'You tooled up?' says Stevie, eyeballing me in his rear-view mirror.

'You said don't bring a tool,' I say, staring him back down.

'f.u.c.king right,' says Danny, taking a quick shufti at me from over the top of his seat, before returning his gaze to the road ahead. 'We got two yoggers already plotted up outside Woodsy's old girl's. We might be sitting around for a while, so we don't want f.u.c.k all ironware in the motor.'

It's this sort of talk that makes me even more paranoid. Because one minute you're called out for a bit of graft, and the next thing your canister's splattered all over the seat of a motor. Just like what happened to Denny Dalston last night. Well f.u.c.k them, ain't no way I'm coming on any more meets and not being tooled up, and that's why I've got a .22 snub-nosed revolver tucked into the pouch of the jockstrap I'm wearing. It might get a bit sweaty down there as the day wears on but it could turn out to be a lifesaver. And although what's just been said by Danny and Stevie about not having yoggers in the motor is plausible, I ain't taking no chances. The motor we're in is an unmarked ex-Old Bill Rover, and as long as you pick them up fresh, they're great for bits of graft where you may have to plot up in civvy street for a while. Look at it this way. There we are, three hairy-a.r.s.ed gangsters with murder on our minds and more as likely as not, murder written all over our mooeys as well, plotted up outside a straight-goer's house in east London, when all of a sudden some nose-ointment peeking through their lace curtains sees us, gets suspicious and calls Old Bill. Ten minutes later a panda car with a couple of dopey plod inside takes a cruise past, clocks the registration number and knows it's a pig-mobile straight away. And even if they blow it through it on the radio, it comes back sweet. Just makes us look like three pigs grafting undercover.

On one of the first coups we had together as a firm we used an unmarked ex-Old Bill motor. Pulled over a Roller on the M1, put on the fluorescent jackets then strolled up to it. Driver wound down the window thinking he was going to get a b.o.l.l.o.c.king for a traffic offence. Instead, he got a gun in his face and was told, 'Your suitcase please, Mr Bruce, along with your keys and your mobile phone.' Of course, he handed everything over straight away, and off we drove with a hundred grand's worth of gold Krugerrands, and left him stuck there on the hard shoulder, looking and feeling like an absolute plum. And here we are now, parked up some hundred feet away from Woodsy's old girl's front door and trying to look low-key. The guns for the job are stuck out of sight in a privet hedge some ten feet away. It has to be quick. As soon as Woodsy shows, any two of us will leap from the motor, grab the guns, run at Woodsy and let him have it. Well, that's the plan. Now all we've got to do is kill some time before we kill Woodsy, but to be truthful I still ain't feeling too good. No sleep, too much booze and gear, and Shakesy's murder is still tearing me to bits inside, and yet here I am sitting in the back seat as usual and staring at the heads of two murderous clowns I'm beginning to despise dearly. Another day in gangster paradise! And Danny's starting to drive me up the f.u.c.king wall by keeping on replaying the same song on the car stereo. 'Ain't gonna b.u.mp no more with no big fat woman,' by Joe Tex. He must have played it twenty times so far. And every time he rewinds it, he laughs, claps his hands and says, 'f.u.c.king proper record this.' And I'm sitting here stewing and silently praying for Woodsy to show up sooner rather than later, just so as I can slip away and lose myself in another binge.

Just then a young bird in a short skirt, and whose legs are already showing the onset of varicose veins around her calves, trots past in a pair of down-at-heel trainers and pus.h.i.+ng a stunning looking little half-caste kid in a pushchair.

'f.u.c.king disgrace,' says Danny, nodding towards the bird. 's.h.i.+tc.u.n.t's having it with a n.i.g.g.e.r.' But figure this out, he's still nodding along to Joe Tex, a black American soul brother.

'Country's gone down the f.u.c.king pan,' says Stevie. 'What do you reckon, Billy?'

'I don't have a problem with it to be honest,' I say.

'You should move over to south London,' says Danny. 'Join the rest of the n.i.g.g.e.r lovers over there.'

'I'm proud to be a n.i.g.g.e.r lover,' I say, at which Danny snorts derisively.

'I'd never f.u.c.k a jungle bunny,' says Stevie. 'They f.u.c.king stink. And I'll tell you another thing. n.i.g.g.e.rs may rule the roost over there but they don't over this side of the water.'

'You should consider it an honour to be English,' says Danny to me.

'Don't consider myself English,' I say.

'What the f.u.c.k are you then?' he growls, and all of a sudden I'm feeling a lot better because I can see I'm starting to get his goat real bad. And I love getting his ignorant, pikey-bred, gold-toothed goat.

'First and foremost I'm a Londoner. But if you're asking about race, I'm a Celtic Frummer.'

'What the f.u.c.k you talking about?' he snarls back at me straight away.

'Half Paddy, half Yiddo.'

'Billy the Yid!' chuckles Stevie, adding, 'Didn't know you had Jewboy in you.'

'Enough to have been thrown in a f.u.c.king gas chamber,' I say.

'Yeah, well Hitler had the right idea with that,' says Danny.

'Oh yeah, and what was that?' I say.

'Kill the lot of yers. All Yids are f.u.c.king parasites.'

'Kill the lot of them?' I say. 'What, women and kids as well?'

'Yeah, why not. f.u.c.k it, Yids and n.i.g.g.e.rs they can all f.u.c.king go. Let's face it, what have the n.i.g.g.e.rs invented apart from AIDS and mugging. And as for the f.u.c.king Yids. Bunch of slippery big-nosed slags. As far as I'm concerned anyone that ain't f.u.c.king white can go. I'd do it myself. Might feel bad about killing the first couple of chavvies, but after that it wouldn't bother me a bit. Show all the f.u.c.king mongrels out there a bit of white power.'

'So the white man's superior is he?' I say.

'Course we are,' says Danny. 'And the n.a.z.is were the elite of the elite.'

'Oh yeah, sure, right proper f.u.c.king mob they were,' I say. 'Hitler was a social cripple with rotten railings who couldn't get a hard-on. Hess was as mad as a box of frogs. Himmler was a failed chicken farmer. Goering was a smack-head transvest.i.te who wore powder-paint make up, Goebbels was a midget with a club foot, and Ernst Rohm was a t.u.r.d burglar. Fine examples of the f.u.c.king master race that little firm.'

And then I sit back pleased as punch because I can see that Danny's stumped for words, history not being one of his strong points. After giving out couple of disgruntled grunts, he angrily turns down the music in the car leaving the three of us to sit in stony uncomfortable silence. And I'm now sitting here half expecting them both to turn on me. But if they do they'll come unstuck 'cos I'm tooled up and they ain't. But that's beside the point because if I was any kind of man and not the snivelling wretch I am at this point in time, I would pull out my gun regardless and blow a hole right through Danny's black f.u.c.king heart for killing two pals of mine. It'd be so easy. Slip out my tool, put it up against the back of his chair then squeeze, that's all it would take. But he's got me beaten psychologically. So many times he's banged on about being invincible, that I actually believe my bullets would bounce of him. f.u.c.king crazy I know, but that's how I feel. Don't get me wrong, if they did both turn on me now, I'd have no other choice but to shoot my way out, and I would do so without a moment's hesitation. But still it don't make me feel any less hate towards myself for being terrified of this man.

In the meantime what none of us knows, is that while we're sitting here plotted up like Curly, Larry and Moe, Woodsy has other plans and ain't going to be showing. Seems that while he was doing this last bit of bird, he palled up with an armed robber called Ronnie Cook, also off of this plot, and due to be getting out round about the same time as him. Cook introduced Woodsy to his missus on a visit, and told him that if at any time he needed a visit off her he was more than welcome. He also let him know that she was as good as gold and would smuggle in puff for him in her Alan Whickers, so Woodsy called it on. Out of the blue Ronnie Cook got ghosted to another nick, and so Woodsy, in yet another stunning example of a gangster that don't practice what he preaches, began to embark on an unconsummated love affair with Ronnie Cook's missus, who by now was indulging Woodsy in weekly puff runs. A practice which not only gave him a much needed regular fumble in the jungle, but also allowed him to get monged out in his cell every night, therefore easing the pain and desolation of his bang-up.

All seemed to be going swimmingly, until one day on a visit she broke down and told him she was in a terrible fix because her old man was soon to be released and would find out she's caned half of the two hundred grand he'd left her to look after, for them to start a new life with. After successfully managing to suck Woodsy in with her sob story, she then planted the idea in his head that they should top her old man and run off with the rest of the dough. So there was Woodsy, a not very bright jailbird being baited with the prospect of eloping with a game as a bagel second-hand Rose, who also happened to be endowed with a reasonably sized nest egg. He jumped in with both feet. And so, instead of coming out on his home leave and going round his old girl's as he's supposed to, Woodsy has slipped round to Ronnie Cook's house and is at this very moment waiting in the kitchen with a gun in his hand as Cook, on home leave himself, comes strolling in expecting a bunch of flowers and some good, good loving after fifteen years behind the wall.

What he gets instead is a bullet right through his chest. Only it don't kill him. So there he is, laying on the floor with his blood pumping all over the kitchen tiles and staring bewilderedly up at his prison pal Woodsy, pleading for his life. But for some reason, Woodsy can't find it in himself to finish the job properly. So Cook's missus, who's been hiding upstairs and can hear her husband's heart-wrenching cries, comes running into the kitchen, grabs the gun off Woodsy and finishes the job off herself, by putting a single bullet through her cuckolded old man's canister. And there you have it. A match made in heaven destined straight for h.e.l.l.

I HATE MAGISTRATES' courts. To be honest I hate any kind of courts. But magistrates' courts take the biscuit because they're always chocca full of lowlife sc.u.m. The only time us proper people pa.s.s through these s.h.i.+tpits is when we're being processed to be sent up the road to sit in front a jury of underachievers masquerading as our peers, before getting weighed off with proper bowlfuls of lumpy porridge. Granted, when I was a kid I made a few appearances in them for burgling slaughters or smas.h.i.+ng the occasional mug to bits, but now the thought of being here amongst all these weekly lottery losers, waiting to go up in front of the beak for p.i.s.sant crimes, makes my flesh crawl. If ever you needed confirmation that some of the lower cla.s.ses shouldn't be allowed to breed, bring along a flask of tea and some Marmite sandwiches and spend a day in a magistrates' court, where you'll see an endless procession of human garbage, shuffling up in front of the bench, their greasy heads hung low and their sorry a.r.s.es hanging out of their smeggy jeans, as they s.h.i.+ft uneasily from one cheesy-stinking trainer to another, waiting to get carted off to the can, leaving their wives and six kids to struggle on the social.

As soon I enter the building I'm pleased to find it ain't too busy, although it still stinks like a Wetherspoon's boozer on dole day. After pa.s.sing a smattering of clueless plod on the ground floor, conspiring and concocting up bulls.h.i.+t witness statements with their scruff-bag duty briefs, I come to the bottom of a large spiral staircase that disappears in a swirl up to the first floor. But just the thought of climbing them brings me out in a sweat, so I slip into the corridor and catch the lift reserved for wheelchair-bound raspberries. The snub-nosed revolver I've still got stashed down my jockstrap from yesterday's farcical stakeout of Woodsy is now starting to make my b.o.l.l.o.c.ks itch. So, after pulling it out and wiping off the excess sweat from the handle on the outside of my trousers, I stash it in the inside pocket of my jacket instead. As the lift door slowly opens I catch sight of Andrea, Delroy's sister, straight away. She's standing between a couple of guilty-as-sin, s.k.a.n.ky-looking teenage reprobates, while diligently jotting down their ludicrous porkies on a sheet of foolscap paper.

After stepping out of the lift and walking towards her I begin motioning with my hands and head trying to catch her attention. One of her punters sees me and gives her the nod. On catching my eye she excuses herself and starts to make her way over to me, although by the countenance of her demeanour she's suffering from a severe case of PMT, either that or she's got the raving f.u.c.king zig with me.

'All right?' Is the only thing I can think of saying to her as she steps into my s.p.a.ce.

'What are you doing here, Billy?' seems to be the only thing she can think of saying by return.

'Came to see how you were,' I say, lowering my voice, and with my eyes skirting the marbled floor.

'Well, seeing as I haven't seen hide nor hair of you since we had lunch together in the park, I'm fine.'

'I've been busy,' I say, struggling even to make tentative eye contact.

'You and me both, Billy. Anyway I can't talk now.'

'Why not?'

'I'm with clients.'

'Clients!' I say, spitting out the word like it's a gobstopper stuffed with s.h.i.+t. 'Them two-bob dirtbags? Have your eyes out your head for a bag of f.u.c.king skag.'

'Looks who's talking,' she says, staring right through me as if I'm not here.

'Don't you f.u.c.king lump me in with them,' I growl. 'I only came here to make sure you were OK, 'cos Delroy told me about what happened. You getting punched up the ribs and that. So are you OK?'

'I'm fine, just a little bit sore. And what's going on with Delroy and Shakesy? Why are people looking for them? What are they mixed up in, Billy?'

'I've got no idea.'

'Have you seen anything of Shakesy?'

'Nah, nothing. And why should I?'

'Because he's gone missing, and you're normally in the thick of any trouble that's going down around my brother. Look, I must really must go.'

'Don't walk away from me,' I say. 'I'm f.u.c.king talking to you. What d'you mean, I'm normally in the thick of trouble round your silly f.u.c.king brother?'

'Do you have to swear every other f.u.c.king word?' she says, stopping dead in her tracks and turning back to face me.

'Nah, I just love revelling in my own f.u.c.king ignorance,' I reply, making a grab for her as she then starts to move away once more.

'Let go of my arm, Billy,' she says, in an attempt to pull away from me. 'Jesus, you stink of booze. And your eyes!'

'p.i.s.s-holes in the snow, eh? So what d'you mean about me and your brother.'

'You're hurting me. Let go, this is my career, Billy. I'm not going to let you ruin it.'

'Career, what f.u.c.king career? Mopping up after f.u.c.king maggots? You just don't get it, do you? You're nothing but the token f.u.c.king n.i.g.g.e.r in the woodpile. The people you graft for f.u.c.king hate you. Just filling up quotas, that's all they're doing. They'll give you f.u.c.k all. Just the drippings off their public school noses while they're looking down them at you.'

'And what are you going to give me, Billy?'

With my gangster senses now firing on all cylinders I become aware of a presence approaching from me behind, and so, instantly spin round to come face to face with a middle-aged clerk of the court bearing down on me. You've seen 'em. Patrolling their little patches outside the courtrooms in their over-polished shoes while waving their clipboards in the air and ordering people about. Pointless p.r.i.c.ks employed in a pointless occupation. Sell their own mothers down the river for a steady job with a two-bit pension at the end of it.

'Excuse me, miss, are you OK?' he says, coming to halt between the pair of us.

'f.u.c.k off, lickspittle!' I tell him, getting right in his face.

'I'll call the police,' he replies, backing off a little bit and raising his clipboard in front of his chest for protection.

'Call the police,' I spit back at him. 'Call a f.u.c.king ambulance, you mug c.u.n.t.' And with that I whip out my pistol and bring down the b.u.t.t hard into his forehead, smas.h.i.+ng his gla.s.ses into his eyes and watching with satisfaction as he crumbles floorward, his head striking the marble with a sickening crack, as it opens his stupid skull up like Humpty f.u.c.king Dumpty.

'Police, help!' screams Andrea, turning and waving her arms in the air. 'Somebody help, please!'

'You f.u.c.king gra.s.s c.u.n.t!' I scream at her, as all around us h.e.l.l breaks loose with people starting to run about, yelling and shouting for a.s.sistance in all directions. A siren begins to wail and the footsteps and shouts of pigs begins to echo round the building, letting me know I've got to have it on my toes, sharpish. And so, using the ensuing chaos for cover, I stash my tool and slip quickly down the stairs and on through the Women's Inst.i.tute cafe, making my way past a pair doddery old biddies behind the jump, who are seemingly oblivious to the mayhem mounting in their midst. After clanking open a fire door I stumble onto the main street leading to Tower Bridge, where I hail a pa.s.sing taxi and slump down in the rear seat as it disappears eastbound over the Thames, well pleased with the fact I've been able to vent my frustrations by smas.h.i.+ng the skull of a lackey of the Crown to bits with the b.u.t.t of my gun, and also by the trail of chaos I've left in my wake.

IT'S THREE THE next morning by the time I eventually slink into Club Foot, absolutely mangled and looking like something the cat dragged in, after having been caning it full on in a shebeen on top of a minicab office at the St Martin's Lane end of Old Compton Street, Soho, where I had to put a gun to the head of a muggy doorman who had the f.u.c.king temerity to try and charge me a fiver just to get wasted in an illegal p.i.s.s-hole. And still I don't know when to turn the game in. So, after ordering up my usual double shot of Gentleman Jack on the rocks from Silly Ken, the Club Foot bartender, I grab my drink and slip into a darkened alcove so as to drown some more sorrow.

From deep within its anonymous sanctuary I start to sip steadily while carefully surveying the interior of the club, only to find myself disappointed by the distinct lack of action, until my eyes fix on a familiar figure sitting around a table in the far corner. Leaning slightly forward over my table I do a double take, and my heart pounds slightly when I recognise the owner of the mooey. It's Big Spud, looking like he's struck gold. Well, gold plate at least, in the form of a pair of sore-looking council house racklers obviously AWOL from their old men and kids. And what a painful sight it is watching a couple of thirty-plus-year-old housewives dolled up to the nines like p.u.b.escent teenagers, and with their bubble cuts giving them the appearance of a pair of rats with perms. And what's more revolting is that they're prost.i.tuting themselves over a clueless slag like Big Spud for nothing more than few poxy bottles of house bubbly, when by rights they should be indoors and tucked up in bed with their husbands.

I watch with further distaste as Big Spud treats himself to an occasional grope around the sweaty gussets of his poundshop s.h.i.+tters. Not only does it instigate a sickening churn deep in the pit of my stomach to watch the two racklers' undercarriages wobble in a ma.s.s of mottled and jellied flesh between their crop tops and micro skirts, the result of dropping too many kids and a dole-queue diet, but it sets me to thinking I've got to do something to the slag for putting the heavy on my bird, and then punching her up the ribs. It's simply a question of degrees. What does a punch up the ribs from a south London mick c.u.n.t daddy's boy warrant? I mean I could just go over and smash the p.r.i.c.k to bits and shame him in front of the club and the two slags he's got wrapped round him. Or maybe I should just stroll over to him and tell him straight, 'Walk away from this, or I'll make sure you never f.u.c.king walk again.' Nah, bad move. That would signal me and my firm's involvement in the nicking of his old man's drug load. After running through a few more scenarios, some implausible and some not, I decide to top the slag as soon as he leaves the club. That way it's on neutral ground and I can make an easy getaway. It goes without saying that it's really Danny that I want to do. But seeing as I ain't got the a.r.s.ehole, then maybe giving it to this piece of excrement will go some way to redeeming my wretchedness.

With my mind made up, I slip discreetly into the nearby gents' toilets to sniff up a couple of big fat hairy lines of Colombian courage, and also to do a double-check on my revolver. Unfortunately whilst doing so, I inadvertently catch sight of myself in the mirror and am gutted to see a totally f.u.c.ked human being staring back at me. And by my reckoning one of the reasons I look this way is all this s.h.i.+t with Spud Murphy and Shakesy. Let's face it, if that slaggy, potato-headed dog-c.u.n.t hadn't pulled the kid in on the bit of graft, he'd still be alive today and things would be hunky-dory. It's an out-and-out liberty sticking a shooter in a kid's hands and then sticking him in the back of a lorry load of puff. Yeah, f.u.c.k the Murphys. Big Spud's toast. Having wiped my nose clean of powder residue and primed my revolver, I stash it into my right-side jacket pocket then, keeping my head down, make my way back to the alcove to wait and watch and carry on drinking. Just after four, Big Spud, with his gruesome twosome in tow, starts to get ready to leave, and in a drunken fumble of burps and horrible s...o...b..ring kisses, they make their way wonkily up the stairs towards the exit, at which point I finish off the remnants of my Gentleman Jack, wipe the gla.s.s clean, and prepare to make my move. After allowing Big Spud and the two racklers a minute or so to get on their way, I creep from the alcove and start after them up the stairs. And all the while I'm thinking, well, you know what I'm thinking. Big Spud, you've got about as much f.u.c.king future as a fairground goldfish.

As I pull the exit door of the club quietly open and step onto the pavement outside, it pleases me to see it's still dark and that half the street lights are on the blink. A quick gander up and down also lets me know that the four of us are very much alone. Turning to my right I pull up the hood on my jacket and begin to make my way behind Big Spud, who has an arm flung around the each of the racklers' necks and is using them for support, as the three of them stagger drunkenly towards his Mercedes, parked some hundred yards up ahead.

Gaining on them steadily from the rear sees me wrapping my right hand tightly round my tool ready for action, when suddenly I have to pull up short as Big Spud stops and lets the racklers go, before staggering alone to a nearby wall where, after steadying himself up against it with his left hand, he yanks down his flies with his right, pulls out his p.r.i.c.k and starts to p.i.s.s clumsily onto a blocked drain. The sight and sound of the p.i.s.s splas.h.i.+ng back against his shoes and trousers distracts me momentarily, but after shaking my head clear I bear swiftly down on him. And he don't even have time to shake his k.n.o.b dry, when in one movement I pull my revolver out of my pocket and let off a single shot into the back of his head. By the time the bang fills the early morning air, the .22 bullet's already driven deep into the base of his skull and lodged itself in his brain, killing him instantly and without any mess, save for a tiny tomato ketchup-like spurt pumping from a neat round hole in the back of his head. In the following split second he lurches forward headb.u.t.ting the wall, and a quiet crack is all that can be heard as his forehead strikes the brickwork. After which he drops down to his knees, where he stays for an instant, as if in silent prayer, before rolling over onto his back and giving out a small last gasp of air. And then he just lays there gawping blindly up at the stars and with his right hand still wrapped tightly around his booze-shrivelled p.r.i.c.k. Ain't no dignity whatsoever in ending your days clutching your corey in a puddle of p.i.s.s next to a blocked drain, and with your nut coming to its final rest on top of a half-eaten doner kebab.

No sooner does it sink into Big Spud's low-rent racklers that the party's well and truly over, than they start screaming the street down. Without blinking, I turn and shove my gun in their direction ready to give them a bullet each. And immediately, the presence of my firearm sticking in their shovelled-on-slap faces causes them both to freeze and struggle vainly for breath. But then without warning, my feelings turn from that of anger to bewilderment, as my trigger finger also freezes and my hand starts to shake violently. It then dawns on me that I can't finish them off. Quickly running my thought process through the whole gamut of reasons why, it strikes me like a bolt of thunder that I've been hit by an unprecedented bout of pity. But it ain't pity for the two racklers. It ain't even pity for their husbands, 'cos if they had any principles or a.r.s.ehole, they'd kick this pair of s.h.i.+tc.u.n.ts' cottage-cheese a.r.s.es out on to the street, with their belongings following them in suitcases. What I'm feeling is pity for their kids, for having to call these two walking horror shows mum. As this terrible wave of weakness rushes over me, pus.h.i.+ng me to breaking point, it's all I can do to turn and have it on my toes sharpish back the ex-pig-mobile, which I'm still driving about in. On reaching it I clamber in, and after a few seconds of fumbling about trying to get the keys in the ignition, screech off, still shaking like a leaf, but at least safe in the knowledge that the two racklers have been so completely f.u.c.king traumatised by their close encounter with death, that they won't be able to piece together anything for Old Bill's jigsaw puzzle when he arrives.

I'VE BEEN DRIVING round in circles on the M25 in this pox-ridden motor and trying to hit the Brighton road for what seems like an eternity, but without any success whatsoever. A situation that might just have something to do with the fact that straight after I topped Big Spud I necked a couple of Nut-Nuts and they kicked in just as I hit the motorway. Worse still, the sky's pitch black, it's p.i.s.sing cats and dogs and I'm feeling for all the world like I'm in some mad-a.r.s.ed giant pinball game, what with all the flas.h.i.+ng motorway and vehicle lights, and the strange-looking mooeys peering out at me from their car windows as they whizz past, tooting their horns like lunatics. It's got me to thinking that perhaps dropping two acid tabs after just having blown someone's nut off wasn't the smartest move in the book. After managing to prise my saucer eyes momentarily off the road ahead I glance down at my speedometer, flabbergasted to find it's reading a steady twenty-five miles an hour. Which seeing as I'm bang in the middle lane now makes sense why I've been getting so much stick from pa.s.sing motorists. f.u.c.k! I could have sworn I was going at least sixty. But even that's beside the point, because the glaring gargoyle faces rubbernecking me as they pa.s.s are scaring me s.h.i.+tless. Let's face it, the indigenous English are an ugly bunch of bulldog b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at the best of times, but when you're on acid they're positively f.u.c.king grotesque.

That's the thing with acid, it can go either way, good or bad. Mind you, I've only ever had one really bad trip on the stuff before, and that was when I was on Brighton beach with a few pals. We dropped some Dennis the Menaces and before we knew it things started to go absolutely f.u.c.king loopy. We ended up being chased back to my flat by a swarm of whistling c.o.c.kroaches; that was some heavy-duty s.h.i.+t. On this time round I finally catch sight of the Brighton sign as it looms into view, and so switch to the inside lane in order to hook a left and hit the coast road home, when from out of the blue, a gravelly voice behind me greets me in old-time c.o.c.kney, a dialect that's virtually extinct today, and certainly one I ain't heard used since I was a kid.

''Ello, son,' it rasps, the sudden manifestation of it almost sending me into apoplexy. After stiffening visibly I sit bolt upright and nervously check my rear-view mirror, and I can't believe the sight confronting me. It's my old uncle, Deaffy Dursley, the pigeon man. He's sitting there as bold as bra.s.s on the pa.s.senger side backseat of my motor and staring straight back at me. Now there's two things very strange about this. First, he's been dead fifteen stretch. And second, when he was walking with the living, he was deaf and dumb.

Convinced that the acid I've dropped is f.u.c.king with my nut big-time, I swivel my head ninety degrees and do a double take. But this ain't no f.u.c.king hallucination, it's definitely him and he's sitting there looking just as I remember him. Swamped in the same old threadbare, three-piece worsted wool demob suit that he lived and died in, his black flat cap pulled down low over his wrinkled forehead, and the obligatory unlit woodbine glued to his bottom lip, and all the while stroking his prize bird, The Rock, who he named after the undefeated American heavyweight boxing champion, Rocky Marciano. After blowing out a loud breath I shake my head slightly before turning back to face front, only to find that having taken my eyes off the road, I'm now creeping along the hard shoulder like a caterpillar on a leaf. So, after jerking the steering wheel sharply and stamping my foot back on the gas, I swing the motor back out onto the left-hand lane and carry on driving.

'Wot the f.u.c.k yer doing, boy?' says Deaffy.

'What do you mean, what the f.u.c.k am I doing, Deaffy?' I say, trying to keep one eye on him in the mirror and the other on the road. 'I'm tripping, that's what I'm doing.'

'Day tripping, boy?'

'Nah, tripping on f.u.c.king acid.'

'Yer acting like a c.u.n.t. Yer got to sort yerself out, boy.'

'I am sorted,' I spit back at him. 'Well f.u.c.king sorted. Plus, I only got one more lot of readies to pick up, then I'm slipping out the back door, end of.'

'Where yer going?'

'Dunno, States maybe... Miami.'

'Don't matter where yer go to, boy. Yer can't run away from wot yer are. And that wonga yer got ain't worth two bob.'

'What you f.u.c.king talking about? I got enough wrapped round me to do anything I want.'

'Yuss, but it's bad wonga, boy. Reeks of death and destruction. No goodness in it at all. And besides, yer can't run away from yer past because no matter where yer go and no matter how much yer spend to try and cover it up, it's always gonna be two steps behind yer, waiting to tap yer on the shoulder.'

'So, what the f.u.c.k am I gonna do?'

'Yer ain't got no choice, boy, yer in too deep. And seeing as yer ain't got the a.r.s.e'ole to take yer partner Danny outta the game, then yer gotta take yerself outta the game.'

'I tried that three times already. f.u.c.ked it up every time.'

'I'm telling yer, boy, if yer don't do it now, yer be going round in circles all yer life, just like yer been driving round the M25 all night. Yer ain't gonna get no better. Look at yer muvver, she ended up in the nuthouse.'

'That was down to my old man s.h.a.gging a s.h.i.+tc.u.n.t on the sly.'

'It's defective genes, boy, pa.s.ses down through the generations. Take a proper gander at yerself in the mirror. Yer a nutcase, always have been, even when yer was a chavvie. Always fighting and fieving you was. Cor, blind O'bleeding Riley! And forever in trouble wiv the bogeys. Had yer first run in wiv 'em when yer was ten fer hitting a chavvie round his turnip wiv a cricket bat. Yer can't hide from the truth, boy, it'll always find yer. I mean yer took a drugs overdose when yer was seventeen. Four days in hospital having yer stomach pumped. Yer nearly snuffed it.'

'I wished I f.u.c.king had. And anyway, what would you have done if it was you that had been f.u.c.ked up the a.r.s.e?'

'Who f.u.c.ked yer up the a.r.s.e?'

'Me dentist, when I was fourteen.'

'Wot that c.h.i.n.ky one, I thought he was all right?'

'Nah, not him. Some bald old Paddy b.a.s.t.a.r.d with milk-bottle bins and liver spots all over his f.u.c.king hands. I remember it like it was yesterday, and it still runs me hot with hatred. I went in for an extraction, and the cross-eyed c.u.n.t knocked me out with an injection, then f.u.c.ked me senseless while I was senseless.'

'Dirty bleeding old b.u.g.g.e.r, needs castrating wiv a rusty blunt knife.'