f.u.c.k me, I'm thinking, now I know what a poor old fox feels like when it's being hunted. But instead of being pursued a posse of chinless Berks.h.i.+re Hunts, I'm being chased by a posse of flying pigs, hunting down a free man like he was a runaway slave. I swear to f.u.c.king G.o.d this country's getting more totalitarian by the minute. Wouldn't mind but they're chasing the wrong f.u.c.king hombre, the f.u.c.king mug c.u.n.ts. I'm the poor c.u.n.t that's been shot at. But at least I still had the presence of mind to remember that infrared cameras can't see through metal. All that dough they've spent on all that modern technology and you don't have to be much cleverer than a fox to outwit them. What a terrible waste of taxpayers' dough. Glad I don't pay none.

So, for the moment I'm sweet, amidst the chaos of Old Bill's chopper. Snug as a bug in a rug, and all I've got to do is lay low here for an hour or so, because Old Bill's tightened purse strings mean they can't afford to stay up there all night wasting precious juice and manpower. Then all I have to do is bell a pal to come down to pick me up and run me home. I live to fight another day.

I'VE JUST PULLED up outside our firm's safe house having spent the last fortnight in my Brighton pad, c.o.ked out of my canister and paranoid to f.u.c.k, having narrowly escaped getting topped. I was getting up in the mornings bruised and battered and with my whole body racked with pain. To ease the hurt and soothe my troubled mind I'd start the day by necking three fingers of Gentleman Jack, and then sniffing up a couple of lines, before settling down with the bottle and sinking into TV h.e.l.l, like some wheelchair-bound catatonic in a nuthouse. Daytime TV's horrific enough stone cold sober. The preserve of Valium-addled housewives, dole cheats and smeggy students on the skive. But when you're jacked-up on hillbilly jook juice and the Devil's Dandruff, it becomes a horrendous pustule of pug-ugly mooeys spouting inane banter, alongside battalions of pointless fat b.a.s.t.a.r.ds from pointless provincial towns, shoehorned into two-bob market tat, salivating over s.e.x as if they weren't the most repugnant creatures waddling the f.u.c.king planet. Night-times were the worst. Loneliness would creep up on me like a plague rat. Things went from bad to worse as my paranoia increased with my drug and booze intake, and the slightest sound in the street outside would have me dropping to the ground and crawling my wooden floors, decked out in nothing but underpants and a pair of wrap-around Armani shades, gun in hand, ready to blow the brains out of any would-be a.s.sa.s.sin. Mostly it turned out to be pa.s.sing posties or milkies.

I'd hit rock bottom and my incessant w.a.n.king was in danger of tearing off my foreskin, so I bit the bullet and dialled up the old love of my life, the one who f.u.c.ked me over while I was in the nick, and who broke my heart like no other ever could or will again. My stomach turned over as she answered the phone. A thousand b.u.t.terflies taking penalty kicks with pickled onions. A blast from the past, that low, husky growl of a voice that always did have the ability to send me loopy. I didn't know how she would react on hearing from me, seeing as the last time we were together her I stuck a shotgun in her mouth and threatened to blow her nut off. But to my relief she was sweet, over the moon to hear from me. I ran through the little escapade about me being ambushed on the motorway and how I nearly copped a hitman's bullet in the back of the nut. She burst into tears, which made me feel a whole lot better straight away. She said she was now working as an air hostess and flying out of Gatwick. Reckoned she had a red-eye out that night and wanted to come down to show off her uniform and spend some time with me, just for old times' sake. Feeling newly buoyant I tidied up my flat, showered and washed the Gorgonzola from out of my foreskin, then got down to setting the scene for seduction. Two bottles of Cristal, a dozen freshly-delivered red roses, a compact full of premium charlie, with the mirror highly polished, a huge bowl of premium weed, and the piece de resistance, a hardcore bluey, ready to be flicked on in the middle of any romantic encounter.

She turned up looking magnificent, as she always did. I dimmed the lights, and she got to talking about her new boyfriend and how he was the new love of her life and how they were soon to be getting married. Half an hour, two gla.s.ses of bubbly, four lines of charlie and a f.u.c.k-off blunt rammed with wicked Jamaican Sensi later, I had her bent double over the back of my Italian leather sofa, face down, skirt hitched up around her waist, and was plunging into her like a Dyno-Rod service engineer on ephedrine. And as I pumped away and she hollered and hooted, it suddenly struck me that this was what this c.u.n.t was doing before she was coming up to see me, sitting like a lemon in the nick and believing in the pair of us. My mood darkened with the realisation that this b.i.t.c.h had the f.u.c.king audacity to come swanning into prison, dressed head to toe in clobber that I had paid for while still dripping c.u.n.t juice and s.p.u.n.k from a previous f.u.c.king. My happy pumping turned to angry thrusts, and I began to tear into her p.u.s.s.y, poggering it without mercy, and causing her to scream and cry with pain. But it weren't enough. So I grabbed hold of her head and shoved it deep into the sofa, my mind h.e.l.l-bent on suffocating the cheating slag, while f.u.c.king her like the two-bit wh.o.r.e she still was.

I wanted her to die just at the very moment I shot my bolt into her. I wanted to feel the power of taking life and giving life in the same instant, the last gasp of her cheating breath expiring just I exploded, sending a million sperm bursting forth to multiply. Swimming like Olympians, first one to the egg gets to fertilise it, only to find that after all that effort the egg is dead and barren. That would be sweet poetic justice. But thankfully common sense prevailed and I had the presence of mind to pull out and also release her head. I stood up and b.u.t.toned myself up and then stared down at her with barely disguised disdain, as she just lay there heaving with sweat and sobbing and telling me it was the best f.u.c.k she'd had in years and how she still loved me. But the heat of pa.s.sion had turned cold with e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, and I just wanted her out of my sight and back out of my life. As luck would have it she was running late and didn't even have time to wash before rus.h.i.+ng to catch her plane. And the last abiding memory I have of the silly c.u.n.t is watching with no small amount of satisfaction, as she unknowingly sashayed out of my apartment with my come-juice drying all over the back of her brand new uniform. It was revenge of sorts, but not enough for what she put me through. If there was any real justice in this world, her plane would drop out of the f.u.c.king sky halfway over the Atlantic.

REACHING THE DOOR of the safe house sees me feeling sort of happy to be alive. Back on terra firma, as it were, and into the swing of things. Ain't nothing like a brush with death to make a man realise he's got to grab life by the throat before it kicks him in the b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. But that don't mean I ain't h.e.l.l-bent on revenge. Not only am I still badly bruised, but my ego has taken a severe battering, which means I'll be pus.h.i.+ng hard for instant retaliation. I can't be sure, but I'd have my life on it that the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt came from Smoothound, via that toerag Ronnie Olive. But although I've played the shooting over and over again inside my head, I can't come up with a concrete ID on either of the two men that bushwhacked me. Handshakes all round, and a soaking wet smacker on the cheek from Kelly Amore as I stroll in. Surviving an attempt on one's life earns maximum kudos amongst your own people, and it feels good that they're glad to see me alive. And so they should be, I've put more than my fair share of bread on the table, and helped keep this firm successfully off the straight and narrow. Granted, Danny's shrewd, but Stevie and Frankie are seaside donkeys who'd be getting nicked every five minutes if weren't for me and him. And all of them would still be living in ex-council houses and holding their hands out for protection money from terrified publicans, if yours truly hadn't shown them how to expand and crawl, glistening like Christmas trees, out of the ghetto with absolutely no flies on any of them whatsoever.

It all builds to the fact that I'm going to be pressing hard on this payback because I know that if someone shot at Danny, we'd already be on our way to sort it out. And I ain't playing second fiddle on no one's roof.

'So, it was definitely Smoothound?' says Danny, as I flop down into a leather recliner, while Kelly Amore dutifully wheels in an horribly f.u.c.king ornate, claw-footed tea trolley, stacked chocca with all manner of gut-busting cakes, alongside beverages.

'f.u.c.king right!' I say, helping myself to a Viennese cream slice and a bone china cup of piping hot coffee. 'He was as close to me as I am to you.' Which is of course an out-and-out stinking porky, but it don't matter. I ain't here to sow seeds of doubt, but to reap the whirlwind of revenge. Besides, I know this came from Ronnie Olive. Proof? I don't need proof. This is a kangaroo court. Her Majesty's got no jurisdiction behind these walls. I can feel that slag's fingerprints all over my aching bones and that's good enough for me. Plus here's the deal, even if it didn't come from Ronnie Olive this time, it could well do in the future, and it'd be just as hard to tell, because that slippery little c.u.n.t won't be pulling the trigger. I don't suppose he's held a yogger for thirty stretch. All he's going to do is put another one of his impressionable a.r.s.ewipes on a promise. And believe me, they're lining up over in south London to his wipe his jacksy clean, for even the tiniest piece of action. So the way I figure it is we hit him or his people hard now. Not only will it slow him right down, but word will also filter down through all the right channels, which means that anyone else who wants to have a pop will have serious second thoughts because they'll know our retaliation will be swift and merciless.

And more to the point, if anyone's likely to get topped out of our little firm it will be me because I'm the easiest target, flying about and out on the Joe Brown nearly every f.u.c.king night. Danny? All that c.u.n.t does is sit round the safe house eating roast dinners and having his b.o.l.l.o.c.ks sucked, which is fair enough, if that's your bag. And the only time you only see Stevie and Frankie is when there's pound notes on the table. And there's one other thing that's really rankling me. Smoothound and Ronnie Olive disrespected me at Danny's old man's funeral in front of three hundred proper people. OK, so Smoothound got a severe beating, but this ain't about straighteners. You disrespect me in front of my people, you have to go, simple as that. This ain't no f.u.c.king school playground. I put my flick-comb and conkers away when I sprouted my first b.o.l.l.o.c.k hairs.

'So we gotta hit back straight away,' I say.

'Slow down a minute,' says Danny. 'We don't even know if it was Ronnie Olive. We've f.u.c.ked so many people out there it could've come from anyone.'

'Well personally I rather like my f.u.c.king head,' I say, turning my gaze to Stevie and Frankie, who are sitting schtummo like a couple of schoolboy dunces. 'Not only that,' I add, perching myself on the edge of my chair and pointing an accusing finger, 'but whoever came for me must have picked me up from you two's car front.'

This last statement causes the room to bristle with nervous tension, leaving me to begin to lap up the proceedings with growing satisfaction, as its implications begin to register, whirring maniacally inside dense skulls like a Las Vegas fruit machine firing up to s.p.u.n.k out payola jackpot. Smiling inside I then move in for the kill.

'So I say b.o.l.l.o.c.ks to it, 'cos apart from the drug f.u.c.k-up in Blackpool, Ronnie Olive ain't gonna suffer being humiliated at the funeral any more than any of us would. And if you lot want to sit back and wait for one in the f.u.c.king nut when you're getting into your motor, that's up to you. But me, I say cut out the cancer now, right at source.' After settling back once more to finish off my cream slice and theatrically lick my fingers clean, I then have to suffer a few seconds of toe-curling silence, interrupted by only the occasional loud slurp of coffee being drunk. Then Danny speaks.

'Right on, I think you're right,' he says, pulling his lips back in a tight grimace.

'Yeah,' chimes in Frankie. 'You're right. Cancer has to be cut out before it spreads.' And then Stevie throws his lot in the affirmative as well. Bingo! I knew it wouldn't be too hard to work my magic on these morons.

'What we'll do is plot the spiel up and work out a plan,' says Danny.

'f.u.c.k plotting the spiel up,' I cut in. 'We know Ronnie Olive's up there nearly every day, and even if he ain't, Smoothound will be. So worse ways we take one of them out of the game. But we gotta strike now while the iron's hot. Otherwise they'll book us right f.u.c.king mugs and be back on our bottle again.'

Danny's mouth twitches slightly in one corner. It's a good sign, and one that means the thought of being taken as a mug by Ronnie Olive has tilted the coup full swing in my favour. But at the end of the day this is total b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. I shouldn't have had to talk them round into this. So now I definitely know there's had blood simmering between us, which I'm putting down to my displeasure over Jewish Dave's murder.

So with things agreed the first thing we do is make a phone call for a ringer, because we need a getaway car. Second up we make another for a pizza because we're starving. And it's a d.a.m.ning indictment of the service industry in this country that the ringer arrives quicker than the pizza. The motor's a brown Volvo saloon, a great motor for grafting in. Let's face it, when was the last time you saw Old Bill pulling over a Jewish Rolls Royce? And the pizza when it finally arrives is a deep pan, chilli beef, no anchovies. And so, after a hastily eaten lunch washed down with more coffee and cream cakes, we hit the road, stopping at a nearby lock-up to pick up some firepower and face masks. A silenced Beretta is the order of the day for yours truly. Danny and Stevie each claim a Colt revolver, while Frankie grabs a sawn-off, which means it'll be his job to cover the three of us by spraying the proceedings with buckshot, should the need arise. After stas.h.i.+ng the ironware in the spare tyre section of the car's boot, we climb in and head south. Normally on regular bits of work the mood can be light, breezy almost. But today it's sombre and our mooeys are tight with miserabilism. That's because we're going to top at least one man at the drop of a hat, and if it goes boss-eyed we're obviously looking at life behind bars. I've known plenty of mushes that have started a day like today and never made it home again for fifteen stretch. Come to think of it I've known plenty of people that have started a day like today and never made it back home again at all.

After pulling out of the south side of Rotherhithe Tunnel we slip along the backwater rat runs of the Old Kent Road, so as to avoid the watching eyes of CCTV cameras. Old Bill's very own silent network of twenty four hour a day gra.s.ses that scan the streets, picking up anything from burglars to booze-fighters. f.u.c.king things are a criminal blight. And what's worse, they're growing like a malignant tumour. Granted, they make it safer for Joe and Josephine to nip down to Tesco's for their weekly parcel of lamb chops, but they're a pain in the a.r.s.e when you've got to travel any kind of distance to graft. Nearing the spiel we cruise under a low-slung railway bridge, infamous for being the one that the Great Train Robbers used as a practise model for the real thing. After motoring on past a patch of wasteland infested with dead black taxis, we slow to a crawl before pulling to a halt right behind the rear of the spiel. Danny cuts the engine and I slip out first to test the gate that leads to the garden, then on to the spiel's rear stairway.

A burst of adrenaline surges through me almost rooting me to the spot, but I force myself forward, pleased to find the gate unlocked. Walking back to the car as calmly as I can under the circ.u.mstances, my heart is beating three thousand times a second, and my mouth's as dry as a granny's t.i.t. On giving a discreet thumbs up to my firm, the boot of the car flicks open and they all climb out, making their way to its rear. This is my bit of graft, so after slipping our rolled up balaclavas on our heads in the manner of workmen and each picking up our respective tools, I lead the way. On through the gate we go and into the garden, where it strikes me I'm less than fifty feet away from taking a life. My bottle goes slightly but it ain't too bad. Most people in this situation would need a b.u.t.t-plug to stop their insides spilling out all over the inside of the underpants, but luckily I had all the niceness kicked and f.u.c.ked out of me years ago and I can handle this as easy as I could burning ants as a chavvie.

The garden's straight out of f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, being a sprawling ma.s.s of p.i.s.sed-on, yellowing jungle gra.s.s, dotted with dollops of dried dog s.h.i.+t and alien looking weeds sprouting in all directions, like the hairs hanging out of a madman's a.r.s.e. Laying up against the wall by the spiel's rear door is a mattress, stained with ancient body fluids, and which some sad-f.u.c.k of a wannabe gangster has been stabbing with a hunting knife, causing its innards to spill out in tufts around about chest height. After gently easing the rear door of the spiel open, the four of us move on through, and although at the moment my firm's not flavour of the month for me, I'm glad they're up my bottle. For all their failings I know for sure they'll never leave me roasting. And when you've got that type of backup, the only way to go is forward.

Hats are pulled down into masks in the hallway, turning us from recognisable men into anonymous silhouettes with narrowed eyes and laboured breathing. I lead the way up two flights of rickety, unlit banisterless stairs, until reaching the top landing, where we come to an almost noiseless halt outside the steel security door leading to the main gambling room.

It's time to go to work, and so, after giving the required coded knocks on the door, two loud and one soft in quick succession, we draw our yoggers and wait. There's a thirty seconds pause, after which, the door opens slightly to reveal a pair of darting, suspicious eyes. Me and Danny barge in, trapping their owner between the door and the inside wall. He gives out a m.u.f.fled scream which gives the game away, but it's too late. The four of us are already in, finding ourselves confronted by a roomful of chain-smoking lowlifes, enveloped in a thick fug. Straight away everyone in the room freezes. Unshaven jaws drop onto the faded green baize tables, while manicured hands holding crumpled playing cards hang still in mid-air, as if playing the next card would end it all. Silent prayers are recited by men that ain't stepped inside a church since the day they were christened. And scanning their petrified faces, it don't take Einstein to work out that every one of them would sell their mother down the river to save their own skin at a moment like this. Nothing's said. Nothing needs to be. Our ironware is doing all the talking. So, with Stevie and Frankie covering the gambling room, me and Danny move swiftly on, examining faces as we go. We know the layout of this gaff so well that before you can blink, we're through the first pa.s.sage and already antic.i.p.ating the sharp left that leads into the khazi that is the kitchen. But there's one serious blot on the horizon. No sign of Ronnie Olive. But bingo, Smoothound's here, sitting alone at a table with his back against the far wall. Straight away I notice his face still bears scars from the beating at the funeral. A fact which pleases me. It also pleases me to see he's so busy burying his nut in a plate of food that he don't even notice us arrive. f.u.c.king excellent, I'm thinking. Your last supper on the planet is going to be a poxy bit of overcooked roast pork and two veg, eaten off of a cracked plate on a wonky-legged, peeling Formica table, in a p.i.s.s-hole illegal south London spieler.

But then, obviously noticing the change of light caused by me and Danny's presence he looks up, just as he's about to put a forkful of food into his mouth. And in that instant he knows we're here for him. He knows it's me as well, 'cos although I'm smothered up, our eyes meet for a flickering second, and there's just this understanding. The same look of understanding you see in the eyes of a gazelle that's just been brought down by a lion. An acceptance deep down in its soul that its brief time on the planet is about to come to an end. And in that same split second I also know beyond any comprehension, that this is the slag that ambushed me on the motorway. His eyes widen in terror and he mouths something, but nothing comes out. And you can bet your bottom dollar that this is the first time he's ever been lost for words. It's also going to be the last. Taking two steps forward I bring up my gun and put four bullets into his chest. Four rapid-fire rounds, not much louder than the crack of a Christmas cracker, that tear into his upper torso, jerking him back against the wall and making him body-pop like a jacked-up Thunderbird puppet in the mosh pit of a Metallica concert. And while this two-bit, south London slag is doing the dance of the d.a.m.ned, his face is a joy to behold. One of pain, mixed with horror and total disbelief. In less than five seconds his brain acknowledges the fact that its body's vital organs have been ripped apart by a volley of burning lead, and he shudders to a halt against the back of the dining table chair. He then looks up at me as if to say, I'll see you in h.e.l.l motherf.u.c.ker, before taking one last look around the room for old times' sake. He then slides gently forward, open-mouthed and still holding his knife and fork before coming to his final rest, face down into his half-eaten dinner.

AFTER SENDING SMOOTHOUND to that great big spieler in the sky we slipped back to our home turf without a glitch. But even so, our firm still has to be extra-careful, as recriminations from Ronnie Olive can well be expected. But I'm over the moon because at least we've returned fire with fire. For my own protection and peace of mind I'm now tooled up twenty-four seven, a situation I ain't crazy about, but I have my future to think of. And f.u.c.k it, at least a pistol's s.e.xier than a pension plan. But it means I've got to be on my best behaviour, because before I was released on my last bit of bird, I had to sign the firearms act, which means one silly mistake or a bad tug by Old Bill gets me five years at the very least. It goes without saying that the authorities are not enamoured with the likes of us carrying guns, especially silenced semi-automatics. Makes us unpredictable and very, very dangerous.

I'm just on my way to meet Delroy now. The kid's growing progressively twitchy about the Spud Murphy coup he's helping to set up. Can't be helped, this is the only ticket he's got to drag himself out of the quagmire that makes up his day-to-day existence. But nevertheless I've told him he's got to hold his horses. The more he drives himself mad, the harder he'll make it on himself and everyone else involved. I've laid the meet on at Greenwich Park in south London. It's out of the way, peaceful, plod-free, and on a clear day you can see for miles out over the Thames, which may not be the greatest river in the world, but it cuts a fine swathe through my home town, so it's OK by me. After easing my motor into a parking s.p.a.ce a couple of hundred yards or so from where I'm due to meet Delroy, I climb out and step straight into a bit of grief. A small murder of crows has turned on one of their own and have backed it up against a wilted poppy wreath at the base of a World War II memorial plinth. Having surrounded it in a semicircle, they've given it f.u.c.k-all chance of escape. I stop to watch with interest because it ain't every day you see jungle justice being meted out in the real animal world. While the rest of the murder guards the escape route, the boss bird seizes the privilege of first strike. Taking a short hop forward, it pulls back its head and delivers a spiteful hammer peck with its razor-sharp beak into the side of its victim's neck. This is the signal for the rest of the murder to join in the fray. They leap in to gouge and peck under furious flurries of angry squawks and jet-black feathers, now dripping with fresh blood. One particularly brutal strike by the boss bird sends its victim tumbling over onto its back, where it lays stock-still, drenched in blood, its feet up in pa.s.sive surrender.

As the murder stands back to admire its work, the bird under attack struggles gamely back to its feet before attempting to fly away, only to find itself grounded by its right-side wing, which is hanging useless and broken by its side. Sensing final victory, the boss bird throws back its hooded head, opens its beak to full stretch and lets out a loud and menacing caw that echoes off the marble plinth and into the nearby trees, scaring smaller birds into a panic of alarmed flaps and screeches. Then it bounds forward to deliver the killer blow, a fierce peck that strikes deep into its victim's eye, piercing its brain. The vanquished crow topples over onto its side and lays still, as a tiny rivulet of blood begins to pump steadily from its eyeless socket, staining the base of the statue. Job done, the murder bounds off into a clump of nearby bushes while releasing a barrage of victorious caws. I adjust my suit and turn away, heading off towards my meet. It sets me to thinking about the first time I took out an eye.

I was still at school at the time, only I weren't. I was hopping the wag, jumping on buses and getting picked up by predatory paedophiles in Playland, an infamous amus.e.m.e.nt arcade just down from Piccadilly Circus. It was a magnet for screwed-up schoolboys with no one to confide in, and a happy hunting ground for well-heeled nonces with a taste for teenage rough trade in school uniforms. So there I was, banging another ball up the pin-table in my ongoing quest for replay nirvana, when this city-type gent sidled up beside me and plonked down some coins on the gla.s.s to replenish my disappearing stack. Once the dough had finished, I followed him at a discreet distance back to his luxury flat in Mayfair. You get two types of molesters. There's the talkers and then there's the silent ones. Talkers are guilt-ridden about their bent for jailbait, and think, if they strike up conversation with you, then there's actually some kind of relations.h.i.+p going down. Makes them feel less like the sc.u.mbags they are. I prefer the silent ones, at least you know where you stand with them. All they want to do is pay you, f.u.c.k you, then wash their hands of you, literally. This one was a talker. Soon as we got back to his pad he started telling me his life story, like I was interested.

Then out came the p.o.r.n mags. Always straight, never gay. Another form of denial. Then out came the beer, another nonce stroke. Give nearly any boy a beer and he'll turn queer. And there I was, supping underage and scanning p.o.r.n mags and getting a nice little stiffy. And there he was sitting next to me on the couch, all fumbles and fingers, foaming at the mouth, having a nervous reef around my almost-hairless b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. So then I said I wanted paying.

'Thirty bob,' he said. I remember nearly f.u.c.king choking on the beer he'd plied me with. Thirty bob was a f.u.c.king liberty! Even back then it weren't that much, especially to have your a.r.s.e torn in half by some conscience-free creature that didn't give a s.h.i.+t whether you lived or died. Thirty bob! I said to myself over and over again. That wouldn't even buy me a Wimpy and chips and a Knickerbocker Glory. I grew madder and madder about the fact that this clean-on-the-outside dirtbag wanted to further soil a hapless kid's life for s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.tons. I weren't going to stand for it. But I kidded him on and agreed the deal. Then he told me to stand up, which I did. After unzipping my flies, he wormed my d.i.c.k out of my trousers and then got down on his knees and proceeded to suck me off. Quick as a flash I smashed the beer bottle I was drinking from onto a nearby table and stuck the broken stem into his right eye. It made a sort of soft squelching sound as it pierced the soft tissue, after which he let out a pathetic little sigh, then keeled over onto the floor clutching at it and mouthing silently, like a fish gasping for its last breath on a river bank. I just laughed, called him a pervert, then kicked the s.h.i.+t out of him. After that I relieved him of his wallet and looted his flat of any jewellery I could find, before legging it back out onto the street and catching a bus home.

Watching that crow getting mullered has whetted my appet.i.te and so I decide to stop and pick up some coffee and cake up at the Roundhouse, a cafe which sits in a fenced-off ornamental garden a little way back from the top of the park hill. I stroll in to find it empty, as usual, but the tables still need clearing, as usual. There's a young bird serving behind the jump and she gives me the eye as I approach the counter. Only thing is she ain't my cup of tea. She's all right in a bend-her-over-the-bonnet-of-your-motor, f.u.c.k-her-then-f.u.c.k-her-off kind of way. But her skin's a bit pasty for my liking, bit like the pastries she's selling really. After a quick deliberation of the goods on offer I reluctantly plump for the blueberry cheesecake thinking it looks very tasty, but then a closer inspection of the tart behind the jump reveals a dirty great big, horrible, deep purple love bite, blighting her already spotty neck. And what's most disconcerting is that it exactly matches the colour of the cheesecake. Just the thought of it almost causes me to retch. There's only one thing worse than a slag, and that's a cheap slag, and by the looks of it this one's almost free. I come to the instant conclusion it's got to be squaddies meat. Probably spends its weekends in some s.h.i.+thole boozer getting hammered on cheap cider, before being f.u.c.ked up against the wall in a nearby, p.i.s.s-stinky alley by some jug-eared, deep-fried Mars bar-eating piece of sweaty sock cannon fodder. f.u.c.king s.h.i.+tc.u.n.t! After pointing out my displeasure about her serving the general public with a square-bas.h.i.+ng wallah's wonky teeth marks on the side of her gregory, I plump for an apple Danish and a coffee, throwing down a twenty pound note onto the counter and telling her, 'Keep the change, love, and buy yourself some f.u.c.king cla.s.s.' For some reason this statement causes her to burst into tears and run off into the back room. Don't know why, I just left her a fifteen quid tip.

Approaching from behind, I spot Delroy sitting on a park bench overlooking the river, his Staffords.h.i.+re Bull Terrier asleep beside him.

'f.u.c.king dog's got sleeping sickness, ain't it?' I say, taking a seat next to him to enjoy my coffee and cake, whilst staring out over the river.

'Tranquillo, mate, like his owner,' says Delroy, toking on a large joint.

'Yeah, right. So what's happening?'

'Just sitting here taking it easy, Squeezy. And it got me to thinking.'

'About what?'

'How the f.u.c.k did your middle name get to be Moses?'

'Delusions of f.u.c.king grandeur on my mum and dad's part, I reckon. Think they had visions of me parting the Thames and leading my people across to the Promised Land.'

'What the f.u.c.k went wrong?'

'Council built a f.u.c.king foot tunnel.'

'Slags, anyway back to reality. Gear's on its way. One million per cent. Be here in the next few days. Charlie, pills, but mostly Gold Seal.'

'Moroccan?'

'Lebanese.'

'Fresh?'

'Fresher than that f.u.c.king cake you're eating.'

'Yeah, you're right,' I say, spitting out a mouthful and then throwing the remainder at a pa.s.sing pigeon. 'Just cost me a score and tastes like a f.u.c.king jank p.u.s.s.y. By the way, we gotta sell the gear up the road. Manchester.'

'Why?'

''Cos Spud Murphy will have had the bars and pills signature stamped, b.o.l.l.o.c.k-brains. Which means that if we move them down here they'll traced back to us. I mean we don't give two f.u.c.ks, but you don't want Spud on your knocker, do you?'

'f.u.c.k that! f.u.c.king shame having to sell it up there though.'

'Yeah, be wasted on them northern maggots.'

'I want you to promise me something, Billy.'

'Go on?'

'No f.u.c.king rough stuff.'

'Perish the thought, son.'

'I f.u.c.king mean it. I know a couple of the mushes that will be on the bit of graft. Straight-goers they are, only on wages. I don't wanna see them get hurt down to nishmans.'

'You got my word.'

'What about Danny?'

'What d'ya mean?'

'He's the resident f.u.c.king psycho on the firm, ain't he? Likes topping people just to watch 'em die.'

'Word in your sh.e.l.l-like, son.' I say, pulling Delroy close and placing an arm firmly around his shoulder. 'Ain't nothing down that stretch of your imagination, son. Only plenty of unwanted f.u.c.king grief. So drop it, eh?'

'Sorry, mate, just getting a bit twitchy. Reckon you'll be able to handle it. I'm talking about Spud Murphy and his boys.'

'f.u.c.k Spud Murphy and his boys. We're premier league. Those mick c.u.n.ts are Hackney Marshes, carry your own f.u.c.king goalposts.'

'Sweet, mate. 'Ere listen, you wanna see some premier league cla.s.s, look at these. Whaddya think?' he adds, opening his mouth and flas.h.i.+ng me a wide smile.

''Cor, hit me in the face with a wet packet of s.h.i.+t! What do I think? I tell you what I think. I'm sitting here trying to discuss what seems like a sensible bit of business, with a man that's just gone and had a load of f.u.c.king diamonds put in his front teeth. f.u.c.k me, mate, this is London town not Trenchtown. You want respect from proper people, you ain't gonna get it walking round with your mooey looking like the front grill of a spade's Cadillac.'

'Think they're over the top then?'

'You might be better walking round with a neon sign flas.h.i.+ng on your head saying, please nick me I'm a f.u.c.king drug dealer.'

'Go f.u.c.k yourself, Chief f.u.c.king High Horse! I like them. And, as well as looking hard, they're practical. I mean if things get a bit hot and I have to have it on my toes for a while, well I ain't like you c.u.n.ts, got bank accounts all over the f.u.c.king show. So, all I gotta do is just pop these little suckers out, sell them on, and the dough will keep me going until it's safe to come back on the plot.'

'I think you've lost the f.u.c.king plot. Anyway, between me you and the gatepost, I'm thinking of jacking the game in.'

'What game?'

'This f.u.c.king game, you f.u.c.king k.n.o.b. It's finished, all of it. Gone down the pan. You add it all up and what does it come to? Zilch! Just one big load of old b.o.l.l.o.c.ks and never mind all the flash accessories. I could have done so much more with my life. At one stage, when I was a chavvie, I wanted to be a vet. Now the only animals I get to work with wear Burberry macs and carry shotguns. Whatever happened to all the heroes, eh? The people you could look up to? I'll tell you what, you build 'em up high, and then they always let you down. And that's how it's been all my life. I mean G.o.d f.u.c.king help us, you've got Johnny Rotten selling b.u.t.ter. Y'know, when I was a young punk that man was someone to look up to. Now he's a cross between Dot Cotton and Albert Steptoe.'

'I ain't got a clue what you're on about. You're just in a rut, man.'

'In a rut? I'm in a f.u.c.king trench with bullets flying.'

'My heart bleeds for you, man, it really does. And anyway you can't leave here, this city is you, it's your f.u.c.king roots. It's like a tree, it needs its roots to suck up all the goodness out of the ground. Without its roots it f.u.c.king dies, and so will you if you leave this place.'

'Die if I leave here? I'll f.u.c.king die if I don't. And as for goodness, where's the f.u.c.king goodness in one of your best pals ending up on a salad plate next to a dollop of piccalilli?'

'Dollop of piccalilli?'

'Forget about it.'

'So where you thinking of going, when you jack all this in?'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks you c.u.n.t, I ain't going nowhere, I'm just f.u.c.ked off. I've just watched a crow getting mullered and been served coffee and cake by a s.k.a.n.k with teeth marks all over her f.u.c.king gregory, and you're sitting there spouting out cod philosophy. Stick to cod and chips, you dopey c.u.n.t.'

And with that I walk off cursing my big mouth, knowing I've just made a big mistake in revealing my innermost thoughts to Delroy. I love the kid to death but he's got the brains of a f.u.c.king beefburger and a mouth as big as the Blackwall Tunnel, and I should know better than to be showing anyone my hand. The fact is I really am thinking of getting out. I'm tired of all the backbiting, all the violence and the greed. To be truthful I'm just sick to death of the whole shebang. My nightmares are becoming my reality and it's getting to the stage where I can't go on. I ain't functioning like a proper human being. I need some s.p.a.ce where I can breathe and be myself. And how many narrow escapes can a man have before his luck runs out? I even get c.u.n.ts like my pal Stewpot saying to me. 'Don't worry about it, Billy. The way to look at is, if a bullet's got your name on it, it's got your name on it.' The trouble with that statement being that if a bullet had Stewpot's name on it he wouldn't even know, because the dinlow c.u.n.t can't even read and write.

It's sod's law that sooner rather than later one of us is going to get topped, even if Danny's convinced himself he's invincible. And if the truth be told I don't think that any of us will be crying over each other's collection plates whenever it does happen. Of course, there'll be the usual huffing and puffing and shows of strength. Yet another funeral and more pious words. But then it'll be business as usual, with the winners carving up the dead man's spoils. And contrary to popular belief, when a gangster's pus.h.i.+ng up daisies, all his wife and kids end up with is crumbs off the table. There ain't no honour amongst thieves. But like I say, these are my pillow thoughts and I have to keep them tightly under wraps. If a whisper, even a single whisper, gets out that I'm wobbling, then my situation becomes precarious. A gangster showing weakness quickly becomes a liability in the minds of his paranoid firm. I've known for people to be taken out of the game just for wanting to take a backseat, because their firm got jittery that they were going boss-eyed.

SILVERTOWN BOXING CLUB is a spit and sawdust fighters' gym situated at the a.r.s.e end of Custom House. It sits bang over the top of a run-down boozer called the Flying Scud and is looked after by a cigar chomping half-chat we call Castro. Castro, who's a ringer for the famed Cuban revolutionary leader Fidel, also runs the poker machine rackets for the IRA. n.o.body f.u.c.ks with him. I'm here to hook up with my firm, to rea.s.sess the situation regarding the dough still owed to us by the Ess.e.x car dealers, the Rite brothers, and in the event of their non-payment, the prospect of slipping into some heavy-duty drug action with The Bug. As I ease open the front door of the gym the stink hits me. Cigar smoke tinged with honest sweat, an aroma I normally find quite pleasing. But I had a late one last night, so not only am I in receipt of a hangover from h.e.l.l, but my mouth feels like the inside of an Arab gravedigger's flip-flop. Sucking in a couple of deep breaths to acclimatise, I ease my way past a handful of solemn men soaked in sweat and the toils of their trade. In stony-faced silence they push themselves through the time-honoured rituals of punching bags, boxing shadows and chasing elusive dreams, and all to the heart-stopping ba.s.s and rat-a-tat-tat rap of eardrum-shattering east coast hip-hop, blasting from a bashed-up boom box in the corner. Pa.s.sing the boxing ring I look up disinterestedly as a couple of bullet-heads pound each other mercilessly with big bombs. It's a crying shame because the only thing any of these undercard heroes will ever be is badly-paid punch bags. Yeah, they've got big hearts, but empty pockets and no brains. Ain't no dough in the game on this rung of the ladder, and none of them will face the fact that they're going to end up fat and punchy on slim pickings. Welcome to the real pro-fight game. The unscrupulous making dough from the uneducated and cheered on by those of us who should know better.

My firm's grouped in a tight little semicircle over in the corner by a broken running machine. The two men they're shooting s.h.i.+t with are Little t.i.tch and Long Lenny, the strangest double act in the criminal circus. Lenny's six foot six and skinny as a stick of seaside rock, while t.i.tch is five foot four and bald as a baboon's a.r.s.e. They're jump-up men, which means they earn their whack sticking shooters up the hooters of long-distance lorry drivers and relieving them of their loads when they pull over to the roadside for a cheese sandwich and a cup of Bovril. Snout mostly, because f.a.gs are easy to fence. Sometimes though they come unstuck. Once they hit a lorry thinking it was full of snout but when they got it home it was full of Mars bars. Work, rest and play? Not on the poxy bit of dough they got from that little f.u.c.king load they didn't. But don't let appearances fool you, they can be nasty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They'll torture a driver if he won't hand over his keys. Don't know what they do to them exactly, but I know one thing: if t.i.tch breathed on me I'd hand him over anything he wanted. I don't like to get personal, but the man's got the foulest breath this side of a cancerous dog. Even on a good day his open gob smells like Sweeney Todd's cellar. I must get round to telling him either to ease off the s.h.i.+t sandwiches or try a course of colonics.

But before I hook up with my firm I must tell you about last night. Went to a party in a private golf club right out in the sticks. Beautiful gaff, proper toby, as we say in these parts, set in its own secluded grounds. I was mob-handed and the first thing we did when we got there was to find a nice little plot in the corner of the bar to monitor the proceedings. Then we started to cane the charlie and astound all the other revellers by buying up all thirty bottles of Bolly they had stashed behind the bar. The place started to come alive, and by midnight it was rammed full of premier league tarts. I was completely out of the f.u.c.king game, s.h.i.+mmying across the dance floor and cutting some razor-sharp moves to a medley of seventies disco cla.s.sics. And of course, because me and the boys were putting on the Ritz, all the little birdies were flocking round us wanting a piece of the action. In short, we were having a blast. Then out of the blue this little weasel-faced p.r.i.c.k came strolling into the equation, just while I was fully engaged in a deep and meaningful conversation with a bird that worked as a kissogram. Without any apology for his interruption, this p.i.s.sant gave me a tug.

'Celebrating something, are you?' he said. Now I got his stamp straight away. Not only was the c.u.n.t so skinny he has to run around in the shower to get wet, but he was a ringer for that school slap-neck you always hated because he was also the teacher's gra.s.s. But I was in a good mood so I rolled with it.

`Yeah,' I replied. 'Me and my pals are celebrating the fact that we can afford to drink thirty bottles of Bolly on a Wednesday night and not have to get up for work the next f.u.c.king morning.'

'I'm a policeman,' he replied, shoving a warrant card in my face. 'And I want to know what's going on.'

Without any further ado I s.n.a.t.c.hed his warrant card off him, took a bite out of it and threw it over the bar. Then I turned back to him and told him straight.

'Now, you listen to me you jumped-up, poor excuse for a c.u.n.t. I'm here with good people, having a good time. Now f.u.c.k off, otherwise I'm gonna bite your nose off and spit it in your f.u.c.king drink.' On hearing me raise my voice my firm gathered protectively around me, wanting to know what all the palaver was. And believe me, no matter who you are, you wouldn't want to fall out with any one of us sober, let alone when we're firm-handed and c.o.ked up to our eyeb.a.l.l.s. From left to right there was Siddie 'treble Malibu and c.o.ke' Smith and his best pal, Bronco Billy Bullfrog, both ex-pro fighters and as game as bagels. Making up the rest of the circle was Jimbals and Scatty Bob, two armed robbers that would shoot you dead at the drop of a hat, plus another six absolute lunatics that can have a terrible core on the cobbles. Jimmy 'Mad Dog' Hughes, Adrian 'Cookie Cutter' Cook, Muppet George, Stevie Stutter, Joey Tomatoes and Ollie 'The One-Armed Bandit' who, despite having had his left arm chopped off with a machete, is a black belt in Karate, and a terrific snooker player to boot.

The pig, sensing he was well out of his depth, done the right thing and backed off.

'What a f.u.c.king liberty!' was the agreed consensus. But no matter, to us it was just champagne down a criminal's throat and we got back to the more serious obligation to party. But then five minutes later weasel-face reappeared. Only this time he'd brought the cavalry. Seems he was part of an Old Bill rugby team also out on the razzle. Right at the head of the charge was this great big ginger copper with cauliflower ears and a boot nose. It was twelve to a dozen it was going to kick off anyway, so I went straight in like Flynn, and although I'm blowing my own trumpet here, I hit him with the best punch I've ever thrown. A peach of a straight right cross, bang on his ginger whiskers. CRUNCH! He hit the deck like the proverbial wet sack of s.h.i.+t. Only thing is, being completely out of my tree, I staggered onwards and ended up cras.h.i.+ng into the DJ's console, bringing all his equipment falling down around my ears. So the music went off, but then so did everything else. With their main man down, Old Bill's a.r.s.es started to blow brown bubbles but it was too late for detente. My people were all over them, smas.h.i.+ng the stems of broken champagne gla.s.ses into necks, biting big chunks out of petrified pork, and stamping on cowering bodies with well-heeled designer shoes.

In less than five minutes we'd smashed the granny out of the pigs leaving the gaff looking like an abattoir. Someone switched on the lights which meant that the party was over, but it didn't matter, we strolled broad-shouldered from the club victorious. And as we climbed over whining and bleeding bodies, I smiled with satisfaction because over in one corner, the big ginger pig that fancied it straight-up, was still sparkoed and slumped against a wall, comatose and with blood trickling out of his nose and ears. It was a shame the night had come to an end just when we were just starting to enjoy ourselves. But at least I was comforted by the fact that none of the pigs would be making their rugby first team that weekend.

As I approach my firm Danny looks up, and on catching sight of me blows down t.i.tch and Lenny's earholes. Taking the nod they slip away to a neutral corner, so that we can get down to business.

'So what's the word on The Bug?' I say, to no one in particular.

'He's terrified to do business with us,' says Frankie.

'Whadd'ya mean?' I say.