of the country to avoid getting their own hands dirty. Dalston's creaming himself at the thought of a sweet little tickle, but he's come up against a brick wall because he can't move that size of parcel. However, he knows we can and that's why he's approached us. After having slipped over to a boozer in Canning Town to word him, me and Danny let him know we're interested, but after doing so, agree in private to tread very carefully, because Dalston's an out-and-out div, and we can't afford to trust his judgement carte blanch. It goes without saying the last thing we need right now is grief with the IRA. Those lunatics have got tentacles that stretch the entire globe. One wrong move with those boyos and you'll end up hooded and bound on a country road deep in bandit country, with a bullet in the back of your skull and your trousers and pants pulled round your ankles, leaving you bare-a.r.s.ed and shamefaced for all the world to see.

Having spoken to Frankie and Stevie they've climbed aboard, after which our firm then makes a few discreet enquires through one of our own contacts in Belfast. A very proper man called Nesner Hayes, who has excellent standing in the republican movement. Nesner, who I spent some time with banged-up in the seg unit in Brixton a few years back, was the top man in the Provos' nutting squad. The nutting squad was the IRA's very own internal security unit. It was their job to root out moles and gra.s.ses. And once you got taken by Nesner and his goons, you'd be interrogated and tortured for weeks until you're nothing but a b.u.mbling wreck of a human being, who'd sell his own mother down the river for a free pardon and a last shot at life. By which time Nesner, who's a sick c.u.n.t in his own way, would whisper quietly in your ear that this time you're lucky and your life is going to be spared. After which, he'd walk you, bashed, bruised and still hooded, along a hallway in some desolate country farm on the border of the Republic, until you reached a door. He'd then tell you to put one of your hands on its handle, informing you it leads directly to the street outside. He'd then go on to tell you that on his orders you're to turn the handle, open the door and walk out, take the hood off and then keep on walking and never look back.

Spitting grateful thanks through broken teeth, you'd put your hand on the door handle as told, while all the time p.i.s.sing yourself with fear and excitement that you'd got your life back. And right at that very moment when you think you were taking your first step back to your family and friends, Nesner would put a gun to the back of your head and blow your f.u.c.king nut off, with that last thought of freedom still ringing in your brain. But Nesner ain't only just about nutting. He also runs the black taxi racket up on the Falls Road. No one drives a taxi in west Belfast without paying off the Provos. After a brief run-through about the coup he tells us that the deal's kosher, after which we have to wait a few days for it to be OK'd by a former OC of the Belfast Brigade. In the event it comes back sweet, and so, with our involvement officially sanctioned, we decide to call the deal on. It's a good move, for a favour done is a favour owed. And whilst the average man in the street may not agree with the IRA's war, a clever gangster knows that when it comes to losing bodies, it don't come any better than the Irish mob.

In the meantime, a very good pal of ours and professional hitman par excellence, Porky Edwards, is running a charity prizefight tonight on a disused spice barge that sits stranded in the stinking mud of the Thames at Shadwell Basin. Top of the bill is Gypsy John Johnny from East Malling in Kent, not long recovered from his mauling by Big Mac, now the top man out of the Pikeys, and who our firm striped up over Perry Pomfritter's prize greyhound. John Johnny's up against a fighting man from south Woolwich, Larry Tarbuck. Tarbuck's favourite to win, but my dough's on the gypsy. Normally our firm steers clear of unlicensed fights. For top league criminals like us they're a pony night out, normally being full to the rafters with testosterone and booze-fuelled, chest-beating meatheads. And most contests themselves are a f.u.c.king embarra.s.sment to the sweet science of pugilism, the art of hitting and not getting hit, with most degenerating into untidy brawls and most contestants being a sad bunch of over the hill palookas, intent on nothing more than grabbing a quick buck, and with only the occasional diamond sparkling amidst the s.h.i.+t. But in the event, we've decided to put in an appearance in order to give the nod to Denny Dalston about the IRA puff deal. For Dalston's actually fighting on the bill for a purse of five hundred poxy quid. Which is just further affirmation of a theory I have, that you can't put brains inside a coconut.

After negotiating our way along one of the badly wobbling gangplanks, specially knocked up for the occasion, our firm jumps down one by one onto the deck of the barge, after which, we clamber down a steep set of steps and disappear inside its rusting hulk, to find ourselves standing in a dank and sweaty cargo hold still lingering with an array of exotic smells from its previous usage. All about us, various factions of moody-looking mushes, each following their favourite fighters, are grouped in small gangs around a makes.h.i.+ft ring in the hold's centre, and where the only illumination in the gaff is provided by a set of blinding white halogen lights suspended on a steel chain that swings unsteadily over the top of the ring. In and out of the shadowy half-light, slippery looking scallies with unshaven faces hover suspiciously, and the air is full of fighting talk, burping and farting, and bets being laid. The seediness of the whole set-up already makes me feel like I want to go straight home to shower. For this turnout is a top night for society's dregs, and what with the different lairy little firms prowling and growling, the whole place also reeks of violence and menace. None of which matters a f.u.c.k to us, because anyone who's anyone here knows who our firm is, and besides, we're all tooled up to the eyeb.a.l.l.s.

With the first bout starting soon our firm takes its place at ringside, seating only for the cream of the crop, the rest of the rabble has to stand and cheer on their feet, from the back. And as I glance around it feels like I've been transported back to a bygone era. When working men paid, then bayed for blood. The days when the lowest of the low hurried with undisguised glee to devour public executions, until the authorities banned them, so then they went c.o.c.kfighting, dogfighting, any kind of fighting. Anywhere that saw flesh pitted against flesh, and where a man of the lower orders could sate his instincts vicariously by watching blood spurt and terrible screams fill the smoke-filed air. And still they come, only now it's unlicensed prizefighting, to watch grown men of dubious mental perception gather in secret, so as to beat the s.h.i.+t out of each other for peanuts and local glory. Through the throbbing throng of the gathering crowd I look up and spot Lennie McClean sitting opposite with the film star Derry O'Dourke, fresh over from Miami, to his right. McLean's retired now, but back in the seventies when he fought under the name of Daddy Cool, he had a series of terrific grudge matches with, pound-for-pound, the hardest street-fighting man ever to haunt the streets of Britain, Roy 'Pretty Boy' Shaw. Terrific fights they were, the real deal, full of poetic violence and retribution, what with both men being as hard as nails and thick as two short planks.

After catching my eye, McClean rises slowly from his seat and draws himself up to his full six foot three and sixty-inch chest, to soak up the hushed admiration of the crowd. It parts like the Red Sea as he strolls over and with O'Dourke lapping it all up in his wake. On reaching our firm, O'Dourke steps forward and greets me like a long lost pal, but he was so f.u.c.ked up when I kicked his false teeth into the gutter in the States, I'm sure he don't even recognise me. After prising myself from his clammy embrace, McClean pulls me to one side to thank me for dropping off his film script. He also asks me if our firm can smooth over the outstanding and ongoing shotgun problem he has with Denny Dalston. I tell him it won't be a problem, and by way of return receive his humble thanks before he bowls back to his seat. The lights above the ring suddenly go out engulfing the cargo hold in darkness and quiet, save for the occasional lighted cigarette, the slurping of booze and a battery of self-conscious whispers, as an expectant buzz filters through the crowd. But just as narrowed eyes grow accustomed to the dark, the lights start to flicker on and off wildly as the first two fighters, silhouetted and moving in fast jerky movements under the flickering strobe lights, like bit players in a silent black and white movie, climb into the ring to take their places in their respective corners, each accompanied by towel-waving and bucket-carrying seconds. A loud whoosh is then heard as the lights flick full on, swathing the ring and the fighters in a blinding light, as Porky Edwards steps up, microphone in hand to announce the commencement of the first fight.

In the far corner, standing stiff as a post and with his face fixed in the rictus grin of the Grim Reaper, is shaven-headed sociopath 'Mad' Mickey Peterson. Peterson's a failed part-time armed robber and full-time life loser, who for some reason known best to himself, changed his name by deed poll to that of Hollywood tough-guy actor Charles Bronson. He definitely ain't all there in the nut. One of those mugs who seems to be happier in the b.o.o.b than out on the street. It's a well-known fact that he's seen the inside of more cages than the Birdman of Alcatraz. Bronson's up against a young kid from the same stable that Danny used to fight out of. But even before the time-bell rings, it's totally obvious that this is a bad mismatch. Looking at the kid in the near corner, it's written all over his daisy-fresh and fuzzy b.u.m-fluffed face that he's suffering first night nerves, as well as weighing in at about two stone lighter than Bronson. But this ain't the pro game, and if you're big enough to step into the ring, you're big enough to take a beating.

The time-bell rings and no sooner do the seconds climb out than Bronson tears out from his corner, like a rat from a trap, and starts piledriving mercilessly into the kid who, give him due, uses his newly-acquired boxing skills to bob and weave like a seasoned pro. But Bronson's far too strong and hungry for him, and in less than thirty seconds has pinned the kid down in a corner, where he starts working him under the heart, with a series of sickening rib shots that causes the kid to drop his guard, leaving his head exposed. Bronson, sensing an early victory lets out an almighty howl, then starts to pay the kid dearly for his callow youth by landing a succession of spiteful chopping hooks to his head. The crowd erupts into a frenzy of rebel yells and hollers, screaming for Bronson to go for the kill, only to see the kid saved by the bell and leaving Bronson to stomp angrily back to his corner, like a schoolboy who's just dropped his ice-cream cone.

Now, I don't know Bronson personally, but I do hear say that he reckons he's been the toughest man in every nick he's ever been in. Maybe he has, maybe he ain't; I personally couldn't give two f.u.c.ks. I know a lot of tough men in prison, and they're all mugs living in a mug's paradise. Any p.r.i.c.k can give it the large strolling the yard in a prison issue f.u.c.king donkey jacket. It's out here in the real world where it really matters.

A quick glance at Danny tells me he's got the right f.u.c.king zig, because it's obvious that Bronson's going to tear the kid to pieces in the next round, and I can also see by his contorted features that Danny fancies a piece of Bronson himself. Without saying a word to any of us he jumps up from his seat, grabs hold of the top ring rope and cops hold of Porky Edwards, yelling at him above the still baying crowd that Bronson's 'a f.u.c.king liberty taker' and he wants to have it with him bare-knuckle in the ring, right there and then. Sensing a kick-off, me, Stevie and Frankie move in close to where Danny's standing, with our hands in our pockets ready to pull out our tools if things go boss-eyed. Finding himself surrounded on all sides by our firm causes Porky's a.r.s.ehole to drop through the floor, because he knows that both him and Bronson are in a no-win situation. If Bronson beats Danny, which would be a close call anyway, he'll spend his dying breath staring up at the barge's ceiling riddled with bullet holes. But you know what, considering the way he's been banged-up like an animal ever since, he might even have thanked us for it. However, Porky does the sensible thing and stops the fight before the second round to save the kid from further damage, much to the anger and dismay of the crowd, who start to litter the ring with empty beer cans and catcalls. Bronson, on hearing the news, runs to the centre of the ring and lifts his hands up high and then starts to struts his stuff as though he's just won a world champions.h.i.+p, rather than bashed the c.u.n.t out of a spotty teenager who still lives with his mum.

Danny, more than pleased that his intervention has been successful, urges us to sit back down, after which we await the charity auction with antic.i.p.ation. First up on the roster are two identical paintings from the bloodied hands of Ronnie and Reggie Kray. Both are childlike representations of two-storey, happy houses surrounded on all sides by luminous green lawns and dotted with simply-drawn, multicoloured generic flowers. From chimneys on both roofs thin whispers of smoke spiral skyward to embrace orange and red suns that smile indulgently down on each household. They ain't exactly masterpieces, more of the standard that you would expect a not very clever five-year-old using crayons to come up with. But in the event our firm ends up giving five grand for them, with all the dough going to a young local girl dying of leukaemia. Now none of us, excepting for Danny, I would consider to be heartless b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, and no one likes to see children suffer. But if each of our firm looked deep into his own soul, they'd be patently aware that we don't really give a f.u.c.k for some sick kid we don't even know. It's more than obvious, if we care to admit it, that we've just splashed out five grand so that the whisper filters through the East End that we are good and proper people, when what we really are is flash horrible c.u.n.ts that don't give two f.u.c.ks about anyone but ourselves, alongside other people's perceptions of us as caring, sharing criminals, in the good old Robin Hood tradition.

With the first bout over, Frankie and Billy slip away in the interval for light refreshments, and come back weighted down with a few cans of warm beer and a plate of cold hot dogs. I pa.s.s on the food but help myself to some beer, at which stage the lights above the ring start to flicker on and off once more, signalling the start of the second fight. A rigged-up sound system sparks into life, cranking out the opening bars of the Jimmy 'Schnozzle' Durante song, Baby Face. Which means only one thing. Denny Dalston's fighting next. His signature tune being somewhat ironic as his face is definitely his misfortune, seeing as though it looks as if it's been kicked in by a f.u.c.king horse. No sooner does Dalston step into the ring, carrying at least three extra stone of suet, than three quarters of the crowd are stomping their feet, applauding and going absolutely garrity, because no matter what shape he's in he always gives value for dough. Rousing the crowd further by holding up both his arms, Dalston then commences to jaunt clumsily around the ring, before whipping the crowd into a further frenzy with a series of staged fighting poses and mock grimaces, which he finishes off with a bizarre pirouette across to his corner, that sees his flabby frontage come to a juddering halt, at least a half a second behind the rest of his body.

'Daddy f.u.c.king Dumpling, ain't it?' shouts out Danny to me in disgust while motioning at Dalston, just as I'm getting ready to jump up ringside to let him know that the IRA puff coup's on. After blowing down Dalston's ear I then sit back down, as the hold begins to echo with a deafening cacophony of boos and racist chants as Dalston's opponent climbs into the ring.

Ali 'Boom-Boom' Roomes is a muscular black dude out of Tulse Hill, south London. I've never seen him fight before but Frankie tugs me and tells me out of the side of his mouth that, 'This spade can right f.u.c.king have it!' Once in the ring, Boom-Boom throws of his robe, and flaunts his rippled torso at the audience, a move that elicits a series of monkey chants and yet more boos. Ignoring them, he gets up on his toes and uses the ring s.p.a.ce to faint and parry an imaginary opponent, before counter-attacking with a series of beautifully executed flurries of lightning sharp hooks and uppercuts, and all to the appreciative cheers of his own supporters, approximately fifty strong on the far side of the ring. Every one of them black to a man, and more than a few of whom look pretty tasty in the tear-up department, which means we could be in for some fireworks. From the start of the first Boom-Boom's running rings round Dalston, s...o...b..ating and hitting him at will with a selection of well-placed hooks and jabs. Mugging him right off in other words. But for every useless lunge by Dalston that misses by a mile, his partisan fans scream approval, whereas for every scoring hit landed by Boom-Boom, there's the threatening of a beating or a lynching accompanied by chants of, 'f.u.c.k off back to Africa, you black c.u.n.t!'

The first round ends with an untidy tussle that carries on after the bell has rung and with both men claiming victory, which only serves to inflame all sections of the crowd further. Round two, and Dalston comes out puffing like a coal miner with black lung running for a bus, and he still can't get near his man. It's then that things go from the embarra.s.sing to the ridiculous, when Porky Edwards, who's also doubling as referee, has to keep stopping the fight because Dalston's shorts keep slipping down over his lard a.r.s.e, exposing his hairy crack, which itself brings loud chants of derision from Boom-Boom's followers.

'f.u.c.king disgrace!' shouts Danny, and the dissent from the crowd increases, as Dalston continues to take a terrible beating. Cans of half-drunk booze start to rain down on the ring, and Dalston, a seasoned hand at prizefighting, knows he needs to pull something out of the bag to save what's left of his reputation. No sooner does the bell go for the end of the second, and the two fighters are prised apart from yet another scruffy clinch, than Dalston steps forward and headb.u.t.ts Boom-Boom, smack dab on the bridge of his hooter. The loud thwack of cartilage snapping reverberates around ringside as Boom-Boom drops to the floor clutching his face. Dalston's supporters go f.u.c.king bonkers, for this is what they've come to see. An uppity south London n.i.g.g.e.r laying at a white man's feet. And now that one of their own has spilt black blood, they want a piece of the action themselves. From Boom-Boom's side of the ring, his supporters move forward as a dark menacing ma.s.s, grumbling and growling and making their displeasure felt. In an attempt to calm the situation Porky deducts a point from Dalston and gives him a public warning, which only serves to rile his support further. Shaking his head at the crowd in disapproval at Porky's decision, Dalston then jerks up both his arms to take in the cheers of the crowd, as they go garrity once more. He then starts to strut the ring, milking the ecstatic applause before bowling back to his corner. Only he don't sit down. Instead he picks up his stool, runs with it to the corner where Boom-Boom's being treated by his seconds, and strikes him right over the top of his canister with it, knocking him sparko again and drenching the canvas with more blood. The place erupts, as Boom-Boom's supporters steam into the ring from one side to cop for Dalston, only to be met halfway by Dalston's mob spoiling for a war.

A pitched battle ensues inside the ring. Black against white, and it don't matter who your pals are; your skin colour's your uniform, so your team's already been chosen. And so, our firm's up and in against the black mob, striking mercilessly with bottles, fists, knives and dusters. Anything to hand as we go to work splitting skulls and puncturing lungs. Some terrible screaming permeates the air from both camps, and I look up to catch McClean having a rare old time lumping black bodies up into the air. Although they give a great account of themselves, by sheer weight of numbers the black firm starts to take a terrible beating, with bodies being stamped half to death, and broken beer gla.s.ses and knives opening up black flesh with undisguised glee. What's left of the black firm that's still standing has no choice but to have it on their toes, scrambling off the barge along the gangplanks, like rats leaving the proverbial sinking s.h.i.+p, and with more than a few losing their footings and falling the twenty feet into the stinking mud below, and the less fortunate ending up maimed and scarred for life. Eventually the ruckus subsides, as bodies grow weary and enough blood has been spilt to sate all appet.i.tes. But just when things appear to be returning to some semblance of normality, Lennie McClean comes running over in a pig of a panic and screaming he's lost Derry O'Dourke amidst the mayhem, and has visions of his film deal slipping away. I tell him he needn't worry, because we can see the tough-guy actor. He's cowering under the timekeeper's table, s.h.i.+tting his p.u.s.s.y film star pants.

Porky Edwards then steps back into the ring to make an announcement. Taking hold of the microphone once more and appearing completely unruffled and unfazed by the riot that has just taken place, he places the microphone to his mouth and whispers huskily. 'Due to circ.u.mstances beyond the promoter's control, the rest of the evening's entertainment has been cancelled. I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone here for attending, and ask that you start making your way back to your motors. I would also like to take this opportunity to remind you that drink driving kills. So don't do it! And gentlemen, remember. It's a jungle out there. So pleeeeze, be careful. Goodnight, and G.o.d bless!'

RICKETS HAS BEEN plaguing Custom House and Canning Town for about five years now. He started out as a housebreaker, which is bad enough, but now he's moved up to creeping, which in anyone's books is an out-and-out stinking f.u.c.king liberty. The difference between the two being that a housebreaker will only enter a house when he knows its occupants are out, rifle through their gear then have it on his toes. A creeper gets his kicks creeping through someone's drum at night while the owners are tucked up in bed. And in our experience it is but a couple of short steps from creeper to rapist. Rickets has already done a couple of short stretches, but it ain't stopped him reoffending. Plus, he's naturally built for the game, what with him being six foot six of elasticated p.i.s.s, as well as being so agile he jumps back fences like a gazelle before disappearing into the night. That's why no one can catch him, and that's why me and Danny have been plotted up outside his flat watching day turn to night. And by the time we've finished with him, he's going to be six foot six of paralysed p.i.s.s. He crossed into our world a few nights ago when he crept a pal of mine and Danny's house, even venturing into the kids' rooms and lifting their piggy banks while their dear little heads were far away in slumberland. Think about it, your innocent little babies fast asleep, while that total f.u.c.king lowlife is slipping about your gaff with his thieving hands robbing your toddlers of their pocket money. It's a situation that can't be tolerated in a manor where we hold sway, and all manner of people come to us to sort out grief because local plod's a f.u.c.king joke, and spends most of his time slapping speeding tickets on boy racers instead of chasing after sc.u.mbags like Rickets. And Bunter, the owner of the house in question, ain't a well man. Suffers from terrible circulation problems. Only last week he took off his socks to find another couple of his toes had dropped off inside them. But despite his handicap he still manages to help Danny out with his pigeons. And so, down to the old pals act, plus the reasons I've already stated, allied to the fact that Danny hates black men, we're up to do whatever's necessary to rid the local streets of this one-man plague.

I'm well up for the bit of graft seeing as I've been burgled twice myself. Not by Rickets, but that don't matter, because if I can't catch the slags that done my gaff, any housebreaking sc.u.mbag will do. To make matters worse Danny's got the raving hump which will make it all the more fun, because yesterday he got doorstepped coming out of his pigeon club by a reporter from a scuzzball Sunday red-top about a murder he done a few years back. But instead of just ignoring the a.r.s.ewipe reporter, Danny went garrity, smashed him to bits and put him into hospital with concussion. So now the pigs are crawling all over the show. The murder in question happened when he took Tina out one night to watch Freddie Starr at the Top Hat And Tails cabaret club in Bethnal Green. Lee Maggs, a part-time doorman and full-time flash c.u.n.t, stopped him and Tina at the front door and tried to charge them a cover.

Now the thing is, the club was owned by a pal of ours who we had lent some readies to, so Danny was in order to expect to just stroll in with the red carpet treatment, especially as he'd made the necessary arrangements beforehand. But Maggs weren't having it. He didn't know Danny, didn't want to know Danny and that was the end of it, or so he thought. Danny took Tina straight back home and crept back up there just before closing time. He hit Maggs on the whiskers and then slit his throat with a hunting knife. Personally, I think Danny went a bit over the top. I would have just paid the entrance fee and sorted things out at a later date. Not only that, but Old Bill's had the right hump over it for years, because they had a positive ID on Danny from a local gra.s.s, who happened to be out on the Joe Brown at the time. But by sheer coincidence or good fortune, a couple of months after the start of the investigation, the gra.s.s ended up being found dead in his garage, in the front seat of his car and with a hose leading from the exhaust. The coroner reckoned it was suicide. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. Who gives a f.u.c.k for a dead gra.s.s?

It's now eleven at night, which means we've been plotted up for over four hours, staring out of our car windscreen and up at the gaff that Rickets shares with a white bird, which has given Danny even more of the hump. And she's also a right good sort, which has given Danny even more of the hump on top of that. And for the last hour I've further frayed his nerves to shreds, by his twisted reckoning, and all because I didn't have a chance to eat earlier and so had to grab a takeaway portion of Jamaican jerk chicken. First of all Danny sat there with a face like a smacked a.r.s.e complaining I was eating too loud.

'How the f.u.c.k can a man eat chicken too loud?' I said to him.

'You're chanking it, mate,' he reckoned to me. So to stop any further moaning I stopped chewing and simply started to suck the meat off the bone. But even that weren't good enough for my psychopath of a partner, because then he turned to me and said, 'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, mate. We're going to be shooting someone in a minute, and all your fingers are gonna be greasy from eating that f.u.c.king n.i.g.g.e.r chicken. Your finger might slip on the f.u.c.king trigger and you'll end up shooting me instead.'

I had to tell him what a ridiculous f.u.c.king statement that was, especially when I showed him the lemon-fresh hand wipes that came with the food. But he still weren't happy, and since my meal he's been sitting next to me with a face like a sparrow that's just laid a f.u.c.king ostrich egg.

'There he is, the black c.u.n.t!' says Danny, causing me to start from a daydream and look up. And sure enough there's our man, bowling away from us in the near distance and clad head to toe in the de rigueur black of burglars, which obviously means he's on his way to work. Saying nothing further, me and Danny slip quietly out of the car and bear quickly down on him from behind, our trainers masking any noise our footsteps may make. Reaching Rickets first, I take a leap forward and upward, as though ready to dunk a basketball, and then with both arms at full stretch grab him in a reverse chokehold around his pencil neck, before using my full body weight to bring him cras.h.i.+ng down underneath me to the pavement, as easily as a lion takes down an antelope, whilst at the same time taking great care to smash his head hard onto the concrete, so as to knock the b.o.l.l.o.c.ks out of him before he has a chance to put up a struggle.

Grabbing hold of his hair I then smash his face into the pavement hard once more, before rolling him over onto his back, after which I pull out my revolver, c.o.c.k back the hammer and stick the barrel of it into his right eye.

'I ain't done nothing!' he protest loudly, glaring wide-eyed out of his left eye.

'You ain't done nothing, you black c.u.n.t?' I scream back at him. 'That's what everyone says when it comes on them. It means f.u.c.k all from where we're standing. You're f.u.c.king guilty, 'cos we say you're f.u.c.king guilty. Now shut it, you housebreaking piece of s.h.i.+t. Or so help me, I'll blow out your f.u.c.king voice box.'

'Where you going this time of night, you f.u.c.king n.i.g.g.e.r c.u.n.t?' says Danny, now standing directly over Rickets and stamping his foot hard down on the pit of his stomach.

'Er... down... er... the Wwwwwwwwimpy bar,' gasps Rickets, through shallow painful breaths, a statement that causes me to laugh out loud, because it's funny what people say when you put it right on them. Fear takes over any reasoning and salient thought and they start to babble like a brook. Tell you anything you want to hear. I mean there is a Wimpy bar up on Star Lane, but no one ever goes in there. Nowadays, if you want fast food you go to McDonalds or Kentucky Fried Chicken.

'f.u.c.king Wimpy bar, you black c.u.n.t?' screams Danny, pulling out his Colt .45. 'You'll be going down the f.u.c.king limpy bar when we've finished with you.' And with that he tells me to roll Rickets back onto his front, which I do, after which he leans down and blows off the calf muscle on his right leg. Ricket's piercing screams fill the air, as the hollow-tipped bullet from Danny's .45 blows his calf muscle and the bone underneath to smithereens. And in the same instant that familiar stench of burnt flesh and gunpowder punches its way up my nostrils and into my brain. In order to counter that most hated of smells, I take a deep breath in through my mouth, right at the same time that a tiny piece of Ricket's charcoaled flesh decides to gatecrash my open mouth and fly straight down the back of my throat.

Struck by the thought that I've just turned cannibal by swallowing a piece of this sc.u.mbag's leg, I jump up and run around in a demented half-circle not quite knowing what to do. Luckily for me instinct kicks in straight away and my body convulses, instantaneously spewing out a thick, mushy mess of jerk chicken, combined with a taster of Ricket's calf muscle, all over the man himself, who's now laying curled up like a foetus and moaning gently. The aftertaste of Ricket's calf muscle, whose flavour can best be described as akin to spit-roasted pig, lingers worryingly on my palate along with a mixture of bile and sick, causing me to fly into a terrible rage, and I end up steaming into him with a bevy of beautifully timed kicks to his head that open his face up like a watermelon, after which I run to catch Danny up, still spitting and grolleying vomit as I go.

After climbing into our motor Danny turns to me and says, straight-faced, 'Told you not to eat that f.u.c.king chicken, didn't I?' After which we speed off, leaving Rickets busted up and writhing in agony on the pavement, his creeping days well over.

But the night ain't finished for us yet because we've decided to kill two birds with one stone, as it were. Another slag needs livening up, only this one's white and called Gabby Buxted. Buxted's a very tough c.u.n.t. He once went a full six rounds in the ring bare-knuckle with Lennie McClean before getting knocked out, and even then it was a close call. Another time he got shot three times in a local boozer, chased the shooter two miles into Canning Town and then beat his brains out with a scaffold pole. So, not a man to be taken lightly. But aside from the fact he's a hard b.a.s.t.a.r.d, we're talking premium grade trailer trash here, and he's blotted his copy book with us on two points. First up, we've got a little Shetland pony that we keep on some waste ground behind one of our boozers. The local kids come down and feed it, and the proper little nippers sometimes sit on its back for a ride. Placid as anything it is. Tiny dear little brown and white animal, and not much bigger than a large dog. Thinking it would be a hoot, Buxted, after drinking with a few of his pals in the boozer next to where we keep the pony, lured it over to him with some carrots. After which, he then hollowed out one of the carrots with a Bowie knife he always carries, and then put a banger inside the carrot, lit the blue touchpaper and gave it to the pony. The banger exploded in its mouth, scaring the s.h.i.+t out of it. We called in a vet and were happy to find that there was no permanent physical damage done, but since the attack the poor little sod's been shaking like a leaf and had to be put on tranquillisers.

But here's the rub, Danny's banging on about what a liberty it is being cruel to animals, and yet this is the same man that kicked his kids' dog half to death in front of them, then slit its throat at a local cruising ground, as well as nutting some of his birds in front of his son. Selective memory being one of the luxuries of a psychopath, I suppose. The second stinking liberty that has us riled is something we've heard through the criminal grapevine, although ain't substantiated ourselves. But knowing Buxted and the piece of excrement he is, we believe it to be true, so we've decided to add another bullet on for it anyway. Word's been flying round Canning Town that the ten-year-old son of a bird who Buxted's shacking up with has been recently been taken to hospital after being a.n.a.lly raped by him. And that when the doctor examined the kid's sphincter, apart from the fact that it had been poggered mercilessly and contained a quant.i.ty of human s.e.m.e.n, they also found residue of dog s.h.i.+t, which means that whoever did f.u.c.k the kid, had been f.u.c.king a dog beforehand. Apparently Buxted's been pulled by in the filth, but they've let him back out on bail while forensics are being conducted, and talk of the town is of him getting ready to do a runner, which smacks of his guilt. Not only do nights like tonight make me wanna holler and scream out to the heavens of my despair for the human race, but it's got to be a terrible indictment on our society, that's it left down to the likes of me and Danny to sweep the streets clean of human sewage.

After peeking through the windows and doors of about ten boozers, we finally cop for Buxted just as he's coming out of the Peac.o.c.k, half-cut and head down against the chill night air. And just as I'm about to pull out my yogger and plug him, for some reason Danny steps forward and hits him flush on his Desperate Dan chin with a tremendous straight right, that would cave a normal human being's face in. But Buxted ain't a normal human being, and after soaking up the punch like a sponge, he side-steps two or three feet on wobbly legs, shakes off its effect and then turns and puts his dukes up ready for a straightener. And I'm thinking, f.u.c.k me, Danny, what are you playing at? You're putting us bang in trouble here. I mean I ain't no slouch on the cobbles myself, but no f.u.c.king way do I fancy a fist fight with a simian that's got a head like a f.u.c.king breadbasket. He'll have my guts for garters. So while Danny calls Buxted all the dog-c.u.n.ts under the sun and by return Buxted threatens to tear Danny's head off and spit in the hole, I resolve to put a quick end to this nonsense of fisticuffs by whipping out my gun and letting off a single shot. But what with the dark, and Danny and Buxted fandagoing round in circles like a couple of Spanish f.a.ggots, I f.u.c.k up big time, only managing to wing him in his left shoulder. Now Buxted may be stupid but he ain't no c.u.n.t, and he knows my next aim will be true, so he drops his guard, turns, has it on his toes and runs straight out into the main road, only to find himself almost ploughed down by an oncoming car, which has to swerve to avoid knocking ten bells of s.h.i.+t out of him. More cars appear and slow down to rubberneck the action, forcing me and Danny to do the wise thing and take off in the opposite direction back to our motor, while both resolving to do Buxted properly the next time he crosses our paths.

IF THERE'S ONE thing Danny loves f.u.c.king more than criminals, it's f.u.c.king their wives, especially when their old men are behind the wall. We're on the way to see one such bird now after she put the word out she needs to see Danny urgently. Her old man is Carter Woods, an absolute f.u.c.king nutcase, known locally as Woodsy, and who's near to finis.h.i.+ng a ten stretch for armed robbery. Danny poled his missus, Jennifer, not long after Woodsy got weighed off. She now runs a cafe over at Beckton. It's a reasonably nice gaff and a bit more upmarket than your average greasy spoon. As well as being very clean, the food's well-cooked and fresh, and the cutlery's always spotless, which is always a bonus. Ain't nothing worse than picking up a fork in some poxy, smoke-filled working man's cafe and finding the p.r.o.ngs sprouting plaque. After sitting down at a quiet table away from the cafe's other punters, me and Danny both order full English breakfasts with the obligatory fried slices and a couple of giant mugs of tea. After bringing our breakfast over Jennifer sits herself down at our table, lights up a cigarette, takes a series of nervous glances around the cafe to make sure no one's earwigging, then gets straight to the point.

'Woodsy knows about me and you, Danny,' she says, in a pained croak and almost missing her mouth with her cigarette because her hands are shaking so violently. And as I dip a fried slice into the soft yellow of one of my eggs, I'm also taking a good look at the bird sitting in front of me, and trying for the life of me to fathom out what on earth compels Danny to keep on slipping goldfish to these gangsters molls. Because for a man of Danny's stature and local legend there's plenty of fish in the sea round here, even if the water is a bit polluted. I reckon it's got to be a power thing. Like, I'm a bigger gangster than your old man, that's why I'm banging you while the mug's banged up. But that don't explain why when Stevie was away he was banging his bird as well. That seems to be taking brotherly love a little too far.

'How'd he find out?' says Danny, pus.h.i.+ng his breakfast to one side.

'His f.u.c.king gra.s.s of a brother told him. And when I went up to see him, he put it right on me on the visit. You know what he's like, Danny. He frightened the f.u.c.king life out of me. Honest to G.o.d, I had to admit it. Then when I did he went berserk and starting laying into me. It took five screws to drag him off. And he's out soon on home leave, I don't know what to do. He's been making all kinds of threats.'

'What's he said?' says Danny.

'Bad stuff. Real bad stuff.'

'Like what?'

'I can't say, Danny. It's too horrible.'

'f.u.c.k me, Jennifer, you gotta tell me, girl, word for word, so that I know exactly what the score is.'

Jennifer takes a deep breath and wrinkles up her face, exacerbating the criss-cross lines of her newly acquired crow's feet, that make her appear donkey's older than her thirty years. As she then stubs her cigarette out into an ashtray, I look down and notice that the paint on her nails is chipped and some are bitten down to the cuticles.

'He said that when he comes out he's going to show you up. Well, his exact words were, "I'm gonna show that skinny c.u.n.t Danny Longshanks up for the fraud he is. Then once I've disposed of him, I'm gonna break into his house and rape his kids in front of his wife. Then I'm gonna rape his wife in front of his kids. And then after that I'm gonna cut her c.u.n.t out and turn it into a f.u.c.king purse. That slag wants to f.u.c.k with people's wives, I'll f.u.c.king ruin him."' As Jennifer recounts the story, I watch uneasily as Danny turns white and the blood drains from him like a turkey that's just had its throat slit and been hung upside down to die. Seeing him react like this causes me to take stock, because this is the first time I've ever seen a real c.h.i.n.k in his armour. And to be truthful I find it very unsettling, scary almost. Because no matter what I think of Danny most of the time, all of our firm looks to him for strength. But although I dare not say it I have to make Woodsy right. Nah, not about the raping his wife and kids and stuff, but about banging married birds, especially those that are married to bread and b.u.t.ters that won't stand for it. And no disrespect to this bird, but she ain't even that good a sort. Not good enough to have your wife and kids split wide open and tortured, that's for sure. And you best believe that Woodsy is more than capable of doing what he says.

With Danny seeming to have lost his appet.i.te I help myself to his two fried slices. Well, I ain't the one been f.u.c.king the wives of nutty gangsters and bragging that no one on the plot's got the a.r.s.ehole to top me. An awkward silence ensues as Danny stares away into the distance, until Jennifer pulls out a piece of paper from her pinafore and slides it over to him. On it is written the day of Woodsy's home leave and his mum's address, which is the address where he'll be living on his release.

'I'm scared of what he will do to me, Danny,' she says, adding, 'I don't want him back and he knows that. That's why he's going to live with his mum. But he's told people I'm dead meat anyway for f.u.c.king about while he was banged-up. And it's not like I can just up and leave. And if I go to the Old Bill I'll have to live the rest of my life as a gra.s.s. I can't do that Danny, especially not round here.'

What a clever girl! She's just served up the whole dog's breakfast and dumped it right on Danny's plate. No wonder he don't feel hungry no more. And by leaving it to the last moment to let us know that Woodsy's got the raving hump with Danny, there's no time for him to muddy the waters, by slipping someone into him in the nick. And Danny knows for sure that when Woodsy comes out Jennifer will be able to lay the blame right at his feet. Danny also knows that Woodsy don't give a flying f.u.c.k about going back behind the wall for the rest of his natural. He's got nothing on the out. No dough and no missus now that Danny's soiled his relations.h.i.+p. And imagine all those lonely nights Woodsy's been laying in his peter, staring up at the ceiling and trying to block out the thought of Danny, plunged b.o.l.l.o.c.k-deep right up inside his old woman. I don't care how tough you are, that kind of treachery will snap you like a twig.

MORE HEADACHES AND heartaches are looming on the horizon, which is why we're on our way to see a pal of ours, Maddy, who lives in Barking, and also happens to be barking mad. Not only has he just done the whole of a sixteen stretch for manslaughter, but he's a very strange kettle of fish. For some unfathomable reason he's never updated his wardrobe to move with the times, which leaves him still knocking about in the same old clobber he had on before he got weighed off. So, not only is he strolling round the Ess.e.x borders looking like a seventies drugstore cowboy, but he's spent nearly all of his bird laying on his prison bunk chasing the dragon and reading Nietzsche, whom he quotes, sometimes verbatim. I'll be truthful, he scares the living f.u.c.king daylights out of me, what with his shaved head and bifocal bins so thick that his mince pies look like a couple of currants. And this is a man who, during his bird, trimmed his ears down with a pair of nail clippers because he thought they looked too big. Only thing being that because he's as blind as bat, he f.u.c.ked the job right up and now looks like a Vulcan.

Anyway, what's happened is that we called the IRA puff deal on and pugged up the goods in a slaughter just along by the Ess.e.x Road ready to be moved up north. Meanwhile, Denny Dalston's got himself lelled for putting the heavy on a local minicab firm. Seems he was drawing a monkey a week out of the gaff, but weren't satisfied with that and so upped it to a gorilla. Of course, the guv'nor of the minicab firm wouldn't suffer it and went straight to Old Bill, who wired his cab office up. Dalston strolled in to collect his bit of potch but then got a knock-back. Instead of slipping out to weigh the situation up, he started to shout his mouth off and make all kinds of threats. Nicked, bang to rights there and then. After a two week lay-down he managed to get himself a bit of bail, only now he's back to not having a pot to p.i.s.s in again. And to cap that he's been going down to Stevie and Frankie's car front and driving them garrity for dough upfront from the IRA deal. He's also been trying to blag them for ten kilo of gear here, ten kilo there, which is total b.o.l.l.o.c.ks because he's already been told we're moving it wholesale. And once you start breaking down loads you don't know where you are. Not only that, but with small loads you're going to be dealing with all manner of lowlifes and putting yourself right on offer. Which is why we've already said to him, 'No f.u.c.king way, Barry! We only move gear in big parcels, pull in the readies then move on.'

But still he kept on the earhole, so me and Danny flopped on him to lay down the law for the last time. But when we strolled into the boozer where he was drinking to have a little chat, we found him p.i.s.sed as a f.u.c.king fart and up on top of a table with his trousers round his ankles singing, 'I'm in the money.' It don't take too much working out to know it's this sort of behaviour that's going to get us all nicked. We walked straight back out and left him to it, after which we belled our IRA pal Nesner Hayes up in Belfast straight away, just to let him know the SP.

'f.u.c.king waste him, the maggot,' said Nesner. 'He's had more than enough f.u.c.king chances.' And fair play to Nesner, because he also said he'll send someone over to do the job. But Danny wants to bring in Maddy. And as I've said earlier, it's handy to have at least one lunatic on the firm who ain't connected to us, and who ain't too clever.

Since Maddy's been home from his last stretch he spends all day, every day, pumping iron down at his local gym. He reckons it's the only place where he feels truly comfortable because it reminds him of the happy years he spent as gym orderly while banged-up in Wandsworth. And that the hustle and bustle of civvy street just makes him feel he wants to pick up a semi-automatic rifle and go out on a killing spree, just so as he can get back to laying on a bunk reading his books, three square meals a day and not have to worry about bills, about buying food, or even talking to Joe Public, who he despises. In Maddy's eyes, if you ain't killed no one, then you ain't no one. It's a twisted logic but the man's inst.i.tutionalised from spending so much time behind the wall. Same as you can't teach an old dog new tricks, you can't teach an inst.i.tutionalised con to go straight. Having his own set of keys and being able to open and shut his own doors terrifies the life out of Maddy, and those like him. Too much time in the b.o.o.b being told what to do causes a man to lose his instinct to think for himself, and Maddy's now no more than an automaton that needs to take orders, which makes him easy meat for our mincer. After pulling up outside the gym where he trains, we park up and stroll in to find an almost empty workout area, where we spot Maddy, bench pressing five hundred pounds like it was half the weight.

'h.e.l.lo, boys,' he says, standing up and puffing out his chest as we approach, whilst at the same time lifting up his arms wide apart, as though holding a thick roll of carpet under each one. 'f.u.c.king lovely to see you.'

With tears welling in his eyes he then steps forward to embrace us in turn, and that's one of the problems with Maddy. He gets very sentimental whenever we put in an appearance because we looked after him and his old woman for the last few years of his bird. Not out of the milk of human kindness, you know that. But because we knew he'd come in handy one day. But being a simpleton his brain don't work like that. This moist-eyed doughnut genuinely believes we give a f.u.c.k about him, when in fact he ain't no more to us than a dispensable bog roll that we need to wipe up some s.h.i.+t with. After telling Maddy we need to speak to him outside, Danny gets straight down to business.

'We may have a bit of a problem with Denny Dalston, Maddy,' says Danny, adding, 'You two still pals?'

'All depends what it's about, Danny. I mean if he's upset any of you two, there'll be a f.u.c.king funeral.'

'I'll be truthful, Mad,' says Danny. 'He's become a total f.u.c.king liability with a Paddy firm we're doing business with. We were gonna take him out of the game ourselves but we got a lot of good s.h.i.+t happening at the moment and don't wanna f.u.c.k it up. He's on his whack for this little coup, but if you wanna solve the problem we got with him you can have his share. But I know you're settled now, Mad, what with your new baby and that, so feel free to turn it down and we'll shake hands and nothing more will be said.'

'Under peaceful conditions, Danny, a warlike man sets upon himself,' says Maddy, peering at him from the depth of his bifocals.

'Whatever you say,' replies Danny. ''Cos truthfully, it ain't no problem for me and Billy.'

'Best not battle with monsters, Danny, lest you become one. What do you reckon, Billy?'

'Don't wanna put any unwarranted grief on your plate, Mad.'

'What don't kill me, just makes me stronger, Billy. Say no more boys, he's f.u.c.king toast.' Of course, we say no more, and after shaking hands and telling Maddy we'll be in touch, me and Danny turn on our heels and stroll back to our motor.

'Did you have a clue what he's f.u.c.king talking about?' says Danny.

'Nope,' I say. 'And I don't wanna f.u.c.king know.'

'Make you right, the c.u.n.t's completely off his f.u.c.king rocker.' And it's as simple as that. We call it using a div to top a div. And not only ain't it cost us a s.h.i.+lling, but once he's killed for us we own a piece of him.

WITH THE IRA puff deal all but done and dusted now we've brought Maddy on board to take Denny Dalston out of the game, and a few days' s.p.a.ce for us to sort out the transport to move the gear, me and Danny are now driving straight over to the safe house to hook up with Stevie and Frankie, to chew over the remaining fat of the Spud Murphy coup. Having just pulled off of the M11, we're now approaching a crossroads that filters traffic off to East Ham on the right and Beckton to the left. Just as we near the traffic lights they switch to red ordering us to stop.

'Don't look now,' says Danny, glancing up at his rear-view mirror, 'but Spud Murphy's right up our bottle.' And sure enough, speak of the devil. Spud pulls his black Roller right alongside us on Danny's side. Sitting on the back seat are his two boys and sole heirs, Big Spud and Little Spud. Big Spud's about twenty-two and Little Spud about sixteen. Both are absolute humdingers of the old man. Chips carved out of the same block.

'f.u.c.king sweet!' says Danny to me out of the left side of his mouth. 'Spud's giving his chavvies a b.o.l.l.o.c.king for gawping at us.'

'They look like a firm of f.u.c.king undertakers the way they're all got up,' I say, adding, 'Suppose it's fair enough though. I mean Spud's laid a few to rest over the years. How do you rate his two boys?'

'Mugs!' snaps back Danny without any hesitation. 'Born with silver spoons up their a.r.s.es. First generation's always the best generation.'

'To be truthful,' I tell him, 'I've heard that Big Spud's pretty heavy.'

'The only time that c.u.n.t's ever gonna be heavy, is after he's eaten Christmas f.u.c.king dinner.'

Danny has an arguable point, but there's no doubting that Spud Murphy himself is still a very dangerous man, and what's more he's a strange, turkey-necked old buzzard. For example, he knows who we are but won't show out to us because he's jealous as f.u.c.k of young bloods. Don't know why because the old c.u.n.t's holding more dough than the Mint, and we all have to grow old sooner or later. Saggy skin and stretch marks wait for no man. I don't even know what he's still doing on the plot, but then that's the always been the trouble with old-school gangsters. They just don't know when to turn the game in. Terrified of missing out on a few quid, even when they already got a few quid. No outlook you see. Born ignorant and they stay ignorant. I remember Spud's older brother Jumbo. He had a fortune, but never ever set foot outside the country in his life until eventually his missus twisted his arm for a trip to New York. On the first night they got there, Jumbo looked the wrong way crossing the road and got splattered by a taxi. After they sc.r.a.ped what was left of him off of the road, they brought him back to Blighty and sent him off like a Pharaoh. Which the family reckoned squared everything. But it ain't just Jumbo. Take any of them off the manor and they stick out like uncut coreys at a kosher wedding. No way am I going to grow old on the plot and lapse into parody, just to have flash Young Turks like us taking the p.i.s.s out of me. But I don't suppose that Spud knows any different, what with him being born into it. His old girl was a two-bit s.h.i.+tter who sold her p.u.s.s.y for peanuts, and his old man was her ponce. But then again I bet Spud don't even know if he was the product of his old man's hateful thrusts, or a fiver f.u.c.k by a punter against the back door of a boozer.

One thing's for sure, he got his first readies back in the day carrying out illegal backstreet abortions. Mostly punters from the old country. In fact any Colleen that got knocked up over in the Free State would be given Spud's address in London. Over they'd come, green as gra.s.s and clutching their crucifixes round their necks for protection, only to end up hysterical and haemorrhaging on a wonky-legged kitchen table in a south London pox-hole, courtesy of a knitting needle stuck up their Jack and Dannys. Good old Spud, saved their reputations by killing their kids, and netted himself a small fortune in the process. From there he moved into drugs and property development, and now he owns half of Deptford, and more. Even that piece of land there at the start of Beckton over to my left, including the dry ski slope. And that alone must bring him in a small fortune.

With the traffic lights seeming to take forever to run through to green, it's my guess it must be killing Spud to be stuck here with us, and with him not even having the social skills to be able to manage a nod. Just then out of the corner of my eye, I happen to spot a couple of little herberts with rags and buckets, who, after turning their attention from the other side of the road, make a hopeful dash for Spud's Roller to give it a screen wash.

'Touch this motor and I'll have your f.u.c.king eyes!' Spud screams at them out of his open side window as they draw near, causing them to stop, shocked and bewildered, in their tracks.

'What a f.u.c.king liberty,' I say to Danny. 'They're only chavvies trying to w.a.n.gle a s.h.i.+lling. Ain't doing no harm.' After which, Danny opens his side window, whistles out loud and motions with his hand for them to come over to our motor, which they do post-haste.

'Why ain't you at school, you little f.u.c.kers?' says Danny.

''Cos, school's for mugs, mister,' says the bravest of the two.

'Course it f.u.c.king is,' says Danny, smiling and pulling out a wedge of dough that he then waves in front of the kids' noses. 'When was the last time you saw one of your teachers driving a brand new f.u.c.king Mercedes. Here, put this in your skyrocket,' he then says, slipping the mouthy kid a crisp note.

'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, mister!' the kid shouts out. 'That's fifty quid, and we ain't even done nothing.'

'Pretend it's Christmas,' says Danny, puffing out his chest. 'And anyway, I want you to do me a favour.'

'Course, mister. Anything,' says the kid holding the note.

'When you walk back past that Roller, flash that fifty spot at the old c.u.n.t who's driving it.'